Dancing the Maypole (26 page)

“Peter
Augustus, if you can’t see truth as plain as the big nose on your
big face it’s because you don’t want to. I fear your delusion
extends beyond your mirror.”

“I’m not
delusional!”

“I wouldn’t
shout that in an empty room Peter Augustus, people will think
you’re talking to yourself.”

“Is one of my
sons lying?”

“You know Cecil
Francis can’t lie.”

“It could be
Charles.”

“Why?”

“He d-didn’t
deny having lovers, and he looks just like John,” stammered
Peter.

“You can’t
condemn a man because he looks like your wicked brother. If you
knew what Mary Ugly jeers at Charles Vincent you’d firmly cross him
off the list.”

“Has he bed the
b-blind window?”

“No, but poor
Charles is in imminent danger of chaining himself to a blind woman
pregnant by her secret lover, the married Elias Brown. Personally,
if I were Martha Malet, I’d name you as the father…”

“I have more
p-p-pressing problems than Widow Malet. George can’t be the father
of Miss Ugly’s babe. He’s too soft-hearted. If he thought the
infant was his he’d raise her as his ward. He might even marry the
ugly girl.”

“True.”

“That leaves
Robert, but he c-c-can’t be the father.”

“Why not?”

“He’s
seventeen.”

Agent 1680
smiled as he stared past Peter, “By seventeen, I’d known more
whores than a brother-keeper…and I had a wife. That first year with
Elizabeth was bliss…”

“Robert
wouldn’t bed Miss Ugly. She’s ugly!”

“My favourite
mistress was not particularly attractive, though she did have
exquisite breasts. I thought she loved me. I was too drunk to
realise she was using me. And all the while I thought my wife had
become a thankless nag. No matter how much I did for her she’d
write, ‘When are you coming home? I haven’t seen you in months. I
want my husband. ’Every time I told her to take a lover she’d slap
my face. I was too drunk to see she loved me. She still does.
That’s the problem with being dead; it takes too much effort to
remain deluded. Your mother tried to tell you about Robert
Benjamin, but you didn’t want to listen. You’ve lived so long with
your fingers in your ears I’m surprised you can still feed
yourself.” The agent turned and headed for south-facing wall.

“Where are you
g-g-going? I thought you were helping me. I broke into her father’s
house and tied a ribbon around her wrist, and she thinks it was her
brother, the lying little vache.”

“That’s not my
fault Peter Augustus. You’re the one who didn’t wake her for a
kiss.”

“I didn’t have
time! You kept urging me to hurry.”

“A lover
listens to his heart.” The agent continued walking away.

“If you weren’t
d-d-dead, I’d listen to my fist.”

“Would you have
been happier lying in your room moaning for Isabel Désirée? So
Louis Marie lied out of spite. You just accused a virgin of being a
whoremonger. If you need to throw a few stones buy a large mirror.
Is that the time? I’m late. Louis Marie needs help. I have to
go.”

“You’re leaving
me to help that lying little c-c-cow?”

“There’s no
need to be rude. It’s not his fault he’s short.”

“He’s rude to
me!” Peter was shouting at an empty room. Hearing the front door
slam, Peter hurried to the window. Seeing Cosmo pull on his hat as
he crossed the street, Peter pulled down the sash and leaned out.
“Cosmo!” The boy flinched as if hit by a rock and hurried his angry
stride. Closing the window, Peter cursed his luck. If he hadn’t
married his maid, he wouldn’t have had children and if he hadn’t
had children he wouldn’t have become a failure. If he’d remained a
bachelor he’d have died blissfully deluded. He would have lived his
whole life thinking he was good and kind, but no he’d married and
produced five obstinate reminders that he was as stupid and blind
as the next man. The fact he wanted to repeat the cycle momentarily
made him question his sanity. Another wife meant more children, and
more children meant more opportunities to fail.

Returning to
the dining room, Peter caught Isabel’s concerned glance and his
wish to die a bachelor was forgotten. Pulling his gaze away from
temptation, he focused on Robert who’d returned to finish his
dinner. Seated opposite, his Uncle John had removed his outerwear
and was holding the infant and eating with one hand.

“Robert, I need
to speak with you,” said Peter.

His youngest
son looked at him with an innocent expression. “Can we speak
tomorrow? I have an evening lecture. There will be a demonstration
of several old Globe electrical machines. I’m hoping to be able to
get my hands on one.”

A sarcastic
smile in the boy’s eyes suggested the globes he’d be putting his
hands on wouldn’t be made of glass.

“That sounds
interesting,” said Peter. “I’ll come with you.”

The boy’s face
contorted as if unsure which emotion would best suit his story.
“There may not be any tickets left Papa, but I’ll inquire.”

“I’ll send
Cecil to inquire.”

“Oh…well it is
rather warm this evening. Who wants to sit in a hall filled with
smelly people on a warm summer’s evening?”

Peter glared at
his youngest son, “There is no lecture, is there?”

“Of course
there’s a lecture.”

“I want to see
your ticket.”

“Why?”

“Because I
don’t believe you have one. I think you had more feminine globes in
mind for your evening’s entertainment.”

The boy smirked
in amusement. “Papa, there are ladies present.”

Looking at his
son, Peter saw a stranger, a young man with the cold eyes of a
rakehell.

“What do you
want to talk about?” asked Robert.

“Your
d-d-daughter.” Saying the words made Peter feel sick with envy.
He’d gone wrong somewhere. Perhaps he only thought he’d taught his
sons how to be good men. Maybe he was completely deluded.

“What
daughter?” The young black eyes nearly managed to look
innocent.

“Miss Ugly’s
infant! I want the truth or you’ll be mucking out the stables three
hours a day until you’re twenty-one.”

The young man
shrugged his shoulders, “So she’s mine. Aunt Joan wants her. The
brat won’t be abandoned in the street and eaten by dogs. Everyone’s
happy.”

His Uncle John
sitting opposite slammed his fork on the table and jumped out of
his seat his black eyes on fire. “I’m not happy!” he roared. “We
were nearly killed because of you, you…” The older man gargled on a
string of curses. “…heartless brat!” An angry scream refocused
John’s attention back to the baby propped against his shoulder.
“Don’t cry…I won’t kill the little…”

Peter’s impulse
was to lecture the boy to within an inch of insanity, but he knew
it would be wasted breath. There was only one thing that would make
Robert regret his actions. “As the legal trustee of your
p-p-property, the rent until you’re twenty-one will be spent
reimbursing your uncle for the money he gave Miss Ugly. Any
remaining monies will be set aside for your daughter’s dowry. If
it’s invested wisely and you continue to add to it until she
marries, your uncle won’t have to pay some man to marry your
daughter.”

Robert’s eyes
blazed with fury, “What? You can’t do that! I’ll turn twenty-one
and won’t be able to afford to live in my own house. Why shouldn’t
Uncle John pay for her? He has a fortune…”

“I have a
fortune,” said John, “because I haven’t had to spend it on some
other man’s bastard.”

Robert raised
both eyebrows in contempt, “I overheard you tell Papa that Aunt
Joan’s father wasn’t her father…so technically you have.”

Horrified,
Peter glanced at his sister-in-law choking on a mouthful of food
and back to his sneering son. “Robert Benjamin, you’re being
absolutely vile. Apologise this instant!”

“How can the
truth make one vile?” asked Robert. “Uncle John is a hypocrite. I’m
not suggesting he give the brat a dowry. Once she’s old enough she
can work for her keep scrubbing floors. Think of it as investing in
a future servant. Her grandmother was paid to empty chamber pots.
The chit can accept her lot and be grateful she wasn’t left in a
ditch.”

John Smirke’s
black marble eyes conjured up a dark corner of hell, “Take my
advice you heartless little swine; develop some charity or you’ll
end up dead and wishing you were alive boiling in oil.”

Unmoved, Robert
calmly finished chewing before answering. “You’re sadly deluded,
but if thinking you’ve been to hell keeps you from ruining the
Smirke name that can only be a good thing. In twenty years, I may
even find a wealthy bride who’s never heard of you.”

“If you
endanger my wife again, pray I’m killed in the crossfire.”

The boy raised
a mocking eyebrow. “But if you kill me, you’ll end up in hell.”

“Hell be
damned!” shouted John. “I won’t have my wife shot like a pheasant
because you unbutton your fall for every ugly wench who crooks her
finger.”

“If you didn’t
insist on living in the middle of nowhere I might have found a more
palatable bedfellow. As for Miss Ugly, she never communicated to me
she was with child. If she named you as the father it was nothing
to do with me.”

“Nothing except
conception! How could you bear to…ugh…the thought…she’s so ugly!”
John audibly gagged on the thought.

“Every woman is
a beauty in the dark. Don’t look so shocked Papa, if you had a
mistress of flesh and blood you wouldn’t need to moan in your sleep
for one made of marble.”

“Marble?”
snapped Peter. “What are you talking about?”

“You were
moaning in your sleep this morning for marble. I suggest you take a
lover before Cecil has to petition the crown to chain you in the
attic.”

With his face
on fire, Peter glanced at Isabel. Would she refuse to marry him now
that she knew he’d phenomenally failed as a father? Holding her
vinaigrette against her nose she stared back with a strange look as
if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

“His Lordship
does seem inordinately fond of maypoles and ribbons,” said
Mademoiselle. “Perhaps he spends time twirling a May Belle in his
dreams?”

Her faint
teasing tone made Peter relax in blissful relief. “Je danse avec Ma
Belle.” Her eyes widened as she silently returned his stare with a
raised eyebrow that silently asked what sort of dancing they
enjoyed. He pursed his lips in a silent French expression of
satirical understatement and hoped she’d guess the truth even if it
meant she’d slap his face.

Standing up,
Mademoiselle de Bourbon pressed her smelling salts hard against her
nostrils. “This heat is stifling. I feel suddenly faint…my Lord
would you be so kind as to assist me to my room?”

Forgetting his
failure as a parent, Peter pinched his lips between his teeth to
suppress an ecstatic smile. He was nearly within reach of the woman
when Robert appeared at his elbow. “I’ll help Mademoiselle Papa. We
don’t want her fainting and falling down the stairs. If she breaks
her neck everyone will say one of us killed her. The Smirke name
won’t endure much more scandal. We’ll have to change our name to
Kirk. People will think we’re Scottish…”

“We’re not
changing our name! Go finish your dinner. Mademoiselle asked me to
help her.”

“Yes, but
you’re limping. What is she faints? We don’t want her to fall down
the stairs.”

Mademoiselle
interrupted, “his Lordship won’t need to carry me…excuse us.”

Peter dismissed
the boy with a regal wave of the hand before smiling at Isabel. “If
you’ll allow me Mademoiselle…”

Putting his arm
around her waist, she crumpled against him demanding a firm hold.
With a handful of slippery silk and the smell of summer, he was
haunted by the taste of her lips. Taking her free hand; he helped
her to the stairs.

Lost in the
sensation of her nearness he didn’t understand her whisper.
“Pardon?”

“Have you been
dancing me in your dreams my Lord?”

“Oui,”
whispered Peter.

“Often?”

“Oui.”

“Do I step on
your toes?”

“Non.
Pourquoi?”

“If I’m not
stepping on your toes every night why are you moaning in your
sleep?” Her pursed lips and raised eyebrows dared him to tell the
truth. “Were you dreaming of me this morning?”

“Oui.”

“Was
it…agréable?”

Peter looked
around to ensure no lurking ears might hear his whisper. “It would
have been if your wretched father hadn’t torn off my covers…”

“Oh?” Her eyes
smiled, “What were we doing in your dream?”

“Quelque
chose.”

“We were doing
something…something that would have been agreeable if Papa hadn’t
woken you.”

“Oui.”

“I told him not
to speak with you. Papa never listens.”

“I sneaked into
your house last night. I t-tied the ribbon around your wrist. Your
father was angry that I d-didn’t wake you and…give him reason to
shoot me. He seems to think you’d find a dying lover more
romantic.”

She slumped
against him and stared at him over the top of her silver
vinaigrette. “You came? Why didn’t you wake me or leave a
note?”

“I thought
you’d know from the ribbon. I’m sorry…” Peter sighed as he shook
his head. “My life has been one long deluded b-bungle. Three months
ago I thought I was a good man with five good sons. Forty-four
years of d-delusions smashed like a cheap vanity mirror.”

“You are a good
man,” whispered Mademoiselle.

“Good? I
b-bored my wife to death. She couldn’t wait to d-die to escape me.
All these years I kept telling myself I loved her because…it was
easier to think I loved my maid than to speak to women I didn’t
know. I can’t think of a single reason why you’d want to marry
me.”

“If you found
me insensible in a burning house, you’re one of the few men who
could carry me to safety. That would be a good reason my Lord!”