Dancing the Maypole (5 page)

Lost in
unpleasant daydreams, Peter was barely aware of evening light
fading into darkness or the darkness fading into a new day. He was
still sitting there when a loud rap made him jump. Scowling at the
door, he shouted, “Go away!”

The door
opened, and his mother-in-law stepped into the room with a look of
disgust. “You look like hell. Have you been crying for banishing my
grandsons or for the loss of your mind?”

“Mind your
tongue or pack your trunks. If you don’t wish to keep my house, go
keep Cecil’s.”

“The day Robert
leaves home I’ll be packed to join Cecil. Why would I keep house
for a great big booby who killed my daughter, when I could have a
place of respect at my grandson’s table?”

“I didn’t kill
my wife!”

“Pfff! Katie
started dying the day you married her. Love? Pfff! Love is for
senseless people. If she’d married the inn keeper she’d still be
alive.”

“His first wife
was scalded to death lifting a large pot off the fire. The second
disappeared, and the third died in childbed last year. And if she’d
married him you wouldn’t have five beautiful grandsons to dote on.
I g-g-gave her those.”

“Yes, you bred
her to death.”

“She d-d-died
of heart failure.”

“Pfff! She
drowned herself with laudanum. She thought being your wife would be
a fairytale come true…poor idiot!”

“Well she
married me and we had five sons. You still have Robert and
Cosmo.”

“No I don’t.
They’re gone! They’re all gone.”

The sleep-fog
instantly cleared. “Gone where?”

“Where do you
think? They left with their brothers. Cecil wished me to inform you
that if you need to chastise them further, they’ll be at Bath with
their Uncle James for two weeks before travelling on to his house.
My poor bairn! Cecil’s home is barely habitable. He’ll have to
spend a fortune to make it comfortable. How will Cecil find a
wealthy bride when you’ve banished him for being kind and
thoughtful? I’m only staying to keep your servants from walking off
with Cecil’s inheritance. My poor boys were heartbroken when I
insisted on remaining behind. If you had a heart you’d know what
that meant, but you don’t, so you won’t suffer as you deserve!
Don’t expect me to care if you don’t get any breakfast. I hope you
starve to death. Cecil will be Lord Adderbury and we’ll all be
happier.” She turned and slammed the door behind her.

Alone, Peter
was forced to confront the fact that even death had shunned him.
Being alive, there was no escaping his fate; he’d have to ask his
mother for directions to the de Bourbon residence. Then, he’d have
to face his sons. He couldn’t decide which confrontation he dreaded
more.

Two days later,
Peter drove his curricle up a long lane lined with oaks to an
impressive residence boasting hundreds of windows set in soft
yellow limestone. His heart sank. Men who owned palatial homes
weren’t generally known for tolerating insults to their daughters.
His groom jumped down from the rumble seat and took control of the
horses. He had no excuse to put off the inevitable. Climbing down,
he slowly knocked his hat against his leg to dislodge the dust and
put it back on. “Life is short, death is long,” Peter muttered. The
words brought no comfort. In an hour, if he was still alive, he’d
be tooling to Bath. He’d face the woman haunting his sleep and then
take his leave. The thought caused an empty ache in his chest. His
heart was racing as he took out a card and folded down the corner
to indicate he was at the door and not just a servant delivering
his compliments.

As he lifted
his hand to pull the bell, the door opened as if the footman on the
other side had been waiting for Peter to look silly. “Oui?” Peter
opened his mouth, but the words refused to form. He held out his
card and received a scathing look before the man glanced down to
read his name. The footman’s eyebrows rose, and his lips pursed
together somehow making his eyes bulge. “The Lord Adderbury…who
advertised for a wife?”

Peter tried to
pretend he wasn’t blushing. “Oui! Peter shook his head and tried
again to work his tongue. “I need t-t-to speak with Monsieur de
Bourb-b-b…”

“I’ll see
whether he’s at home.” The door slammed in Peter’s face, and he was
left cooling his heels. If Isabel de Bourbon wouldn’t see him, he’d
have to write a letter. No, a letter would end up an unread pile of
ash in a grate. He’d have to send a verbal message through his
sister-in-law. Agnes would then recite it like a shopping list, and
Isabel would hate him even more. He was still feeling nauseous
twenty minutes later when the door reopened. “If you will remove
your outerwear and follow me…”

Peter was led
through a dozen rooms and then down a long corridor to the back of
the house. Waved into a large room lined with glass-cased
bookshelves, the door closed behind him. Gulping the lump in his
throat he met the piercing stare of a grey haired man sat behind a
wooden desk resembling a barricade, his right arm on the desk, his
hand inches from a pistol pointing at Peter. The man’s enigmatic
stare made death a plausible end to the interview.

Halfway across
the room, Peter could see that Isabel de Bourbon had inherited her
father’s thick curly hair and long Gallic nose. The closer his legs
took him to dangerous dark eyes Peter had a sinking feeling; the
day would be considerably longer than death. Reaching the desk,
Peter stopped and nervously fumbled with his watch fob. The little
man had to look up at him, but still managed to convey the
impression that he was looking down his nose.

“Asseyez-vous!”
The Frenchman waved his hand at a chair. It was a command not a
request. Peter bowed deep and then sat down before his knees gave
way. He nervously cleared his throat as brown eyes studied him.
After several long silent minutes, Monsieur de Bourbon’s pursed
lips relaxed in unexplained amusement as he sat back, taking his
hand off the desk away from the pistol. “Ma pauvre petite fille,
she did not have time to display her charms féminin. She is in her
chambre gushing une fontaine. You are no longer good and kind. Vous
êtes un monstre.”

“Yes about
that…I’ve c-c-come to apologise…” said Peter.

“Bon…Ah
Little-man…my son, but you have met…”

The door closed
with a sharp click as angry two-inch heels clomped to the desk
pointedly ignoring Peter. “You summoned me?”

“Oui. Lord
Adderbury has come to apologise. He has the bonnes manières,
non?”

“He’s a big,
stupid, mannerless cow.”

“Oui, and he iz
about to eat grass. It takes a strong stomach to eat grass
non?”

“It takes a
strong stomach to remain in the same room as Lord Adderbury.”

“You have the
stomach Français; you will remain. His Lordship will now justifie
the scène chez Adderbury.” Both father and son turned to look at
Peter.

“I’m ashamed
that I treated your daughter like a…” Peter couldn’t think of a
descriptive term that wouldn’t get him killed. “Like a…”

“He slung her
over his shoulder like a dead lamb savaged by a fox.”

“Yes, about
that…well I was uh…not in my right mind,” said Peter.

“He wasn’t in
his mind. He raged like a lunatic. Shoot him before, he starts
chewing on your chair.”

“Little-man!
Adderbury iz a guest…he will explain himself.”

Staring at the
pistol, Peter could see it was cocked. “Monsieur, I humbly beg your
pardon. My sons made me look like a lovelorn nincompoop. I would
rather they’d hired someone to k-k-kill me than print that…ad. I
lost my temper and any hope of… I didn’t think anyone would answer
that… I didn’t think. I was attending a house party trying to find
a wife. The company made sport of me. After being read that
advertisement, the young ladies wouldn’t even look at me. I wanted
to kill my sons. I lost my t-temper and my wits. I don’t know why I
slung your d-d-daughter over my shoulder. I’ve never d-done that
before.”

Monsieur pursed
his lips in amusement. “Les big femmes, they enjoy being slung sur
l’épaule like un morceau de viande.”

“I was there!
Isabel did not enjoy being treated like a piece of meat.”

“Bof! It was
the dream come true! Isabel dreams of a life romantique et
absurde…voila! Lord Adderbury he sweeps her off the feet.”
Monsieur’s smile reached his eyes. “C’est fantastique!”

Peter cringed
as the man waved for him to continue, “My actions were inexcusable,
b-b-but I b-beg your forgiveness and I pray you will allow me an
opportunity to inform Mademoiselle that I am d-d-deeply
ashamed…”

“Little-man,
Lord Adderbury iz eating grass, non?”

“He deserves to
eat lead.”

“Bah! He will
marry Isabel and you will be polite like a French King.”

Hearing the
words, Peter felt a rising panic tinged with hope. A deadly look in
the seated man’s eyes made it clear a refusal to marry the maypole
would be taken as a grave insult and the day would end with several
balls of lead imbedded into vital parts of Peter’s body. “I am not
worthy of the honour…”

“Papa! You
can’t let that cow marry Isabel. He’s…il est grand, and
stupide!”

“It is not hiz
fault that he iz big.”

“If you’ll
allow me to speak with Mademoiselle…”

Monsieur de
Bourbon stood up with a satisfied smile and raised his arms like a
triumphant conductor. “Oui! You will justifie the scène to ma
petite fille and then réparer sa coeur brisé with the offer of
marriage, non? She will refuse you at the first, but she wants to
be a wife. She will sleep in your bed and give you les enfants. She
will look up at you and make you feel like a big man.”

Peter felt
stunned. He wanted to reply that he was a big man, but he couldn’t
speak. The man wanted him to marry his daughter? The thought of
holding Isabel de Bourbon seemed to fill the emptiness in his chest
with a warm, furry muff that tickled. He’d live…and he’d hold
Isabel de Bourbon. Peter choked on hysterical laughter and stood
up. “It would be an honour Monsieur…”

“Bon! You will
win the heart of ma petite fille and carry her chez toi. Voila!
Viens! I will take you to Isabel.”

“Isabel will
scratch out his eyes.” Isabel’s brother scowled at Peter, “The cow
may try to have her arrested.”

“Bah! Tell
Madame to prepare the bandages. Vite!” Monsieur waited until his
son reached the door before continuing, “My son has thirty years.
He needs a wife, but non, il tiens les petite adultères. It’s
enough to make a man cry. My son will buy the pox and there will be
no more de Bourbons. You are very blessed to have five sons; one
will have un enfant mâle.”

Peter meekly
followed Monsieur through a hidden door, “If you had my sons you
wouldn’t feel b-blessed.”

“Ah oui, tu
veut une petite fille!” Peter scowled as he was reminded that the
whole world now knew he wanted a daughter. “Isabel will give you
une petite fille.” After climbing stairs and another ten minutes
walking past endless doors, Monsieur stopped and knocked. “Isabel?
C’est ton Père!”

Soft sobs
announced the room was occupied. “Je veux mourir!” The words made
Peter feel sick to his stomach. She wanted to die because of
him.

Monsieur opened
the door and stuck his head into the room. “Bof! You do not want to
die. You want to marry a big man non?”

The sobs became
wails of grief. “I hate men! I’m going to take the veil and die a
nun.”

“I am un homme.
You do not hate your petite Papa!”

“Non.”

“Bon! You want
to marry and be happy non?”

There was long
pause. “No-one wants to marry an old maypole.” The tear filled
words shot through the open door and pierced Peter’s chest. His
shirt was drenched in sweat as he contemplated a flesh and blood
enactment of his passionate dreams. “Je veux mourir.”

“You do not
want to die. Écoute! There iz someone here to see you. Someone who
needs to tell to you something très important.”

“Who? Some
idiot you’ve threatened to kill if he doesn’t marry me?”

“Non! He
desires to marry une grande femme.”

“He doesn’t
want a big wife; he wants my big bank account.”

“Bof! He does
not hunt the fortune. He comes to win la coeur of une belle
femme…”

“Il est un
menteur! I hope he rots in hell!”

“Do not curse
the man. He does not lie! You will be polite and listen to his
allocution…”

A heavy object
hit the door, narrowly missing Monsieur de Bourbon’s head.
“Laissez-moi tranquille!”

“Je suis ton
Père…do not throw…” Something crashed against the hurriedly closed
door. “Isabel Désirée de Bourbon you will me obey…”

“Non!” Another
unseen valuable smashed against the door.

The Frenchman
looked up at Peter with a piercing stare, “Be gentil and take hold
of her before she can tear out your eyes. I hope you have the
reflexes of a cat. She will remain unmolested, or you will become
grass for my cows…comprends?”

“I
understand.”

“Bon! If she
faints catch her and use sa med sels. Entrer…” Peter was shoved
into the room by a strong arm and the door closed behind him. His
heart thundered in his chest as he prepared to jump clear of
missiles, but the pale horrified face framed by a thick shroud of
long brown curls merely turned away as she gasped for breath.

“Mademoiselle,
I’ve c-c-come to…” He ran forward as she crumpled, his fingers
barely catching hold of warm slippery silk. The brown curls flopped
against his shoulder as he clamped his arms around her waist. The
empty ache in his chest was crammed even tighter with another warm
furry muff. Pulsing blood made him feel light headed. He’d never
let her go. Pressing his nose into wayward curls he inhaled her
scent like a man starved of air. His knees trembled as he held her
closer. She smelled like the sweetest summer day; box hedge with a
hint of lilac and fresh linen dried in the sun. He groaned as he
pressed his face deeper into the scent as impious thoughts replayed
snatches of guilty dreams, but he wasn’t dreaming. This was a woman
of flesh and blood. Clutching his burden by the waist Peter turned
to look for smelling salts on the mantle.