Dancing the Maypole (7 page)

The cold words
were like fingers around her throat making it hard to speak. “From
a man who admires Miss Carteret, I take that as a compliment.”

“I withdraw my
offer of marriage. Marry the Prince Regent or one of his fat
cousins; I don’t want you or your gold.”

Internal rain
threatened to drown Isabel as the haunting scent of happiness made
her more miserable. Removing her hands from his coat she kept her
eyes lowered as she lovingly straightened his cravat before
covering her face and turning away. Angry footsteps marched away,
and the door was opened and closed with a slam. She’d never see his
boyish adoring smile again. He wouldn’t marry her, not even for her
eighty thousand pounds. The last thread of hope snapped sending her
heart plunging into her stomach. Her dearest dream was dead; killed
by her own hand.

Having slammed
the door, Peter stood there, his body still humming from her touch.
The welcome rejection of his offer had the effect of hemlock.
Staring blindly down the empty hall, he walked away on numb legs.
Halfway to the stairs the hair stood up on the back of his neck,
chilling his spine. “Peter Augustus you’re as heroic as a dead cat.
You make love to Isabel in your dreams and then declare in a wooden
voice that she should marry you because you’re both half French?
Why not wed because you’re both alive? Why not wed because you’re
both nincompoops?” Peter stopped abruptly as the transparent agent
stepped into his path. “Frankly, if your Katie had been a tall
debutante with eighty-thousand pounds you wouldn’t have given her
the time of day because she wouldn’t have been in awe of your title
or income. You tell yourself you want a wife, but really you want a
living doll; a mindless creature who smiles and agrees with
everything you say.”

“I loved my
wife.” The words were flat.

“Love? Katie
worshiped you because you were her lord and master. You married her
because you could play the hero without having to open your mouth.”
The agent leaned closer to Peter’s ear as if anyone could overhear.
“Your wife was a bore…wasn’t she?”

Peter looked
away, “She was a good woman.”

“Good? I
suppose, but she only learned to read and write to please you and
the only times she used the skills was to make lists of things to
do. I could never have married such a dullard.”

Peter put his
hands over his ears, “My wife wasn’t a d-dullard.” Peter’s heart
contracted as he remembered endless lonely hours spent in his
library wishing he could discuss his thoughts and worries with his
wife, but when he tried she’d look at him with a blank expression
and change the subject to the nursery or promptly fall asleep.
“It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. The past is past. It’s
gone!”

“The present is
the past. If your wife hadn’t thought you an excruciating bore
she’d still be alive.”

“Katie didn’t
find me a bore!”

“No? After the
initial pleasures of being Lady Adderbury wore off Katie began to
admit to anyone who’d listen that she should have married the
innkeeper. Ask anyone in Adderbury.”

“You’re a lying
fiend!” hissed Peter. “Katie loved me!”

“Love? Katie
was in love with a fairytale. You were the handsome young Lord
who’d say the magic words and save her from a life of
servitude.”

“How would you
know?”

“I read her
file. Cinderella married the handsome Viscount only to end up
wishing she was still emptying chamber pots. After giving birth to
three babes in three years; the poor woman was sick of childbed,
sick of her elevated position and sick of you. After Charles’
difficult birth she became terrified of childbed, but every time
she tried to suggest you take a mistress you’d swear undying
fidelity. The woman’s only recourse was to make herself ill by
eating poisonous herbs, but a year later she was dreading another
childbed. Remember how that year after Cosmo was born she was
mysteriously ill every night? She discovered if you found her
vomiting you’d sleep alone. The first night she forgot to take the
herbs that would make her sick, she fell pregnant with Robert. She
was so desperate she tried to make you sick, but you never drank
the wine. She encouraged you to accompany John Sebastian to London
for his first season thinking you’d leave your pregnant wife behind
for a few months of peace, but no. Forced to travel while feeling
ill, force-fed meaningless etiquette and endlessly lectured by her
boring husband on the art of being a boring lady she found London
as noxious as childbed. Remember how she fell off that boat into
the Thames and nearly drowned? Remember how the carriage door burst
open one night and she nearly fell to her death? Remember how she
went off food? Remember how she took to drinking unhealthy doses of
laudanum? It never once occurred to you that your wife was
miserable. If you’d loved your wife, you’d have noticed.”

Peter couldn’t
breathe as carefully constructed memories were torn up like badly
drawn sketches and thrown into the emotional fire consuming the
oxygen in his chest. “I loved her…”

“You were
infatuated. You were relieved to have found a pretty bed-warmer.
Katie didn’t want to be a lady. She enjoyed working hard and seeing
the results of her labour, but as your wife all she was allowed to
do was give you offspring. She wanted to mend your linen and feed
your infants, but you ordered her to act like a lady. She couldn’t
even feed her own children. You hired a wet nurse without asking
the woman if she wanted one. If the Lord of the Manor said she
should have a wet nurse then so it was, and she was miserable. You
were a bully and a bore.”

“A bully?”
Peter’s eyes flashed with rage, “I treated Katie like a
princess.”

“No, you
insisted she be someone she wasn’t. You married your chambermaid
because it was easier to settle for a sweet pretty maid you knew
then endure the embarrassment of searching for a wife who wouldn’t
be intimidated by your overbearing manner or money. If you’d
waited, Isabel would have danced into your heart and made that
emotional fortress a home. So you missed your chance…and now you’ve
missed it again.”

“I married
Katie because I loved her.” Peter cringed at the emptiness of his
words. If he’d loved her, why didn’t the words sound
convincing?

“Liar! Your
mother tried to tell you that Katie wouldn’t be happy, but you were
too pig-headed to listen.” Peter turned to escape, but found
himself up against a wall, trapped by the haunting voice at his
shoulder. “In 1800 you were introduced to willowy debutante at a
ball and your heart fell into her pocket. She was pretty, but she
put you at ease and made you laugh. You’d never felt so masculine
or alive. You were overwhelmed with longing, but as the dance ended
you found yourself a married man wracked with guilt. Your body and
soul ached for Isabel de Bourbon. You burned with shame even as you
looked for her everywhere you went. The few times you caught her
eye you thought you’d die from the effort it took to look away. You
couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t eat. You were in love with a woman you
couldn’t have because you’d settled for the girl who emptied your
chamber pot.”

“That never
happened!” Peter yanked open the nearest door and stepped inside to
escape, but there was no escaping a ghostly storyteller.

Agent 1680
stepped through the closed door and continued, “That’s because you
locked the feelings and memories in a mental chest. Instead of
looking for the woman you love, you’ve been searching for a
doppelgänger of your dead wife. Marrying Miss Carteret will not
prove one heart beat of devotion to Katie. She knew you were in
love with another woman.”

“No! That’s
impossible!”

“How would you
know Peter Augustus? You’ve become so adept at constructing your
own version of reality you believe it yourself. If you wish to find
love, you have to break the lock on your mental chest and reclaim
your memories of that dance.”

“How d-do I
unlock a mental chest; hit myself on the head?”

“You find the
key! When you open the chest you’ll find your feelings for Isabel
Désirée as exquisite as the day you locked them away.”

“Do you expect
me to believe that I’m in love with a woman I have no memory of
meeting? A man can’t be in love and not know it.”

“You might want
to lower your voice. Louis Marie can’t see me.”

Peter looked up
to see he was in an occupied bedchamber. He flushed with horror as
the small man lying on the bed reading a book slowly raised a
single eyebrow. “I’m not mad.”

Isabel’s
brother sneered in contempt. “If I were you, I’d seek a second
opinion, preferably from someone sane. Pray allow your invisible
friend to direct you out of my room and to go hang yourself. I’d
rather Isabel married a Jersey cow than become a Smirke.”

“She refused
me.” Peter’s despondent tone hinted a need for sympathy.

“Dieu merci!
Why marry a madman when one can visit Bedlam and keep one’s
fortune?”

“I’m perfectly
sane!”

“If you say so.
Your room is four doors down on the left. If you feel an urge to
hang yourself, please stretch your neck in the park. There’s bound
to be at least one tree big enough to hold your weight. We have a
surplus of weeping ghosts. We don’t need you joining the
crowd.”

“You’re
heartless!”

“I’m
realistic.”

Peter mumbled
under his breath, “Horrid little frog!” Peter slammed the door
behind him glared at the romantic agent. “Well? Where am I supposed
to find the k-k-key?”

“What key?”

“The key to
open my mental chest! What is it? Where is it?”

“I can’t tell
you, but it’s as obvious as a pretty pair of eyes.”

“The key is a
pair of eyes?”

“That’s not
what I said.”

“If this is
what you call help, you can go to the devil!”

“Suit yourself.
Good luck finding that key…if she hasn’t already burned it.”

Peter’s eyes
went wide with horror. “She’s going to burn it? Why didn’t you tell
me? Heartless fiend!” Peter turned and race back down the corridor
his mind whirling with unpleasant thoughts. Had he bullied his
wife? Had he bored Katie to death? A sick feeling in his stomach
hinted he wouldn’t like the answers. He didn’t want to think about
it. Katie was dead; there was nothing he could do to make up for
his failings as her husband, but Mademoiselle de Bourbon was alive
and hating him. He couldn’t remember the dance with Mademoiselle de
Bourbon, but there was one person who would.

Reaching
Isabel’s door, he stood there catching his breath; if he knocked,
she’d lock the door and he’d never remember. Opening the door, he
saw his dream lover kneeling in front of the fire; her face pressed
into a bundle of white fabric. “Mademoiselle?” Without looking in
his direction, she slowly uncovered her face and fed the dress to
the fire filling the room with the acrid smoke. Coughing, she
ignored him as he stepped inside and closed the door.
“Mademoiselle, did we d-dance eighteen years ago?”

“What does it
matter?”

“What are you
b-burning?”

“Memories of
that dance.”

“That was the
dress? You wore white?”

“I was a
debutante Mr Smirke.” She pronounced his name with a sneer. “White
was de rigueur in 1800.” She flung an old pair of white leather
dancing shoes and then two white stockings with blue clocks into
the fire. Peter hunched down by her side as she picked up a fan and
lovingly unfolded it to gaze upon the painting of Robespierre
having his head removed by Madame Guillotine and then slowly closed
it.

“You used that
the night we d-danced? May I have it?”

“Non.” She
threw it at the fire, but Peter caught it midair. “Give it
back!”

Isabel’s words
were almost a scream, but Peter clutched his treasure. “Describe
what happened. Help me remember.”

“Why would you
want to remember dancing with a maypole?”

“I need to
remember!”

Her lips pursed
in contempt, “Then remember somewhere else. I can’t erase you from
my life if you’re crouched next to me like a giant spider. Give me
my fan!”

“Tell me what
happened. Please!” Peter held the fan out of reach as she tried to
grab it. “How d-did I look at you? Did I seem in love?”

Her eyes filled
with tears. “You were a married man. Why would you look at a
debutante maypole as if you were in love? Why would you even ask
such a question?”

“Something
happened that night…did you f-f-fall in love with me?” Peter winced
in pain as he was pushed off his feet onto his back, hitting his
head on the floor. The next thing he knew Isabel was crawling over
him and reaching for her fan. “Comment Diable!” He paled as his
most tender flesh was crunched under a knee. Clutching the fan, he
automatically grasped his attacker and rolled her underneath his
heavier weight to protect himself. As pain subsided he was
mesmerised by trembling lips. An invisible electric current jumped
like an arc light from teary brown eyes into his brain, drenching
him with sweat. Feeling her warm length underneath him was sweeter
than anything he’d dreamt. His voice cracked with longing, “Help
me…or I’ll k-k-kiss you.”

“There’s
nothing to…” His parted lips inhaled her next word before claiming
her bittersweet surrender as time ceased to exist. Neither heard
approaching heels or the door open.

“Ah bon…une
conversation intime! Je suis content.”

Hearing
Monsieur de Bourbon’s voice, Peter jerked up his head, wrenching
his hair through Isabel’s fingers. Flushing with embarrassment, he
could hear the lecture he’d give his sons if he’d found one of them
making love to a woman on the floor of her bedchamber. Untangling
his limbs, he jumped to his feet still clutching the fan, but his
eyes were fixed on the woman on the floor. He’d never seen anything
so tempting as the maypole in lavender silk, haloed by a mass of
brown curls. His knees bent under his weight forcing him to rejoin
her on the floor. “Mademoiselle…” Covering her face with the
sleeves of her lavender robe she ignored his hand and awkwardly got
to her feet without looking at him. Embarrassed and rejected, Peter
licked his swollen lips and took a deep breath before standing up
and forcing himself to look her father in the eyes.