Dancing the Maypole (2 page)

July 5 1818 (North of
London)

The square room
was a bower of songbirds, perched on oriental branches painted on
yellow paper. A round table, black with age, was liberally dotted
with yellow French porcelain as the four family members lingered
over their morning meal. A baroque mirror, opposite the large
window, reflected the morning light and a reverse view of parkland
bordered by trees sculpted by generations of rooks. Beyond the
trees, a church spire hinted at the village beyond.

Madame de
Bourbon filled her son’s coffee cup for the third time,
half-listening to her husband muttering in French behind his
English newspaper. The tranquil interlude was fated to end in a
clash of personalities. It was the same every morning. With her
eldest four daughters married, the first meal of the day had
acquired an eerie quality. Memories hung in the air of silly
squabbles over long-discarded petticoats and fans, while her four
eldest poured their own coffee far away in various parts of
France.

Glancing at her
youngest daughter, she sighed with maternal disappointment. At
thirty-six, Isabel Désirée de Bourbon had little hope of finding
love. Her large dowry and pretty face had drawn several earnest
admirers, but she’d dismissed them all as being too short. A tall
Englishwoman, Madame de Bourbon understood the novelty of looking
up at a man, but her daughter was romantic to a fault. The way
Isabel’s eyes glazed over with disinterest whenever she was
introduced to eligible men of her own height suggested she was
probably dreaming of being saved from bandits by a handsome monk.
Madame’s gaze shifted back to her short husband, and the visible
quarter of his handsome face. Time had etched the corners of his
mouth with laughter and a steely strength of character many mistook
for indigestion.

Madame was
pouring herself a cup of coffee when her husband lowered the paper,
his thin moustache twitching in amusement. “Les Anglais are so
bizarre! Little-man!” Louis, their adult son, lowered his own
paper, revealing a miniature version of his father. “Would you
advertise for a bride in le journal and embarrass les famille?”

“Non!”

Monsieur looked
up at his wife with adoring eyes and sat back. “Your son, il est
Français. He iz like me. When he finds a big woman who makes him
feel like a big man, he will make love to her. Thiz Lord Adderbury
iz without the heart. He does not think of hiz famille!”

Isabel de
Bourbon felt the blood drain from her face as she momentarily
forgot to breathe. Had her father read the name correctly? Was the
widowed Viscount Adderbury publicly seeking a wife? She felt for
the vinaigrette, filled with smelling salts, that always hung
around her neck. “Isabel!” She jumped in shock, her brown eyes
swerving to look at her father. “La belle femme who paints you once
a year, waz she not Lady Adderbury?”

“Oui.” The word
was a panicked squeak. “She’s his mother.”

Her father’s
eyes went wide with horror. “Elle est Français!”

“Oui.”

“This man is
half French? Zut alors! I am embarrassed. Écoutez! ‘After eight
years of widowhood, the Viscount Adderbury is in desperate need of
a wife. Outside a few grey hairs and laugh lines, he’s remarkably
well preserved for forty-four years. He’s fathered five handsome
sons, and would happily produce a few more, though he’d really love
to have a daughter. He’s of a robust constitution and has the
strength of a much younger man, as can be attested by his sons.
He’s worth eight thousand a year, has no debt, and disapproves of
gambling. He reviles drunkenness and has never lifted a hand to his
family, though he does have a look that can chill the spines of
errant offspring. Adderbury needs a wife, between thirty and forty,
who is good-natured, witty, and healthy. Being in your twenties
would not rule you out, but he might end up jealous of his sons and
re-enact a Shakespearean tragedy. Applicants must be tolerable to
gaze upon, but a kind companion with plain features would be
preferred to a beautiful jade. Ladies with sour expressions and
heavy frown lines need not apply. He requires a patient wife who
won’t finish his sentences or laugh when he stammers as that
infuriates him. She must be honest and chaste; Adderbury has no
desire to catch the pox and end up in Bedlam. A dowry is
meritorious, but not a necessity. Apply in person from July 6 at
Adderbury House, Adderbury, or write a letter requesting an
appointment. Be prepared to answer a few personal questions.’”
Monsieur de Bourbon folded his paper and threw it on the table, “Il
est fou!”

Isabel dropped
her smelling salts and hid her trembling hands under the table.
“He’s not crazy Papa. I met him once. He’s…he was very kind.”

Monsieur met
his wife’s shocked expression before turning to gawp at his
blushing unwed daughter. Not only was she defending a marriageable
lunatic, her eyes were shining with hope. Monsieur pursed his lips
in thought. Lord Adderbury might be a lunatic, but Isabel wasn’t
immune to the lunatic’s charms. The crazy advertisement offered one
last chance to pry the girl from the nest and find her some
happiness. “Bon! You will please me by ordering the carriage,
travelling to chez Adderbury and applying for zis position
directement.”

The thought of
her secret dream coming true after eighteen years made Isabel feel
faint, “Moi?”

“Oui! You need
the husband. He needs the wife. C’est parfait.”

The thought of
rejection caused Isabel to shudder, “I hardly see how it’s perfect.
We’re perfect strangers. I only spoke with him the once.”

“Bah! You never
know a man until you share hiz bed. It only matters that he makes
your heart palpites. Is that not so Cherie?”

Madame smiled
as her husband kissed her hand, “Oui. You still make my heart
palpitate.”

“Ta Mère, she
makes me feel like a big man. Thiz Adderbury…you like him non? You
will make him feel like a big man aussi.”

“He is a big
man. He’s at least five inches taller than me.”

Her father
shrugged as if disappointment was to be expected. “That iz not his
fault, he iz still half French.”

“I can’t show
up at the man’s door expecting a wedding ring. Whatever would he
think of me?”

“He will think
you want to be his wife. Little-man will go with you to protect
you. The man has five sons. He wants a woman of an age who can only
have two or three babes. You have the fortune. You have the visage
agréable. Once the man knows you are de Bourbon; he will look no
further.”

“But Papa, his
first wife was a short blonde. What if he prefers short women? What
if he hates brown curly hair?”

“Bof! Il tu
veut!” The Frenchman had spoken. The crazy Lord Adderbury would
take one look at the five feet, eleven inches of Isabel de Bourbon
and fall in love.

“I can’t go. I
have nothing to wear. All my clothes make me look like I’m about to
enter a convent.”

“A nun makes a
man feel big. You will marry thiz man and find the romance. You
will not need to spend the hours scribbling books romantique when
you can make love to a man who has the blood Français.”

“I’m too
old…”

“Bof!”

“I’d rather
write a letter and ask for a…”

“Non!” Her
father leaned forward and gave her that look that promised someone
would suffer if she refused. Seeing the worried look on her
mother’s face Isabel could imagine her father driving to Adderbury
and shooting the unsuspecting Peter Smirke. “You will apply in
personne. The men are not charmed by une lettre if they do not know
the face of the writer. You leave in an hour with Little-man.” The
thought of her secret hero bleeding to death at her father’s feet
was enough to inspire obedience.

6 July, 1818

Late afternoon
sunshine shone down on Adderbury House as Monsieur de Bourbon’s
carriage squeezed through a red stone gate in the style of Inigo
Jones, and stopped on the tight circular drive to allow the hot
weary siblings to step down. The small man looked up at the house
with a scowl. “Lord Adderbury appears to have been inflating his
worth. A man worth eight thousand a year wouldn’t live in this…tea
caddy.”

“I think it’s
charming,” said Isabel.

“Bof! Our
English dower house is larger.”

“What’s the
point of living in a maze?”

“You invite
important people to stay.”

“Important
people are boring. That’s what you always say.”

“Important
bores can be useful. You’d know that if you lived in the real world
instead of haunting the landscape of your lurid romances.”

“Why would you
think they’re lurid?” asked Isabel

“Do you bore
the family with your scribblings? Non!”

“You’re one to
sneer!” said Isabel. “You’ve never offered to let me read that
growing pile of scribblings you keep double-locked in your portable
chest.”

“My scribbling
is none of your business. Let’s get this over with,” said Louis

With her
brother’s hand on her arm, Isabel could only hope she was too late;
that Peter Smirke had tired of interviewing ladies and had shut
himself away in his study to contemplate his choices. Isabel would
then be able to climb back into her carriage and ride away
pretending the real Peter Smirke would rush to rescue an aging
maypole from pirates, if given the opportunity.

Peter Smirke
would take one look at her and dismiss her as too tall. The nervous
storm in her heart threatened to blow her over in a dead faint.
Faintly aware that her brother had rung the bell, she took a deep
calming breath. Lord Adderbury would never guess he’d been haunting
her thoughts and dreams for eighteen years. What was she to say?
She couldn’t tell him that she wanted to marry him because they’d
danced once when she was nineteen; that she’d fallen in love before
the end of the song, before learning he was a married man.

Did he know
she’d hired his mother to paint her once a year for the last
eighteen years? The last sitting had ended with an effusive
invitation to a house party where the artist promised to introduce
her widowed son. Isabel could still taste her tears after spinning
a tale that she was expected at a prior engagement. Why was she
knocking on the man’s door? Her father sent her. That’s what she’d
say. She was forced to make a spectacle of herself. Still, there
was a slight chance he might look into her eyes and fall in love
with her before learning her name… “Isabel!” She jumped at her
brother’s voice near her ribs. “The door is open. Entrer!” The
footman looked her in the eye and raised his eyebrows. She pursed
her lips to explain that her father had made her come, but her
tongue failed her. “Isabel…you will not faint.”

“Non…” Isabel
ignored the white sparkling lights dancing past her eyes. If she
collapsed at the man’s door, he’d think her enceinte with some
footman’s child. She was being silly. Lord Adderbury was a
gentleman. If he proved indifferent to her giant person and large
dowry, he’d politely thank her for coming and send her on her way.
As long as she didn’t faint, nothing bad would happen.

“My sister,
Mademoiselle de Bourbon, wishes to apply for the position of Lord
Adderbury’s wife. My card…” Propelled into the entrance hall, the
splayed light shining through Peter’s windows heightened her senses
as if the fact he owned the glass enchanted the sunbeams. There was
a haunting scent in the air, as if happiness had been used to scrub
the floors; it smelled of him. On the footman’s return from
delivering her brother’s card they were requested to follow him.
She followed on rubbery legs, her heart racing every clock she
passed.

In a few
agonising minutes she’d be face to face with her hero. With her
vinaigrette pressed against her nose, she ogled portraits of dead
Smirkes in silly clothes, amateur landscapes, and copies of old
masters. And then, they were walking down a narrow corridor where
her attention was torn between the view from each window and the
sound of wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. Her brother’s hand
on her arm pulled her away from the sunbeams and forced her to
follow the footman.

She came to a
stop outside a closed door. The footman knocked a warning before
opening it and waving the callers inside. Her heart played a drum
roll against her chest as the prospect of social interaction with
Peter Smirke became terrifyingly real. She would have turned and
rushed back to the carriage, but her brother propelled her into the
room. Expecting a middle-aged man, she was surprised to see five
beautiful young men stand to greet her. It seemed rather odd that
Peter Smirke would allow his children to meet his applicants, but
their welcoming smiles put her at ease. The man was probably
detained by some estate issue. She had a few more minutes to
hope.

One of the
young men, his straight blonde hair resembling a disturbed
haystack, stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “Mademoiselle
de Bourbon?” He looked her straight in the eyes and smiled before
kissing her hand. “Enchanté! Cecil Smirke, Adderbury’s heir, at
your service… Monsieur!” Her brother’s hand was solemnly shaken,
and then the other four brothers were waved forward. “This is
George; he’s twenty-two.” The second son was over six feet with
hair as black as his excited eyes. “This is Charles, he’s
twenty-one and as you can see has the notorious distinction of
looking like our wicked Uncle John.”

She had to look
down; he was at least an inch shorter. “You do look like him,
except you have kind eyes.” Had she just insulted the man’s
uncle?

The young man
smiled, unaware of her faux pas. “Merci Mademoiselle! Je suis
enchanté!”

“Don’t kiss a
hole in the lady’s glove! Move away so I can be introduced…”

“Shut up Cosmo!
The good lady will think we were raised in the stables.”