Dancing the Maypole (4 page)

Being called a
big stupid cow in acidic French on top of the morning’s insults
caused an avalanche of bile into Peter’s heart. Thanks to his
children, loneliness stretched into the horizon. No sane woman
would want him unless she was illiterate and too deaf to hear
whispers of his unsuitability. He’d spend the rest of his life
fending off women like the wanton Delilah or giant women in search
of a tall man. “I d-don’t c-care who you are. Leave and t-take the
maypole with you.” The part of him peering down from the tower
watched in horror as he was denied any hope of holding her.

“If you weren’t
such an idiot, I’d call you out.”

“Louis!” Her
purported brother bent over the woman sobbing into the carpet. “I
want to die…”

“Die later,
when we’ve left this big cow behind. You should have married that
short German prince while you had the chance.”

“I can’t
breathe…je suis malade…”

“You’ll be sick
in gaol if we don’t escape this big idiot. He thinks we’ve come to
steal his Sheffield plate. I’ve never been so insulted.” With great
effort, he pulled her to her feet and turned her towards the door.
Leaning heavily on her brother’s shoulder, she covered her face
with her free arm and blindly stumbled as he helped her out of the
room. “Breathe and don’t look back. You don’t want that big vache
to see you weep. He’ll think you wanted to be his wife.”

At their
present shuffle, it would be twenty minutes before the pair reached
the front door. Peter had to get the woman out of his house, out of
sight, and out of reach. His emotional barometer was falling fast.
The woman’s nearness was making him feel light headed. The shape of
her bent shoulders recalled the repeating nightmare where his dream
lover walked away without looking back. Enraged by conflicting
emotions, he heaved the lady over his shoulder like a sack of
flour. Exultant at her nearness, his trembling legs threatened to
run for the staircase and up to his chamber.

Strangled sobs
ceased as the woman went limp, her arms lightly flailing against
his backside as he carried her past gawping servants. Holding her
long, shapely legs firmly against his chest, he ordered the footman
to open the door. Stepping outside he stopped in surprise. On his
way into the house, in his blind rage he’d somehow missed his
visitor’s entourage. A coachman, two dismounted outriders, two
liveried footmen, a groom and a ladies’ maid seated inside the
carriage; all stared in horror at the shapely derrière perched on
his shoulder. One of the outriders crossed himself and muttered a
prayer in French to Saint Barbara. The heaviness of Peter’s stomach
insisted it wasn’t the outrider who needed to fear a sudden death.
The insensible woman draped over her shoulder might have a father
or uncle who’d view her unorthodox exit as a personal insult worthy
of a duel.

What had he
done? What was he doing? Peter’s legs twitched as he nearly turned
and carried the insensible woman back inside, but the maid leapt
from the carriage and rushed to her mistress, beckoning the footmen
to help her. Peter’s tempting burden was gently removed from his
shoulder, plied with smelling salts and bundled sobbing into the
carriage. Peter was absorbed in trying to glimpse the crying woman
when something crushed his right foot. Looking down Peter was spat
in the eye.

“You’ll be
hearing from my father. God help you if he thinks you’re sane!”
Louis de Bourbon sneered up in disgust and then turned away to
climb into the carriage, sitting opposite the two women.

Peter sensed an
emotional noose hanging above his head as he waited for the maid to
move so he could see the deathly pale cheek he’d kissed in
countless dreams one last time.

“Isabel!” said
Louis. “This is real life, not one of your silly novels. Do you
want that big vache to think you regret becoming his bolster? Take
us away from this…empty tea caddy.”

Peter’s flesh
chilled as the woman’s name settled into his brain. He’d always
called his dream lover Ma Belle. He’d always assumed he was calling
her his beauty, but if the woman was named Isabel… How could he
dream about a woman without any memory of meeting her? The thought
made his chest ache. He needed answers. He needed to hold her, but
he’d never hold her again. He stood there watching until the
entourage turned south onto the road through Adderbury; thundering
hooves condemned him to the hell of unanswered questions.

Heartsick,
Peter turned to find his sons behind him looking in disappointment
at the empty road. “See what you’ve done?” They turned to look at
him as if he was a two-headed calf. “Thanks to you, I won’t need a
wife. Your meddling will now get me k-k-killed by that maypole’s
father.”

“It’s not our
fault you…” Cosmo looked away without finishing his protest.

“My death will
at least ease the embarrassment of the young woman I was courting.
A young woman who returned my regard until she was informed of your
advertisement when…” Peter’s voice rose to a roar. “She wouldn’t
even look at me!” His sons looked suitably chagrined. “You’ve
ruined any p-p-possible hope of happiness or at the very least a
sane body to warm my bed. You will not get a penny from me for the
rest of the year. Comprends?”

Cosmo gasped in
horror, “That’s not faire! It was Cecil and George’s idea, and they
have their own incomes. You can’t punish me just because I was born
a year after Charles.”

“I wasn’t
finished. Cecil, George, Charles…my carriage will take you to your
respective properties where you may help your tenants and
neighbours. I don’t want to see you until Christmas.” Five pale
faces stared back at him as if he’d announced that three of them
would be shot at dawn.

Swivelling on
his heel, Peter walked away haunted by the memory of holding his
dying father’s hand and promising that he’d be a good man. He’d
failed to keep his word again; even bedding his chamber maid four
months before he could legally marry her hadn’t made him feel so
wicked as banishing his sons. Numbly reaching the stairs, he
dragged his tired legs to the first floor landing and down the hall
to his chamber. Locking his door he collapsed into the solitary
chair by his fire and pressed his face into his dusty black sleeve
knowing the morning wouldn’t bring relief. Underneath the
suffocating emptiness in his chest something had been broken.

*

Peter was still
sitting in his chair an hour later when an insistent hand tapped on
the door. “Pierre Auguste…c’est ton Maman…ouvre la porte!” The
tapping resumed. “I need to speak with you, c’est très important!
Pierre?” Sighing in defeat Peter jumped to his feet and unlocked
the door for his mother, but kept his face turned away. “Your boys,
they love you. I am sure they were only trying to aid you.”

“The helpful
wretches have ruined my life. No sane or d-decent woman will want
to marry me…”

“That is not
true Pierre. The boys, they chose a few unfortunate words that made
you seem a little…” His mother pursed her lips as if trying to
convince herself. “…inexperienced and naïve, but those are not
sins.”

“They made me
look a f-f-fumbling lovelorn loser.”

“Pierre…you
will find her. Ouvre the heart…”

“My heart is
open in every broadsheet!” shouted Peter. “It will soon be thrown
into the fire by every sensible woman who can read English. My life
is ruined!”

“Oh Pierre,
always you see the rain clouds…this could be the thing divine.
Perhaps it will aid you to meet une femme who will see that you are
a good man.”

“I am not a
good man. I want to kill my children!”

“Pierre, there
were the days I could have hit you on the head. C’est normal!”

“I promised
Papa I’d be a g-g-good man. How can I expect my sons to be good men
if I fail?”

His mother
sighed in exasperation, “Your Papa did not expect you to be a
saint; saints are dead. He wanted you to make the good choices and
be happy. C’est tout!”

“How can I be
happy? My empty bed is k-k-killing me. I need a wife!”

“Je comprends.
When your Papa died, I…it was horrible. My heart, it did not want
to live or love again, but the years pass, and there comes the need
to be loved. You will find her.”

Peter exhaled
in despair. “I did find her.”

“Vraiment? But
that is fantastique! Who is she?”

“Miss Helene
Carteret; I was courting her with hope, but thanks to my helpful
children the sweet creature now thinks me an ancient social
embarrassment.”

Peter didn’t
see his mother’s look of horror as she made the sign of the cross.
“Pierre, Mademoiselle Carteret et une belle fille, mais…”

“But what?
She’s a good woman.”

“That may be,
but she has only one year more than Cecil who is a beautiful young
man.”

Peter turned
revealing red outraged eyes, “Are you saying I’m too old for
her?”

“Your boys need
a mother. Direct the heart to une femme closer to your age. I know
une femme who dreams of meeting you…”

“Three of my
sons are men. The other two think they’re men. My sons need
wives.”

“Exactement!
Your sons they have the age of men. Miss Helene Carteret is too
young; your sons, they may…forget she is…the stepmother.”

Peter’s black
eyes glinted with rage. “How c-c-can you think one of my sons would
seduce my wife?”

His mother
pursed her lips in frustration. Knowing her son’s hatred of gossip,
she couldn’t tell him that Miss Carteret was a fortune-hunting
wanton; that his sons would be the ones in danger. “Non, they would
not set out to seduce your wife, but they are without experience.
If Cosmo were to spend hours a day with une belle femme who smiled
at him with kind eyes he would lose his heart. It could end in a
tragedy Shakespeare.”

“Non!” Peter
shook his hands at the ceiling in speechless rage. “I’ve taught my
sons to be good men.”

“Oui, but they
may not choose to be good Pierre.”

“Have you no
faith in my children?”

His mother
slowly shook her head. “Robert may look like you, but he is nothing
like you Pierre. He is more like your brother Jean.”

“You insult my
son! Robert isn’t anything like John.”

“Pierre, you
need une femme who will love them like a mother because she is too
old to be the lover.”

“The woman I
marry will love my sons as if they were her own, and my sons will
love her as if they were her sons.”

“Pierre, a
woman who has twenty-four years cannot mother a man who has
twenty-three.”

“Shall I remind
you how many years there are b-b-between you and William? He’s four
years older than me Mamma. Four!”

“Oui, but his
children are young and I am not. Miss Carteret is trop jeune for a
man with grown sons.”

Peter glared at
his mother, “Is that what you came to tell me? That I’m too old for
happiness?”

“Non, there is
une femme who is in love with you. Why, I do not know…”

Peter’s face
contorted with disbelief, “You don’t know why a woman would love
me?”

“Non! I did not
mean that. She does not admit to me that she loves you, but I know
she does. She may read the advertisement and think it genuine. If
she comes, I pray that you will be kind to Mademoiselle de Bourbon.
She’s a soul timide and has the terreur of rejection.” Peter’s face
drained of colour as the words landed in his brain like chunks of
granite. “She has hired me once each year for eighteen years to
paint her portrait. She is not vain. She wants only for me to talk
about ma famille. She asks first about Jean Sebastian and then
about Jacque and Agnes and the twins. She is the cousin of Agnes so
she has a genuine right to question. Then after avoiding as long as
possible the subject that interests her most, her eyes sparkle and
her cheeks burn as she asks about you and your famille. I tell you
she loves you. She is half French, gentil et trés jolie. She has
everything that would make you the good wife, but if you do not
desire her please be kind to her if she comes.”

Peter covered
his face with his hands as he failed to exhale the sudden agony
churning his internal organs into pâté. “Why would she c-c-c-come
if she’s shy?”

“Her father, he
is a Frenchman. If he thinks she likes you, he will demand she
apply for the position and shove her in the carriage. His wife is
the sister of Agnes’ mother. They are good ton. Pierre…what have
you done? Your shoulders have that look.”

“I arrived home
in a foul t-temper. I wanted to k-kill my children, and then I
turned to find I had an audience. Ma…Mademoiselle and her brother
looked so ridiculous, and then the little frog called me a big
stupid cow. Now I feel like a b-b-big stupid cow.”

His mother’s
eyes flashed with anger, “You are half French. Do you hop like a
frog?”

Peter blushed
in shame at having insulted his mother. “Non. Je suis désolé. He’s
right; I am a big stupid cow.”

“Pierre you are
not stupide; you are vexed. She has the pretty face, non? She
faints when she’s excited or upset, but she’s healthy and has only
thirty-six years. She would be parfait for you and the boys.”

“I don’t want a
maypole. I want Miss Carteret.” The words were flat as if he was
reciting lines. It didn’t matter if Peter wanted the maypole;
Isabel de Bourbon would never acknowledge him. He’d never feel her
warmth pressed against him again. He turned away from his mother,
nearly choking on the effort to restrain his rage. He’d marry some
pleasant little woman and he’d survive. He’d survived more than a
decade without feminine affection; he’d survive a few more. The
thought made him feel ill.

“Pierre,
Mademoiselle Helene Carteret looks too much like Katie.
Pierre…”

“Laissez-moi
tranquille!” He violently waved his arm at the door. His mother
sighed in despair and quietly left him alone, closing the door
behind her. Silence bred mortifying visions. Returning to his
chair, he sat there horrified by his actions. He’d maltreated a
woman, a stranger in front of his sons. Shame pushed him under its
mangle and proceeded to flatten him. Honour demanded he call on the
lady and beg her forgiveness; if she refused to see him he’d have
to do something drastic… He’d kidnap the woman and drive her to
some romantic ruins where he’d have servants waiting with a picnic
lunch. Once she understood, he’d momentarily lost his mind she’d
forgive him. With both of them in good spirits, he’d offer to marry
her and her eyes would shine at him over her smelling salts. No,
that wouldn’t happen. Her father would appear with a loaded pistol,
and Peter would slowly bleed to death to the sound of Monsieur de
Bourbon’s carriage wheels rumbling into the distance, carrying away
his daughter. It was pointless to hope for reconciliation; the
woman would never speak with him again. She’d never let him hold
her in his arms, or… Groaning, he pressed his face back into his
sleeve and prayed for death to claim him. If he died before
morning, he’d never have to face his sons or wonder how he would
endure the emptiness in his chest.