Dancing the Maypole

Cari Hislop

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Copyright 2013 Cari
Hislop

Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author.

6 July 1818 (10 miles
north east of Bath)

For a man with
a stammer, it was an unfortunate fact that prospective wives
wouldn’t appear on his doorstep. He had socialise, attending
agonising balls, house parties, dinners and other social events
where single ladies gathered to snare a husband. Peter Augustus
Smirke; the widowed seventh Viscount Adderbury, was desperate to be
snared.

Stretching to
his full height, Peter inhaled the smell of freedom; fresh country
air and grass, wet with morning dew. A clear, piercing light
shimmered on distant hillsides, intensifying endless shades of
green. The blue sky was speckled with colonies of rooks searching
out their morning meal. There was a magical quality in the air as
though he’d walked into a painting. At any moment, his dream
mistress, the tall brunette his mind had conjured up in his dreams,
would step out from behind a tree, twirling a white parasol. She’d
give him that smile that made him sick with longing, crook her
finger, and he’d run to join her. She’d pull him deeper into the
painting until the real world and all its complications were
forgotten. His rumbling stomach broke the spell.

Painfully aware
of his body’s needs, his sensible nature insisted that he return to
eat breakfast and make himself presentable for the desirable Miss
Helene Carteret. After three years of eager searching, he’d finally
found a young woman whose smile made him wish he had a special
license in his pocket. The thought of kissing the petite blue-eyed
blonde made his heart race, and his hands sweat, as if he hadn’t
fathered five sons. At twenty-four, she was only a year older than
his eldest child, but he was convinced love would untangle any
difficulties. The thought of holding the pretty little creature in
his arms hurried him back to the house; his lonely nights would
soon be over.

After changing
his clothes, he sat down in front of his dressing mirror to finish
his toilet. The man staring back looked suitably young enough for a
twenty-four-year old wife. Cheered, he started taming his curly
black hair. He was wondering if he needed to use hair pomade when a
voice whispered in his ear, “Go home Peter! Leave now.” Dropping
his comb, he jumped up and turned to find he was alone. His heart
racing, he sat back down and absently picked up the comb. He
assured himself he wasn’t hearing voices; his nerves were frayed.
He was having the vapours.

His thoughts
blurred as loneliness pressed on his heart. He didn’t want to
return home without a wife. He missed having a wife. He missed
sharing his bed with a pretty little woman who’d smile up at him as
though he’d rescued her from certain death. Once again he reminded
himself that his dead wife hadn’t merely warmed his bed. Katie’s
devotion and unwavering belief in his judgement had tempered him
into a better man, but she was gone. The past couldn’t provide
physical comforts. The gnawing need to hold a woman of flesh and
blood could only be remedied by living in the present.

Peter reached
the breakfast room as the table was being cleared. He rescued half
a pot of cold chocolate and a stack of dry toast. He was
contemplating future kisses when a male guest stopped in the
doorway and ogled him. Peter mentally rehearsed the words he needed
to speak several times before allowing them off his tongue, “G-good
morning.”

The man picked
up the quizzing glass hanging from a ribbon around his neck and
stared at Peter as if he was a freak show exhibit. “Dem, Ah
wouldn’t have guessed you were forty-four.”

Taken aback by
the strange statement, Peter unconsciously fell into French, losing
his stammer, “Pardon?”

“No wonder Miss
Carteret fainted. You’re old enough to be her father. Never fear,
no doubt she’ll find eight thousand desperate reasons to wed a
jealous aging Lord.”

Peter’s
expression turned to disbelief, “Quoi?” Only his children and
steward knew his yearly income.

“Desperate eh?
Dem you’re brave…or mad.” The man dropped his eyeglass with a
sneering smile and walked on. Peter pinched himself. He was awake,
and his stomach felt full of stones. Unable to finish his
breakfast, Peter stood up and unconsciously tugged on his waistcoat
feeling naked.

At the back of
the house, the hostess and older guests were seated around tables
on the terrace, watching the younger members throwing horseshoes on
the lawn. As Peter stepped outside onto the stone terrace, the
morning birdsong was drowned by giggles and guffaws. Dressed in
white muslin glacéed with yards of blue ribbon, Miss Carteret
appeared to be wearing a marzipan-covered wedding cake. Doubt
filled eyes turned to peek at him; kissable lips twisted in disgust
as she looked away. Peter couldn’t move as Miss Carteret’s female
companions in turn glanced at him in horror. Unlike the previous
morning, there was no invitation for him to join them. Rejected and
feeling stupid, he stood frozen to the spot until his hostess
called him over. “Adderbury, come sit with the ancients! Have this
chair next to me.” Peter bowed again and accepted the command.
Praying his face didn’t show his unhappiness, he sat down and
forced a polite smile. “Are not the young one’s a pleasing sight?
They must make you miss your sons.”

“No. Why?”

“Miss Carteret
is looking particularly sweet this morning. That dress…it makes me
think she’s been dreaming of wedding cake. Did you know she was
engaged to be married last year?”

“No.”

“A young
soldier…one of those rich silly creatures with more gold than
sense. He forgot his pistol was loaded…a terrible loss. He was
scratching an itch and accidentally pulled the trigger. Some unkind
souls suggest he was desperate to escape the engagement, but it was
rather an extreme exit. I understand your four eldest sons are out
in society.”

“Yes.”

“If I had more
beds I’d have invited them. I think they’d have enjoyed meeting
Miss Carteret and the other young ones; don’t you?”

A very private
man, Peter had no intention of spilling his emotional entrails onto
the tea table. “I’m sure they would have, but they’re men. It would
be unhealthy for them to live in my p-p-pocket.”

“Yes, but I
don’t suppose you’d want your sons accompanying your desperate
search for a wife. Competing for a young lady’s attention with
one’s own sons would be unnatural. And young ladies never notice
beautiful old men when there’s beautiful youth around, unless of
course, the old man is rich, handsome, and free of the pox.” The
other guests, sitting around two other tables, burst out laughing
as if their hostess had said something witty.

Any pretence of
congeniality faded as Peter’s face contorted with his most
frightening expression. “I b-beg your pardon? What is so
amusing?”

A guest about
his own age, already tipsy after two bottles of port, sat up and
slapped his leg. “What I want to know is how many sons you’d be
happy to produce on Miss Carteret? Dem, that’s a frightening
look…your poor sons…poor Miss Carteret…”

Peter clenched
his teeth as he eyed the cheerful drunk with contempt. “If you were
sober, I’d slap your face and d-demand satisfaction.”

The man belched
into his sleeve. “Never sober…fine day what?”

A widow, past
her prime, with an exceedingly low décolletage, leaned towards
Peter and tapped him on the arm before drawing his eyes to her
breasts by touching them with her fan. “My Lord, if you’re
desperate for a wife might I propose you’d find more marital
happiness with a mature and experienced woman? I’d happily apply
for the position.”

The drunk
snorted in amusement, “Dem right! Why bed a frigid child when you
could be pleasured by Delilah? Dem, I know what I’d choose…” The
drunk winked at the abundant display of flesh.

Fans snapped
open as various members of the group made a half-hearted attempt to
hide their amusement. The hostess peered up at Peter, “Delilah has
a point. Count your blessings Adderbury, and cease breeding while
you can. Five sons are more than enough to ensure your line. No-one
in their right mind wants a daughter. Take my word, I had seven
girls. Thankfully three died as babes. As soon as the first sweet
creature turned thirteen, I thought I had been transported to the
ninth level of hell. I used to wake up from nightmares that I’d
never find a man mad enough to marry her. My surviving son has
always been a perfect angel. Boys are much easier than girls.” The
company sagely nodded in agreement, even the drunk who’d never
knowingly fathered a child.

Peter’s horror
increased as he realised several of his most private desires had
somehow become public knowledge. “I b-beg your p-pardon?”

The drunk
leaned over and patted Peter on the arm, “Me, I agree with you…’
Several hiccups interrupted his train of thought. “…yes I agree
completely. I wouldn’t wed a sour faced jade either. I’d bed her,
but I wouldn’t wed her… Dem, I feel about to be birched…now if you
were a woman…” The company guffawed with laughter as Peter sat
there with a grim expression.

As a beautiful,
wealthy Lord, Peter had almost forgotten the taste of humiliation
tinged with fury. The only part of him that could deal with the
crushing emotion was the fifteen-year old boy buried deep inside,
and the boy’s response was to put up his fists and fight knowing
he’d lose. Jumping to his feet he glared at the company from his
full height of 6ft 5in. “What the d-d-d-devil is g-g-going on?” The
words cleared the giant hedge around the property and floated into
the ether. He had the entire company’s attention including the
horrified Miss Carteret.

The hostess
lowered her fan to fully display her displeasure. “Honestly! What
did you expect my Lord? A man who advertises his desperate need for
a wife is bound to be laughed at.”

“Advertise? I
haven’t ad-ad-advertised for a wife.” The company turned to look at
Miss Carteret and then back to the enraged giant.

The hostess
raised both eyebrows. “Well! There’s no need to frighten us with
that awful look. If you didn’t advertise for a wife, then you have
a most fiendish enemy. You’ll be lucky to find a young literate
virgin who’ll have you now, but there’s always Delilah.”

“Yes, I’ll have
you…happily!” The widow’s eyes wandered from enraged black eyes
half way down his anatomy. “I’ve always wanted a…big man.”

Peter ignored
the breasts pointed in his direction. “Where’s the news…?”

The hostess
snapped her fan shut. “Lady Wessex, would you be so kind as to hand
me the newspaper? Thank you Darling, it’s a pity your husband’s
still alive or you could apply for the position.”

“Darling, Lord
Adderbury is far too big. My head would be tipped back so often it
would become fixed at a slant. Eight thousand a year before
expenses is hardly worth the migraine. Giant men should marry giant
women; otherwise the wedding portrait is unbalanced. However, if he
had his legs blown off by cannon shot, or amputated for gout, I’d
happily apply for the position…if I were free.”

“I know exactly
what you mean. You’re very handsome my Lord, but you are rather
big. Thankfully, there’s always Delilah.” Peter’s expression became
more fearsome as sharp words punctured his vulnerable heart. Was he
too big? His little Katie had never seemed to mind looking up at
him. He grabbed the paper off the table and tried to focus. “It’s
on the last page at the top.”

Flipping to the
last page, his eyes widened in horror. By the end of the fifth
sentence, he was shaking with rage. “I’m going to k-k-kill him!”
The roar made the company squirm in fear as Peter’s lips became two
white lines of compressed fury.

His hostess,
sensing a prime opportunity to acquire a choice piece of gossip,
leaned forward. “Kill who my Lord?”

“My helpful
eldest son.”

“Oh…surely you
aren’t going to deprive the ton of good breeding material? That
would be such a waste. I hear he’s quite handsome…” With the
broadsheet scrunched in one hand Peter swivelled on a heel and
shouted for his curricle. The company watched him march away
without taking leave, and then turned to look at each other. “Well
Miss Carteret, I think you’ve escaped an unholy union. If the man’s
son hates him enough to make him a national laughingstock, what
must his poor wife have suffered? I think you’ve had a timely
escape my dear. I should have known better than to invite a Smirke;
he was bound to be a fiend. Don’t cry Miss Carteret, eight thousand
pounds a year could hardly compensate for being crushed to death
performing one’s marital duties.”