Dancing the Maypole (36 page)

“Thomas Becket
was murdered in the cathedral.”

“George, no
sane woman wants to suffer a long c-carriage ride to see where some
medieval priest had his b-brains dashed all over the floor.”

“Mine will.
When my bride learns I’m taking her to Canterbury; she’ll swoon
with delight. It’s romantic!”

“Well don’t
offer to take her shopping for new furniture afterwards.”

“Why would I?
She’d think me the most boring…” Peter cringed hoping his son would
change the subject. “Papa, you didn’t take Mamma shopping for
furniture on your honeymoon…did you?”

“I wanted to
help her refresh her bed chamber. It was thoughtful and
sensible.”

“Mamma wasn’t
remotely sensible or imaginative. She thought happiness was a pot
of green tea, a sharp needle for her mending and a bag of violet
sweets.”

“No, she liked
rose sweets,” insisted Peter.

“No, the sweets
in her pocket were always violet. One of my favourite memories of
Mamma was walking with her to get her weekly bag of violet sweets.
We’d only get one if we were good though Cecil always got one even
if he wasn’t.”

“What the
b-blazes did she do with all the rose sweets I b-bought her?”

“She gave them
to housekeeper who sold them back to the apothecary. You probably
bought the same sweets several dozen times.”

Peter stopped,
his knee throbbing with anger at his dead wife. “Why the d-devil
didn’t she tell me I was buying her the wrong sweets?”

“She was
probably frightened you’d order her to eat the rose sweets. I
adored Mamma, but she was rather simple. You should list all the
important questions to ask Mabel. You might want to start with her
favourite sweet…”

“Yes, thank you
George.”

“And if you
looked at Mamma like you’re looking at me it’s no wonder she never
said anything. That look could frighten the devil. I’m surprised
she didn’t drop dead in fright.”

“Any more
helpful observations about my f-f-failure as a husband or my
frightening face?”

“No Papa.”

“Bon!”

The green and
gold drawing room had been invaded by the nursery. Isabel
momentarily questioned her sanity. Did she really want to become a
mother? What if she gave birth to identical fiends? She’d be stuck
with them. She took a deep calming breath; Peter had raised five
sensible sons. Reason predicted her children would be equally sane,
but then her children would be raised properly. They wouldn’t be
allowed to act like escaped lunatics in the drawing room.

The identical
little girls, dressed in white, were jumping up and down out of
time near their paper theatre causing loud, irregular thumping that
made Isabel clench her teeth in irritation. The children’s old
nurse, unconcerned with either her charges or her position, sat in
the corner lightly snoring. Agnes was embroidering a second yellow
chick onto a large piece of brown silk, while James, engrossed in a
newspaper, had apparently gone deaf.

“May we start
now?”

“May we start
now Mamma?”

Agnes serenely
looked up from her needlework. “No, you must wait for the entire
audience.”

“But they’re
late!”

“The real
playhouse never waits for late people.”

Agnes gave no
sign of being irritated by her identical children, “If you don’t
wait, your audience will interrupt the performance by taking their
seats.”

“Frederick will
man the door and keep them out.”

“Frederick will
kick Cosmo in the knee.”

“And then Cosmo
will limp like Uncle Peter.” The identical fiends giggled, hopping
in circles on one leg.

Isabel waited
for Agnes to reprimand the children, but she calmly continued
stitching her latest piece of embroidery for her husband. James
Smirke was a masculine creature who enjoyed manly pursuits, but
apparently receiving a piece of embroidery from his wife drove him
half-mad with pleasure. That was the explanation Agnes gave when
Isabel followed her into the Master’s chamber one afternoon and
remarked on the decor. There were embroidered pillows piled on the
window seat, a quilted coverlet set with squares of embroidery, and
the walls…it was as if a mad person had stitched countless little
objects and scenes over the white silk wall hanging. She tried to
imagine Peter’s bedchamber. If there were romances hidden behind
farming tomes, what else would she find? Her mind remained a blank.
It was impossible to daydream with giggling fiends jumping up and
down.

Isabel’s young
Smirke relatives were uncommonly annoying. She could only pray
Agnes and James would live long enough to see both their hoydens
married off. If the twins were orphaned before their majority,
Peter would become their guardian and she’d be expected to mother
them. She resisted an impulse to cross herself. In France, she was
Catholic. In England, she was Protestant. That’s how she’d been
raised though she secretly preferred the former. The incense made
the service smell better, and the sermons in Latin meant it was
easier to daydream about being saved from a nunnery by a wild-eyed
Pierre.

“I’m jumping
higher!” said one of the fiends.

“You can’t jump
as high as this…” The child climbed onto the padded fender
surrounding the empty grate, and energetically set about proving
her word. Launching into the air, her pink ribbon fluttered in
triumph as she landed with a thump, nearly squashing the toy
playhouse. Isabel sighed in disappointment, but watched in hope as
the identical child, wearing a green ribbon, impulsively leapt
without taking account of a nearby armchair facing the fire. Isabel
watched in horror as the child’s lower body collided with the
chair-back. With a faint squeak, the chair tipped over and the
little girl landed face down on the floor with a loud thud.

Before Isabel
could rise, James was coddling his wailing child. Why hadn’t he
tried to stop her jumping? Anyone with moderate intelligence could
guess that one of the children would end up injured.

Isabel’s
unasked question was soon answered. Agnes finished her stitch
before setting aside her embroidery. Standing up, she calmly
addressed the uninjured child, “How many times have I told you not
to jump off the fender?”

“At least one
thousand four hundred and seventy-seven.”

“And what did I
say would happen?”

“One of us
would die, and I’d get her dowry.”

“I said one or
both of you would be injured. Nursey!” The fat nurse awoke with a
snort. I’m afraid the angels won’t be able produce their play this
evening…or have a sweet. They’ve both been naughty.” A train of
Smirkes left the room; James carried his bleeding sobbing child,
followed by Agnes firmly leading an identical wailing child,
followed by the nurse who looked miffed at having her paid slumber
interrupted. Dual high-pitched wails echoed through the house until
a distant door closed, and blissful silence reigned.

Isabel sighed
in relief and fanned her face, acutely aware that she wasn’t alone.
At the window Lucius Smirke was staring through the open casement;
a prisoner tormented by the sight of freedom.

As if he could
feel her eyes, he turned and caught her stare. “Are you sure you
wish to enter matrimony knowing you might be saddled with two of
those? They make a short miserable life in the Army seem a
treat.”

“Perhaps you
weren’t born to be a father Mr Smirke.”

“The second son
of a second son is rarely born to be anything other than a
servant.”

“There are
options,” said Isabel.

“A servant of
the State or a servant of the church?” Lucius Smirke snorted in
contempt. “A servant is still a servant.”

“Surely Lord
Adderbury pays you enough to afford a family.”

“What if he
does? The present can never a guarantee the future. Why saddle
myself with dependents when I might die and leave them at the mercy
of the civil parish?”

“His Lordship
wouldn’t allow that,” said Isabel.

“His heir
might.”

“I can’t
imagine Cecil or George…”

“Young men die
every day Madam. If all my young cousins were to die in accidents
and my brother were to inherit; my wife and children would starve.
He’d think it amusing.”

“It’s not as if
you’re hideous Mr Smirke. You could find a wealthy wife if you made
an effort to be pleasant.”

Grey eyes,
filled with contempt, were magnified by his spectacles. “If that’s
an offer Madam, I’ve no desire to dance around a maypole.” It was
an open declaration of war.

“I was pointing
out the obvious,” snapped Isabel. “Perchance you’re unable to see
your pretty face clearly in your shaving mirror.”

“If you were to
mind your own mirror Madam, you’d know this heat has given you the
blooming cheeks of a wine bibber.”

“You’re rather
rude considering…”

He snorted in
contempt as he lowered his voice. “It’s obvious you don’t like me,
but if you think to persuade his Lordship to send me packing, think
again. If you want me to abandon my comfortable position, you’ll
have to pay me to leave. In the meantime, I shall be entering your
house and sharing your table at will. Comprends?”

Lucius Smirke
turned away to stare out of the window, leaving his unfinished
offer hanging in the air like a bad smell. Isabel had to know. “How
much?”

“Five
thousand.”

She stared
open-mouthed at the back of his head. “Five thousand pounds?”

“What costs
five thousand pounds?”

Closing her
mouth she turned to see Robert Smirke in his shirtsleeves flop into
an armchair, shoving his bunched up coat behind his neck. “Your
cousin is trying to…persuade me to invest in some mad scheme.”

“Don’t let
Lucius sniff your purse or he’ll have it off you. And never play
chess with the man either, not for anything you value. He’ll have
you checked and mated before your third pawn falls on a knight. We
call him Lucifer for a reason. If you want to throw away your
money, throw it to me. I could hide it in a secret bank account
where Papa wouldn’t find it, so when I turned twenty-one I could
travel the world looking for new species…”

“You wouldn’t
make it to Greenwich,” sneered Lucius.

Feeling
insulted for Peter’s child, Isabel’s spine stiffened for battle.
“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because Madam,
on his own, Robert would stop every few hours to ease his boredom.
He’d end up murdered by a poxed whore who realised instead of a few
coins she could have his whole purse.”

Isabel was
forced to use her smelling salt to overcome her embarrassment,
“You’re a rude man Mr Smirke. It’s no surprise you’re a lonely,
unwanted bachelor.”

Robert sat up
and looked from his cousin to Isabel. “Ooh! Lucius has failed to
make a conquest.” Sitting back he snorted in amusement. “Don’t mind
Cousin Lucifer, he’s probably sore that you’re not awed by his
pretty face and randy reputation.”

“Robert!”
Having just entered the room, Cecil stopped in front of Robert’s
chair and glared down at his youngest brother. “If Mademoiselle
wishes to learn about Lucifer’s skill with his yard, it won’t be in
the man’s presence. How many times does Papa have to tell you to
think before you speak?”

“I was warning
the lady against Lucius,” said Robert. “I thought you were
comfortable with the truth Cecil. That is what you babble between
snores isn’t it?”

Peter’s
first-born glared down at the youngest, “You think you’re a man
because you bed every female who falls for your pretty face and
patent lies. Its not what you do with your yard, it’s what you do
afterwards that makes you a man. Lucius is willing to own
responsibility for unexpected consequences. You? You snivel it’s
unfair your nocturnal activities cost you dear. Well I think it’s
unfair that if Papa dies, and Uncle John and Aunt Joan are murdered
by one of their neighbours, I’ll become legally responsible for
your daughter. I prefer the old-fashioned habit of acquiring a wife
before filling my nursery with other men’s brats. Keep your yard to
yourself until such time you can house and feed unexpected
offspring. If you catch the pox and start showing signs of madness,
don’t think I’ll waste a fortune raising the roof to accommodate a
giant lunatic in my attic. Consider yourself warned.”

With a red face
Robert scowled up at Cecil, “If you were any more embarrassing
everyone in a mile radius would shrivel up and die. “You can’t
grasp what you should and shouldn’t say in company so you should
keep your mouth shut.”

“Would you like
to back that up with your fists…boy?”

Robert jumped
up. “This time I’ll pummel you.”

Cecil snorted
in contempt. “You won’t be able to pummel me for at least two
years. With any luck, by then I’ll be too busy pleasuring a wife to
give you satisfaction.”

“Enough!” The
two young men abruptly stopped at their cousin’s command. “This is
a drawing room, and there is an unmarried lady present.” The way
Lucius Smirke said the words ‘unmarried lady’ made Isabel’s single
status an insult. She resisted the mad impulse to march over to the
window and slap him with her fan. If he repeated the tone in her
future home, and Peter wasn’t present, she’d put a welt on his face
he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

“Mademoiselle…”
Cecil bowed in her direction. “…forgive our squabbling, we’ve lived
too long without the refining presence of a lady. “May I share your
seat?”

“Please…” said
Isabel. Pulling back the tails of his evening coat, Cecil sat next
to her on the green settee; the gold painted legs faintly groaning
from the added weight. There would be no room for Pierre, but it
was just as well. Having Peter sat so close would make it
impossible to pretend they hadn’t spent the afternoon rolling over
the champagne rug in a hot humid cloud of happiness.