Dancing the Maypole (55 page)

“Out where?”
said Cecil. “What are you talking about?”

“Out there on
the dance floor! What else? Papa and Mademoiselle…”

Cecil eyed his
younger brother with concern. “You saw Papa dancing and it gave you
nightmares? You should let Lucius introduce you to a gentle widow.
A few kind kisses would do you good…”

“I don’t want
to kiss some old woman…and seeing people dance doesn’t give me
nightmares. While visiting Mademoiselle, to deliver her fan, Papa
ordered me from the room and told me to wait outside. As there
wasn’t time to view the garden I was admiring the Elizabethan
windows, watching the reflections of innocent clouds floating by
when I found myself seeing…something unspeakable.”

“What were they
doing?”

“I don’t want
to talk about it. That’s what unspeakable means.”

“You saw Papa
fornicating?” Cecil was too horrified to notice the surrounding
guests fall silent as dozens of curious ears strained to hear the
conversation.

Cosmo’s face
contorted with disgust, “They were in a drawing room. Two large
people can’t fornicate on an Elizabethan settee.”

“They could
fornicate on an Elizabethan floor.”

“Papa wouldn’t
roll a woman on the floor,” insisted Cosmo. “It’s undignified.”

“If it takes me
eight years to find a wife, I’ll be dragging my bride behind the
nearest hedge out of sight of the church. Dignity be damned!”

“Ugh! Why did
you have to say that? Now I’ll be sick at your wedding. For the
sake of my stomach pray wait until you find a floor behind a
door.”

Cecil smiled in
anticipation of future pleasures, “Once my wife is in my arms I’m
not going to care about your stomach.”

“Then think of
your wife’s health. You don’t want the girl to catch a chill and
die on your honeymoon. A minute of pleasure in the driving rain
won’t be worth it if you have to spend the rest of your first year
as a husband mourning your wife. As for Papa, the man won’t drink
coffee from a tea bowl; he’s hardly going to bed a woman on a
settee even if he could find one large enough.”

“Then what were
they doing while you were peeping in the window like Tom
Jones?”

“I wasn’t
peeping! I was admiring the Elizabethan glass. I didn’t want to see
Papa groping…”

Cecil winced at
the mental image printed on the back of his brain. “You saw Papa
groping Mademoiselle’s breast?”

“Worse! While
kissing like Romeo and Juliet, he was groping her derrière
like…like a randy character in a Restoration play. I nearly lost my
lunch.”

Cecil grabbed
his brother by the coat collar oblivious to onlookers gawping
behind raised fans. “Why the devil didn’t you tell us about this
when you arrived back in Bath instead of sulking in a corner and
then wagering each of us five pounds that Papa wouldn’t marry
Mabel? Do you want Papa to end up in another loveless marriage? Do
you want Mademoiselle to spend the rest of her nights woken by Papa
calling out for another woman? And what about Mabel’s
feelings?”

“If Papa
doesn’t care about Mabel’s feelings, why should I? For all we know,
she’s a French nursemaid. That would explain Frederick’s smug
knowing attitude. He claimed to know Mabel’s identity and
insinuated that you and I are both idiots not to have guessed
it.”

Cecil’s brain
whirled with images of his father interacting with Mademoiselle de
Bourbon. “What did Frederick say?”

“The man runs
errands and lights candles for a living. Who cares…?”

“Tell me
exactly what he said.”

“He said he was
surprised George hadn’t figured out the identity of Papa’s dream
lover. That’s all he said about Mabel. He then broadly hinted I
should be grateful my father isn’t a spendthrift drunk who beats
me. Who cares what Frederick thinks? He’s a footman.”

The fog of
concern lifted, leaving Cecil irritated with his brother for being
dense, and irritated with his father for being devious. Releasing
his brother, Cecil turned to stare at the dance floor. His father
was smiling at Mademoiselle even when they were farthest apart in
the dance. “Frederick isn’t the only one laughing up his sleeve.
Papa has been lying through his teeth…”

“Papa? Lying?”
Cosmo looked confused. “About what?”

“About Mabel! I
wish you’d mentioned Frederick’s comment sooner. We’d have ended
this charade days ago. Papa would be on honeymoon, and I’d be off
finding a wife.”

“What are you
talking about?” demanded Cosmo. “What does it matter what Frederick
thinks?”

“Think about
it. Papa calls her his Belle because that’s her name. There’s only
one Belle Papa has been spending time with. We’ve been blind to the
obvious.” Cecil turned to search the top of the crowd for George’s
black hair.

“Blind?” Cosmo
was still confused. “We don’t know any women named Belle. What are
you going to do about Papa? You can’t let him dance all evening
with Mademoiselle. He’s smiling at her like she’s a swaying tower
of bonbons. Who’ll want to marry me after they’ve heard Papa danced
all evening with the same woman? I’ll be damned as one of Lord
Madderbury’s whelps. You’re not the only one who needs a woman in
your bed. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to
end this charade.”

“What
charade?”

“Isabel de
Bourbon.”

“How is
Mademoiselle a charade?”

“Isabel? Belle?
Ma Belle? My Beauty? Aunt Agnes says you’ve already been
introduced. Ribbons? Maypoles?”

“So? The ball
is for Mademoiselle, and she’s a maypole.”

“Exactly!”
snapped Cecil. “She’s a maypole! Papa and Mademoiselle have pulled
the proverbial wool over our eyes…”

Cosmo gasped.
“What are you saying; that Mademoiselle is playing a part? That
Papa lied? That there’s no Mabel?”

“Honestly!”
Cecil rolled his eyes, “How many times did the nursemaid drop you
on your head Cosmo?”

“How should I
know? I can’t remember being an infant.”

“Mademoiselle
is Mabel. We’ve been taken in. We’ve been fooled. Papa has been
courting Mabel under our noses. No wonder Aunt Agnes and Uncle
James having been smirking at us. They must think we have bricks
for brains.”

“Mademoiselle?
That doesn’t make any sense…”

“It’s the only
thing that makes sense. I need to find George. Go find Robert…”

“Robert’s
probably pleasuring some widow in the infamous maze; you find
him.”

“Then find
Charles and meet us in the card room. George and I will find
Robert. Honestly!” Cecil rolled his eyes and cursed his luck for
being born first. For the rest of his life, he’d be responsible for
Cosmo and Robert. He’d never be left in peace to make his own
family. His two youngest brothers would both marry shrews, engender
numerous children, gamble away their homes, and then end up with
the pox. He’d have to lock them both in his attic, pay for their
care, and spend a fortune supporting their dependents who’d all
want to live in his house. His wife would be miserable. She’d
refuse to share his bed and that would make him miserable.

Searching the
crowd for George, he caught sight of Iris Bedingfield watching him
with sad eyes. Without her usual haughty expression, Iris looked
fragile as if the slightest jostle from the crowd would break off
her arm. He stood staring back as blood rushed through his vital
organs causing his cheeks to flush with embarrassment. Breaking eye
contact he turned away, but something made him stop and glance
back. She was still watching him; her lips twisted in despair. He
sighed in relief as the milling crowd closed, saving him from doing
something foolish. Being chained to Iris Bedingfield would be worse
than the pox. His unhelpful brain conjured up the image of Iris in
a yellow silk dressing gown stretched diagonally across his bed on
her stomach, her nose in a book. Dainty naked feet dared him to
give into temptation… He shivered in disgust; he’d never be that
desperate.

From the
musician’s gallery, the ballroom below was a swirl of colour around
the tall couple on the dance floor. Standing in the corner of the
gallery, almost invisible in dove grey, Monsieur de Bourbon was
relieved to see Lord Adderbury smiling at Isabel like a besotted
fool. After arriving late, with a face that could curdle milk, the
Lord’s mood was apparently transformed by the sight of Isabel in
her aunt’s hideous old gown. The English were an odd race. It was
hard to tell what most of them were feeling at any one moment.
Smiling, courteous people might be happy, melancholic, or plotting
to ruin one’s finances. They’d bow and shake hands without any
indication whether they were friend or foe. There was no faint
sneer to warn that if they found you alone in a forest they’d run
you through, pin you alive against a tree and leave you to be
devoured by wolves.

Madame de
Bourbon spoke his language with a faint English accent, but her
soul was French. She rarely needed words. Her expressive eyes
revealed visible layers of emotion; ghostly projections from the
magic lantern of her loving heart. Every time he looked into her
eyes he felt like the biggest man in France. If only his children
had turned out more like his wife. Somehow, he’d created six
variations of his mother. Obstinate, contrary, wilful to the point
of self-injury and cursed inflexible; they wouldn’t even pretend to
change their minds to ease his fears. On being given a paternal
command, they’d purse their lips and stare back like wild creatures
daring him to force them to take the sensible course. As if being
safe was for les idiots. Monsieur knew his youngest daughter had
been dreaming of the mad Lord Adderbury when she didn’t smash open
his glass cabinet full of jewel-encrusted snuff boxes and start
throwing them at his head.

Turning away,
he squeezed past the musicians and their music stands, and headed
for the stairs to the ballroom. Monsieur was resigned; he’d soon
give away the right to protect his youngest daughter to a man who
might never appreciate the value of her silliness. There was no
point wishing Lord Adderbury would drop dead on the dance floor;
Monsieur knew he was fated to lose six pieces of his heart.

Taking out his
pocket watch, he squinted at the dial approaching to half past
eleven. If all went to plan, at midnight, Isabel would find herself
walking up a short aisle to a lit altar as a surprised bride. It
was disappointing that she wouldn’t be married after mass in a
cathedral by a man appointed by the Pope, but as his wife had
pointed out, if they didn’t make a wedding happen, Isabel would
elope. The look on Adderbury’s face made a sensible journey
unlikely. Isabel would insist using the man’s curricle. She’d urge
her lover to drive at breakneck speed down the most robber-infested
roads in the kingdom with only a sliver of moonlight to illuminate
the journey. If they remained upright with sound limbs and escaped
the robbers, she’d then convince the smitten Lord to roll her in a
damp moonlit meadow or rat infested haystack. After a few silly
days of bliss, she’d die of fever, and be buried still bearing her
maiden name.

The surprise
wedding had been onerous to organise. Monsieur’s solitary ride to
London to buy a wedding license had been a failure; Adderbury had
already purchased one. They had to rely on Agnes to procure the
parchment without her brother-in-law’s knowledge and bring it with
her to the ball, which she had. That left the task of appointing
someone to officiate at the ceremony. The nearest Bishop had
refused on principle to chain any woman to a Smirke. Half a dozen
other priests had refused to marry any woman to Lord Adderbury on
the grounds that he belonged in Bedlam. Isabel, a woman with French
royal blood in her veins, would be married by the household priest.
As Madame de Bourbon had pointed out, the priest was at least
sober, unlike the cardinal who’d married their third daughter.

As long as the
evening went to plan Monsieur wouldn’t have to drag himself out of
a warm bed at first light, pull on cold clothes, gallop after a
couple nearly old enough to be grandparents and shoot a man he knew
was desperate to wed an aging maypole. It would be too absurd.
Monsieur hated the absurd; it followed him like a grateful poor
relation desperate to enliven any dull moment.

“Little Louis!”
Gwen Neilson’s voice barked up the stairs ending Monsieur’s
unpleasant reverie. There was no escaping his sister-in-law two
steps below.

“I thought you
might be hiding up here,” said Gwen. “Something terrible has come
to light.”

Monsieur pursed
his lips in a mask of regal politeness. “Vraiment?”

Her eyes
visibly hardened at his bored tone. “Oui! And if you’d insisted
Isabel marry that German prince we wouldn’t be in this pickle.”

“She did not
have for the German prince the love romantique. Dommage!”

“Well she can’t
marry Adderbury!” The woman sounded nearly hysterical. “You have to
call off the wedding.”

“Pourquoi?”

“Because…” Her
whisper echoed off the distant walls. “…the man is not in the
petticoat line.”

Monsieur
snorted in contempt. “Absurde!”

“Adderbury was
seen fornicating with some man named Abel. How absurde is
that?”

“Bof! Adderbury
has for Isabel the love romantique.”

“Pish! He has
the love romantique for her money. He probably needs it to cosset
some young rakehell enamoured with an even and odds table.
Obviously, his lover can’t be named Abel. No-one would name a son
after a murder victim; it would be cursed bad luck. He’s probably
some spotty footman unable to refuse his master’s bidding…”

“Madame, you
have the mind of a gutter.”

“The saying is
‘mind in the gutter’ and my mind has no time for the gutter, being
preoccupied with saving your daughter from heartbreak.”