If she could rewrite the week, Peter
Smirke would be engaged to a maypole. Willing herself not to cry,
Isabel pressed her vinaigrette to her nose and abruptly left the
table for her chamber where she could scribble a more romantic
ending for her story.
Chapter
10
27 July 1818
Peter’s gloomy
mood settled tightly around his throat as he entered the breakfast
room. Instead of using a bright cheerful colour, Agnes had covered
the upper half of the walls with a dark ivy silk. The fabric
shimmered in the sunlight, but the waist high bookshelves that
circled the lower half of the room, crammed with thick
leather-bound tomes, made it clear books were more often devoured
than food at the round mahogany table. Breakfast wasn’t meant to be
consumed in the dark. A few mirrors would have brightened the
space, but instead the couple had decided to hang several paintings
of chickens; the largest, a family group pecking in dirt next to an
ivy wall. Peter didn’t enjoy being reminded he would devour eggs
that might have grown into cute fluffy chicks, but he didn’t enjoy
eating on his own either.
Pulling his
chair up to the table, Peter joined the morning fray as all eight
Smirkes competed for the butter and latest dish of coddled eggs.
His stomach full, he stared unseeing at his half-emptied cup of
chocolate. After two weeks in Bath he’d acquired several new suits,
but had no desire to wear them. His plan for the day was to return
to his chamber, lock the door, and stare at Isabel’s fan.
George touched
Peter’s arm causing the mental image of Isabel to vanish. “Would
you please pass the chocolate pot?”
“What?”
“Why are
snapping at me? I only asked for the chocolate.”
“I’m not
snapping!”
“You’ve been
snapping for the last week and a half,” said George. “You need to
come out with us and get some air. If you want a wife, you have to
leave your room. Sane women don’t crawl in through first floor
windows to introduce themselves. Stop staring at that lady’s fan
and come stare at some ladies.”
James Smirke
looked up from his eggs, “What fan?”
“Papa keeps a
lady’s fan in his pocket,” said Cecil.
“I d-do not
have a fan.” Peter blushed as five pairs of black eyes stared in
disbelief. “Leave me alone!”
Robert raised a
black eyebrow. “The last time I told a lie I had to help muck out
the stables.”
Cosmo sneered
at his younger brother. “You mean the last time you were
caught.”
Peter was
starting to relax when Cecil, sitting to his right, pulled the fan
from Peter’s dressing gown pocket and spread the leaves. “Look what
I found; a lady’s fan!”
“Give it back!”
Peter lunged for his prize possession, but the young man twisted
out of reach and jumped up out of his seat.
“What does Papa
say? ‘Lying is a…”
“Sin!” chorused
all five brothers.
Cecil smiled at
his father as he slowly unfurled the fan. “Look!” He held up the
painted image. “Someone is being guillotined, and it looks singed.
Papa, did you burn your hand grabbing this out of a fire?” Cecil’s
eyes widened with excitement, “This is her fan isn’t it?” Peter
glared at his eldest offspring, but didn’t trust himself to speak.
“This is proof. Papa called on his dream mistress after apologising
to Mademoiselle de Bourbon.”
Agnes held out
her hand. “Give it to me, and sit down before I publish an
advertisement that a twit named Cecil Smirke is in search of a wife
to teach him manners.” She snapped open the fan. “It’s Robespierre
being beheaded; hardly a controversial subject for a royalist.
James, return this to your brother before he has heart failure and
we have to bury him in his new lilac suit.”
Peter snatched
back the fan and shoved it up the sleeve of his old-fashioned black
powdering gown. “Cecil, you may be legally independent, but that
does not mean you may rifle my p-pockets or correct me. If you need
to father someone, find a wife, and spawn your own
Smirke would be engaged to a maypole. Willing herself not to cry,
Isabel pressed her vinaigrette to her nose and abruptly left the
table for her chamber where she could scribble a more romantic
ending for her story.
Chapter
10
27 July 1818
Peter’s gloomy
mood settled tightly around his throat as he entered the breakfast
room. Instead of using a bright cheerful colour, Agnes had covered
the upper half of the walls with a dark ivy silk. The fabric
shimmered in the sunlight, but the waist high bookshelves that
circled the lower half of the room, crammed with thick
leather-bound tomes, made it clear books were more often devoured
than food at the round mahogany table. Breakfast wasn’t meant to be
consumed in the dark. A few mirrors would have brightened the
space, but instead the couple had decided to hang several paintings
of chickens; the largest, a family group pecking in dirt next to an
ivy wall. Peter didn’t enjoy being reminded he would devour eggs
that might have grown into cute fluffy chicks, but he didn’t enjoy
eating on his own either.
Pulling his
chair up to the table, Peter joined the morning fray as all eight
Smirkes competed for the butter and latest dish of coddled eggs.
His stomach full, he stared unseeing at his half-emptied cup of
chocolate. After two weeks in Bath he’d acquired several new suits,
but had no desire to wear them. His plan for the day was to return
to his chamber, lock the door, and stare at Isabel’s fan.
George touched
Peter’s arm causing the mental image of Isabel to vanish. “Would
you please pass the chocolate pot?”
“What?”
“Why are
snapping at me? I only asked for the chocolate.”
“I’m not
snapping!”
“You’ve been
snapping for the last week and a half,” said George. “You need to
come out with us and get some air. If you want a wife, you have to
leave your room. Sane women don’t crawl in through first floor
windows to introduce themselves. Stop staring at that lady’s fan
and come stare at some ladies.”
James Smirke
looked up from his eggs, “What fan?”
“Papa keeps a
lady’s fan in his pocket,” said Cecil.
“I d-do not
have a fan.” Peter blushed as five pairs of black eyes stared in
disbelief. “Leave me alone!”
Robert raised a
black eyebrow. “The last time I told a lie I had to help muck out
the stables.”
Cosmo sneered
at his younger brother. “You mean the last time you were
caught.”
Peter was
starting to relax when Cecil, sitting to his right, pulled the fan
from Peter’s dressing gown pocket and spread the leaves. “Look what
I found; a lady’s fan!”
“Give it back!”
Peter lunged for his prize possession, but the young man twisted
out of reach and jumped up out of his seat.
“What does Papa
say? ‘Lying is a…”
“Sin!” chorused
all five brothers.
Cecil smiled at
his father as he slowly unfurled the fan. “Look!” He held up the
painted image. “Someone is being guillotined, and it looks singed.
Papa, did you burn your hand grabbing this out of a fire?” Cecil’s
eyes widened with excitement, “This is her fan isn’t it?” Peter
glared at his eldest offspring, but didn’t trust himself to speak.
“This is proof. Papa called on his dream mistress after apologising
to Mademoiselle de Bourbon.”
Agnes held out
her hand. “Give it to me, and sit down before I publish an
advertisement that a twit named Cecil Smirke is in search of a wife
to teach him manners.” She snapped open the fan. “It’s Robespierre
being beheaded; hardly a controversial subject for a royalist.
James, return this to your brother before he has heart failure and
we have to bury him in his new lilac suit.”
Peter snatched
back the fan and shoved it up the sleeve of his old-fashioned black
powdering gown. “Cecil, you may be legally independent, but that
does not mean you may rifle my p-pockets or correct me. If you need
to father someone, find a wife, and spawn your own
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