Lady Barbara's Dilemma (6 page)

“Come, Robin bade me bring you to the breakfast table.”

“I am a bit hungry,” admitted her fiancé. “I came immediately, and have had nothing to eat since last night.”

Such evidence of loverly impatience erased all of Barbara’s momentary annoyance.

Robin rose when they entered and shook Wardour’s hand. “I assume you had no difficulty with my father?”

“No, no, Lord Ashurst was everything that is pleasant. He did not challenge me at all. In fact, he seemed a bit blasé about my qualifications,” concluded Wardour on a puzzled note.

Robin and Barbara laughed. “You must realize, Wardour,” said Robin, “that our parents’ main interest and concern is for one another.”

Wardour started to protest. “Indeed, I would not presume to criticize…”

“No need to apologize. Father is well aware of your eligibility, and I’m sure well-pleased with your suit. He was probably distracted by plans for their trip to Scotland.”

“I suppose I assumed that all parents are like my mother, who is devoted to my interests,” apologized Wardour. “Of course, if my father were still alive, things would no doubt be different.”

“Please do not concern yourself, Peter,” chimed in Barbara. “Now, make yourself comfortable and I will fix you a plate. We like to breakfast in private, so there is no footman to serve you.”

Just as Barbara placed a plate of eggs and kidneys in front of Wardour, Henry appeared again.

“Sir David Treves is here, my lady. I believe you were engaged to ride together this morning.”

“Oh, goodness, I completely forgot! Please send him in. We ride together once a week, you know, Peter,” explained Barbara. “We have become great friends.”

Wardour, of course, had been aware of their acquaintance, since Treves had been present occasionally at routs and musicales. He had not realized the extent of their intimacy, however, and did not really approve of the future Marchioness of Wardour having a close friendship with a Jew, but this was clearly not the time and place to discuss the issue. He was everything that was agreeable and polite when David was shown in.

“I apologize for my buckskins,” David immediately announced.

“Nonsense. I apologize for my absentmindedness,” said Barbara. “But I do have an excuse,” she continued. “You are one of the first to hear of my official betrothal to Peter.”

“My best wishes to both of you,” said David, with a warm smile for Barbara.

“Please join us,” insisted Robin.

“Just for a moment or two. I do not wish to intrude.” David was very good, as indeed he had had to be, at detecting the subtlest disapproval. There was only a bit of tension emanating from Wardour, but David picked it up, if the Stanleys hadn’t.

“You must tell me what happened after we left you last night, David. We were witnesses to an incident of cruelty to an old peddler,” she explained to Wardour. “David was kind enough to escort him home.”

“The old man was only shaken, and I was able to get him home with no problems at all. He lives above a fruiterer’s on Mitre Street,” David added.

“Mitre Street! I don’t know the city all that well, but surely that is the East End and full of riffraff and criminals?” exclaimed Wardour.

You mean to say Jewish riffraff, I am sure, thought David.

“It
is
a crowded and poor area,” he admitted.

“Was there someone to take care of him?” asked Barbara.

“As a matter of fact, I left him in the capable hands of Miss Deborah Cohen, the daughter of the owner.”

“Good. I was worried about the aftereffects of the shock.”

“Old Malachi is tougher than he looks,” said David. “But enough of my adventure. When is the wedding to be?”

“In the fall. At least, that is what I would wish, but we have not had much time to discuss details.”

“First you must come to Arundel for an extended visit, my dear. I want you to get to know my mother better and see the household to plan for any changes you might like to make.”

“I would love to do that, Peter,” said Barbara gratefully. “Although I am not one of those women who feels she must go changing everything around. I am sure your home is lovely already.”

“I was hoping you might come for a July visit.”

“That would be perfect,” exclaimed Barbara. “That way I would not miss the Midsummer Fair at Ashurst. With Mother and Father away so often, Robin and I have got into the habit of representing them. It is rather a tradition.”

“July it is, then,” said Wardour. “And now I must go. I will see you tonight, my dear, at the Rosses’ ball?”

“I am looking forward to our waltz,” said Barbara. “Let me walk with you to the door.”

“I am of a mind to send Treves with you as a chaperon,” teased Robin.

“Oh, no, I do not believe in cramping a betrothed couple’s style,” David responded.

Wardour frowned slightly at the jests, but Barbara’s laugh restored his good humor. And it was true that he fully intended to have another kiss before he left.

The Stanleys’ last days in London passed quickly and happily for Barbara. The official announcement of her betrothal gave her friends and acquaintances great pleasure and also the excuse to hold the additional Venetian breakfast or small supper dance to celebrate. Barbara enjoyed them all, although by the time they were to leave for Ashurst, she was looking forward to the slower pace of country life.

* * * *

The Stanleys reached Sussex well before the Midsummer Fair. Diana, who had been busy with the twins for the past few years, had never become involved except to put in the expected attendance at the Ashurst picnic and a few hours at the fair itself.

Robin and Barbara, however, were much busier. “After all,” Robin had joked once, “We must act
in loco parentis,
and Barbara had joined him in helpless laughter at the image. At the time, Diana had thought that the here-again, gone-again life of the earl and his countess was nothing to joke about. Her own parents had always been present, responsible, and quite strict with all their offspring, a fact that had allowed her to comfortably rebel at the appropriate time and then settle into model wife and motherhood. She rather resented the fact that so much was expected of Robin before he had even inherited the title. But she was relieved, she had to confess to herself, that Barbara was willing, nay, enjoyed taking her mother’s place at the fair.

It was tradition that the Stanleys host a picnic open to everyone in the neighborhood the day before the fair opened. Much of Barbara’s time was spent planning the food and drinks for over a hundred people, making sure that the long trestle tables and benches were carried down from the barn and wiped clean of spiderwebs and checked for hornets’ nests. One unforgettable year, a swarm of wasps had constructed their nest under one of the tables. The servants had not noticed the papery gray structure under the legs of the table, since the tables had grayed over the years and the nest was almost indistinguishable. At any rate, Squire Pike and his lady, both a bit overweight and notoriously slow-moving, were stung, quite literally, into movement resembling a St. Vitus’s dance. When they were finally calmed down and the cause of their jumping and slapping at themselves and each other was discovered, one of the old women from the village called for “mud, mud!” and managed to plaster them both to her satisfaction, if not to theirs. Robin had disgraced himself. Normally abstemious, he always overindulged in the homebrewed ale at the picnic, and he was rolling on the ground at the sight of the mud-caked squire. He laughed so hard and so long that the next morning, when Barbara scolded him for insulting the Pikes, his stomach was actually sorer than his head.

While Barbara kept herself busy with the picnic, Robin was involved with the village planning committee. Every year for the past twenty, the vicar had protested the “pagan” custom of Midsummer’s Eve, when a huge bonfire was lit on Ashurst Hill and flaming cartwheels of bound straw and pitch were rolled down toward the village. And every year he was voted down by farmers and townsmen alike, who might have forgotten the origins of this time-honored ritual, but who
knew,
if the wheels were still burning at the bottom of the hill, there would be a good harvest. Robin always voted with the villagers, for when he was a child his father had allowed him to stay up late on Midsummer’s Eve, and the sight of the flames reaching up to the heavens and then apparently giving birth to small, rolling fires had not only been one of the thrills of his boyhood but, he knew, had deepened his commitment to the land. He had learned to live with the vicar’s short-lived disappointment in him, for he was, after all, a regular churchgoer and the family a generous contributor to the upkeep of St. Thomas’s. But the celebration of the turning of the wheel of the year pulled at something very deep in him.

Once the question of the bonfire was settled, the meeting always went smoothly. There would be the agricultural competitions, of course, and piemen and jugglers and a gypsy fortune-teller. The vicar didn’t waste his breath protesting this, for he knew that Madame Zenobia was the most popular attraction and drew in every young woman, common or gentry, to have her palm read or Tarot cards interpreted. A Punch and Judy show was a welcome addition this year. And, of course, there was always music and dancing.

“There is a young fiddler I heard when I went to market last month,” announced the squire, “and I was so impressed that I made sure to invite him. I assured him that he would make as much or more money in Ashurst as anywhere else, and perhaps might be hired to play for the country dancing.” He looked questioningly at Robin.

“If old Daniel does not mind sharing the limelight, I am sure we can support another fiddler. He must be talented for you to go out of your way to invite him, Joseph.”

“I confess I surprised myself. I have never done more than toss a coin at a busker, certainly never talked to one. But he kept my toes tapping with his reels and almost brought tears to my eyes with his slow tunes.”

“I will make sure to tell Barbara to look for him,” Robin said. “How might she recognize him?”

“Oh, surely by his music,” the squire replied. “But you can’t miss him by his appearance. He is a tall, bearded Scot.”

“Well, he should be easy enough to find,” said Robin with a smile. “I will tell Barbara to keep her eyes and ears open.”

Ashurst celebrated Midsummer’s Eve on June 22 instead of the old date of July 4, and the vicar, of course, insisted on referring to it as St. John’s Eve, to give the rituals a semblance of respectability. All morning the young men and boys were busy dragging wood up Ashurst Hill, while the old men bound the straw cartwheels.

Most of the women were busy putting the finishing touches on their best dresses. Half of the ribbon sold in the village went for decorating clothes and hair. The other half ended up on the old thorn tree that stood on the edge of the village green. By midday, it was almost hidden under the flowers and ribbons that adorned it.

Barbara had not a moment to spare, since she was taking care of all the last minute arrangements for the picnic. There had been a few small catastrophes, like the youngest kitchen maid adding salt instead of sugar to the whipping cream, and the lugubrious appearance of the cook who, against all practical considerations, had become attached to the young rooster that was first to be killed that morning.

“He always ate the corn right out of me hand,” she kept saying, until the rest of the kitchen staff were ready to put
her
head on the chopping block.

Despite that and the fact that one of the young lads had mistaken a nettle patch for the herb garden, and there was now one less pair of hands to move furniture, all went smoothly. “Or as smoothly as can be expected,” muttered Barbara, who had just heard some commotion by the kitchen door.

When she went to investigate, she discovered that Madame Zenobia had decided (or perhaps it was the stars that had decided, Barbara wasn’t quite sure) that she should begin her readings at the picnic. It was impossible to convince the old gypsy that her presence wasn’t required till the morrow, and Barbara finally gave in, telling her that she could join the picnic and set up at one of the tables when supper was over. And no, there would be no pentangled-bedecked tent set up on the grounds of Ashurst, thank you. The cook and the kitchen maids were ecstatic at the compromise, for they had been promised the first readings. And the old woman thanked Barbara profusely, and pulled something green out of her pocket.

“Here, my lady, this is especially for you, for your kindness to a helpless old woman.”

A less helpless old woman Barbara had never seen. She was a shrewd bargainer and had got her way after all, so Barbara had to hide a smile at the obsequious tone in Madame Zenobia’s voice as she presented what appeared to be a sprig of myrtle. Indeed, the old woman herself had a self-mocking twinkle in her eye.

“I have seen that you have a lover, my lady.”

Barbara looked around to see if Wardour had somehow appeared to surprise her.

“I see it in the cards, my lady, in the cards.”

Well, anyone in the village could have told her, thought Barbara. There was no magic in this.

“Now, if ye wishes to find out if this lover will marry you, then tonight, before you go to bed, put this sprig of myrtle in your prayer book.”

Barbara chuckled. “We are formally betrothed, Madame Zenobia, so there is no doubt in my mind about the marriage.”

“You may laugh, but much can happen between a betrothal and a marriage. Now, you must put this myrtle upon the words from the marriage ceremony. Then close your book and put it under the pillow you sleep on.”

“And how will I know if my fiancé will indeed become my husband?”

“If the myrtle is gone in the morning, then you know that both of you will remain faithful. But if the myrtle is still there in your prayer book, then he will never marry you.”

“It seems rather a dangerous test, Madame Zenobia. I would rather it were the other way around. For it is most likely that the myrtle will not go anywhere overnight!”