Lady Barbara's Dilemma (8 page)

* * * *

The dancing was held on the village green, with a temporary platform erected for the musicians. Old Daniel had been a bit resentful at first at the stranger’s presence, but after he had heard him play, his envy melted away. Gower’s talent was far superior to any of Daniel’s rivals in Sussex or Kent. They played together and then each played a few dances alone. Daniel’s music, as always, was a joy to dance to. But when Gower played, something magical seemed to happen. Everyone felt more energy; the figures of the dances flowed together, one into the other, so that no step felt separate. The dancers, the dance, and the music were as one.

There was no attention paid to rank on Midsummer Day. All danced together: Robin with the blacksmith’s wife, the squire with his tenant’s mother, and Barbara with Betsy’s father. And so when the fiddler approached her, she shouldn’t have been surprised.

“May I have this dance, Lady Barbara?” he asked in unaccented English.

Barbara was flustered, but could hardly refuse him. Daniel struck up a reel, so there was little chance for exchanging pleasantries, even if she could have thought of any. Despite his height, Gower was a graceful dancer, and once she had given herself over to the music she realized she had never had such a sympathetic partner. There was a smile on her face by the end of the tune that she couldn’t have hidden if she had wanted to. And somewhere, deep inside her, she felt a stirring of joy. She had almost forgotten, in the disappointments of the past few years, what that felt like.

“Ye have a fine pair of legs for dancing, lass.”

“Tell me, Mr. Gower, how is it that sometimes you speak the King’s English, and at other times you are almost incomprehensible?” asked Barbara, ignoring his outrageous compliment.

“I went to a hard school, lassie, wi’ a master who tried to beat the Scots out of me.” Which was not too far from the truth, thought Alec. His grandfather had never approved of Alec’s mother, and strictly forbade any lapse into Scots. “Ye might say I can speak like a Sassenach, but Scots is ma mither tongue. And have ye recovered from yoor wee fright this afternoon?” he continued, a wicked grin on his face.

“What fright, Barbara?” asked Robin, who had wandered over to compliment the fiddler on his playing.

“The winner of the pet show was a huge hairy spider, Robin.”

Robin gave a shout of laughter. “Did you disgrace yourself? My sister has bravely faced snakes and toads, but she hates spiders,” he explained to Alec.

“This is my brother, Major Stanley,” said Barbara. “Mr. Gower. My brother was the first to discover my fear of spiders,” she explained. “I got used to almost everything else he tormented me with, but never spiders.”

“It is a small failing, Lady Barbara. And you rose above it bravely today,” Alec continued with mock gallantry. He had thought the major her brother from the striking resemblance. And he had checked her left hand during their dance, so she must be the earl’s daughter, he thought. Though what possible relevance that could hold for Alec Gower, fiddler, he didn’t know.

“I think Daniel is ready for a glass of ale, Gower,” said Robin. “He is waving you over, and looks quite desperate.”

Alec gave a slight bow to Barbara, thanked her for the reel, and ran up to the platform, his kilt swinging.

“The squire was right. He is an extraordinary musician, don’t you think, Barb?”

It took Barbara a moment to reply, for she was thinking more about his dancing and how wonderful it had felt to have him swing her around. The little bubble of joy was still with her. “Yes, Robin, yes. Extraordinary.”

The next morning, despite all her activity over the past few days, Barbara was up before anyone else. There was an early-morning mist hanging over the fields, and she tried to stay in bed and finish the novel she had been reading, but for some reason she was too restless to concentrate. She finally threw her book down and decided to go for a ride.

It was a magical time to be out, for this early it felt as if the whole world were sleeping except for herself. With the mist swirling around her, Barbara followed the track alongside the wheat fields, enjoying a slow canter for almost a mile. There was a small copse at the end of the Ashurst fields, separating them from the squire’s property, and as she got closer to the trees, she began to sniff the air. She must be imagining things, probably because she hadn’t yet had breakfast, but she could swear she smelled bacon. The closer she got to the copse, the stronger the smell, and she decided that she was not hallucinating; some gypsy or tramp on Ashurst land, she thought, with a trace of annoyance. It was customary to ask permission, which the Stanleys usually granted, particularly after the Midsummer Fair. She would inform whoever this was that he was trespassing.

She ducked her head as her horse moved through the small grove of trees, and was almost upon the little camp before she knew it. There was Mr. Gower, smiling up at her in delighted surprise.

“Had I known you were coming for breakfast, my lady, I would have thrown a few more slices on the pan.”

He hadn’t even gotten up, thought Barbara, but was sitting there for all the world as though she were the trespasser. With his shirt wide open, exposing the reddish hair on his chest and his kilt pulled up over his knees. How in the world did Scottish women keep their minds off men’s bodies? It was hard to ignore them, with so much of them showing. And what if there was nothing beneath his kilt…?”

“We have no objection to the occasional traveler,” said Barbara, “but it is customary to ask permission to camp at Ashurst.”

“Oh, is this still Stanley land, Lady Barbara? I must have mistaken the boundaries. The squire told me I could camp as long as I liked. I’ll move, if you wish, but not until I’ve had my breakfast, if you don’t mind.”

The fiddler was speaking neither broad Scots nor “proper” English, but something in between. The light bun sounded natural, whereas his other accents had seemed exaggerations.

“No, there is no need to ‘fash’ yourself,” said Barbara. “Not that you seem easily ‘fashed’!”

“Ah, weel, what is a few feet more or less, lassie? Now come down off your high horse and have some breakfast with me.”

Since her gelding
was
over sixteen hands, Barbara supposed the description was accurate, but she knew quite well that was not the way he had meant it. She couldn’t help smiling at the rogue, however, for he was charming. And Lord, the bacon smelled wonderful and she was hungry.

She dismounted and tied her horse to a tree. The Scotsman was sitting in the middle of a long fallen tree, but he moved down and patted the space next to him. “This will be more comfortable than the ground, lassie, which is still a bit damp. I should know”—he grinned, rubbing his hip—“for I’ve been sleeping on it.”

Barbara sat, but left a good foot between herself and the fiddler.

“The bacon is almost ready. And I’ve got two eggs and a half a loaf of bread. I did well at the fair.”

“Do you always sleep outdoors, Mr. Gower?” Barbara asked, wondering for the first time what it would be like to earn one’s living on the road.

“When it is not cold or rainy I do. Too many comfortable nights in an inn and I might go hungry for a day or two.” Alec slid an egg and a few slices of bacon onto a battered tin plate and passed it to Barbara. There was an old coffeepot sitting almost in the fire, and he filled an equally battered cup with the strong liquid.

“Ye’ll have to forgive me, lass, for eating wi’ ma fingers, but I hae only one knife and fork, alas.”

“There you go again, with that exaggerated accent.”

“Ach, I canna resist it. The sight of ye there, wi’ the mist in yer hair and yer cheeks flushed wi’ exercise, and yer red rosy lips wi’ a bit of egg clinging to them just soften ma tongue, lassie.”

Before Barbara could move, Alec had reached out and gently removed the offending piece of egg with his finger, licking it off afterward.

“You are incorrigible, Mr. Gower. Quite lacking in respect.” Barbara tried to keep her tone stern, but that bubble of joy, which had shrunk a bit overnight, was expanding again. She gave in to it and laughed. “I suppose that such a practiced charm is necessary in your business. I just cannot believe how easy it is to succumb to it. But I am surprised. I had heard that the Scots were dour and serious creatures.”

“Aye, some of our Presbyterian brethren gie us a bad name. But not all of us are life-hating.”

“You seem to thoroughly enjoy life, though yours must be a hard one.”

“I do, Lady Barbara, I do,” said Gower with great seriousness and a touch of wonder. “Much more than I thought I would have,” he added, almost to himself.

“Of course, you have your music. You are lucky to make your art your life,” said Barbara a bit wistfully.

“You sound a wee bit envious, lass.”

“I suppose I am. I am a musician myself, but I shall never be able to do anything serious with it.”

“You play the pianoforte?”

“It is either that or the harp for a gentlewoman, isn’t it? The pianoforte. But I have given up playing for the last few months. It seems pointless.”

“Doing something you love is never pointless, my lady.”

“That is an admirable philosophy, Mr. Gower, but hard to live up to. And anyway, after I am married, I will be too busy.” Barbara wasn’t sure why she had revealed so much of herself, but in addition to his easy charm, Gower had an air of sympathy about him.

“And are you to be married soon, Lady Barbara?”

“In the fall I will wed Peter Rushcliffe, Marquess of Wardour.” Giving his full title seemed to emphasize the social distance between them, something Barbara needed to do. She was feeling too comfortable with Gower.

“And does the marquess not appreciate your talent?” he asked quietly.

“Actually, although he was always quite complimentary whenever I played for him last year, I do not think he has a great feeling for music himself,” confessed Barbara.

Alec silently wished her well. He knew how lonely it was to have no one in your immediate family understand your greatest love. He had no idea what Wardour was like, but doubted that any gentleman would want his wife to have a consuming interest in anything but running his household and raising his children.

The sun was burning off the mist and a shaft of light shone down through the trees, so that all was green and sparkling. For a moment the copse was an enchanted place, quite set apart from everyday life and its rigid conventions. Alec murmured something that sounded like “And all comes down to a green thought in a green shade,” and Barbara’s eyes opened in surprise to hear a traveling fiddler quote Marvell. But the outside world seemed so distant that she didn’t want to break the spell to satisfy her curiosity.

The sound of her horse’s soft whickering brought her back to herself.

“I must go, Mr. Gower, before my horse takes off by himself and before the family begins to worry about me. Thank you for the breakfast, and good luck on your travels.”

Once again Alec regretted his wager. Not that revealing himself would have achieved anything, he thought, as he watched Barbara bring her horse over to the log to mount. She was already betrothed, and sounded very content with her marquess.

* * * *

Barbara mounted quickly so that the Scotsman would have no chance to offer any help. Just the gentle brushing of egg from her lips had affected her more than Wardour’s most passionate kiss, and she didn’t want to be making any more comparisons.

She arrived home as Robin and Diana were coming down to breakfast, and excused herself to change from her riding habit. When she came down to the table, Robin was curious that her ride had not seemed to stimulate her appetite, but Barbara excused the solitary muffin on her plate by saying that she had eaten far too much at the fair and would probably have no appetite for days.

* * * *

The next morning she rose early and rode again, telling herself it had been such a lovely ride the day before and that she merely wanted the exercise. She rode the same way, but this time, when she approached the copse, there was no smell of bacon, and when she got to the small clearing, no fire and no Gower. She breathed a sigh of relief and disappointment. She had enjoyed her conversation with the fiddler, but she was an engaged woman, and surely should not be drawn to another man, particularly one not of her class. She was unlikely ever to see him again, she thought, and turned her horse toward Ashurst and away from the distracting memories of those bright blue eyes and contagious good humor. In a few days’ time she would be getting ready for her visit to Arundel and her first introduction to what would be her new life.

While his friends and acquaintances in society retired to their estates in the country, David Treves remained in London. Business did not come to a halt with the end of a Season, and so the Treves townhouse remained open all year. On the most stifling days, David and his father were able to refresh themselves, however, with an overnight visit to the family home in Surrey.

Until he had escorted old Malachi home, David had not given much thought to the condition of the poor, Jewish or otherwise. Although he shared a general interest in reform with men like Viscount Vane and the Duke of Sutton, he had not been as concerned with the lot of the common people as he was with beginning to stimulate interest in political emancipation for the Jews. He wanted to win for other young men the possibilities that had not been open for him: entry into university, Parliament, or the Inns of Court. He was in the minority, both in society and at home, however, for many Jews were silent and apathetic, having no desire to take part in politics. Life in England was easier than on the Continent, where all Jews had to struggle for survival, and most of David’s well-to-do friends were content with things the way they were. His closest allies, in fact, were Catholics, who suffered under the same constraints.

But as he walked through the city streets on some of the hottest days of summer, he wondered what Mitre Street would be like. And as he rode to Surrey and felt the country breeze blow away the dust and smells of London, he couldn’t help but wonder if Miss Deborah Cohen ever had a day’s relief from summer in the East End.