Lady Barbara's Dilemma

by Marjorie Farrell

  “Be ye headed in my direction, Sir David?” asked Malachi, taking an orange and rubbing it on his sleeve and handing it up to his rescuer.

  “Only in that we are leaving the East End,” said David. “But climb in, and we will drop you off as close as we can to the Drury Lane.”

  “Thankee, sir.”

  David grabbed the fruit basket and placed it on the seat next to him, and then extended his hand. Malachi plopped down and gave him a gap-toothed grin.

  “I see ye be courting our Miss Deborah.”

  “Hardly courting, Mr. Goldsmid,” said David in his most dignified tones. “It has been so warm that I just thought I would get Miss Cohen into the fresh air of Richmond.”

  “But I heard ye say that ye was coming again next week.”

  “A drive or two in the country is hardly courting,” protested David.

  “So ye say, so ye say. But she be a good woman, our Deborah. Took me in when times were hard. And a fine-looking woman, too.” This last was accompanied by a wink so exaggerated that David could only laugh.

  “I am really not looking to get married yet, Mr. Goldsmid.”

  “Call me Malachi. And above all, she be a fine Jewish woman.”

  “And if I were,” continued David, “whether the young woman were Jewish or not would hardly enter into it at all.”

  Malachi was genuinely shocked. “I am sorry to hear ye say so, Sir David. Oh, there’s too many around here marrying any Betsy or Mary. But I would have thought that ye, being a fine gentleman, would want a woman of your own faith. For if their mother isn’t Jewish, then your sons won’t be.”

  “I know that, Malachi,” said David. “But I confess to you that I do not care whether my wife is Jewish or Christian, so long as she has the qualities I am looking for.”

  “And what might they be, Sir David?”

  “I am looking for a woman who is sweet and quiet, from a good family. She need not be beautiful, but at least pretty.”

  “I used to be looking for someone like that before I wed Mrs. Goldsmid.”

  “You are married, Malachi?”

  “Used to be. Rachel is dead. When it got too hard living alone, that’s when I moved upstairs to the Cohens’.”

  David offered his sympathies.

  “Oh, I still do miss her. But we had a great time before she was taken. Yes, I had my eye out for a dainty little miss like ye’ve been describing, but my Rachel, with her black hair and snapping black eyes fair took my breath away. I were just beginning to court little Rebeccah Schwartz when I met Rachel. I never looked at another woman for more than thirty-five years. But were I younger, I’d be looking at Miss Deborah. Except for her red hair, she fair reminds me of Rachel. She’s got that same spirit.”

  “Ah, yes. Red-haired and spirited does describe Miss Cohen.”

  “Say what ye like, Sir David, but ye didn’t come back to Mitre Street just to be charitable. Ye came back to see Miss Deborah again. Ye be used to those meek and mild society misses I see outside the opera. Washed-out little girls, they are. Our Miss Deborah, she is a real woman. Knows her own mind and lets ye know it too. Well, here is the theater. Ye can let me out here.”

  David helped the old man down, and climbed down himself to hand him his oranges.

  “Thankee, Sir David. I’ll be seeing ye again,” said Malachi. “Ye remember what I said.”

  David watched the old man walk down the street, brushing off urchins who tried to steal an orange or two. He was amazed Malachi hadn’t melted away, for he had his old black coat on, despite the heat. A character, Malachi Goldsmid, but a courageous one. It took courage to go back night after night and risk public abuse. It took spirit, thought David. The inhabitants of Mitre Street that he had met so far were admirably spirited. And Malachi was partly right. David might not be interested in courting her, but Deborah Cohen was the most interesting woman he had met in a long time and he fully intended to enjoy more of her company.

  Chapter 17

  Arundel was only a few miles from the sea, and when she arrived, Barbara was delighted by the smell of saltwater. Her welcome left nothing to be desired. Wardour was obviously delighted to see her, greeting her with far less reserve than he usually showed, and introducing her proudly to the household staff who lined the drive.

  “My mother is in the morning room and is eager to meet you, my dear,” said Wardour as he led her up the steps.

  “As I am to meet her.” Actually, Barbara was more than eager. She imagined Lady Wardour to be tall, like her son, and a woman used to managing things, having been left with an estate to run and a son to raise on her own. And so, when they entered the morning room and saw only a sweet-faced little woman, Barbara assumed her to be Lady Wardour’s companion. It was a complete surprise to realize that this diminutive lady was her future mother-in-law.

  “I am delighted you are here, my dear,” said Wardour’s mother. “Peter has told me so much about you that I feel I know you already.”

  “I am happy to be here,” replied Barbara. It was clear from the doting look she gave him as she mentioned his name that Peter was the apple of his mother’s eye. It obviously would have been quite easy for her to have spoiled him. That the only sign of indulgence was his subtle air of taking for granted that all would naturally go his way said a great deal for his parent.

  Barbara came to appreciate Lady Wardour more and more. It was clear that although she doted on Peter, she had raised him to think of others, not only himself. Barbara had been impressed with his conversations about Arundel, but now that she was there, she saw the full extent of his involvement. He was up early every morning. After they breakfasted together, he was off to meet with his estate manager. He apologized in advance for his morning neglect of her, but made clear he was available in the afternoons. Barbara got into the habit of a long after-breakfast walk, coffee with Lady Wardour later in the morning, and then an introduction, each day, to the details of managing Arundel. Lady Wardour might look fragile, but she knew the household concerns as well as Wardour knew the estate. Barbara was eager to learn, for since Robin had married, Diana had been acting mistress of Ashurst. Barbara was very much looking forward to taking charge of her own household.

  In the afternoons, she and Lady Wardour entertained neighbors or made visits themselves. And just before tea, she and Peter had lovely rides exploring the countryside and once or twice going for a wild gallop on the beach. After supper one of them would read aloud for a while, and every night Lady Wardour would make sure to excuse herself early enough so that Wardour and Barbara had some time together alone.

  The first night she did so, Barbara turned to him, expecting him to share her amusement at his mother’s little strategy. Instead, he apologized for her.

  “I hope you don’t think Mother is trying to place you in an uncomfortable situation. I am sure she feels it is acceptable to leave us alone since we are betrothed.”

  “Indeed, I am most grateful to her for her thoughtfulness,” said Barbara, trying to tease him into a lighter mood.

  “So am I, my dear,” he replied. “I was just worried about what you might think.”

  Barbara breathed an inner sigh of relief at his words and moved closer to him on the sofa.

  “I was hoping that we might continue becoming familiar with one another’s kisses,” she said, surprised by her own boldness.

  Wardour pulled her to him and began kissing her gently. Then his hand slipped around her shoulders and hers behind his head and they pulled each other closer. It was a long, deep, satisfying kiss, and Barbara wanted it to go on forever. Wardour ended it far too soon.

  “We must watch ourselves, my dear. I am not one of those men who cannot wait for the wedding, although I must admit that I am tempted.”

  There was a longer kiss the next night. But the pattern was set. Barbara sensed passion in Wardour, but a passion always easily restrained. She supposed she should be grateful for his restraint, but she wasn’t. She wanted to feel him let go
, so that she could. So far there was affection, enjoyment of each other’s company, and mutual attraction, all of the ingredients of love. But somehow the ingredients stayed separate. What was needed was the alchemy of unrestrained feeling, or so Barbara thought night after night. Rationally, she knew that all should combine after marriage, when Wardour would feel less constrained. But irrationally, she wanted to experience that final combining now, so that she would feel that love was there, not just know that the conditions were right for it.

  Chapter 18

  Peter had shown a great deal of thoughtfulness in his preparations for her visit. The guest room Barbara occupied had been redecorated for her. She was introduced to their neighbors, and one day he escorted her to town so that she would become familiar with the shopkeepers who supplied the household. He also had had the old pianoforte, which had been under holland covers in the corner of the ballroom, dusted, polished, and tuned. It had been moved into the larger drawing room so that Barbara could play whenever she wished.

  She had brought no music with her and would have ignored the instrument had Lady Wardour not revealed to her the trouble her son had gone to. Barbara felt an obligation to play a little, just to show her gratitude. So for a short time during the day she would practice pieces she knew by heart, and varied their evenings together occasionally by playing for Wardour and his mother. Both nodded during the music and clapped politely, but Barbara could tell that neither was a music lover. Given that fact, she was even more touched by Peter’s thoughtfulness.

  She was correct about her fiancé. He was not a devotee of the arts, but a down-to-earth practical man who tolerated others’ interest in painting, theater, and music. He had been a bit worried when he had first met Barbara, for he had heard of her prodigious talent. He took it on faith, this talent, for even after he’d heard her play, the only judgment he felt equipped to make was that she played rather passionately and that she never misplayed a note. He was not tone-deaf, but listening to music for him was like listening to a foreign language. As his interest in Barbara grew, his only hesitation was about what it might be like married to a woman who spoke a language he could not comprehend.

  He had been relieved, therefore, to see that Barbara’s passion for music seemed to have diminished. He liked to think it was his courtship that had drawn her interest away from music and toward himself. He had taken it for granted, in fact, that being his wife and a mother to their children would be a more acceptable way of channeling her creative energy.

  But since he didn’t expect her to give up her music completely and since he prided himself on his understanding and generosity, he had the pianoforte prepared and encouraged her to play. And was duly relieved to see that she spent so little time with it.

  A week or so into her visit, after his mother had taken herself off to bed and before they had become too distracted by the night’s ration of kisses, Wardour commented on her lack of interest.

  “I have noticed you have not spent much time at the pianoforte, Barbara.”

  “Oh, I hope you don’t think I don’t appreciate your thoughtfulness, Peter. It is only that I had almost given up playing altogether this spring.”

  Wardour smiled. “It had seemed to me that you were giving it less time, my dear. In fact, I was rather gratified to think that I was such a distraction.”

  Wardour’s smile held more than a hint of self-satisfaction, and for one moment Barbara was tempted to wipe it off his face with a slap. She was immediately horrified at her reaction. Her attention had been given to him during the spring and he had every right to assume a connection. It was only that at some very deep level he expected everything in his life would work out the way he, the Marquess of Wardour, wanted it to.

  She wanted very much to say, “Do not assume so readily, Peter, that all lives revolve around your own,” but that would have been too harsh. Instead, she explained that she had devoted many years to her music, only to finally realize that no amount of talent would change the fact that performance opportunity was limited due to her rank and sex. “Had you not so kindly prepared the pianoforte for me, I would not have expected to play at all. I must say, though, Peter, that I do enjoy playing for you and your mother, so perhaps I can allow music a place in my life after all.”

  Wardour slipped an arm around her. “I have always thought music, drawing, and embroidery and such were very appropriate activities for young girls and women as respites from their domestic duties. I am happy to see music become less of a passion. I hope, Barbara, that another kind of passion will more than make up for it.”

  Barbara had no chance to reply, for Wardour’s mouth covered hers demandingly. It was lucky for them both that his caresses were much less restrained than usual. Barbara felt his hand slip behind her neck and undo a tape or two on her gown so that he could stroke her back gently and then, reaching in front, cup one of her breasts in his hand. She was so distracted by these new pleasures he was introducing her to that she forgot her anger at his equating her music to something like embroidery.

  Chapter 19

  The marquess and his mother had planned a dinner for Barbara’s more formal introduction to the neighbors. They invited a small group of guests for a private concert of chamber music and then a light supper. After that, more of the neighbors were invited to enjoy dancing and light refreshments in the ballroom.

  Although Lady Wardour had been most willing to let Barbara learn the ins and outs of the household, she refused to let her lift a finger for the festivities. “This is your party, my dear, so you should not have to work at all.” After protesting, Barbara gave up and kept herself busy riding, walking, and practicing, for Wardour had specially requested that she play a tune.

  The day before the dinner dance she was in the music room halfheartedly running through a Beethoven sonatina when the door opened and Wardour walked in.

  “Excuse me, my dear, I didn’t realize you were here, you were playing so softly. Come in, Mr. Gower, come in.”

  Barbara was amazed to see her wandering Scotsman follow her fiancé into the room. Before she could say anything, Peter introduced him as one of the musicians he had hired for the next week’s party.

  “I was assured by the vicar that he is an excellent musician and can scrape a fiddle for the dancing besides. I wanted you to meet him, and I am sure he will want to know what you intend to play. I thought you might enjoy a duet. Mr. Gower, my fiancée, Lady Barbara Stanley.”

  Gower bowed politely and Barbara nodded her head, still a bit dazed by his sudden arrival. And by his appearance. Gone was the long hair and beard. He was dressed in a very acceptable albeit worn pair of pantaloons and a forest-green jacket. Barbara could not help looking down at his legs, now encased in boots, and thought that in some ways a kilt was more attractive. How strange that I know Mr. Gower’s legs better than Peter’s, she thought.

  Wardour excused himself and left them to become better acquainted.

  “What on earth are you doing in Arundel, Mr. Gower? And looking like this?” demanded Barbara.

  “Ah, ye dinna like me in trews, then, lassie? Ye prefer the kilt? I hae verra guid legs, if I do say so maself.”

  “You may look a bit more like a gentleman, but you are as outrageous as ever, Mr. Gower. However did my fiancé come to hire you?”

  “I play for the local gentry as well as at fairs, Lady Barbara. I play wherever I will be paid for it. The vicar heard me playing a little Mozart one morning and asked me to play with him one evening. And then he recommended me to the marquess.”

  “But what are you doing here at all?”

  “I am a traveling musician, lass. Therefore I travel!”

  “Of course,” said Barbara with some asperity.

  “Have ye decided what we are to play, then, lass?”

  “You cannot call me lass, Mr. Gower.”

  “No, you are quite right, Lady Barbara,” Gower replied rather sadly. “Someone might comment on the familiarity.”

  “Exactl
y.” Barbara was glad he was quick to understand, but a bit disappointed, for she rather liked being called lass. “There were to be several selections for cello and pianoforte, played by the vicar and his wife. And I was to play one piece, although I have not decided what.”

  Alec leaned over and looked at Barbara’s music. “A sonatina. And some Bach? Aye, a typical evening’s entertainment. I had thought you were more of a musician than that.”

  “As I think I once told you, I have not been playing much lately, Mr. Gower.”

  “And does that not bother you, Lady Barbara?”

  “Not really, Mr. Gower,” Barbara told him in a tone that forbade any further comment.

  “Aye, it is none of my business, your face tells me. Well, now that you have a violin, what pieces do you have in mind?”

  Barbara rifled through the sheets of music the vicar had sent over. “Here is a suitable trio. Lively enough to keep our guests awake.”

  “Wait a moment. Is that a Mozart sonata?” asked Alec, reaching over and placing his hand on Barbara’s.

  “Why, yes. The Sonata in B flat for pianoforte and violin. But we are to be four.”

  “Is there any objection to us playing a duet together? This is certainly a piece more appropriate to your skill than the sonatina.”

  “I suppose we could. But I have never played this before, and indeed, have not played many duets, but confined myself to solo music.”

  “No matter, lass. Excuse me, ‘my lady.’ Start exploring your part and I will be right back with my fiddle.” Gower was gone before she could protest. Playing a short solo was one thing. But this duet would mean hours of practice, and she was not sure she wanted to throw herself back into music that way. But she opened the sheets and began running through her part. It was a lovely piece, she thought, and she forgot her surroundings and became lost in the music. She was able to follow the violin score after a few minutes, and began to hum it softly. She was so engrossed that she did not hear Gower’s return, and when he started to play, it was as though the music in her head had magically materialized, so expert was his entry.