Lady Barbara's Dilemma

by Marjorie Farrell

  “Please join us in our Sabbath meal, Sir David,” said Deborah in softer tones. “I will have no time to talk to you, but at least I can repay some of your generosity to us.”

  “All right, I will, and thank you.”

  “Come in, come in, then. It is almost time to gather and light the candles.”

  Although the Treveses no longer regularly celebrated the Sabbath, David had been to Shabbat meals at friends’ houses. But those elaborately laid-out tables in fashionable Sephardic homes had not opened to him the meaning behind the Sabbath as much as the Cohens’ simple table did. Upon the spotless white tablecloth was the Kiddush cup and the wine and a golden loaf of challah. Deborah lit the candles just moments before the sun set and, closing her eyes, uttered the traditional blessing.

  Malachi and Sarah stood silent as Mr. Cohen recited the praise of a valiant woman, then filled the cups and recited Kiddush over the wine. They all drank. Then he repeated the blessing over the bread and they all ate. And then the real meal began, a simple but delicious feast.

  David had had his eyes on Deborah as she bent over the candles and during her father’s recitation. As he heard the ancient words of praise, he thought how appropriate they were, for here was a valiant woman indeed. He thought of why he had come: to tell her good-bye, and realized that never to see her again would be impossible. In fact, Sir David Treves, the agnostic Jew, was imagining what it would be like to have Deborah lighting their own Sabbath candles every week, with him saying the blessing on their children who stood around the table. He did not only desire her, he realized. He loved her. And as he watched her lifting the wine to her lips, he murmured a special blessing of his own, to Whoever or Whatever in the universe had prompted him to bring Malachi home. Blessed are you, he thought, Creator of Deborah Cohen. Perhaps he was being blasphemous, since he didn’t really believe, but David didn’t care. Someone should be thanked for her presence. The question now for him was how to insure her presence in his life.

  Chapter 30

  By the time Barbara arrived in London, Alec had already played several engagements arranged by David. These served their purpose, for once he was heard, hostesses made sure to pass the word about the talented Scots fiddler.

  David had of course been present on some of these evenings, and during the intermissions, he would go up and further his acquaintance with Alec. David, although he played no instrument, was as great a music lover as Gower and could converse knowledgeably. After one such evening, when both of them had had a bit more to drink than usual, the two of them made their way home together, trading songs in Gaelic and Ladino. Alec’s voice was pleasant, but nothing to compare to David’s tenor. The first time the Scotsman heard it, he stopped in the middle of the street and grabbed his new friend by the sleeve.

  “You did not tell me, laddie, that you are indeed a musician.”

  “No, no,” protested David.

  “Ah, but the voice is an instrument too, and yours is glorious.”

  David blushed and protested and they linked arms and proceeded down the street singing “The Isle of St. Helena.”

  * * * *

  It was natural, therefore, when David planned a dinner and musical interlude for a small group of friends, that he engage Alec’s services for an evening whose guests included the Vanes and Lady Barbara Stanley.

  This time Alec was not sent downstairs to eat with the servants. He was seated next to Nora and across from Barbara.

  Barbara had been taken completely by surprise by his presence. She had been hoping that she would hear of Mr. Gower through David, but had never expected to encounter him so soon. She had smiled politely and mumbled something about being happy to see that Mr. Gower had made David’s acquaintance, but was only too glad not to be required to converse with him. After her talk with Judith, she had resolved to put him out of her mind as an aberration or momentary distraction from her love for Wardour. Certainly a woman was allowed to find an attractive man attractive, without being accused… Well, no one was accusing her of anything, after all. And no matter that Mr. Gower could enjoy a taste of social equality with a host like David and a small and liberal guest list, he was not someone who could be considered seriously, even if she were free, which she was not.

  And yet, having sorted all that through in her mind, she could not keep her eyes off his long, slender fingers wrapped around the stem of his wineglass, or the way the Prussian-blue coat complemented his eyes. Later, after Alec had played a Bach sonata, it was even harder to keep her mind off him. It was only because she responded to his music, she kept telling herself. But when David requested a duet, Barbara refused graciously but firmly. She could not risk another such experience and maintain a sensible distance.

  “Do you sing for us instead, David,” she requested. “Mr. Gower can accompany you.”

  “We have been practicing,” replied Gower, with a mischievous glint in his eye, and played one of David’s Ladino songs. After that, David sang “Gile Mar” to the haunting accompaniment of Alec’s violin.

  “That last brought tears to my eyes,” said Nora. “Can you tell us what it was about? I would guess lost love.”

  “I am not sure it would be wise to translate it, Lady Vane, even in this company,” replied Alec. “It could be heard as the lament of a woman for a man, but the woman, in this case, is Ireland, and the man Charles Stuart.”

  “As a Northumbrian bred and born, I have always been rather partial to the Stuarts, Mr. Gower. No wonder I loved your song.”

  Just before she left, Barbara went up to Gower, who was packing his violin away.

  “I am glad you were able to make contact with Sir David, Mr. Gower. I hope your time in London is profitable.”

  “It has been so far, my lady. I thank you for recommending me.”

  “It was the least I could do for such a talented musician,” Barbara replied, feeling like they both were only uttering platitudes. But what else was there to say to this man, after all?

  Alec was equally disturbed. For almost another month he was Alec Gower, the fiddler, and not Lord Alexander MacLeod. He could not call on Barbara and he would only see her by chance, when he happened to be playing at a social gathering she was attending. They were not in an enchanted copse where a mere busker could brush the lips of a lady with his fingertips. They were in London, where he might, on a rare occasion such as this, sit at the same table, but most certainly not have the opportunity to put his arm around her in another waltz. And by the time he could assume his own identity, she would be married to Wardour.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he fumbled with his violin case.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Gower?” Barbara asked, not sure what she had just heard.

  “I jammed ma’ finger, lass, that is all,” he lied.

  “Let me see,” said Barbara, with the musician’s instant concern for hands and fingers.

  Alec stuck his hand out without thinking, and then almost laughed out loud as Barbara inspected it. “I see nothing amiss, Mr. Gower,” she announced.

  The touch of Barbara’s thumb running down each finger was an exquisite torture. As for Barbara, not only did she see nothing amiss, she could not help admiring, from close up, the slender fingers and muscular hand partially covered with red hair and freckles. There was both strength and sensitivity in such a hand, and she stood there, aware of the same current that had run between them at Ashurst.

  “I need ma hand back, lass.”

  Barbara blushed unbecomingly red and dropped his hand as if it were the source of her hot embarrassment. It had certainly been the source of another kind of warmth that she didn’t even want to think about.

  “I am glad to see there is no injury, Mr. Gower. It was good to hear you play again. Good night.”

  She was gone in a second and Alec cursed again, this time longer and harder, at the thought of his bonnie lassie in the arms of another man. He was almost tempted to go after her and confess, here and now, who he was. But if he did t
hat, he would lose his chance at music, and without his music he was nothing and had nothing to offer her anyway. And so he swallowed the words and some brandy and got himself home to bed.

  Chapter 31

  Deborah Cohen spent the days after David’s Sabbath visit alternating between daydreaming about him and scolding herself for her own unrealistic expectations. He had made it clear to her that he respected her too much to make her his mistress and not enough to make her his wife. She had made it clear that she was respectable. All too clear. Why should he come back? Why had he come that Friday? Deborah prided herself on her account-keeping, but had to rip two pages out of the ledger that week, she was so distracted.

  Her father had quietly asked her about Sir David’s intentions.

  “I do not think his interest goes beyond friendship, Father,” she told him.

  “And are you disappointed, my dear?”

  “Perhaps a little,” admitted Deborah.

  “Sir David is a very attractive young man,” observed her father as offhandedly as he could.

  “Yes, but we have little in common, Father. I am a merchant’s daughter.”

  “And he is a merchant’s son,” Mr. Cohen reminded her. “The Treveses are in trade also, Deborah, don’t forget that.”

  “But his family socializes with gentry. And he was granted a baronetcy.”

  “It took three generations to achieve that, Deborah. And you are both Jewish. I would not be happy to see you marry a Christian.”

  “There has been no mention of marriage with anyone, I can assure you, Father,” replied Deborah with her old tartness.

  “Or any other arrangement, I trust.”

  “David has always acted towards me with the greatest respect. You know, there are some ways in which David hardly seems Jewish,” continued Deborah.

  “The Sephardim have always been very accomplished at blending in, Deborah, wherever they have lived, and they have done the same thing here. Or the wealthy ones have,” he added. “Jews from Poland and other countries…well, we have had the ghettoes and pogroms to remind us who we are. But although he stumbled a bit on the blessings, I think he is more Jewish than you think. Why would he be haunting the house of a pretty girl like Deborah Cohen and not some English girl?”

  Deborah blushed.

  “Well, time will tell. For my part, I would have no objection. You deserve more of the good things in life, and I have never wanted you to marry someone only to bring him into the business.”

  * * * *

  David had said nothing when he had left the house, so Deborah half expected him never to call again and half hoped he would knock at the door at any minute. By Wednesday, however, she had reached a state of numbness, not quite ready to open herself to the thought of never seeing him again. When he appeared early that afternoon, therefore, he was met by Deborah at her most prickly.

  “May I take you for a ride this afternoon, Miss Cohen?” he politely requested.

  “I am busy, Sir David. It is a shame you did not let me know earlier.”

  “It was a busy week for me too, but I should have gotten you word despite that. I apologize. But can I persuade you to spare me a little time?”

  “Sarah is not available, Sir David, so it will have to be another time.”

  “I am glad that Sarah is not here to be disappointed,” said David, “for I would have asked her to stay behind. I want to speak with you alone.”

  Deborah started to object and David quickly assured her that they would not go far and they he would return her at any time she wanted. “You have nothing to fear, Miss Cohen.”

  Deborah at once felt ridiculous. He wasn’t taking her out to proposition her, he was taking her out to say good-bye. He was a kind man, and instead of just never coming back, he was going to end their friendship gently. I can at least be quiet and dignified, she thought, and agreed to accompany him.

  After David lifted her into the carriage, they sat silently as the groom drove them out of the East End. “I thought we would not go far, just to Hyde park, Miss Cohen,” announced David, breaking the silence.

  Deborah looked startled. “Isn’t it a rather fashionable hour for that, Sir David?”

  “It is a bit early, so our pace will be above a crawl, I hope,” he replied with a smile.

  “It was not speed I was concerned about. I am hardly dressed appropriately,” complained Deborah.

  “You look lovely, Miss Cohen.” And indeed she did, dressed in her second-best muslin, a sea-foam green that complemented her coloring.

  “But my hair…”

  “Is glorious,” said David, reaching out to gently brush a strand back from her face. Deborah shivered.

  “Are you cold, Miss Cohen?” he asked with concern.

  “No, not cold…just nervous.”

  “Miss Cohen, I have a request to make.”

  “Yes?”

  “May I call you Deborah and will you call me David?”

  Why on earth does he ask that now? she wondered.

  “Don’t you think it is foolish to be on a first-name basis only to say good-by?” she blurted out.

  “Good-bye? I am not intending to say good-bye, I assure you, Miss Cohen.”

  “Oh. Then why did you call for me?”

  “I called on you for several reasons. To confirm our friendship. To introduce you to some friends. And for something else.”

  Deborah blushed, and cursed herself for speaking without thinking. He would now feel she had put him on the spot.

  “Aren’t you at all curious about my third reason, Deborah? There, I’ve assumed your permission.”

  “Oh, call me Deborah, by all means. I suppose a mistress would be on first-name terms with her lover.”

  “Good God, woman. Will you get that idea out of your head? I did not call on you to give you a slip on the shoulder. I called on you to ask you to marry me.”

  Deborah was speechless.

  “Well, no, that isn’t really what I had planned to do,” David said more calmly. “I was going to ask you, very respectfully and politely, if we might expand our friendship into something more serious. Then I was going to court you, then speak to your father in the approved manner, and then ask you to marry me. But you are like a hedgehog, and have spoiled all my careful planning. So tell me, Deborah Cohen,” said David, putting his finger on her chin and turning her face to meet his, “would you consider marrying me?”

  Deborah opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Speechless, Deborah?” teased David. “A first. But are you speechless with surprise or outrage?”

  “I don’t know what to say, Sir David.”

  “Please call me David.”

  “You know I have enjoyed your companionship.”

  “Yes?”

  “And you know that I find you very attractive…”

  “But…?”

  “Are you sure you wish to court plain Deborah Cohen from the East End when you could probably find yourself the daughter of an earl?”

  “Do you mean, do I want a Jewish woman for my wife?”

  “I suppose that is part of what I am asking, David. There is not only a difference in our stations, but also in the way we think about ourselves as Jews. I suspect that had you not met me, you may well have married a Christian lady. I would never have married a Christian gentleman.”

  “You may be right, Deborah. I confess that although I have not been eager to rush into it, I may well have ended up marrying an impoverished peer’s daughter. But I have met you, and fallen in love with you. It would be foolish to deny that we have led different lives. But there is more than one way of being Jewish. You and your father are not extremely observant, although you are more so than my family.”

  “I just would never want to try to ‘pass,’ David. I am proud of who I am.”

  “Is that what you think I do? I assure you, unless you convert, and even then, you are always identified as a Jew, no matter how liberal the circles in which you
move,” replied David with a touch of bitterness.

  “You have always seemed immune to that kind of prejudice, for you are very much the English gentleman.”

  “I confess that until the incident with Malachi, I tried to keep myself as unaware as possible. I had convinced myself that the less people thought of me as a Jew, the better chance I had at working for reforms.”

  “With me as your wife, you will hardly blend in, David,” said Deborah, wanting with all her heart to accept him, but not willing to gloss over the difficulties.

  “Oh, I can tell them you’re Irish!” he teased. “With that red hair and those freckles, you could well be. Although, as Miss Cohen, you are probably as acceptable as a Miss O’Toole. It is hard to say whether anti-Jewish or anti-Irish sentiment is more virulent.”

  “David…”

  “Yes, Deborah?”

  “I would like two things.”

  “Anything.”

  “I would like to give a ‘yes’ to the question you intended to ask me. I would like to be courted.”

  “Done. I never wanted to rush you. And the other?”

  “I would like you to kiss me.”

  “Nothing would delight me more,” David replied with great formality. He leaned down and quietly touched her lips.

  “I am afraid there is one other thing,” said Deborah a moment after his brief kiss.

  “Yes?”

  “Give me a real kiss, David.”

  David touched her lips again, gently at first, and then hungrily as he felt her response. When they at last pulled away from one another, they were immediately drawn back into another kiss.

  David finally broke their embrace. “I think Richmond would have been a better choice for this afternoon, Deborah. We are almost to the park.”

  Deborah reached up to smooth her hair with shaking hands. “I did not realize kissing could be like that,” she admitted shyly.

  “Neither did I,” said David, smiling at her. “I hope this courtship will be a relatively short one.”