Lady Barbara's Dilemma (7 page)

“Just do as I say, my lady, and you will have an answer in the morning.”

Barbara put the myrtle in her pocket and, thanking the old woman, got back to work. A good old-fashioned way of keeping young maidens in line, she thought. For, of course, the myrtle would always be there in the morning and would keep the young women from parting with their virtue too easily and trusting the easy promises of a lover.

* * * *

The picnic was a great success, as it was every year. Everyone mingled, regardless of rank, and by the time the toasts were drunk, all, particularly the men, were flushed with good spirits.

The light lingered and prolonged the festivities, for tomorrow was the longest day of the year. By the time the sun went down, the men were a bit more sober.

“Thank God,” said Barbara to Robin as they watched the villagers set off to light the fire on the hill. “I always worry that someone will be so drunk that he will fall in and do his jumping over flames instead of ashes.”

“Someday I should go leaping over the fire,” Robin said, as he did every year.

“You know that this is their part of the feast, Robin. And with twins, you hardly need worry about fertility!”

“For shame, Barbara,” teased her brother. “You know it is to increase the harvest yield.”

“Ah, so you always say, but it seems to me that too many young girls are increasing after Midsummer’s Eve. Perhaps old Zenobia’s myrtle sprig is a good custom.”

“What’s that?”

Barbara pulled the myrtle out of her pocket, where it had lain forgotten till now. “I am to put this in my prayer book, and if I sleep on it and it is still there in the morning, then I will know that Peter will not marry me.”

“I dare you to do it,” Robin challenged, with a gleam in his eye.

“I cannot accept such a challenge, Robin, for we both know it will be there in the morning.”

“Aren’t you sure of Wardour?” Robin said with a smile.

“Of course I am. And even if the myrtle were still there, it would mean nothing. It is only an old superstition. But I am not afraid to take your dare.”

“Done,” said her brother, who had decided that if Barbara accepted, he would steal into her room and remove the sprig himself. He wanted nothing to mar her happiness with Wardour. She was a very intelligent young woman, his sister, but all women had an irrational streak in them, and now that he had pushed her to it, he didn’t want her to have even a fleeting disappointment.

When Barbara got to her bedchamber, she opened her prayer book, found the marriage service, and carefully placed the myrtle on the right words, then put the prayer book under her pillow.

It will be there in the morning, of course, she thought. And Robin and I will laugh at ourselves, for it will mean nothing.

Unfortunately, when Robin went to bed a few hours later, he was so sleepy from the ale he had consumed and his vigil, watching till the fire burned down, that he completely forgot his plan and fell asleep immediately.

And when Barbara awoke in the morning, conscious of a strange lump under her pillow, she almost didn’t open the book, saying to herself, I know it will be there, and I know it doesn’t mean anything that it is. Yet she couldn’t resist.

And there it was, the dark green leaves flattened and dried out. She suffered a momentary pang of doubt, and then, laughing at herself, closed the prayer book. “Let the myrtle stay,” she said aloud. “And when we are married, I will open this and show Peter and we will have a good laugh.”

After all their work on the picnic, the Stanleys usually relaxed in the morning and made their appearance at the fair in the afternoon. This year, they didn’t set out until after two o’clock, all crowded into the old landau: Barbara, Robin, Diana, the twins, and the twins’ nurse. As they drove through town the noise and dust became more noticeable and by the time they were dropped off, the twins were beside themselves with excitement.

Robin was one of the judges at the cattle show, and he was off quickly, leaving the women together. Barbara traditionally awarded the prize for the best domestic animal, but that wasn’t until later in the afternoon, and so she spent some time with Diana and the children, buying lemonade and sweets, keeping them out of the freak-show tent (“For surely,” said Diana, “they are too young for a two-headed calf, much less the Cotswold Giant. I do not want them having nightmares”). The Punch and Judy show was perfect, and so when Diana decided to stay through a second performance, Barbara, having arranged a meeting place, wandered off on her own. Robin had mentioned the new fiddler to her, and as she walked, she had her ears open. She came across several buskers, one with a tin whistle and one with a fiddle, but the fiddler was small, dark, and English, and not that memorable a musician. She was beginning to wonder if the Scotsman had got to the fair when she heard the strains of a reel and followed the sound to its source.

There was a fair crowd around the musician, so that Barbara could only see the top of his head, bent down over his bow. As soon as people saw her they cleared a space, and she found herself right in front of him.

He was tall, auburn-haired, and bearded. He was playing a fiddle that looked as old and worn as his clothes. His eyes were almost closed and his whole body moved in time to the music. It seemed as though the instrument was an extension of his body, not separate from him, and the music emerged from his whole self. Barbara had always enjoyed dance tunes, but she had never been particularly impressed by a popular musician before. The tunes were usually only background music for dancing, and as good as old Daniel was, he could not hold a candle to this young Scotsman.

It was no problem identifying him as a Scot, thought Barbara, as she glanced at the worn kilt that swayed and swung out with his hips. His legs were covered with the same reddish hair as was on his head and chin. I shouldn’t be looking at his legs, she scolded herself. But I have never seen this much of a man’s legs before!

The tune ended, which startled Barbara out of her next thought, which was the age-old question of what Scotsmen wore under their kilts. When she looked up, she found herself looking into a pair of bright blue eyes, one of which slowly and deliberately closed in a decided wink, as though the fiddler knew exactly what she was thinking.

He must have just finished a set of tunes, for most of the people around her were throwing money into the old bonnet in front of him and moving off, leaving her as his only audience.

“And are ye not going to drop some silver into ma’ wee bonnet, lassie?” he inquired with a grin.

His Scottish burr was as broad as Barbara had expected.

“Perhaps another tune will make you smile and open your purse. I usually wait for more of a crowd, but I will play this one just for you.”

Barbara knew she should have turned on her heel and left. It was very clear from her appearance that she was a lady, and although she was not overly conscious of rank, neither was she used to being treated with such boldness. On the other hand, there was such good humor about it that she could not work herself up into feeling offended. And as soon as the bow touched the strings, she was rooted to the spot. He played a slow air for her, and nothing she had ever heard, not even Mozart, had moved her as much. It was a simple sweet tune, speaking as directly and clearly to her as a bird on a bright spring morning.

When the music ended, they both stood quietly for a moment as though not to break a spell. Barbara knew that his was a great talent, and thought what a pity it was that he was uneducated and untrained.

She smiled up at him. “You were right. That tune would cause a miser’s fist to open like a baby’s hand. Here,” she said, as she pulled a small purse from her reticule and handed him a guinea.

She was embarrassed almost as soon as she did it. She should have just dropped a few silver coins in his bonnet like everyone else. Instead, here she was, clearly pointing out the difference in rank by being overly generous.

“Gold, my lady? Thankee, thankee. This will keep me for a good fortnight.” He sounded both mocking and grateful, and she blushed.

“You have a genuine talent, sir. I only meant to acknowledge it.”

“Aye, and you did it right generously. Dinna fash yourself, lass.”

“Dinna fash myself?” repeated Barbara.

“Do not get yourself into a taking over it, my lady,” he replied in perfect English.

“I think I prefer the Scots way,” said Barbara.

“Oh, aye, one word can sometimes convey a lot.” His burr was as broad again as ever.

Another audience had begun to gather behind her, so Barbara had no time to comment on the changes in his accent. Not that it is any business of mine, she thought, as she moved off. But it was interesting that for a moment he sounded like an educated man.

It was lucky that Barbara was not missish, for judging the domestic-pet competition often meant holding toads and snakes as well as petting the occasional brute of a mastiff. As a judge, she had to have not only strong nerves but the wisdom of Solomon and the political savvy of a Parliament member. As in any small village, there were popular and unpopular citizens and very long memories. In 1803, for instance, Miss Heath had won first prize for her pet duck and won again in 1807 and 1815. No matter how handsome her drake was this year (and he was a fine specimen), Barbara would not dare award her first prize. The Widow Claff’s pet parrot had won only two years ago, despite his outrageous language. In fact, Barbara counted herself lucky that she had only been called an “ould tart,” which was a mild insult compared to others she had heard from the parrot. Luckily, the bird was getting old and mangy, thought Barbara as she passed by his cage. She could pass him by this year without guilt.

There was the usual assortment of puppies and kittens. There were also two hedgehogs and one pet pig, which Barbara thought made for good variety. Jimmy George brought the annual garter snake and his brother a pet mouse. Barbara knew both boys well enough to realize that they were hoping this year they’d succeed in making her scream or at least give a little jump. But she had grown up with an older brother who had been known to drop caterpillars down her dress, so she had no problem appearing genuinely appreciative of Albert, the white mouse.

The last pet she came to was Betsy Landon’s. Barbara had always loved Betsy, who was a shy, sweet child. She lived with her mother and father on a small farm, and Barbara assumed that the box sitting in front of her contained a chick or a duckling, and so she picked it up and opened it nonchalantly, ready to exclaim in delight over a fluffy-feathered baby.

What she saw was a black, hairy, giant spider. She screeched and dropped the box, and Jimmy told his parents later that it was the best fair he could remember for years. Luckily, although the spider had fallen out of the box, it did not go anywhere, but lifted itself on its hind legs as though ready to attack.

“Barnabas won’t hurt you, Lady Barbara, he is really very tame,” said Betsy, reaching down and picking up her “pet.” She placed the spider on her palm and gently stroked him. “See, you can even pet him.”

Barbara would have felt thoroughly humiliated had the whole audience not moved back a few feet to escape the menacing beast. But she was embarrassed to have been frightened by a creature that an eight-year-old was holding so calmly, so she reached out her hand and touched Barnabas with the tips of her fingers.

“Wherever did you find Barnabas?” she asked.

“Oh, I didn’t find him, my lady. My uncle Matt brought him for me. He’s a sailor, you know.”

“I presume you mean your Uncle Matt and not Barnabas,” said a familiar voice from behind Barbara. She turned and saw the Scots fiddler.

Betsy’s face lit up at the joke. “Perhaps Barnabas could be called a sailor too, for he sailed all the way from South America in a cargo ship. My uncle found him when they were unloading bananas. He eats rotten fruit, you know.”

“Your Uncle Matt?” replied the Scotsman with mock horror.

Betsy giggled. “No, no, you great silly,
Barnabas.
We always make sure he has some old fruit or vegetable to nibble on. He’s a tran…ta-ran-tu-la,” she pronounced carefully and proudly. “My Uncle Matt says he
could
bite and poison someone if you wanted him to,” she continued a bit fiercely, holding the spider out toward Jimmy, who had crept back to get a closer look. Jimmy was the bane of her existence because of his teasing, and Betsy took great pleasure in seeing the fear on his face as he stepped backward again.

“Aye, it is good to have a friend like Barnabas, lassie, said the Scotsman, smiling down at her.

“And he is a fine-looking specimen of his breed,” said Barbara. She turned around and announced to everyone who remained that she had never seen such an excellent tarantula and it was clear to her that Barnabas had won first prize. And that is no lie, she thought to herself, for since none of us has seen such a creature, there can be no complaints or comparisons.

Betsy’s face lit up and her hand trembled as she accepted the blue ribbon and the guinea that were first prize. She popped Barnabas back in his box and went off to find her parents.

“Well done, my lady,” said the fiddler.

“Why are you here, sir, and not off somewhere playing your fiddle?” demanded Barbara.

“I am a great animal lover,” he explained, his eyes twinkling. “And I remember the pet competitions when I was a boy. It takes great diplomacy to be the judge. I would say that the Old Bailey is all the poorer that women cannot sit on the bench!”

“Enough of your toadying, Mr…?”

“Alec Gower.” Alec had borrowed his teacher’s surname for the year.

“Good day, Mr. Gower,” said Barbara, turning on her heel and trying to keep a dismissive tone in her voice. He was encroaching, this fiddler. But there was something about the man… His talent, for one thing. And his charm. He had been utterly charming with Betsy.

Alec watched Barbara walk off. A fine-looking woman, lad, he said to himself. Oh, aye, and it is too bad ye canna expect her to gie ye a second look. For the first time since he had left his grandfather’s library, he chafed under the conditions of their wager. Lady Barbara was clearly related to the Earl of Ashurst, whether his sister or daughter. As the grandson of the Duke of Strathyre, he would have been able to pursue an acquaintance. As a poor wandering musician, he was beneath her notice. But she had noticed his music, by God, and this evening he would make sure she noticed it again.