LADY BARBARA’S DILEMMA
Marjorie Farrell
Prologue
“Lord Alexander has arrived, Your Grace. Shall I send him in?”
“Yes, Larkin.” The Duke of Strathyre, who had, to all appearances, been engrossed in a political memoir, put down his book and moved from his comfortable sofa to sit behind his desk. It was a strategic move. The duke, who was a consummate politician, never did anything casually. He was a small man, his grandson was a tall one: therefore he would sit on a harder, higher chair while his grandson sank into the furniture. Not that the duke was conscious of his strategy. He might be small and slender and white-haired, but he was also one of the most powerful men in either Scotland or England, and his techniques for maintaining that power had become habit.
By the time Alec MacLeod entered the library, the duke was seemingly engrossed in the latest estate reports, and his grandson had to clear his throat several times before the old man even looked up.
“Ah, Alec. How delightful to see you. Sit down, lad, sit down.”
Alec, who stood almost a foot taller than his grandfather, smiled to himself at the “lad.” He might not be a politician, but he was familiar with the duke’s tactics, having seen his father outmaneuvered time after time. He sank into the sofa, and semi-seriously sent up a silent prayer that he would succeed in keeping his resolve straight, even if he couldn’t keep his back so.
After a few moments, it was clear that he was going to have to be the first one to break the silence. He hated to give even a little ground to his grandsire, but better the sacrifice of a little ground now than the whole field later.
“You wished to speak with me, Grandfather?”
“Ah, yes,” said the duke, tearing himself away from the papers in front of him. “Yes.”
“Well, here I am, then.”
“Yes, here you are,” said the duke, looking over this young man who was so close to him in blood, but so different in appearance from both his father and grandfather.
The duke and his son were both black-haired and brown-eyed. Small of stature and slender of build, they projected an elegant strength. Alec resembled his mother’s side of the family, being auburn-haired, blue-eyed, and tall. If the duke and the marquess were to be compared with weapons, they would most resemble rapiers. Alec, on the other hand, was like a claymore, the heavy broadsword wielded by his ancestors.
Except for his hands. His fingers were long and slender, surprisingly so for such a big man, and were the one feature he and his grandfather had in common, in appearance at least. Not, however, in how they used them.
Right now the duke’s hands were still, placed on the desk in front of him. They were remarkably young-looking hands for a man of sixty-eight, well-manicured, white, and smooth. They were also powerful hands, hands that had beckoned and dismissed and signed away properties and lives for years.
Alec’s hands were rarely still. When he spoke, they were as expressive as his tongue. His hands were more likely to ruffle a child’s hair or clap a friend on the shoulder than to gesture commands. And, above all, they were a musician’s hands.
“Your father informs me that you have still not chosen a career, Alec.”
“You know that is not true, Grandfather. I have known for a long time what I wish to do.”
“So it is the law, the government, or the church?” queried the duke, in a most annoyingly feigned ignorance.
“You know it is not any of those, Grandfather. I am a violinist and wish to make music my life. Nay, it already is my life,” replied his grandson.
“The grandson of the Duke of Strathyre and the son of the Marquess of Doune cannot make his living playing the fiddle,” said the duke contemptuously.
“On the contrary, Grandfather,” said Alec with a touch of amusement in his voice, “it is the only sphere in which I have enough talent to make my living. I have no head for the intricacies of our judicial system, not enough hypocrisy for government service, and too little piety for the church.”
“You know very well what I mean,” answered the duke, his grandson’s insouciance almost making him lose control. “No grandson of mine will end up a professional musician. It is one thing to play for family and friends’ private entertainment. It is quite another to traipse across the concert stages of England and the Continent.”
“What I wish to do, as you well know, is to continue my studies in London and eventually to give most of my energy to composition. Although I will not deny that I may perform outside of social occasions once in a while.”
“And how will you support yourself, do you suppose? I can’t imagine that the odd violin sonata will keep food on the table, much less support you in the style which befits your station.”
The duke had not raised his voice, nor did he sound as if he was discussing anything of great importance. But Alec, who had vowed he would not lose his temper, could not keep his voice free of emotion. When he felt something, his voice vibrated with it, be it anger or desire. While women usually responded to his expressiveness, he knew that he was at a disadvantage with the duke. His fire might melt an icy woman, but not his grandsire. He took a deep breath to calm himself before he spoke again.
“I had intended, of course, to live on my inheritance from Grandmother.”
“Your father and I have agreed that it would not have been your grandmother’s intention that you use her legacy to pursue such a foolish course. As her executor, I intend to stop your allowance unless you agree to pursue a career more appropriate to your position.”
Alec willed himself to remain in his seat. He knew that if he attempted to change the balance of power, even physically, he was lost. His grandfather had wanted him to feel at a disadvantage sucked down by the sofa. Well, let him still believe that he was.
“You know, Your Grace, that Grandmother supported me in my music.”
“When you were younger, oh, yes,” replied the duke, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But I assure you, she did not intend for you to fiddle away your inheritance.”
“And I have no intention of doing so. The income would be quite adequate for my needs.”
“And what of those of wife and children?”
“I have no interest in marriage at the moment. And there is no reason for me to think about it yet. After all, you and my father and brother are in excellent health, and likely to lead long and happy lives. I only wish to be allowed to do the same.”
“How do you know that a life centered around music will make you happy?”
“How did you know that politics was your forte, Grandfather?” Alec countered. “One knows.”
“What you do not know is how it would be to live without the money and privilege you have been used to. It is one thing to fiddle Scottish dances with Gower, and quite another to make a name in London.”
“If I can play a strathspey by Matthew Gower to his satisfaction, I am sure that my performance of Mozart should be expert enough for an orchestra,” replied Alec, the smile on his face concealing his rising anger. Gower had enjoyed his grandfather’s patronage for years and had been Alec’s teacher for much of that time. Gower’s original compositions and his versions of traditional tunes were familiar all over Scotland. And though a ton audience appreciated a sonata over a reel and a violinist over a fiddler, thought Alec, he knew that a dance tune called for as much virtuosity as a classical piece.
“Be that as it may,” said the duke, examining his perfectly manicured nails, “your grandmother’s money is in my hands and I will not continue your allowance if you refuse to give up your music.” The duke sat there, confident that, as usual, he had bested his opponent. With no money to live on, his grandson would have to see reason. And after he
became a solicitor (for surely that would be the most appropriate career for him), he could play music for his own and his family’s enjoyment. No need to give it up entirely. It was not, after all, that he did not secretly appreciate his grandson’s talent. It was just that he wanted it kept in its proper place.
Alec, however, knew that his grandfather had lost. Because power and privilege and money were all important to the duke, he could not imagine living without them. Nor could he understand what music was to Alec: something he could not live without. Perhaps it was because he was relatively removed from the possibility of inheritance, perhaps it was because he had inherited his mother’s mercurial temperament rather than his father’s staidness; whatever it was, Alec could live without money if he had to. What he had hoped, however, was that he could manage to have both.
“You are convinced that I could never succeed on my own as a musician, Grandfather? That denying me Grandmother’s bequest will convince me of that?”
“Oh, you have talent, my boy. But whoever heard of a duke’s grandson living on nothing and liking it?”
“I have a bargain to strike with you, then.”
“Yes?”
“Let me have one year as a musician. If I cannot survive on my talent alone, or if I hate it, then I will agree to enter whatever profession you feel is most appropriate for me.” Alec tried to strike a balance in tone between bravado and hesitancy. He wanted his grandfather to believe that he was not quite sure of his dedication and his resilience.
“Are you offering me a wager, Alec?” asked the duke, his studied indifference finally cracking.
“I suppose you could call it that,” replied his grandson. And one that I can’t lose, thought Alec. For I intend to live by my music anyway, if that becomes necessary.
“And what if you do survive through the year? Then what?” queried the duke.
“If I can make my own way for a year, then you will reinstate my allowance and let me go my own way.”
His grandfather’s eyes gleamed. While he was no inveterate gambler, he enjoyed a game of chance as well as anyone. Alec would come home defeated in six months or less; of that he was certain. And maybe it was a good idea to let him get this obsession with music out of his system. If he tried and, as was inevitable, failed, then he would enter the law with much more enthusiasm than if he had been forced toil.
“I will agree, upon one condition,” said the duke.
“And that?”
“That for one year from today you live incognito. No one is to know you are my grandson. That way we both will know that no one hired you only because of your family name. And that you spend the year in England.”
Alec had envisioned himself in the south, and was confident enough of his skill that he had never intended to trade on the family connections.
“Agreed, Grandfather,” he said, rising from the sofa at last and approaching the desk. “Here is my hand on it.”
The duke looked up into his grandson’s blue eyes, and seeing the gleam of satisfaction there, had the fleeting sensation that he had been outmaneuvered. Since no one had ever succeeded in besting him, however, he dismissed the idea immediately and rose to shake his grandson’s hand. And so the two men parted, each confident that the end of the year would see him the winner.
Chapter 1
“Simon.”
“Hunnhh.”
“Simon.”
The Duke of Sutton rolled over toward his wife and pulled her close to him, fitting her backside against him and running his hands across her rounding belly. “And how is the heir to the dukedom this morning?”
Judith sighed in satisfaction as she felt her husband’s hands caress her, and had a hard time pushing his fingers away as they moved lower. It was early morning and there was nothing she liked better than making love and then going back to sleep for a few hours. And as she had noticed with her first pregnancy, her pleasure in lovemaking increased when she was carrying a child. Six months into her term she had felt idyllic with Sophy and did so again with the “heir,” as they laughingly called the small resident of her body. She was well past morning sickness, felt a remarkable sense of well-being, and was proudly rounded rather than clumsily elephantine, as one became in the last weeks of pregnancy.
“Very well, Simon. But I did not wake you to make love, but to talk,” she said as she turned to face him. “I was thinking about Barbara.”
Simon groaned in mock despair. “Thinking about your latest coze with Barbara while your husband goes mad with unsatisfied desire!”
“Mad with desire indeed. You were barely awake a few minutes ago. No, now be serious, Simon,” Judith protested, as her husband traced his fingers over her face and down to her mouth and ran his thumb over her lips.
“Oh, I assure you, I am quite serious,” he said fervently, as he leaned forward to kiss her. Judith’s mouth opened to speak again, and then, feeling his probing tongue, she gave up for the moment the idea of an early morning discussion.
A half an hour later, just as Simon was drifting off, Judith spoke again.
“Simon.”
“Not again, your grace?”
“No. This time I want you to listen. I am worried about Barbara.”
“Unnhh.”
“Simon, wake up!” This time the Duchess of Sutton poked the duke unceremoniously in the ribs and finally succeeded in getting his undivided, unamorous attention. He rolled over on his back, pulled another pillow under his head, and folding his arms over his chest, said with exaggerated patience, “I’m listening, Judith.”
“And about time.”
“Now, what is worrying you about Barbara?”
“I don’t know exactly,” confessed his wife. “That is,” she continued, as Simon groaned again, “I know that she is not herself, that she is unhappy, but she does not talk about it. In fact, she hardly talks to me anymore except about the least important matters. And she told me the other day that she is going to discontinue her studies with Signor Cavalcanti.”
“She may only feel that she needs a break from her practice. After all, she has been working with him for four years.”
“But that is precisely it, Simon. Barbara has been devoted to her music for as long as I can remember.”
“Do you think she is in love?”
“I don’t think so. Although that itself may be the problem,” added Judith thoughtfully.
“She spent quite a bit of time with Peter Rushcliffe during the Little Season, didn’t she?”
“Yes. I am sure that he was developing a tendre for her. Whether she did for him, I don’t know. But she certainly gave him more attention than she has anyone for years. If he chooses to come up for this Season, I am sure he has a good chance of winning her. I only want her to be as happy as we are, Simon.”
“We are, aren’t we, Judith?” said the duke, gently stroking his wife’s hair.
“Frighteningly so.”
“Nothing to be frightened of, my love,” replied her husband, pulling her closer and burying his face in her neck.
Chapter 2
Lady Barbara Stanley absently fingered the keys of the pianoforte. She had been in the music room for the better part of an hour and still had not been able to put her mind to her practice.
Two weeks ago she had turned twenty-six. Each Season since her first had gotten less and less enjoyable. Early on she had seen her contemporaries married off, and now there was a new generation of young women. Not precisely a new generation, she reminded herself humorously, but it felt that way. Seasons had come and gone, suitors had filled her dance cards, sent her flowers, and a few had gone even so far as to make her offers. She had been attracted by none of them.
The trouble is, she thought, I have been holding Simon and Judith’s marriage before me as a model of what I want. And that is foolish, for their marriage is a rare thing in our circle. The young ladies that come and go are not holding out for a love match.
At the thought of Simon and Judith, her fingers
became still. The fact that her closest friend was so happy should make her happy. And it had, for a year or two. She had felt a part of the magic, and when Sophy was born, become her beloved godmother. But Judith’s interests were different now, centered around her family and her new pregnancy. It was not that the Suttons were not inclusive: they had always made Barbara feel like a member of the family. But Judith was less interested in discussions about art and literature and more in conversations about when a child should begin to learn her letters and how one felt in the early months of pregnancy. In fact, she had become quite friendly with the new Countess of Alverstoke, who was expecting her first child the month after Judith her second.
Barbara liked Miranda; who could not? But she was young, completely wrapped up in her husband and expected child, and found Judith to be a great support, just as she had been in the weeks before Miranda’s marriage. Whenever Barbara called on Judith these days, it seemed that the countess was there before her, playing with Sophy or engaging in conversations with Judith about the details of labor and delivery. Or talking about the paradoxical reactions of doting husbands when faced with the reality of a first child.
Barbara would drink her tea and eat her cake during these conversations and feel like a spinster of advanced age. It was not that Judith was willfully ignoring her. It was just that her family concerns were so absorbing. As well they should be, thought Barbara. I have no right to feel resentful.
But she couldn’t help it. She did feel both resentful and jealous…and even angry. In fact, sometimes when she walked into the house on Brook Street, she almost hated Judith and Simon for their happiness, and it was all she could do to utter polite comments and keep a spiteful tone out of her voice.
Where once she had shared all her deepest feelings with Judith, now she was afraid to talk to her at all for fear she would reveal her ugly anger and jealousy. How could one say to one’s best friend: “I resent your happiness,” when that friend was always trying to share her happiness? How could one say: “I feel excluded,” when Simon and Judith were always encouraging her to join them? Above all, how could one say, like a small child: “I thought I was your best friend, but now you spend your time with Lady Alverstoke”? And so Barbara said less and less and was careful to visit when there was likely to be company so the gradual loss of their intimate talks was less noticeable.
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