Lady Barbara's Dilemma

by Marjorie Farrell

  Wardour, of course, had been aware of their acquaintance, since Treves had been present occasionally at routs and musicales. He had not realized the extent of their intimacy, however, and did not really approve of the future Marchioness of Wardour having a close friendship with a Jew, but this was clearly not the time and place to discuss the issue. He was everything that was agreeable and polite when David was shown in.

  “I apologize for my buckskins,” David immediately announced.

  “Nonsense. I apologize for my absentmindedness,” said Barbara. “But I do have an excuse,” she continued. “You are one of the first to hear of my official betrothal to Peter.”

  “My best wishes to both of you,” said David, with a warm smile for Barbara.

  “Please join us,” insisted Robin.

  “Just for a moment or two. I do not wish to intrude.” David was very good, as indeed he had had to be, at detecting the subtlest disapproval. There was only a bit of tension emanating from Wardour, but David picked it up, if the Stanleys hadn’t.

  “You must tell me what happened after we left you last night, David. We were witnesses to an incident of cruelty to an old peddler,” she explained to Wardour. “David was kind enough to escort him home.”

  “The old man was only shaken, and I was able to get him home with no problems at all. He lives above a fruiterer’s on Mitre Street,” David added.

  “Mitre Street! I don’t know the city all that well, but surely that is the East End and full of riffraff and criminals?” exclaimed Wardour.

  You mean to say Jewish riffraff, I am sure, thought David.

  “It is a crowded and poor area,” he admitted.

  “Was there someone to take care of him?” asked Barbara.

  “As a matter of fact, I left him in the capable hands of Miss Deborah Cohen, the daughter of the owner.”

  “Good. I was worried about the aftereffects of the shock.”

  “Old Malachi is tougher than he looks,” said David. “But enough of my adventure. When is the wedding to be?”

  “In the fall. At least, that is what I would wish, but we have not had much time to discuss details.”

  “First you must come to Arundel for an extended visit, my dear. I want you to get to know my mother better and see the household to plan for any changes you might like to make.”

  “I would love to do that, Peter,” said Barbara gratefully. “Although I am not one of those women who feels she must go changing everything around. I am sure your home is lovely already.”

  “I was hoping you might come for a July visit.”

  “That would be perfect,” exclaimed Barbara. “That way I would not miss the Midsummer Fair at Ashurst. With Mother and Father away so often, Robin and I have got into the habit of representing them. It is rather a tradition.”

  “July it is, then,” said Wardour. “And now I must go. I will see you tonight, my dear, at the Rosses’ ball?”

  “I am looking forward to our waltz,” said Barbara. “Let me walk with you to the door.”

  “I am of a mind to send Treves with you as a chaperon,” teased Robin.

  “Oh, no, I do not believe in cramping a betrothed couple’s style,” David responded.

  Wardour frowned slightly at the jests, but Barbara’s laugh restored his good humor. And it was true that he fully intended to have another kiss before he left.

  Chapter 10

  The Stanleys’ last days in London passed quickly and happily for Barbara. The official announcement of her betrothal gave her friends and acquaintances great pleasure and also the excuse to hold the additional Venetian breakfast or small supper dance to celebrate. Barbara enjoyed them all, although by the time they were to leave for Ashurst, she was looking forward to the slower pace of country life.

  * * * *

  The Stanleys reached Sussex well before the Midsummer Fair. Diana, who had been busy with the twins for the past few years, had never become involved except to put in the expected attendance at the Ashurst picnic and a few hours at the fair itself.

  Robin and Barbara, however, were much busier. “After all,” Robin had joked once, “We must act in loco parentis, and Barbara had joined him in helpless laughter at the image. At the time, Diana had thought that the here-again, gone-again life of the earl and his countess was nothing to joke about. Her own parents had always been present, responsible, and quite strict with all their offspring, a fact that had allowed her to comfortably rebel at the appropriate time and then settle into model wife and motherhood. She rather resented the fact that so much was expected of Robin before he had even inherited the title. But she was relieved, she had to confess to herself, that Barbara was willing, nay, enjoyed taking her mother’s place at the fair.

  It was tradition that the Stanleys host a picnic open to everyone in the neighborhood the day before the fair opened. Much of Barbara’s time was spent planning the food and drinks for over a hundred people, making sure that the long trestle tables and benches were carried down from the barn and wiped clean of spiderwebs and checked for hornets’ nests. One unforgettable year, a swarm of wasps had constructed their nest under one of the tables. The servants had not noticed the papery gray structure under the legs of the table, since the tables had grayed over the years and the nest was almost indistinguishable. At any rate, Squire Pike and his lady, both a bit overweight and notoriously slow-moving, were stung, quite literally, into movement resembling a St. Vitus’s dance. When they were finally calmed down and the cause of their jumping and slapping at themselves and each other was discovered, one of the old women from the village called for “mud, mud!” and managed to plaster them both to her satisfaction, if not to theirs. Robin had disgraced himself. Normally abstemious, he always overindulged in the homebrewed ale at the picnic, and he was rolling on the ground at the sight of the mud-caked squire. He laughed so hard and so long that the next morning, when Barbara scolded him for insulting the Pikes, his stomach was actually sorer than his head.

  While Barbara kept herself busy with the picnic, Robin was involved with the village planning committee. Every year for the past twenty, the vicar had protested the “pagan” custom of Midsummer’s Eve, when a huge bonfire was lit on Ashurst Hill and flaming cartwheels of bound straw and pitch were rolled down toward the village. And every year he was voted down by farmers and townsmen alike, who might have forgotten the origins of this time-honored ritual, but who knew, if the wheels were still burning at the bottom of the hill, there would be a good harvest. Robin always voted with the villagers, for when he was a child his father had allowed him to stay up late on Midsummer’s Eve, and the sight of the flames reaching up to the heavens and then apparently giving birth to small, rolling fires had not only been one of the thrills of his boyhood but, he knew, had deepened his commitment to the land. He had learned to live with the vicar’s short-lived disappointment in him, for he was, after all, a regular churchgoer and the family a generous contributor to the upkeep of St. Thomas’s. But the celebration of the turning of the wheel of the year pulled at something very deep in him.

  Once the question of the bonfire was settled, the meeting always went smoothly. There would be the agricultural competitions, of course, and piemen and jugglers and a gypsy fortune-teller. The vicar didn’t waste his breath protesting this, for he knew that Madame Zenobia was the most popular attraction and drew in every young woman, common or gentry, to have her palm read or Tarot cards interpreted. A Punch and Judy show was a welcome addition this year. And, of course, there was always music and dancing.

  “There is a young fiddler I heard when I went to market last month,” announced the squire, “and I was so impressed that I made sure to invite him. I assured him that he would make as much or more money in Ashurst as anywhere else, and perhaps might be hired to play for the country dancing.” He looked questioningly at Robin.

  “If old Daniel does not mind sharing the limelight, I am sure we can support another fiddler. He must be talented for you to go out of your way
to invite him, Joseph.”

  “I confess I surprised myself. I have never done more than toss a coin at a busker, certainly never talked to one. But he kept my toes tapping with his reels and almost brought tears to my eyes with his slow tunes.”

  “I will make sure to tell Barbara to look for him,” Robin said. “How might she recognize him?”

  “Oh, surely by his music,” the squire replied. “But you can’t miss him by his appearance. He is a tall, bearded Scot.”

  “Well, he should be easy enough to find,” said Robin with a smile. “I will tell Barbara to keep her eyes and ears open.”

  Chapter 11

  Ashurst celebrated Midsummer’s Eve on June 22 instead of the old date of July 4, and the vicar, of course, insisted on referring to it as St. John’s Eve, to give the rituals a semblance of respectability. All morning the young men and boys were busy dragging wood up Ashurst Hill, while the old men bound the straw cartwheels.

  Most of the women were busy putting the finishing touches on their best dresses. Half of the ribbon sold in the village went for decorating clothes and hair. The other half ended up on the old thorn tree that stood on the edge of the village green. By midday, it was almost hidden under the flowers and ribbons that adorned it.

  Barbara had not a moment to spare, since she was taking care of all the last minute arrangements for the picnic. There had been a few small catastrophes, like the youngest kitchen maid adding salt instead of sugar to the whipping cream, and the lugubrious appearance of the cook who, against all practical considerations, had become attached to the young rooster that was first to be killed that morning.

  “He always ate the corn right out of me hand,” she kept saying, until the rest of the kitchen staff were ready to put her head on the chopping block.

  Despite that and the fact that one of the young lads had mistaken a nettle patch for the herb garden, and there was now one less pair of hands to move furniture, all went smoothly. “Or as smoothly as can be expected,” muttered Barbara, who had just heard some commotion by the kitchen door.

  When she went to investigate, she discovered that Madame Zenobia had decided (or perhaps it was the stars that had decided, Barbara wasn’t quite sure) that she should begin her readings at the picnic. It was impossible to convince the old gypsy that her presence wasn’t required till the morrow, and Barbara finally gave in, telling her that she could join the picnic and set up at one of the tables when supper was over. And no, there would be no pentangled-bedecked tent set up on the grounds of Ashurst, thank you. The cook and the kitchen maids were ecstatic at the compromise, for they had been promised the first readings. And the old woman thanked Barbara profusely, and pulled something green out of her pocket.

  “Here, my lady, this is especially for you, for your kindness to a helpless old woman.”

  A less helpless old woman Barbara had never seen. She was a shrewd bargainer and had got her way after all, so Barbara had to hide a smile at the obsequious tone in Madame Zenobia’s voice as she presented what appeared to be a sprig of myrtle. Indeed, the old woman herself had a self-mocking twinkle in her eye.

  “I have seen that you have a lover, my lady.”

  Barbara looked around to see if Wardour had somehow appeared to surprise her.

  “I see it in the cards, my lady, in the cards.”

  Well, anyone in the village could have told her, thought Barbara. There was no magic in this.

  “Now, if ye wishes to find out if this lover will marry you, then tonight, before you go to bed, put this sprig of myrtle in your prayer book.”

  Barbara chuckled. “We are formally betrothed, Madame Zenobia, so there is no doubt in my mind about the marriage.”

  “You may laugh, but much can happen between a betrothal and a marriage. Now, you must put this myrtle upon the words from the marriage ceremony. Then close your book and put it under the pillow you sleep on.”

  “And how will I know if my fiancé will indeed become my husband?”

  “If the myrtle is gone in the morning, then you know that both of you will remain faithful. But if the myrtle is still there in your prayer book, then he will never marry you.”

  “It seems rather a dangerous test, Madame Zenobia. I would rather it were the other way around. For it is most likely that the myrtle will not go anywhere overnight!”

  “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.”

  Chapter 12

  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.