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.
Chapter 13
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.
&n
bsp; “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.
* * * *
The dancing was held on the village green, with a temporary platform erected for the musicians. Old Daniel had been a bit resentful at first at the stranger’s presence, but after he had heard him play, his envy melted away. Gower’s talent was far superior to any of Daniel’s rivals in Sussex or Kent. They played together and then each played a few dances alone. Daniel’s music, as always, was a joy to dance to. But when Gower played, something magical seemed to happen. Everyone felt more energy; the figures of the dances flowed together, one into the other, so that no step felt separate. The dancers, the dance, and the music were as one.
There was no attention paid to rank on Midsummer Day. All danced together: Robin with the blacksmith’s wife, the squire with his tenant’s mother, and Barbara with Betsy’s father. And so when the fiddler approached her, she shouldn’t have been surprised.
“May I have this dance, Lady Barbara?” he asked in unaccented English.
Barbara was flustered, but could hardly refuse him. Daniel struck up a reel, so there was little chance for exchanging pleasantries, even if she could have thought of any. Despite his height, Gower was a graceful dancer, and once she had given herself over to the music she realized she had never had such a sympathetic partner. There was a smile on her face by the end of the tune that she couldn’t have hidden if she had wanted to. And somewhere, deep inside her, she felt a stirring of joy. She had almost forgotten, in the disappointments of the past few years, what that felt like.
“Ye have a fine pair of legs for dancing, lass.”
“Tell me, Mr. Gower, how is it that sometimes you speak the King’s English, and at other times you are almost incomprehensible?” asked Barbara, ignoring his outrageous compliment.
“I went to a hard school, lassie, wi’ a master who tried to beat the Scots out of me.” Which was not too far from the truth, thought Alec. His grandfather had never approved of Alec’s mother, and strictly forbade any lapse into Scots. “Ye might say I can speak like a Sassenach, but Scots is ma mither tongue. And have ye recovered from yoor wee fright this afternoon?” he continued, a wicked grin on his face.
“What fright, Barbara?” asked Robin, who had wandered over to compliment the fiddler on his playing.
“The winner of the pet show was a huge hairy spider, Robin.”
Robin gave a shout of laughter. “Did you disgrace yourself? My sister has bravely faced snakes and toads, but she hates spiders,” he explained to Alec.
“This is my brother, Major Stanley,” said Barbara. “Mr. Gower. My brother was the first to discover my fear of spiders,” she explained. “I got used to almost everything else he tormented me with, but never spiders.”
“It is a small failing, Lady Barbara. And you rose above it bravely today,” Alec continued with mock gallantry. He had thought the major her brother from the striking resemblance. And he had checked her left hand during their dance, so she must be the earl’s daughter, he thought. Though what possible relevance that could hold for Alec Gower, fiddler, he didn’t know.
“I think Daniel is ready for a glass of ale, Gower,” said Robin. “He is waving you over, and looks quite desperate.”
Alec gave a slight bow to Barbara, thanked her for the reel, and ran up to the platform, his kilt swinging.
“The squire was right. He is an extraordinary musician, don’t you think, Barb?”
It took Barbara a moment to reply, for she was thinking more about his dancing and how wonderful it had felt to have him swing her around. The little bubble of joy was still with her. “Yes, Robin, yes. Extraordinary.”
Chapter 14
The next morning, despite all her activity over the past few days, Barbara was up before anyone else. There was an early-morning mist hanging over the fields, and she tried to stay in bed and finish the novel she had been reading, but for some reason she was too restless to concentrate. She finally threw her book down and decided to go for a ride.
It was a magical time to be out, for this early it felt as if the whole world were sleeping except for herself. With the mist swirling around her, Barbara followed the track alongside the wheat fields, enjoying a slow canter for almost a mile. There was a small copse at the end of the Ashurst fields, separating them from the squire’s property, and as she got closer to the trees, she began to sniff the air. She must be imagining things, probably because she hadn’t yet had breakfast, but she could swear she smelled bacon. The closer she got to the copse, the stronger the smell, and she decided that she was not hallucinating; some gypsy or tramp on Ashurst land, she thought, with a trace of annoyance. It was customary to ask permission, which the Stanleys usually granted, particularly after the Midsummer Fair. She would inform whoever this was that he was trespassing.
She ducked her head as her horse moved through the small grove of trees, and was almost upon the little camp before she knew it. There was Mr. Gower, smiling up at her in delighted surprise.
“Had I known you were coming for breakfast, my lady, I would have thrown a few more slices on the pan.”
He hadn’t even gotten up, thought Barbara, but was sitting there for all the world as though she were the trespasser. With his shirt wide open, exposing the reddish hair on his chest and his kilt pulled up over his knees. How in the world did Scottish women keep their minds off men’s bodies? It was hard to ignore them, with so much of them showing. And what if there was nothing beneath his kilt…?”
“We have no objection to the occasional traveler,” said Barbara, “but it is customary to ask permission to camp at Ashurst.”
“Oh, is this still Stanley land, Lady Barbara? I must have mistaken the boundaries. The squire told me I could camp as long as I liked. I’ll move, if you wish, but not until I’ve had my breakfast, if you don’t mind.”
The fiddler was speaking neither broad Scots nor “proper” English, but something in between. The light bun sounded natural, whereas his other accents had seemed exaggerations.
“No, there is no need to ‘fash’ yourself,” said Barbara. “Not that you seem easily ‘fashed’!”
“Ah, weel, what is a few feet more or less, lassie? Now come down off your high horse and have some breakfast with me.”
Since her gelding was over sixteen hands, Barbara supposed the description was accurate, but she knew quite well that was not the way he had meant it. She couldn’t help smiling at the rogue, however, for he was charming. And Lord, the bacon smelled wonderful and she was hungry.
She dismounted and tied her horse to a tree. The Scotsman was sitting in the middle of a long fallen tree, but he moved down and patted the space next to him. “This will be more comfortable than the ground, lassie, which is still a bit damp. I should know”—he grinned, rubbing his hip—“for I’ve been sleeping on it.”
Barbara sat, but left a good foot between herself and the fiddler.
“The bacon is almost ready. And I’ve got two eggs and a half a loaf of bread. I did well at the fair.”
“Do you always sleep outdoors, Mr. Gower?” Barbara asked, wondering for the first time what it would be like to earn one’s living on the road.
“When it is not cold or rainy I do. Too many comfortable nights in an inn and
I might go hungry for a day or two.” Alec slid an egg and a few slices of bacon onto a battered tin plate and passed it to Barbara. There was an old coffeepot sitting almost in the fire, and he filled an equally battered cup with the strong liquid.
“Ye’ll have to forgive me, lass, for eating wi’ ma fingers, but I hae only one knife and fork, alas.”
“There you go again, with that exaggerated accent.”
“Ach, I canna resist it. The sight of ye there, wi’ the mist in yer hair and yer cheeks flushed wi’ exercise, and yer red rosy lips wi’ a bit of egg clinging to them just soften ma tongue, lassie.”
Before Barbara could move, Alec had reached out and gently removed the offending piece of egg with his finger, licking it off afterward.
“You are incorrigible, Mr. Gower. Quite lacking in respect.” Barbara tried to keep her tone stern, but that bubble of joy, which had shrunk a bit overnight, was expanding again. She gave in to it and laughed. “I suppose that such a practiced charm is necessary in your business. I just cannot believe how easy it is to succumb to it. But I am surprised. I had heard that the Scots were dour and serious creatures.”
“Aye, some of our Presbyterian brethren gie us a bad name. But not all of us are life-hating.”
“You seem to thoroughly enjoy life, though yours must be a hard one.”
“I do, Lady Barbara, I do,” said Gower with great seriousness and a touch of wonder. “Much more than I thought I would have,” he added, almost to himself.
“Of course, you have your music. You are lucky to make your art your life,” said Barbara a bit wistfully.
“You sound a wee bit envious, lass.”
“I suppose I am. I am a musician myself, but I shall never be able to do anything serious with it.”
“You play the pianoforte?”
Lady Barbara's Dilemma Page 6