“Don’t tell me someone is giving you a hard time for it,” said a voice in a brogue from behind the group of women. They turned in unison to see James flanked by Tom and Alfonso, all of them smiling broadly.
“Far be it from us to belittle our northern neighbors,” said Lady Sweet diplomatically. “We were just commenting on the skill with which Miss McElroy negotiates her purchases. I do believe we will leave all the buying to her today.”
Miss McElroy took James by the arm. “We Scots have the reputation, as well you know, of being hard parted from our money. It seems, however, that when one is acting the part of negotiator, this turns out to be somewhat of a compliment.”
“My father must have a bit of Scots blood in him then!” claimed Alfonso.
“Aye, he’s a tough barterer,” agreed Tom. “Father had a tough time the first year he met Don Alvaro. He came back the second year, though, and used your father’s tactics right back at him.”
“I think that is how they became such good friends!” laughed Alfonso. “Well, to be sure, when I find the perfect girl to marry, I shall call upon my father, your father, and Miss McElroy to settle the contract!” James and Tom laughed with him. The ladies glared at him and Dahlia looked indignant.
“Are you saying you would barter for your wife as you would a horse?”
Alfonso realized too late his comment should not have been made in mixed company. “Indeed, I did not,” he scrambled for some way out of this. “But there are contracts to be negotiated. Better a good negotiator than a lawyer who could not possibly appreciate the value of the young lady.”
The young lady whose honor was impinged was not impressed.
“Don’t take offense, Miss Talbot,” continued James. “Marriage contracts are what they are and have been for millennia. However, in your case, the only just contract would be for the young man to pay you for the honor of your acceptance.”
It was the right thing to say, and quite took the wind out of Dahlia’s sails of resentment. She smiled gratefully at him, and Miss McElroy let out a low whistle. The minute she turned around to continue walking, however, the smile faded from James’ face. Just last night he was vowing to always be honest and forthright with Dahlia, and here he was today saying something to which he had absolutely no idea whether he could comply. He had told the truth that Dahlia was a prize for which a man of means should not despair of a small dowry. He, however, was not a man of means. He aspired to be the heir to his uncle’s fortune, but that was a tenuous hope at best and perhaps would not come to fruition for years – if ever. James also had no knowledge of the extent of Dahlia’s dowry or inheritance. Despite the size of Squire Talbot’s estate, she did have five older brothers. James found himself hoping against custom that she did not have a very grand dowry, as the expectations for his own living would be adjusted accordingly.
As the group came to the end of the row of stalls, they heard shouting. Dahlia looked at the direction of the voices, then to Tom. They could not hear what was being discussed, but their father was having a heated argument with Mr. Standford some ways down the makeshift paddocks for the livestock.
“Should we do something?” Dahlia asked her brother. It was highly unusual for their father to ever raise his voice, and definitely not in public.
“No,” said Tom slowly. “It won’t come to blows. No doubt a disagreement over business.”
“Especially if your father is bartering with him over a horse!” said Josephine, hoping to lighten the mood of the concerned group.
Reluctantly, they turned and headed back towards the eating area, but Dahlia threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure the discussion was not escalating. The shouting had dissipated, but the two men were talking low with their faces close to one another. She saw her father wave his hand dismissively and turn and walk away from Mr. Standford.
She felt a hand on her back, drawing her attention back to the group. “He’ll be fine,” said James. “Even the best of friends have arguments.”
“Wouldn’t call them the best of friends from what I hear,” said Josephine. Lady Sweet nodded, as if in agreement with both statements.
A short time later, Squire Talbot joined his children at the long dining table set up with the customary bright table cloths and heavy silver candelabras. He was perhaps a bit quiet at first, but with the jests of Miss McElroy he was soon prompted out of whatever mood his earlier encounter had fostered.
This year, the long line of tables was arranged in a semi-circle around the raised wooden stage James had helped the Roma and Talbots build the year before. The sun was low on the horizon as the meal was served, country style, in big bowls and platters. The jugs of wine and sangria remained miraculously filled throughout the evening. As co-hosts of the fair, the Talbots were approached and greeted by nearly every visitor from the county. Colonel Parkinson and his wife were there. Dahlia heard the Colonel’s laugh before she actually saw him, standing there talking to Miss McElroy. She was pleased to see Alyce Standford, and invited her to sit with them. The Smythe twins were on hand to include her in conversation, for which she was grateful, as well as Sir Randal and Lady Sweet. Mr. Standford was nowhere to be seen, which probably accounted for Alyce’s appearance which, for her, approached a contented calm. Edward Standford was there as well, although he sat with some townsfolk further down the table. Dahlia couldn’t be sure, but she thought the milliner’s daughter was among his circle of acquaintances. A thought formed in her mind and she leaned over to whisper to Lady Sweet.
“Isn’t that Gwyndolyn Hamel, the milliner’s daughter? There, sitting cattycorner from Edward Standford.”
Lady Sweet glanced quickly down the table, not wanting to call attention to herself. “Yes, I think so. Mrs. Hamel has several daughters. I’ve never quite gotten all their names straight. That is the eldest, though.”
“I swore I saw Edward Standford going into the milliner’s shop when we went to meet Miss McElroy at the train station. I couldn’t imagine he would agree to pick up anything for his aunt – Miss Standford hasn’t had a new hat in years! Do you think he and Gwyn…?”
Lady Sweet glanced back down the table again. “Good Lord, I hope not for his sake. His father would never agree to such a union.”
“The Standfords are well to do, but they’re not aristocrats,” countered Dahlia, remembering her strange conversation with Edward during their dance at the Roma’s reception.
“Mr. Standford has always talked of his son marrying someone with a title. Money is not enough for him. In any event, the landed gentry don’t marry shopkeepers’ daughters. The very thought of it would give him apoplexy.”
‘It would make everyone happier if the aims of our contentment were in line with those of our parents,’ Edward had said. If Miss Hamel was the aim of his contentment, there could be nothing further out of line with his father’s goals. For the first time in her life, Dahlia felt sorry for Edward Standford. She looked from him to James, and felt an enormous relief that she had fallen in love with someone of similar social standing. On that account, her father could have no objections to their attachment.
As the implements of the meal were cleared, the torches around the performance stage were lit. The musicians set up their instruments and Dahlia and Miss McElroy excused themselves to make ready for their performances. The assembled diners arranged themselves more comfortably, to both ease the digestion of the exceptional meal and to better view the entertainment.
As was customary, the Roma began with several guitarists displaying their expertise with pieces including Albenz’ Asturias, Boyd’s Madrileña, and Mozart’s Adagio. The guitarists were then joined by a flautist for Faure’s Pavane Op. 50. Dahlia then joined them on the piano for Scarlatti’s Sonata in D Major. The number of musicians grew, along with the tempo of the music, with each performance. A harpsichord was added to the mix for Boccherini’s Guitar Quintet No. 4 in D. Fandango, along with several young Roma women dancing with castanets. The Roma men joined in
with the staccato tap of their boots and rhythmic clapping. Many of the audience joined in, trying to synchronize their clapping with that of the entertainers. This always amused the Roma, who grew up learning the twelve-count flamenco beat with the emphasis on the third, sixth, eighth, tenth and twelfth beats. The British, used to the uniform one-two, one-two march beat, had trouble with the three-three, two-two-two rhythm of the Spanish music. Plied with ample food and sangria, the crowd seemed unperturbed by their inability to stress the correct beats.
Regardless of who was keeping what time, the clapping did its job of rejuvenating the sated crowd, and the entertainment moved on with various vocal performances. Alvaro’s sons made a magnificent quartet – easy on the eye and the ear, thought Miss McElroy and most of the females there present. Alvaro and Isabel danced a Sevillana, a folk dance of southern Spain, while their sons sang. Dahlia was always amazed at the grace of the Roma dancers – at any age. Their beautiful, statuesque posture was accented by the fluid arm movements and finishing flourishes of the hands.
Miss McElroy took the stage then, and Dahlia watched her from a sliver of space between the curtains draped across the back of the stage. Dahlia could see that the crowd was enjoying her strong, rich voice. A movement caught Dahlia’s eye and she watched as Mr. Standford emerged from the darkness. She found her father and saw that he, too, was watching their neighbor approach and take a seat at the back of the audience.
Miss McElroy returned to Dahlia’s side amidst enthusiastic applause. Her face was flushed with energy, and Dahlia knew how she felt. The release of music from her diaphragm up through her vocal chords and into the world felt like the very flow of life through her veins.
“Are you ready for your big number?” Miss McElroy whispered excitedly.
“I am,” she replied, feeling the surge of vitality deep within her as she prepared to perform. “I hope I do it justice for Mr. Kent’s sake. He will be sorely disappointed if I don’t.”
They heard Isabel giving the summary of the tale of Carmen and her star-crossed lover to introduce Dahlia’s song. “I do not think it possible for you to disappoint anyone with your singing, my dear – least of all Mr. Kent. You could sing Glenda’s market list and he would be enraptured!”
Dahlia giggled at this, then composed herself quickly as Isabel’s introduction came to a close. James waited in anticipation, for he alone in the audience could guess the magnificence of the performance to come. When he had first heard the opera in Paris, he had envisioned Dahlia singing this song. He had carefully sought out the sheet music and waited for the day he would hear Dahlia’s rendition. Now, a year after he first experienced the charm of the opera, the moment had arrived. He leaned forward in his chair, a delicious anxiousness causing his palms to sweat.
The curtain parted and a dozen Roma men and women filed onto the stage. Dahlia followed them as four distinct notes were played on the piano. Bum-ba-bum-ba. The tone was set by these four slow notes, which were repeated then joined by three guitarists. Dahlia’s vocals began in similar fashion, slowly.
“L’amour est enfant de Bohême, Il n’a jamais jamais connu de loi.
Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime. Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi!”
‘Love is a free-spirited child, never subjected to rules; if you love me not, then I love you; if I love you, you'd best beware!’ she sang. James smiled. Love was indeed lawless. The laws of convention would suggest that a man not fall in love with a thirteen year old child, but he had.
‘All around you, so swiftly it comes; it goes, and then returns. If you think you hold it fast, it flees; when you think you're free, it holds you fast.’
James considered how Bizet had captured the true nature of love in his verses. It was not to be consciously directed, and it came quickly when you least expected it. It was an emotion you could not turn on or off like a gas lamp.
“L’amour, l’amour, l’amour, l’amour!
L’oiseau que tu croyais surprendere. Battit d’aile et s’envola.
L’amour est loin, tu peux l’attendre. Tu ne l’attends pas, il est là.”
‘Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame, you call it quite in vain if it suits itself not to respond.’ Dahlia’s voice soared like a hawk on the currents of the wind. Higher and higher it went to unbelievable heights and hung there like a cloud.
As the note faded, the musicians paused. Then, their music blossomed into a frenzy of rhythm. The exquisitely-picked staccato notes of the guitarists were enhanced by the stomping of the Roma’s hard soled boots on the wooden stage and their clapping. To his surprise, Dahlia joined the Roma woman in the fast-paced flamenco steps. Her movements kept pace with theirs, her posture just as erect and proud. She went through the paso of the dance with grace and precision. If it weren’t for her stunning gold-red hair and her brilliant green eyes that he glimpsed in flashes as she twirled around and around, there was nothing to indicate she was not born and bred to the dance.
This interlude was an embellishment on the original score James had seen in Paris, but he found it enhanced the performance greatly. The Spanish guitar accompaniment and the Roma dance only added to its authenticity.
The whirlwind of sounds and rhythm stopped as one, and Dahlia continued with the next verse. Her cheeks were pink with exertion and her eyes were bright with excitement. She was enjoying herself. Lady Sweet watched her and her heart swelled. Music was in this young woman; she and Penelope both saw that at a very early age. After her mother died, Sharon wondered whether they did right by having her perform and worried whether the joy of singing would wane when Dahlia was expected to do it. She never detected evidence of this, but as she watched Dahlia tonight, she clearly saw the difference between her performances tailored to an audience of strangers, and one tailored to her own preferences. This was a performance she had orchestrated, pulling in the Roma and the guitarists and making the song her own. Lady Sweet caught sight of Mr. Kent’s rapt attention. Despite the dozens of people in attendance, Dahlia was performing the song for him. No wonder the performance was spectacular. This was Dahlia’s gift to him in return for his gift of the sheet music.
The delivery of the last verse was as powerful as the sentiments of the lyrics. Dahlia’s voice rose high and clear as the fingers of the guitarists blurred with the final, frenzied notes. After the musicians stopped, Dahlia held the note for a full measure longer. Lady Sweet smiled, recognizing that, for perhaps the first time in her life, Dahlia was showing off. Having been given the music by Mr. Kent, she was ensuring that she would own that song in his mind forever.
James had known the song was hers from the moment he heard it in Paris. Her rendition was triumphant, sensuous, and exciting. He was on his feet clapping, accompanied by the rest of the audience and the Roma players as well.
As the stage emptied of the performers, James watched as Dahlia tried to make her way back to her friends. She was stopped a dozen times on the way to accept congratulations on her performance. Her eyes were sparkling with exhilaration as she finally reached her destination. Before James could say anything, the Sweets offered their profuse comments. James waited patiently for his turn, but Josephine joined them in a flurry of adulation.
“If Bizet only knew how exceptional your voice would convey his musical sentiments, he would have written a longer song! My dear girl, what a triumph! If only we were in London and not a converted horse paddock! Well, no matter. It was brilliant. We will add this to your repertoire for your Christmas concerts and you will conquer the hearts and imagination of the capital! Oh,” she said, looking around for Peter Talbot. “I must talk to your father.” Everyone thought she would finally take a breath when she turned around and added, “Won’t the French just be jealous!”
Away she went to make her plans for Dahlia, leaving the small group wondering at the whirlwind that was Miss McElroy. Nobody knew quite what else to add in the way of compliments or congratulations that could best Miss McElroy’s delivery. “Yes, we
ll,” harrumphed Sir Randal, speaking for them all. “That about covers it.”
Chapter 44
James watched as Dahlia entered the stables for her nightly check on her beloved horses, candle in hand and Rory at her heels. Looking around and seeing no one, he followed her. The heady aroma of horses and leather hit him as he entered. Dahlia’s candle was on a small shelf opposite the row of stalls. Six equine heads extruded over their stall gates. Dahlia was at the second stall, stroking the white blaze of her chestnut gelding. She kissed the top of its nose.
“Your nose is just like velvet!” She said, brushing her knuckles over the softest spot. The horse whinnied and tossed its head up and down, as if in agreement. Dahlia laughed.
“Yes, yes. I know you know you are beautiful, but kisses aren’t sugar lumps and you only love me for what is in my pocket,” she told the horse, slipping her hand in the pocket of her gown and withdrawing a little ball of brown sugar. She held her hand out flat and the gelding snatched it up immediately.
Dahlia moved to the next stall, and the next, giving each horse a lump of sugar and affectionate words. The last stall, bigger than the rest, housed the young stallion which had thrown Dahlia when James had sprung up from the ditch. The stallion got mouthy, nosing Dahlia for another piece of sugar so hard she almost lost her balance. She kept her ground though and faced the horse squarely.
“That’s enough of that!” She barked firmly. The sudden change of the tone of her voice made the stallion pause and step backwards. He threw his head, but did not advance towards her. “That’s better,” she said, then started to hum a lullaby.
From the shadow of the doorway, James watched her, smiling. The horses responded to the soothing tune and he thought, once again, of her skills of enchantment over man and beast – from the most magnificent power she projected in the Habernera performance that made his blood boil to the softest croon that brought out the tenderness in him for her. He had never felt such contradictory emotions associated with a woman.
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