Lady Barbara's Dilemma (18 page)

The musicians were fed downstairs while the guests were enjoying their own dinner, so at least there was no fear of discovery over the soup or sweet, thought Alec. Perhaps he would be lucky and the duke would have forgotten him.

When the quartet entered the drawing room, the guests were still standing and chatting in small groups. Alec saw David looking down protectively at a small, red-haired woman whose dress was pretty, but by no means comparable to the gowns of the other women. He wondered who she was.

Wardour was there, of course, and his mother. They were in deep conversation with an elegant matron with raven-black hair, their backs to David and his companion. Barbara and her brother were talking to the duke and his wife.

If they all just sit down at once, I am safe for a while longer, thought Alec.

To his great relief they did. Major Stanley introduced the musicians, and they began to play.

After polite applause at the end of several pieces, Alec was optimistic. They would just finish their concert and pack up the instruments, and the guests would resume conversation. He wouldn’t have to worry about the duke, and after tonight he would not see Barbara at close quarters again. And then he heard Lady Wardour chirping, “Peter, my dear, isn’t that the Mr. Gower who played such a lovely duet with Barbara? Do see if we could get them to play that Mozart again.”

Of course, once he had heard the story, Robin joined Lady Wardour in her request. The duke was nodding and smiling, and then looking at Alec with a crease between his eyes as though he was trying to place the talented Mr. Gower.

Alec let Barbara do the protesting. He was a hired musician, after all. If they had wanted him to play left-handed, he would have had to try.

Of course, she lost. The Vanes added their pleas, not having had the pleasure of hearing her play for so long. Robin had the pianoforte pushed out from the corner. And Barbara, her knees shaking, went up to Alec and apologized for imposing on him.

“I don’t even know if I can get through it, Mr. Gower,” she confessed in a low voice.

“Dinna fash yourself, lass,” said Alec, knowing that would make her smile, which, thank God, it did, for how could they play Mozart, and her looking as if she’d lost her best friend? “What you forget, I’ll remember, and vice versa. Once your fingers are on the keys, they will know what to do.”

And indeed, after a few stumbles in the first measures, Barbara’s fingers found their way and she lost herself in the music. They played even better than they had at Arundel, and she thought the sweetness of his playing would break her heart.

When the music ended, no one applauded. Alec and Barbara didn’t even notice, for they were only aware of each other. They were two musicians, a man and a woman, playing two quite different instruments, and yet they had become one voice.

Wardour broke the spell when he got up and approached his fiancée. “That was quite wonderful, my dear. Almost as good as at Arundel.”

Barbara gave him a dazed smile. It took her a moment or two to comprehend who he was and what he had said.

Wardour’s move brought almost everyone up to the two to congratulate them. Deborah had not wanted to, but David grabbed her hand, and she shyly gave her compliments to Barbara while David shook Alec’s hand. Barbara took Deborah’s arm and moved away from the pianoforte. “Come, sit down with me, Deborah, and tell me how you met David,” she said, anxious to get away from the praise and from her acute consciousness of Alec’s presence.

The duke was the only one who had remained in his seat. Alec had brought back memories of his childhood and youth. His father and he had both been talented amateurs, and occasionally, when he heard playing like this, he was filled with regret for what had been long gone from his life.

He finally unfolded himself from his chair and approached the Scotsman, who was, if he was not mistaken, the grandson of his old acquaintance, the Duke of Strathyre.

David turned and pulled Alec over to Wellington. “I would like to introduce you, your grace.”

“No need,” replied the duke. “I am quite sure this talented young man is—”

“Overwhelmed by the privilege of playing for you.” Alec broke into the Duke’s revelation and shook his hand with a bone-crushing strength while looking him pointedly in the eyes.

“Hmmm, yes, er, no, I am the one overwhelmed,” replied the duke, now certain that this was indeed Alec MacLeod. It was clear that the young man did not want to be identified. David was looking at the duke and was surprised to see the sadness in his eyes as he continued his compliments.

“I used to play the violin, Mr.—?”

“Gower, your grace. I did not know that.”

“Oh, yes. Music was my greatest love at one time. But when I realized that I would always be an amateur and needed to put my energy into a career, I burned my violin and haven’t touched one since.”

Involuntarily, Alec turned, as though to reassure himself that his own beloved instrument was safe.

“Yes,” the duke continued, “I had to be quite ruthless. I have never regretted it, however, except on those rare occasions like tonight when I hear someone who has married his art rather than abandoning her, as it were. And yet music, I think, is not a career choice for a gentleman,” he added, looking directly at Alec.

“It is not a usual one, your grace. But sometimes it is the music which chooses you.”

“Well, I hope to hear you play again, Mr.…Gower.”

“Thank you, your grace.”

As soon as the duke was out of earshot, David turned to Alec and said, “Now, who would have guessed that the Iron Duke played the violin once upon a time? And then just gave it up, like that.”

“I can understand it,” replied Alec. “If I could not have music as my life, I am not sure I would continue playing.”

“You are lucky, then, to be free to choose.”

Alec smiled to himself. He was lucky that his grandfather hadn’t refused his wager. And he was lucky that he had silver in his pocket, enough to get home on and more.

“Aye, I am free to choose a part of my life,” he answered, looking over at Barbara where she sat with Deborah. “What wonderful hair! I am always glad to see another redhead.” He smiled. “One can always commiserate on the miserable childhoods we have had, being called ‘carrot top’ or ‘red Alec.’ ”

“Come, let me introduce you to Miss Cohen.”

Barbara sensed, rather than saw, Alec approach, and although she continued to listen to Deborah, she heard only half the words, so distracted was she by the Scotsman’s physical presence.

She smiled at David and thanked him for bringing Miss Cohen, for she was enjoying her company.

“I had hoped you would like each other,” David said. “Deborah, Mr. Gower would like to meet the other redhead in the room. Miss Deborah Cohen, Mr. Alec Gower.”

“Did you suffer from childhood taunts, Miss Cohen?”

Deborah laughed. “I don’t think I have ever gone through one day when someone hasn’t commented on the color of my hair. Sometimes one feels one is only hair as a child.”

“Aye, I know what you mean,” said Alec.

“Or only tall,” Barbara chimed in. “I always felt such a great gawk as a young girl. I was never allowed to forget my height.”

“And I was always too dark,” complained David, and they all laughed.

“It is painful to be different as a child, isn’t it?” said Deborah. “One small thing, and you get teased unmercifully. I used to get into terrible fights,” she continued without thinking, and looked around questioningly as everyone laughed again.

“It was not funny, I assure you. I would come home with my nose bloodied and my dress torn, and my mother was ready to despair.”

“It is just that you are small, Deborah,” said David.

“I gave as good as I got, I can assure you, David.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” David replied, lowering his voice tenderly. Deborah blushed and was about to protest when Wardour wandered over to their little group.

“May I claim my fiancée?” he asked, and smoothly detached her from them, leaving Alec furious. He had had no time alone with Barbara, which was undoubtedly a good thing, but he resented Wardour’s right to come in and break up their moments of good fellowship.

“I was right in the middle of a conversation, Peter,” Barbara protested mildly.

“My mother tires easily, my dear, and wanted to spend some time with you before we leave. And I think it best you not spend too much time with Sir David and Miss Cohen.”

Barbara had immediately worried about Lady Wardour feeling neglected as Wardour began. She was in front of his mother before she knew it and had no time to think of the import of Wardour’s other remarks. But later that night she remembered them, and was determined to question him when he paid his next visit.

Wardour himself had been thinking about his brief comments, and wondered if they had been strong enough. He had no objection to Barbara having Sir David Treves as an acquaintance, but he obviously needed to make it clear to her that David could never be included as an intimate, either in town or at Arundel. Especially if he ended up marrying someone so obviously of his race as Miss Cohen.

He decided he would give Barbara a gentle warning the next time they were out in the park. He was surprised but relieved when Barbara herself brought the topic up on their next afternoon ride.

“Peter, the other night you made a comment about the amount of time I spent with Sir David and Miss Cohen.”

“I am glad you brought this up, my dear, for I had intended to say a few more words to you this afternoon. I am sure you will agree with me when I say that it would be inappropriate for you to make close friends of either one of them.”

“Inappropriate, Peter?” Barbara was determined to discover exactly where his objections came from. She suspected she knew, but didn’t want to assume anything.

“Oh, I do not at all question your inviting them for a musical evening. I am liberal enough not to object to you numbering people like that among your acquaintances. But it would not be at all the thing to show them any special attention.”

Barbara was beginning to get angry. She had never had anyone question either her choice of friends or the amount of time she spent with them. Even if Wardour was her fiancé, she deeply resented the implication that he could exercise any control over her actions. But she kept her voice under control.

“I am not sure what you mean by ‘people like that,’ Peter. People who enjoy music as I do?”

“Now, Barbara, I know that your family has a long tradition of radicalism…”

“Hardly radicalism, Peter,” Barbara said dryly.

“Well, the Stanleys are Whig and the Wardours are Tory. But even you could not be so naive as to think it appropriate to cultivate an intimacy with people of another faith.”

“You mean Jews, Peter.”

“Actually, yes. Yes, I do,” admitted Wardour, uncomfortable at having to spell it out.

“Then you should say what you mean. You believe that Sir David and I should not enjoy each other’s company despite what we have in common merely because he is Jewish?”

“I am sure Sir David is an intelligent, cultivated man. But Barbara, surely you see that it is impossible.”

“I don’t think I do see, Peter. You must explain yourself better.”

“I don’t want to say anything offensive about Sir David, Barbara. He is, perhaps, an exception. But Jews are different from the rest of us. It doesn’t matter that many of them can sound English. They are not and never can be. They think differently.”

“Indeed, I suspect they do, and perhaps much better than you are thinking right now. I never realized this was something you felt so strongly about.”

“Nor I,” admitted Wardour. “There has never been a reason before for me to express my feelings on the subject. Oh, we have the occasional Jewish peddler in Arundel, trying to cheat the local farmers’ wives, but there has never been any danger before now that a Jew would have anything to do with my family. Sir David would not be welcome in my home, Barbara,” Wardour said, as gently as he could. “I just wanted to make that clear to you, to spare us any future embarrassment.”

“You have made yourself quite clear, Peter,” replied Barbara. She didn’t know what made her angrier: that Wardour assumed he could control her choice of friends, or the reasons behind his desire to do so. She only knew that if she said anything further to him now, she was afraid she would regret it later. “I would like to return home now, Peter.”

“We have only just got here, Barbara.”

“I have the headache. I am rather tired from playing last night.”

“Of course.” Wardour signaled his groom to turn the horses. “I hope you understand I have spoken out of concern, my dear. I don’t want any misunderstandings between us, or any awkwardness.”

“You have made yourself clear, Peter, and I appreciate your motive.” Robin would have been able to tell from Barbara’s tight-lipped expression and the rigidity of her shoulders that she was very angry. Wardour, happily, had had no experience with controlled fury, and thought her reserve on the drive home was the result of her headache. He was solicitous as he escorted her to the door, and implored her to get some rest. “And if your headache is not gone before supper,” he added, “do not hesitate to cancel our theater engagement.”

Barbara wished she had had a real headache to distract her from the problem at hand. She was ashamed that her anger wasn’t only at Wardour’s intolerance, but also because he assumed his desires and preferences would naturally take precedence over hers. She had never thought of him as truly arrogant, and perhaps she was being unjust now. Was it arrogance to assume that a husband would have the final word? After all, most husbands she knew assumed their opinions were more important, and indeed, in law, their superiority was confirmed.

But his assumption of superiority was at least something they could have argued about and perhaps achieved a compromise on. His intolerance made her feel sick to her stomach. It so appalled her, coming from one she liked and respected, that she had felt paralyzed by it. What could one say to a man one thought one loved? Wardour was, after all, a good man. He loved his mother. He was generous to his sister. He was responsible and compassionate to those dependent upon him. And yet he disliked, nay, despised, she would guess, individual people for belonging to a particular religion.