Lady Barbara's Dilemma (19 page)

Barbara felt as though she had been handed a beautiful red apple, which appeared perfect on the outside, and was indeed firm and juicy on the inside except for one small rotten spot near the core. But that one small black spot could corrupt the whole piece of fruit, and ultimately a whole basketful.

She could imagine herself fighting for more equality in her marriage. But could she imagine living with corruption, however little it would impinge directly on their lives? Yet David was a relatively new friend, not like Judith or Simon. She would feel sorry at his loss, she would mourn their companionship, but was losing his close friendship reason enough for breaking her engagement?

But what if Judith had been Jewish? Wardour would not have allowed her at Arundel. And what of their children? Did she want her children developing the same subtle prejudices their father held? Or their mother’s complicity in them?

And what of those children? If she didn’t marry Wardour, she would be unlikely to have them at all. She would be back to the limbo of the last six years. Wardour was likely to be her last chance at happiness and a home of her own. Was it worth it to turn it all down just for the sake of two acquaintances? She had come to feel a great affection for Peter; she was very attracted to him. Why should she give up the chance of their developing a passionate love for some quixotic notions about justice and equality? Robin had made a happy life with Diana, who had her share of intolerance.

She tried to dismiss David’s importance in her life. But then she remembered clearly their first conversation and her feeling that she had discovered a spirit akin to her own. He was a rare friend, however new. Was she really willing to lose him?

Then, in one moment, for no reason Barbara could name, it all became clear. How could she ever contract a marriage which implicitly tolerated prejudice? She could imagine living with Peter easily enough. She could just not imagine living with herself. If she married Peter, she would be collaborating in the loss of her own integrity. And for better or worse, it was herself she had to live with, until death did them part.

Although she knew that sadness and the familiar loneliness would soon return, for the moment she felt a sort of peace and wholeness. No one would understand her decision. And she could tell no one her real reason for breaking the engagement, for it would be unfair to Wardour and incomprehensible to most of the
ton.
She would have to learn to live with the fact that people would gossip and invent reasons. And learn to live as spinster aunt and godmother, enjoying other people’s children and never her own.

Barbara sent a short note to Wardour excusing herself from the theater because of her headache and asking him to call on her early in the morning.

She was so nervous she had only a cup of tea for breakfast. For the first time in months, she turned to music for comfort and informed the butler she would be in the music room. The Bach fugue she chose was demanding enough that all her concentration had to be focused on the intricacy of the music and not her personal worries. By the time Peter was announced, she was calm and prepared.

He had been shown into the drawing room and was paging through the
Post
when Barbara walked in.

“Good morning, Peter.”

He stood up and quickly went to her, taking her hands in his. “I hope you are not still unwell, my dear. I worried about you all last night.”

There was such genuine care and concern in his voice that Barbara almost doubted her decision. Peter loved her. Why on earth was she throwing that kind of devotion away? She so wanted to be loved.

But she also wanted to be able to love back, without reservation, she reminded herself. And she could not now give Peter the passionate response he deserved.

“I am perfectly recovered, thank you, Peter.”

Wardour smiled and drew her into his arms for a kiss. Barbara held herself very still, and when he sensed the lack of her customary response, he lifted his head and looked at her questioningly. Barbara put her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away.

“Peter, I have something I need to tell you.”

“Yes?” Wardour looked puzzled, as well he might. He had no real reason to think there were any difficulties between them.

She twisted her hands together nervously. “I have decided I cannot marry you, Peter.”

“You have decided what?” he asked, as if he had not heard her correctly.

“Come, let us sit down,” said Barbara, motioning him to the sofa and taking a chair opposite him. “I know this is unexpected. It is so for me also.”

“I am sure I must be dreaming,” said Wardour with an attempt at humor. “Surely you cannot have said what I thought you did. There is no possible reason for it.”

“Perhaps you will not understand my reason, Peter. I realized two things last night. One, that I could not accept my husband dictating to me about my friends.”

“You must know, Barbara, that I am no tyrant,” protested Wardour. “Of course you may choose your friends freely. Under any other circumstances the topic would not have even arisen. But this is a unique situation.”

“And that is the second and most important reason, Peter. Oh, I know there are bound to be conflicts in any marriage, and I would not want a husband who would let me run over him. And I suspected that if I protested, under different circumstances you would have given in to my wishes. Unfortunately, it is the circumstances that are the issue. One of my friends is Jewish, and because of that fact and that fact alone, you wish me to end the friendship.”

“Now, Barbara,” said Wardour in a reasonable tone, “I know our families’ politics differ, but I am sure that on this question, they would be in agreement. It is one thing to include a person in a general invitation occasionally. I have no objection to that, I hasten to tell you. But a particular intimacy is out of the question. Surely you can see that.”

“But that is just what I do not see, Peter. It is all right to accept money for Wellington’s campaign from David’s family, but it is not all right to be his friend? He is an intelligent, warm, amusing person, and one who shares my love for music. And, moreover, one who understands what it is like to be frustrated in one’s deepest desires.”

“I do not deny that Treves is intelligent and good company, my dear. That is not the point. The point is that Jews are different. They are not quite…English, and never will be. This is not something to argue about… I mean, I would assume that everyone would just take it for granted. And in what desire are you frustrated, Barbara? I thought our companionship to be everything either of us would want.”

“Oh, Peter, it is
because
you take it for granted that I cannot marry you. Your intolerance is so ingrained in you that you cannot even question it. And although you are trying very hard to understand me, you really don’t know what I am talking about. I could not bear seeing our children growing up with the same unquestioning prejudices.”

“And our own relationship? How is that lacking?”

“It has made me very happy, Peter. I respect you in every other way and have a great affection for you. No, the desire I was talking about was music.”

“But I would never dream of discouraging your music, Barbara.”

“Oh, I know that. But neither do you comprehend how difficult it is to have talent and not be able to celebrate it.”

“And Treves understands this?” Wardour asked, disbelief in his voice.

“David would have liked to study law, but it is a profession closed to him as a Jew.”

“Of course. It makes sense for them to confine themselves to areas where their financial acumen is most useful. Just as it makes sense for women to confine themselves to home and children. You surely would not have wanted to traipse across the concert stages of Europe?”

“I don’t know. But I will never have the opportunity to find out, will I? I only know that it is very painful always to be holding myself back when I play with others.”

“You did not hold yourself back the other night, my dear. And I am proud of your talent, Barbara.”

“The other night was different,” agreed Barbara, with a note in her voice that Wardour had never heard before. “And I do know that you appreciate me, Peter. But I still cannot marry you.”

Wardour stood up, icily furious. “I think you are making the biggest mistake of your life, Lady Barbara. But if you so wish, I will release you from our engagement and do what I can to discourage any gossip.”

“That is most kind of you, Peter.” Barbara’s eyes filled suddenly and she stood up and put out her hand. “This is not an easy or happy decision for me, you must know. I was looking forward to being your wife, Peter. I was very happy at Arundel.”

“So you seemed to be,” he answered coolly. “Well, good day, my dear. I hope you do not live to regret your decision.” Wardour turned on his heel and went out the door, leaving Barbara with mixed feelings. She had wounded a kind, considerate man, who cared for her, and that she regretted. On the other hand, she found herself wondering if she had wounded his pride as much as his heart. She would never discover now whether all the elements in their relationship would have combined and produced a passionate marriage. She was also a little relieved that she didn’t have to quiet that small voice anymore, which kept telling her that something was missing.

She sat down abruptly, suddenly exhausted by all of it: the attempt to explain the inexplicable to Wardour, the growing realization that she had probably turned away her only chance at marriage, and the underlying sadness that made itself felt whenever she thought about playing with Alec Gower. She kept trying to tell herself that it was an illusion that their deepest selves had come together. Great music can do that, make one feel one with everything, she told herself. But she had to admit that when she thought of Alec, she did not only think of his rare talent or the meeting of their souls. What also came to mind was the memory of his fine strong legs and twinkling blue eyes and the joy that had bubbled up on their first meeting.

I must be the world’s greatest fool, Barbara thought. Oh, how I wish Judith were here!

Within a few days the word was out that the engagement between Lady Barbara Stanley and the Marquess of Wardour was at an end. Wardour, true to his word, answered all questions by saying that he and Lady Barbara had mutually decided that they would not suit. He stayed in London for over a week, when he would have preferred to return immediately to Arundel, and when he and Barbara were at the same social gatherings, he made sure to be seen with her, and even, upon occasion, asked her to dance.

It was a painful time for both of them. Barbara made a separate call on Lady Wardour to bid her farewell, and both had tears in their eyes by the time the visit was over. Although Robin understood the grounds of her decision, Diana thought she was being foolishly idealistic. “After all, Barbara,” she said to her sister-in-law over breakfast one morning, “Wardour’s request was not at all unreasonable. I have myself wondered at your growing intimacy with Sir David. I know that Robin does not agree with me, but it is one thing for men to get together over politics and quite another to make someone a part of your intimate circle.”

Robin broke in gently but firmly. “Diana, you and I have come to an understanding on this. But as your husband, I could impose my choices on you if I so wished. I don’t,” Robin continued, as Diana began to protest that he had never been that unreasonable. “But Barbara would have been entering a marriage where she would have had to give up a good friend for reasons that were untenable for her.”

“I still say that Wardour was not being at all unreasonable. Not that I don’t like Sir David. I do. But…”

“He is a Jew,” continued Barbara quietly.

“Well, yes,” Diana admitted.

“Diana, I respect the way you and Robin have managed to allow each other the freedom to disagree. But, as you have said, Robin has never dictated to you who your friends should be. I could not have lived with it.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I understand a little better. I would not take well to domestic tyranny myself,” Diana admitted.

“I don’t even perceive Peter as a tyrant,” said Barbara. “I think he is just used to getting his own way.”

“You must admit that he has been every bit a gentleman about it.”

“He has indeed,” Barbara replied.

“Well, I hope Sir David appreciates your sacrifice, Barbara.”

“I have only told him that we had discovered an irreconcilable difference between us. And as I did it for myself, not for him, he need know nothing more.”

* * * *

When Wardour finally left for Kent, Barbara felt a little sadness combined with great relief. It had been difficult to be in public with him. He was always polite, but cool and reserved. She had wondered if he would seek some private conversation with her to persuade her to change her mind, but they had never been alone together, and from what she could see, he had no desire to say anything to her above the commonplace. She was glad not to be pressured, but a bit hurt that he could let her go so easily.

David had acted the good friend: not intrusive, but always available as an escort when she needed one. They continued their morning rides, and after his first attempts to convey his sympathy, he took Barbara’s cue and kept away from the subject altogether.

The Little Season was drawing to a close, and on one of their rides David wondered aloud what Alec Gower was going to do for employment once the
ton
left town. “I suppose he could find a position as a music teacher,” mused David.

“Mr. Gower seems very resilient to me, David. I am sure he will find something.” Barbara did not want to talk about the Scotsman. She did not want to think about him or begin to wonder where he was going next.

“I would have to agree with you. He is an interesting combination, our Mr. Gower, isn’t he, of busker and classical musician? He can switch so easily from broad Scots to perfect English. I have always wondered what his background is.”