Книга - My Lord Protector

My Lord Protector
Deborah Hale


TORN BETWEEN DUTY… AND DESIREFitzhugh was willing to thrust his head back into the matrimonial noose to protect Julianna from her wicked stepbrother. But the maiden was betrothed to his nephew, gone at sea. So their forbidden union was secretly a marriage in name only., sharing his home with the much younger beauty fueled a passion he'd thought long buried… . Julianna Ramsay was at sixes and sevens! Who would have thought that Edmund's gentle care could ignite in her a woman's ardor that far eclipsed her girlish fancy for his absent nephew? And what of the day when her fiance returned? Would she then have the courage to choose love over duty?







“This house was my sanctuary when I most needed one.” (#u939c13fb-f6f0-50fc-9f42-a1fe1e1e9c32)Letter to Reader (#u71cd611f-449a-5070-8107-2c314eb926f6)Title Page (#u492f7c35-9904-5bcd-a62e-2fb99732263c)About the Author (#u877823b3-e2b9-5e32-bd75-dd72d41578b0)Dedication (#u4ec30f79-92f3-5b20-b158-db6d022b037d)Chapter One (#u91df5da3-917a-52ca-a2d1-13ec058bc7ea)Chapter Two (#u14589ed9-747f-5973-a879-523c19b56f30)Chapter Three (#ua9994dda-b6c1-564a-985e-4b4a6745e818)Chapter Four (#u15a17fae-78cf-57fa-a151-4d6f2354e0c4)Chapter Five (#ueed0e65c-3906-540d-8f40-da6280d0d704)Chapter Six (#udd76b88b-74ad-5605-b8d8-40fa9c13298a)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“This house was my sanctuary when I most needed one.”

Julianna spoke quietly, as if bestowing a confidence. Every word went straight to Edmund’s heart. “You were my protector when I had no other. I owe you past what I can ever repay. If you want me to stay, you have only to say the word.”

If she had drawn a fixed bayonet and plunged it into his chest, she could not have inflicted so deep and gaping a wound. For a moment, Edmund could find neither the breath nor the courage to reply. Then the harsh lessons of his childhood came to his rescue. Bury the hurt—bury it deep.

Without turning to look at Julianna, he spoke as if her offer did not matter to him in the least. “Any debt you owe me may be discharged by making my nephew a loving and faithful wife. I will file an annulment petition before the week is out.”


Dear Reader,

Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historicals. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.

We think Deborah Hale is one of the best new writers in the field. Her debut book, My Lord Protector, is a sigh-inducing “older man, younger woman” romance set in Georgian England. Here, Julianna Ramsey is forced by her elder stepbrother to marry while her betrothed, Crispin, is away at sea. Unknown to Julianna, the stern, wealthy man who offers for her is her tiancé’s uncle—he’ll “protect her” until his nephew returns. Loyal to the memory of Crispin, Julianna and Edmund must fight the forbidden love that bums between them. Don’t miss it!

The Bride of Windermere by Margo Maguire is another terrific first book. In this heartfelt medieval tale, a rugged knight falls in love with a woman he has been sent to protect on her journey to see the king. And Jackie Manning returns this month with a sparkling Western, Silver Hearts, featuring a doctor turned cowboy and the feisty Eastern miss he rescues.

Rounding out the month is Joe’s Wife by Cheryl St.John. Tye Hatcher, the town bad boy, returns from the war to prove his worth. He marries the widow of the once most popular man in town, Joe, and must live up to the memory of him. Keep a hankie close by!

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical®.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3


My Lord Protector

Deborah Hale






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


DEBORAH HALE

After a decade of tracing her ancestors to their roots in Georgian-era Britain, Golden Heart winner Deborah Hale turned to historical romance writing as a way to blend her love of the past with her desire to spin a good love story. Deborah lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, between the historic British garrison town of Halifax and the romantic Annapolis Valley of Longfellow’s Evangeline. With four children under ten (including twins), Deborah calls writing her “sanity retention mechanism.” On good days, she likes to think it’s working.

Deborah invites you to her one-of-a-kind web site to catch the flavor of eighteenth-century London, from a cup of the most decadent chocolate to scandalous tidbits of backstage gossip from the Green Room at Drury Lane. To get there, follow her author’s link on the Harlequin web site http://www.romance.net (http://www.romance.net).


To Judy Gorham,

who read this book before anyone else knew

I was writing it.


Chapter One

October 1742

“Dearly beloved.” The curate’s whistling treble voice echoed through the vast vaulted emptiness of St Martin’s in the Fields, one of London’s most fashionable places of worship. “We are gathered in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate....”

Honorable estate? Julianna Ramsay could barely contain a shriek of bitter laughter. Bondage—certainly. She wanted to tear the prayer book from the curate’s plump fingers and hurl it through the massive window above the altar. She longed to scale the stone pillars and batter the hypocritical smirks off the faces of those smug plaster cherubs.

“If any here can show just cause why this wedding should not take place, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

Jerome’s blunt fingers tightened around her wrist. Julianna cast her stepbrother a sidelong glance. Unshaven and disheveled from the previous night’s debauchery, he glared back at her with eyes as black and pitiless as his conscience.

Thick lips curled in a gloating sneer. By all means, sister, he wordlessly urged her, indulge in a fit of hysterical fury. I’ll see you shackled in the bowels of Bedlam before the day is out.

Summoning every ounce of composure, Julianna fought to master her impotent rage. Her features cold and rigid as a marble effigy, she focused her answer into a scornful look. I would not give you the satisfaction, Jerome. Refusing to meet the curate’s questioning glance, she clenched her lips to imprison the words of protest she dared not utter.

A raw autumn wind keened around the church’s lofty spire, nearly drowning out the words of the wedding service. The little curate cleared his throat and pitched his delivery louder. “Dost thou, Julianna, take this man to thy lawful wedded husband...”

Reluctantly, Julianna’s gaze shifted to her bridegroom, Sir Edmund Fitzhugh. He could not have looked less like Crispin Bayard, the man she had hoped to wed. Thinking of her handsome young sweetheart, Julianna’s heart quailed. The words she must soon speak would destroy any chance of a future with Crispin.

Oh my love, her soul cried out across the miles that separated them, how could you have abandoned me to this? Even as that anguished question rang in her thoughts, a countering voice of reason objected. How could Crispin have known, when he sailed for the South Seas, that her father would shortly die bankrupt, leaving her at the mercy of her feared and despised stepbrother?

An expectant silence wrenched Julianna back to the present. Jerome prompted her with another bruising squeeze of her wrist.

“I do.” She fairly spit the words.

The curate smiled indulgently. No doubt he mistook the force of her answer for eagerness to wed a man of wealth and position.

“And dost thou, Edmund, take this woman to thy lawful wedded wife, to live together under God’s holy ordinance...”

While his attention was fixed on the clergyman, Julianna stole a look at her bridegroom. She would have guessed him a former sea captain, even without Jerome’s telling. The intrepid set of Sir Edmund’s broad shoulders and his wide stance bespoke years spent on a pitching quarterdeck. His large hands looked capable of nimbly lashing a sail or holding a tiller steady in rough seas. His firm jaw, slightly cleft chin and the stern line of his mouth all suggested a temperament resolute—even obdurate. His deep-set eyes, which seemed to search out some distant horizon, were cold and gray as the North Atlantic.

Where was the pitiful old wreck she’d expected to find at the chancel steps this morning? That had been Julianna’s desperate plan to foil her stepbrother and to keep herself unsullied for Crispin. When Jerome had demanded she take a husband immediately, she had sent her trusted cousin, Francis, to seek a bridegroom too old and decrepit to consummate their union. Since then, she’d not had a private moment to ask Francis how he’d fared. Noting his complacent manner, she’d assumed all was well.

Jerome’s derisive account of Sir Edmund’s proposal had made him sound ideal for her purpose. “We met at the Chapterhouse while I was posting my notice of the books for auction. He collects book and antiquities. Indeed, he is something of an antiquity himself. Affects to wear his own hair, mind you, though it’s sparse enough in places to excuse a good periwig.”

Antiquity? Under other circumstances the idea might have struck Julianna as amusing. Jerome had overestimated Sir Edmund’s age by more than one good year. Though perhaps not in the peak of condition, her bridegroom appeared well capable of undertaking his marital duties. So much for her pathetic plan.

“...and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, until death dost thou part?”

“I do.” The timbre of Sir Edmund’s voice was deep and resonant, with more than a hint of sharpness. Such a voice brooked no dissent from a crew, a household or a wife. And, God help her, she had promised to obey.

A blessed numbness stole over Julianna. Her budding dreams of an unconsummated marriage had died stillborn. Jerome had sold off all her worldly goods—her beloved books and even her treasured harp, insisting he needed the money to discharge her late father’s debts. Soon she would belong to this stern, forbidding man. Yet she was able to view it all calmly, as though this marriage were being perpetrated upon a stranger.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

“I do,” said Jerome.

To Julianna’s ears, those two short words rang with ten years’ worth of mocking triumph. Her stomach seethed as she caught a whiff of her stepbrother’s breath, putrid with stale brandy. Raising her fan, she fluttered it to disperse the fumes.

Who gives this woman? For most brides those words were a formality. In her case they could not have been more accurate. Her stepbrother was giving her away to a total stranger, with forced consent, for promises of money. Sold, like all her late father’s possessions, to the highest bidder.

“In the name of God, I, Edmund, take thee, Julianna, to my lawful wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.”

When her turn came to speak, Julianna’s lips moved but the words emerged scarcely audible even to herself. Looking past the looming silhouette of Sir Edmund Fitzhugh, she addressed her words to Crispin, vowing to keep her heart only unto him.

“I, Julianna, take thee, Edmund, to my wedded husband....”

Her words were barely a whisper, and Edmund had the uncomfortable conviction his bride was staring right through him.

How dare she look so woebegone at the prospect of marrying him? his Fitzhugh pride demanded. After all, this daft scheme had been hers in the first place. When she’d sent her timorous cousin around to advance the idea, he’d found himself with no honorable recourse but to fall in with their foolish plan.

“...in sickness and in health. Till death do us part.”

At that moment, the enormity of what he was doing boxed Edmund squarely in the stomach. Julianna Ramsay looked so very young in her ill-fitting black gown, her ruddy curls all but hidden by a fulsome cap. Though he was barely forty, Edmund had seen and done more than most men twice his age. Years of adventuring in the Tropics had taken their toll on his constitution. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to escape to the refuge of his library with a comfortable wing chair, a pipeful of rich tobacco and a familiar volume of Shakespeare or Marcus Aurelius.

“With this ring, I thee wed....” The words stuck in Edmund’s throat as he thrust the heavy gold circlet onto Julianna’s waxen finger. With effort, he managed to bark them out.

Long ago he had sworn never to marry again. Matrimony did not suit his solitary temperament. He and Amelia had made each other bitterly unhappy during the interminable months of their brief marriage. Edmund had never pretended it was all the fault of his frigid, ambitious late wife. What mad impulse had propelled him back to the altar after all these years?

Edmund stole another glance at Julianna as they knelt to receive the Eucharist The pallid light of an overcast morning filtered through the altar window, starkly illuminating the cruel marks that marred her delicate features—a livid welt on her cheek, dark bruises on her chin, a swollen lower lip. The sight of her—young, vulnerable and so obviously brutalized, called forth every protective instinct in his being. His hands itched to close around Jerome Skeldon’s thick neck. To wrest Julianna Ramsay from the power of that blackguard, he was even willing to thrust his head back into the matrimonial noose.

“Oh God, who hath consecrated the state of matrimony to such an excellent mystery...look mercifully upon these thy servants.”

Edmund took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. For better or worse, the deed was done. In a stroke he had secured Julianna’s safety. He would provide for her every comfort. Surely she could ask no more of him. He would resume his tranquil, well-ordered existence, and try to pretend the disquieting events of past days had never taken place.

As he rose to accept the congratulations of their small bridal party, one thought continued to trouble Edmund. If only he could be certain Crispin would approve...

Skeldon’s carriage rattled over the cobbles of Piccadilly Street, bearing Jerome, Francis and Julianna to Fitzhugh House for the bridal luncheon. Slouched in the seat opposite his stepsister, Jerome drew a flask from his coat pocket and took a long pull. He gasped appreciatively at the liquor’s potency.

With exaggerated care, he wiped the mouth of the bottle on his stock and held it out to her. “Will you join me, milady?”

Julianna arched an eyebrow in disdain, not daring to speak.

“Of course, you want nothing to cloud your experience of this special day.” Jerome sneered. “Is that not so, sister?”

As the barb of her stepbrother’s sarcasm stung, Julianna knew she had only herself to blame. The skies had suddenly opened as the wedding party emerged from the church, spewing a cascade of rain upon them. In the rush toward the carriages, she had deliberately made for Jerome’s. Much as she hated and mistrusted her stepbrother, at least she knew what to expect from him. That was more than she could say of her formidable-looking bridegroom.

Jerome thrust his flask toward Francis. “You more sociably disposed than your cousin, Underhill?”

“Not I,” Francis chirped. “I intend to slake my thirst at luncheon. Julianna’s new husband looks to be a gentleman of quality, and I mean to do justice to his hospitality.”

“Suit yourself.” Jerome shrugged and took another drink.

It had been the same ever since the carriage pulled away from St. Martin’s—Jerome baiting her with surly mock courtesy, while Francis made the most annoyingly good-humored small talk. Both grated equally on Julianna’s raw nerves.

Heavy and tight, the gold wedding band encircled her finger like a fetter. The unnatural calm that had sustained her through the wedding ceremony was rapidly slipping away. Behind that mask of composure cowered a frightened child. Could she truly be the wife of that cold, silent man? How would she survive this day and this night, let alone the days and months and years to come? Only the look of sly satisfaction in Jerome’s eyes forced Julianna to hold her head high and still her quivering lip.

The curate lurched into Edmund’s brougham, water sluicing from the rear corners of his hat. “I must apologize for my tardiness.” He gasped for breath. “While I was changing out of my surplice, the rector detained me for a quick word.”

“I beg your pardon?” Edmund wrenched his gaze back from the window. He was still puzzling over Julianna’s defection to her stepbrother’s carriage. Surprised by the sudden downpour, had she simply acted on impulse? Or had she intentionally chosen the company of that sordid brute, Skeldon, over his own?

“The rector,” the curate repeated loudly. “He asked me to tell you how sorry he was not to preside over your nuptials. If only you’d been in less haste, or if his engagement had been less pressing, I know he’d have been pleased to perform the service.”

Removing his hat, he gave it a little shake. Then he drew out a handkerchief and began to mop the moisture from his face. “A rainy wedding day. That’s considered a good omen, I believe.”

Catching a glimpse of Skeldon’s landau behind them, Edmund muttered, “In Surrey, we say, ‘happy the bride the sun shines on.’”

The curate gave a strangulated chuckle. “And speaking of the bride, where is your lovely lady?”

Was she lovely? Edmund found himself wondering as he explained about the sudden cloudburst and the wedding party’s scramble for shelter in the carriages. No, he decided at last. Not in the conventional sense. Her eyes were an odd color for one thing—the pale amber brown of clear, hot tea. Her mouth was too wide for beauty, not to mention slightly crooked. Or perhaps it was only the bruises that made it look so.

All the same, she had a fey, winsome air that touched him. Somewhere in his dispassionate, impregnable heart, Edmund shrank from the look of aversion he’d seen in his bride’s eyes.

Passing through a half wall of masonry and wrought iron, the two carriages drew to a halt before Fitzhugh House, a spacious red brick mansion with many windows. The rain had eased to a fitful spatter. As Julianna alighted from Jerome’s landau, Sir Edmund stepped forward to take her arm.

A servant in impeccable livery stood before the massive front doors. Sir Edmund nodded toward him. “Let me begin by introducing the steward of my household, Mr. Mordecai Brock.”

The man bowed stiffly. He sported an impressive set of side whiskers, together with the most severe eyebrows Julianna had ever seen. Piercing blue eyes beneath those brows shot her a look of glowering disapproval.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brock,” she lied.

The steward threw open the doors, ushering the wedding party into a large, marble-floored entry hall. A pair of elegant staircases flanked the spacious chamber, sweeping upward to the second story. The dark wood of their balustrades gleamed.

A veritable army of servants were marshaled in the entry hall—footmen, coachmen, maids of every capacity. Sir Edmund paraded his bride before them like a visiting general inspecting his troops, while Mr. Brock introduced each member of his staff. Julianna scarcely heard him.

Though their names meant nothing to her, the servants’ facial expressions cut her at every turn—contemptuous, boldly curious. Having been on the most familiar terms with her father’s staff, she was distressed by the obvious antipathy of these people. If only she could make them understand how little she wanted to be here. As little as they wanted her, apparently.

The inspection concluded, Mr. Brock whispered a word to his master. Sir Edmund turned to Julianna. “If you’ll excuse me, there is a matter I must attend to.” He motioned to Francis. “Underhill, will you kindly deputize for me and escort my wife into luncheon?”

Francis beamed. “An honor and a pleasure, Sir Edmund.” As he took Julianna’s arm, he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Her Welsh temper flared. How dare the fool look so outrageously pleased with himself? He was supposed to be Crispin’s best friend. Did he call this friendship—handing his comrade’s intended bride over to a stranger? Using the width of her skirts as cover, she dealt him a sharp kick in the shin. Francis flinched, blinking his mild eyes with a wounded air. She flashed him an answering glare that made no secret of her ire.

As the dining room door swung open, the curate uttered a gasp of delight. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, Sir Edmund’s service of silver, crystal and gilded china made the table glitter like an open treasure chest.

“Sir Edmund is a very generous host,” said the curate.

“If not a particularly genial one,” Jerome muttered. Strolling over to the sideboard, he made a great show of inspecting the wines.

Francis held a chair for Julianna. “This is certainly the feast I envisaged. Your father was always reckoned to set a good table, my dear. But this surpasses even the best of his board.”

Looking up from his scrutiny of the wine, Jerome sniffed. “Father squandered his substance entertaining every ne’er-do-well in London. If he’d paid more attention to his business than to his salons, his estate wouldn’t be in such bad pass now.”

“De mortuis nil nisi bonum, ” the curate piously reminded Jerome. “Speak well of the dead.”

“Speak well? I did well to find my sister a husband at such short notice, and her without a penny’s dowry.” Taking a bottle off the sideboard, he poured himself a glass of wine.

Julianna barely stifled her urge to pick up the nearest piece of glassware and fling it at her stepbrother’s head.

“Ah, Skeldon, I see you have anticipated me.” Sir Edmund strode to the head of the table and lifted his own glass. “Let us begin our celebration with a toast to the bride.” Beneath the forced heartiness, Julianna detected an edge of hostility in his voice. Looking from Jerome to Sir Edmund, she recalled a saying of her old nurse. In times of trouble, Winnie had often complained of being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

“Permit me, Sir Edmund.” Jerome was beginning to slur his words. “As her brother of ten years, and lately her guardian, I believe I’m best equipped to offer a salute to your bride.”

Julianna felt the blood drain from her face. Salute—Jerome had used that very word last night as he’d ambushed her on the way to her room. Did you think I would send you to bed on your wedding eve without a brotherly salute? Fortunately he’d been drunk enough to slow his reflexes. Wriggling out of his pawing grasp, she’d escaped to the safety of her bedchamber with nothing worse than a bruised face. All through the night she had prayed she would soon become the property of a man too old and ailing to look upon her with Jerome’s brutal lust.

The gentlemen enthusiastically drank Julianna’s health, then settled down to the feast.

“I fear I may never dine so well again,” said Francis, as the servants brought in a course of soup and jellied eels, followed by hot kidney pie.

“Stuffed woodcock.” The curate poised his knife and fork eagerly over one of the birds. “Why, there are three brace of the creatures.” Popping a plump morsel of breast meat into his mouth, he groaned with pleasure.

Under other circumstances, Julianna would have relished such a fine meal, but today she dared not trust a bite upon her heaving stomach. Toying nervously with her food, she noticed Sir Edmund also took small helpings. As she watched from the corner of her eye, he pushed each morsel several times around his plate before lifting a half-empty fork to his lips.

Francis more than compensated for Sir Edmund’s lack of appetite, helping himself to everything as if he hadn’t eaten in months and expected to fast for several more. He and the curate kept up a cheerful banter while Jerome took his refreshment in the form of Sir Edmund’s stock of excellent French wines.

As the footman removed her barely touched plate, Julianna’s gaze strayed to a portrait above the mantel. It showed a handsome woman dressed in the style of the past generation. In her long face and cleft chin, she resembled Sir Edmund, but the lady’s lips were fuller and her eyes looked...familiar.

Curiosity overcame Julianna’s reticence. She leaned toward her new husband. “Sir Edmund, is that a portrait of your mother?”

He started at the question, as though her presence had slipped his mind. Francis and the curate were still engaged in sprightly conversation, while an inebriated Jerome contributed the odd vulgar jest. Almost lost in the hubbub, Sir Edmund’s words were addressed less to Julianna than to the lady in the portrait. To catch his reply, she had to lean closer still.

“Unfortunately I have no likeness of my mother. She died when I was born. That is my sister, Alice. She was some dozen years my senior and a mother to me in every way throughout my childhood. Alice has been dead fully ten years now.”

He seemed on the point of saying more when Francis interrupted with a question. “Sir Edmund, we were just admiring the Fitzhugh coat of arms upon the near wall. Is it true you are heir to a title that dates back to the Conquest?”

With labored joviality, Sir Edmund replied in a louder voice, “The first Fitzhugh did arrive in England with Duke William. However, I come from a long line of younger sons. One Edmund Fitzhugh was a Knight Hospitaller in the First Crusade and a later one fell at Agincourt, ‘upon St. Crispin’s day.”’

That name on Sir Edmund’s lips was almost more than Julianna could bear. She recognized the quotation, from Shakespeare’s Henry V, but never had she made the connection with her Crispin. Julianna caught her husband’s eyes upon her, his expression inscrutable. Perhaps Jerome had told him of her true love, and on their wedding day he meant to taunt her with it.

Under the table, her knees began to tremble. She clenched them together, but the palsy moved up her legs. She had to clasp her hands in her lap to still them. Light-headed, Julianna wondered how to go about excusing herself.

Sir Edmund rose abruptly. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse us, I believe my wife and I will retire. My health is not the best, and Lady Fitzhugh is likely exhausted with grief from her recent bereavement. Please stay and celebrate on our behalf.”

Taking Julianna’s arm, he propelled her out the door before she had time to object or the others had time to reply. Behind them, Julianna heard Jerome give an admiring whistle. “The old devil works fast!”

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. It felt as big as a whole stuffed woodcock. Perhaps it would be best to get this over with. Nothing could be worse than waiting.

As the door closed behind them, Sir Edmund’s shoulders bowed slightly. “I trust you do not mind leaving so soon. I could not stand to be in the same room with that man for another minute.”

Having no idea what he meant, Julianna nodded dumbly. Sir Edmund signaled a young housemaid. “Gwenyth, show Lady Fitzhugh to her rooms and help her unpack, or whatever she needs.”

He turned back to Julianna, his face looking suddenly drawn and weary. “I am afraid I must make my excuses to you as well, ma’am. I have overexpended my strength these past few days, and must rest. I will come by your rooms later. We can talk then.”

Nodding in reply to his stiff bow, Julianna trailed the maid up the staircase. Apparently she would have to wait, after all.


Chapter Two

“Your rooms are this way, milady.” The girl’s voice carried a familiar Welsh lilt. Julianna’s heart lifted at the sound. Whatever else lay ahead of her in Sir Edmund’s house, she meant to have at least one ally.

“Gwenyth?” Julianna had a poor command of her grandmother’s tongue, picked up mostly from ballads. Still, with a little effort she was able to put a few words of Welsh together, to ask how long the girl had been away from “home.”

The response proved well worth her effort. Gwenyth rounded upon her with startled delight, quickly jabbering off an animated tale of which Julianna could only pick out a word here and there.

Julianna held up her hand. “I’m sorry. My Welsh is not as good as that. My grandmother was a Cymru from the north coast. It cheers me to hear your voice, for it reminds me of home.”

“Ah-h well, to say again in English, milady—I came from the hill country north of Abergavenny two years back, when my daddy passed on. My auntie’s the cook here. What she won’t say when she hears you can speak the Old Tongue.”

Looking into Gwenyth’s beaming face, Julianna knew she had gained her ally.

Halfway down a wide gallery, the maid stopped before a closed door. “I hope your rooms will suit, ma‘am. We had quite a time readyin’ everything at such little notice. Auntie said if anyone had told her this past Sabbath that the captain would have a new bride before week’s end, she’d have...”

Julianna stepped over the threshold of her new quarters. They had entered a sitting room, past which she could see a bedroom, and a farther chamber beyond it—a dressing room, perhaps. Looking around, Julianna wondered if she had taken leave of her senses. Though she was seeing this small salon for the very first time, it felt as familiar as her own skin.

There in the far corner stood her father’s marquetry writing desk. In the center of the room was the brocade upholstered chaise upon which she had sat so recently with Cousin Francis. At the hearthside stood her little breakfast table. A tall case beside the door held books, the titles of which she could recite by heart. Not daring to move or speak, for fear of dissipating this lovely illusion, Julianna pressed her back against the door.

Though she did not trust the evidence of her eyes, her nose soon persuaded her it was no mere fancy. She smelled a compound of her father’s pipe tobacco and wig powder, together with her own rose water and the ghosts of favorite meals. All underlaid with the subtle musty odor of old books. No rare spice or expensive perfume could ever smell as sweet to her. Slowly, Julianna’s chest began to heave and warm tears welled up in her eyes. Since her father’s death and through the past several wretched days, she had not shed a single tear. Now she found herself overcome by this unexpected good fortune.

Rushing to the bedchamber, she discovered her own bed with its familiar linens and hangings. Her lap harp rested on the pillows. Her mother’s portrait looked down a blessing from the opposite wall. Julianna clambered onto the bed, crushing the harp to her bosom. She began to rock back and forth as her tears flowed unchecked, accompanied by great shuddering sobs.

“Are you sure ‘tis all right, milady?” Gwenyth ventured. “Like I said, we’d little time from when the fellows delivered everything last evening. Are you quite well, ma’am? Could I get you a cup of tea...or aught stronger?”

Bounding from the bed, laughter now mixed with her tears, Julianna grasped Gwenyth by the hands and danced her about the room. Among all these familiar things, the girl had suddenly become the image of her dearest Winnie, grown young again.

“Oh, Gwenyth, I am fine. The rooms are wonderful! Give the staff my warmest thanks.” Brushing away tears with the back of her hand, Julianna tried to collect herself. “I will take tea, please, and a basin of water to wash.”

“I could draw you a bath, milady. Your dressing room is all set up with one. Has its own fire and a kettle to heat water.” Gwenyth continued in a tone of apology, “The master does have his own notions about bein’ clean, ma’am. More than once I’ve heard him say. ”The most savage headhunter in all Borneo smells better than the average London hostess!”’

Julianna had no difficulty imagining Sir Edmund Fitzhugh uttering so pithy a sentiment. While some might disdain his fastidious attitude, she sympathized completely.

Gwenyth’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s why he won’t ever put on a wig, isn’t it? ‘A home for vermin,’ he calls ’em.” Together, the girls chuckled over this blunt but accurate assessment.

“I’ll go light the fire, milady. Then I’ll fetch your tea. By the time you finish it, the water’ll be hot.”

Once Gwenyth had gone, Julianna began to explore her living quarters. The little dressing room intrigued her, with its water kettle and shallow copper bathing tub. The cozy little room contained a pair of cherry-wood wardrobes from her old home, and something new to her. In the far corner sat a delightful low table with a large mirror, presumably for use in dressing her hair.

How had all this come about—her things bought at the auction and brought here to be so carefully assembled, awaiting her arrival? What touched Julianna more than the deed itself was the perceptive kindness that had anticipated her feelings and taken such pains to make her welcome. These were hardly the actions she would have expected from the stern-faced man with whom she had exchanged less than a dozen sentences. Had she misjudged him?

Reveling in the unaccustomed luxury of a private bath, Julianna continued to puzzle over her situation. As the scalding, soapy water ran over her shoulders and Gwenyth scrubbed her skin with a soft cloth, she tried to cleanse herself of Jerome’s amorous assault. Would it be any better tonight, when her bridegroom came to claim her? The thought of lying unclothed and intimate with a man she knew so little made Julianna cringe and blush so furiously the roots of her hair stung. Vows, clerical pronouncements and signed marriage bond notwithstanding, she doubted such an act could be anything but a violation.

She tried to imagine herself alone with her new husband. She did not expect the lascivious brutality of Jerome, nor the gentle ardor of her Crispin. Sir Edmund Fitzhugh looked so aloof and self-possessed. She could scarcely envisage kisses from that firm mouth, caresses from those cool, capable hands or tender murmurings from that commanding voice. Yet, did she not owe a duty to the man who had rescued her from a far worse fate?

Enfolded in a cozy wrap, Julianna sat before the mirrored table as Gwenyth combed out her tangled curls and chattered on about her own childhood in Wales. The steamy warmth of the room, together with the abashment of recent conjectures, had revived the rosiness of her complexion. The firelight played glints of gold and copper through her russet hair. She’d decided to leave it hanging long for her wedding night. Draped over her neck and around her face, it might obscure the marks Jerome had left.

Her hair combed out and drying, Julianna dismissed her already faithful Gwenyth, extracting a promise that the girl would be her waiting woman. She would try to rest, Julianna told her maid, requesting a light tea later in the day.

After Gwenyth had gone, Julianna lay on her bed, staring up at the canopy. Despite so many recent restless nights, sleep eluded her. Searching the bookcase, she pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Don Quixote and sat down to read. She had devoted much of her sixteenth year to translating her beloved Cervantes from the original Spanish. Today, however, not even Senor de la Mancha had the power to distract her. After a half hour’s dogged attempt at concentration, she abandoned the project. Where was a knight-errant when a lady needs one? Julianna wondered, returning the book to its place on the shelf.

For a while she prowled her rooms like a caged animal. Now and then, she would pause to gaze out her window, which overlooked the rear courtyard and garden. The storm had gathered force again, the wind lashing waves of rain against the thick windowpanes. In the dark glass, her reflection floated—a ghost girl weeping raindrop tears.

Something in the wild sorrow of the tempest struck a chord in Julianna’s Celtic soul. If she could not keep her unease at bay, then she would drown herself in it. Drawing the hangings on her bed to create a cocoon of darkness, she groped for her harp. At last her hands closed over the familiar curves of carved ash wood. She hugged the venerable instrument to her aching heart.

Sitting alone in the darkness gave Julianna an illusion of safety. Even as a child, she had loved the dark. Darkness guarded hidden fears. Darkness kept watch over secret tears. Darkness respected private sorrow. In the cool embrace of the dark, she concentrated on the sound and feel of her harp. It was an easy armful. Carved with intricate twining knots, the sounding post rested in its accustomed place, bridging her lap and the hollow of her shoulder. She had dreaded losing it as much as she would have dreaded losing the fingers that plucked its strings. By ancient Welsh law, a person’s harp was the one possession that could never be seized to satisfy a debt. No Englishman would ever understand that.

Tonight no music would satisfy Julianna’s soul but the Welsh ballads her harp had been crafted to play. Its strings vibrated from the fleet undulations of her fingers as she played every haunting lament of her embattled people. How many of her ancestresses, younger than she, had gone off to marriages made by others? How many had been taken as spoils of war and used accordingly? How many, eschewing the love of mortal men, had found some barren peace in the arms of the church? So many centuries had passed, and still a woman was no more than chattel.

On and on Julianna played, long after her fingers had begun to ache, singing in a voice hoarse with unshed tears, lost in the sweet, mournful music. To one especially poignant lament she returned again and again. Composed by her ancestor, Gryffud ab yr Yneed Coch, the song was an elegy for Llywelyn Olaf, the last true prince of Wales:

“Do you not see the path of the wind and the rain?”

“Do you not see that the world has ended?” it concluded in despair.

“Oh milady, that sounded lovely!”

Julianna startled at the sound of Gwenyth’s voice. In the protective cavern of her bed, she had managed to lose herself. Now she must come out and face a fate she could not escape.

“I haven’t heard anyone play the harp since I came away from home.” Gwenyth drew back the bed hangings. “‘Llywelyn’s Lament,’ wasn’t it? It has a pretty sound, though it is so sad.”

As she laid her harp aside, Julianna wondered if Gwenyth would ask why a bride should sing a dirge on her wedding night.

Though she might have been curious, the little maid was obviously too well trained to question the actions of her new mistress. “I’ve brought you a bite of supper like you asked, milady. If you feel up to it.”

Julianna nodded. For a moment she lingered in the doorway to the sitting room, looking back at her bed. After tonight, would she ever be able to think of it as a sanctuary again? An icy chill licked its way up her back. Pulling her wrap protectively around herself, she quickly turned to the sitting room, where a cheery fire blazed in the hearth and Gwenyth was setting the table. Never had Julianna felt such an overwhelming need for distraction and the companionship of another woman.

“Gwenyth, will you kindly do me one last service? Please sit and take tea with me?”

The girl darted a furtive glance behind her, as if expecting a wrathful Mr. Brock to materialize at her heels. “Oh, ma’am, I couldn’t! Wouldn’t be fitting, would it?”

“Perhaps not, but I desperately need some company. It would be a great boon to me if you would stay.”

Gwenyth wavered between an obvious desire to oblige, and an exaggerated sense of propriety. “I will stay, ma’am, if that’s what you’d like. But I’ll take no tea. I’ll just unpack a few things from your trunk while you eat.”

“Thank you, Gwenyth. That is the perfect solution, isn’t it? Perhaps you can tell me something of the captain—other than his distaste for dirt. I’ll admit I am not very well acquainted with my husband.” That last word stuck in Julianna’s throat.

“Dunno as I can help you on that score, milady. The master’s said no more than a dozen words to me before today. You could have bowled me over with a feather when he asked me to direct you up here. Auntie Enid and Mr. Brock have worked for him the longest. They both think the sun rises and sets by the master.”

Her face must have betrayed her feelings about Sir Edmund’s intimidating steward, for Gwenyth chuckled in sympathy. “Oh, he’s not so bad, our Mr. Brock. For all he guards the master like an old bulldog, his bark’s a good deal worse than his bite.”

Julianna rolled her eyes. “I hope I will not have to be bitten to find out the truth of that.”

The two girls shared a guarded laugh. How Mr. Brock’s ears must be burning! Gwenyth continued her story.

“When I saw all your books go into this room, ma‘am, I thought to myself, ’Whoever she is, this lady’ll be a good match for the master!’ He has more than one great room full of books. Spends most of his time in the library, reading and smoking his long pipe. What a black look a body gets if he’s disturbed! He’s not a very sociable man, you know. Why, that luncheon today is as much entertainment as we’ve had in this house since I’ve been here.”

Two sharp raps at the door made Julianna start guiltily. Dropping her pretense of unpacking, Gwenyth scurried to answer the summons. Sir Edmund stepped into the sitting room. At the sight of him, Julianna’s heart leapt into her throat, suffusing her face with blood and beating a galloping pulse in her ears. Her husband looked as if he had slept—in preparation for tonight? With his jabot and waistcoat discarded and the top several buttons of his shirt undone, he cut a somewhat less daunting figure than he had at their wedding ceremony. At the moment, that was little consolation to Julianna.

“I’ll come back in the morning and finish this up, shall I, milady? Unless there’s something special you want out just now?”

“No, thank you, Gwenyth, tomorrow will be fine. Good night.”

Bobbing a quick curtsy, the girl made her escape. Given her wish, Julianna would have been hot on Gwenyth’s heels.

An awkward silence fell over the sitting room, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the mantel clock. Had it been damaged in the move? Julianna wondered. It seemed to take longer than usual to count each passing second.

“Will you have a seat, Sir Edmund?” she asked in a rush. “I was just finishing my tea. The food at luncheon looked lovely, but I was too nervous to touch a bite. Will you join me?”

“Thank you, no.” Sir Edmund took a seat at the far end of the chaise. “I rarely find myself hungry these days. However, you needn’t stop on my account.”

“I have eaten as much as I can manage.” Julianna felt the appetizing little meal turn to a lump of lead in her stomach. Taking a cautious step back from the hearthside table, she perched on the other end of the chaise.

Sir Edmund cleared his throat. “I trust the accommodations meet with your approval.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Julianna glanced at her bridegroom. He looked every bit as anxious and uncertain as she felt. Somehow it eased her own apprehension. Whatever else he might be, Sir Edmund Fitzhugh obviously was not practiced in the art of seduction.

A bubble of nervous laughter broke from her lips. “Meet with my approval? Are you much given to understatement, Sir Edmund? Why, I wept with joy when I saw my possessions returned to me.”

His expression darkened. “They should never have been taken from you in the first place. Of all the infamous conduct... I suppose Skeldon responsible for this, and these?”

He gestured toward the bruises on her face. Mortified that they had drawn his notice, Julianna flinched. Perhaps he misread her reaction, for he reached out and tilted her smarting chin with the subtlest of pressure, urging her to look him in the eye. When he spoke, his voice was hardly above a whisper.

“Understand, my dear, that you will never be so used in this house. I will likely be a less than perfect husband, having so little previous experience with matrimony. However, I do hold myself a cut above any cowardly swine who would raise his hand to a woman. This is your home now. You will always be safe here.”

Some beacon of compassion in the depths of those inscrutable eyes, together with the reassuring gentleness of his hand and voice, touched her. Julianna’s tightly bound emotions broke free, overwhelming her. Before she had time to think what she was doing, she found herself cradled against Sir Edmund’s shoulder, weeping her heart out in the sanctuary of his arms.

The fine linen of his shirt drank in her tears. She could feel the warmth of his chest against her cheek. He smelled of pipe tobacco and shaving soap, and a faint spicy aroma she could not identify. She loved Crispin with all her heart, but Crispin was lost to her. She was alone in a hostile world, with only one possible haven of safety and solace. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Julianna raised her face to Sir Edmund’s. Her lips brushed his sharp jawline, coming to rest with tremulous delicacy against his. For a moment he seemed to yield, the firm set of his mouth softening in response to the timid invitation of her kiss.

Then, without a twitch of warning, he pushed her back and leapt up from the chaise as if the upholstery had caught fire. “Have you lost your mind, woman? What is the meaning of this?”

What had she done wrong? Had she behaved in too forward a manner? “I thought...that is, Jerome told me...you wanted to breed an heir to your fortune.”

“I had to tell him something.” Sir Edmund made an obvious effort to regain his composure. “I couldn’t very well approach a fellow in the midst of a respectable coffeehouse and casually inquire if he had a sister for sale. Besides, I have a perfectly suitable heir, as you well know, and I have no interest in supplanting him.”

Now who had lost his senses?

“But, if you don’t...I mean... Well, look here, exactly why did you offer to marry me?”

He gazed down at her with a vexing mixture of amazement and amusement. “You don’t know who I am,” he said, in the hushed, reverent tone of one suddenly enlightened.

“I know very well who you are,” Julianna snapped. “However, I do not know what you are talking about.”

“You don’t know who I am,” Sir Edmund repeated, appearing pleasantly relieved by the knowledge. “That explains it all—the way you looked during the wedding. Why, I’ve seen cheerier faces bound for the gallows.”

A guilty blush smarted in Julianna’s cheeks. She hung her head. “I meant nothing personal regarding you, Sir Edmund.”

“I should hope not. After all, I am undoubtedly the answer to any maiden’s prayer.” The dryly ironic tone of his voice made Julianna glance up. She saw his brows arched and his shoulders raised in a droll, self-deprecating gesture. This arid humor caught her so much by surprise, she could not stifle a volley of nervous laughter. Sir Edmund’s features relaxed from their comic aspect into something approaching a smile.

“I thought your woeful expression might be playacting for your stepbrother. I am sorry you had to suffer such distress, but it may have been worth it to convince Skeldon of your reluctance to marry me. Perhaps that was Underhill’s intent.”

“Cousin Francis? So he did come to you. I should have known better than to trust him with such a commission. He is the most kindhearted creature in the world, but...”

“But he is a very modest man, with ample reason to be so.” A fleeting smile warmed Sir Edmund’s features. “You could have found no fault with his mission on your behalf. Young Underhill argued your case with the utmost conviction. I’ll own, I took some convincing. I prize my solitude, you see.” Casting her a wary look, he reclaimed his seat on the chaise.

“I take your point, Sir Edmund. Neither of us came eagerly to this marriage. But what is this other business you alluded to, about your identity?”

“At luncheon, I made an awkward attempt to reassure you when I spoke of my family history. For centuries the name Crispin, like Edmund, has often been bestowed on hapless Fitzhugh infants. My father was the Reverend Crispin Fitzhugh. I also have a nephew, my sister Alice’s son—Crispin Bayard.”

Her Crispin, the nephew of Sir Edmund Fitzhugh? Julianna mulled this single fact over and over in her mind, that it might take hold. “Then you must be Crispin’s ‘quoting uncle’!”

“So he would often call me. And I would reply, ‘A word fitly spoken is like—’”

“‘—is like apples of gold.”’ Julianna laughed with delighted surprise. “It is you! I can’t believe it. How, for all the times we spoke of you, could Crispin not have told me your name?”

“My nephew is gentleman enough to know that talk of an aging uncle is no way to woo one’s ladylove.”

“Crispin did once tell me that everything he learned about being a gentleman came from your example.”

Sir Edmund shook his head. “He missed the mark there. I believe we both benefited from our upbringing by my dear Alice.”

Suddenly, as if conjured by their eager exchange, Julianna had the warmest, most palpable sense of Crispin’s presence. Grasping Sir Edmund’s hand, she wrung it heartily. “It is such a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Then Julianna recalled that not only had she met Crispin’s uncle, she had wed him. Abruptly, she dropped his hand.

Perhaps to reassure her, Sir Edmund continued. “Crispin talked much of you before his departure. I know he would want me do everything in my power to aid you. He need never have made this expedition to the South Seas, you know. As my heir, if he’d chosen to remain in England and marry you, I would have made him a handsome settlement. He is a true Fitzhugh, however. Pride is our besetting sin, so I can hardly grudge him his measure of it. Neither can I quarrel with his taste for adventure, as I was also smitten with it in my youth. He is a good lad, and I know he’ll fare well. He has been my ward since his mother died, and like a son to me in every way. Though perhaps we share a closer bond than most fathers and sons, who often grow at odds as time passes. My nephew is all the world to me.”

“And to me.” She had not intended to say this. Whatever the circumstances, it could hardly be polite, professing to a new husband one’s undying love for another man. “What I mean to say is... and you to him. He spoke of you with great affection.”

Sir Edmund graciously ignored Julianna’s gaffe, and her equally unsubtle attempt at recovery. “Affection is far too pale a term for the fervor with which Crispin recounted your charms, my dear. Most of our conversations in the past months lapsed into a catalog of your beauty, your wit, your understanding.” He ticked each off on a finger. “I once chided him with Shakespeare’s words. ‘My mistress’ eyes—’”

“‘—are nothing like the sun...’” countered Julianna. “Crispin told me of it.”

“He insisted that one day I would retract those words, and so I do. Whenever you speak his name, your eyes are lambent with June sunshine.”

In response to Sir Edmund’s courtly homage, the warmth of that sunshine spread from Julianna’s eyes to her smile. Though she suspected it must look rather ghoulish on her battered face.

“I see where Crispin acquired his gift for poetic flattery.” Rather than pleasing him, her compliment turned a man of mature years into a stammering schoolboy intent upon making his escape. “Well...hardly...in any case...now that you know...that is to say, understand...the facts...” Jumping from the chaise once again, he made a curt bow. “I trust you will sleep well.”

As he backed toward the door, Julianna rose. “So you will not be staying the night, after all.” Obvious relief infused the words she had not meant to speak aloud. But her instant embarrassment seemed to restore Sir Edmund’s composure.

“Much as I regret refusing such an invitation, I think it best, for many reasons, that our union remain... chaste. I regard you as Crispin’s bride, residing in my house. When he returns, our unconsummated marriage should make it relatively easy to secure an annulment. Besides, the state of my health is such that the exertions of playing the ardent bridegroom might leave you a widow sooner than would be convenient.”

Astonished, Julianna did not think to smile at his mordant jest. As he turned the door handle, another thought occurred to Sir Edmund. “The terms of this arrangement must remain in confidence. To the rest of the world it should appear we are husband and wife. I mistrust your stepbrother. There might be something to fear from him if he discovers our deception.”

“You have my word, Sir Edmund.” If she ever told such an improbable tale, Julianna knew she would be dispatched to Bedlam faster than Jerome could ever have managed.

“Good. Good. Then once again I bid you good-night.” With his abrupt departure, Julianna retired to bed, early and alone. Her heart seethed with a queer mix of emotions. She recognized astonishment, intense relief and profound gratitude, but puzzled over a shade of some nameless foreign feeling that defied definition. Surely it could not be...disappointment?


Chapter Three

15 December 1742

Dearest Winnie,

Christmas greetings from London to Wales. I trust this letter has reached you without delay, along with a more tangible remembrance. Besides bringing my kindest regards, it comes to reassure you of my fortunate situation. Shortly after you left London, I wed Sir Edmund Fitzhugh, a friend of Cousin Francis.

As her pen scratched softly against the sheet of thick creamy vellum, a frown of dissatisfaction creased Julianna’s brow. Her words sounded so stiff and formal. Unfortunately, she hadn’t the nerve to write this pack of lies in plainer language.

Gwenyth turned from her dusting. “It must be lovely, ma’am, to read all those grand books and write such a fine hand.”

“I suppose it is.” Julianna sighed. What had life come to, she asked herself, when her beloved studies no longer enthralled her? “If you would care to learn, I could teach you.”

“I wouldn’t dare presume, ma’am.” Gwenyth returned to her dusting with a vengeance, vigorously rubbing the woodwork with a lightly oiled cloth. “Whatever would Mr. Brock say?”

Julianna made a face at the mention of their steward. The last thing she needed was to provide him with another complaint against her. With a dispirited shrug, she resumed her writing.

I live in a fine big house with many servants and every possible comfort. Our cook and her niece, my maidservant, are both Welsh. In their care you may rest assured that I am fed and attended almost as well as in days of yore.

Glancing up at Gwenyth going cheerfully about her work, Julianna breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Without the Welsh girl’s loyalty and fellowship, she would have gone mad in the gilded cage of Fitzhugh House. The other maids’ smirking politeness irritated her more than outright insolence. Mrs. Davies gave no quarter, even for the sake of their common ancestry. As for Mr. Brock, in the weeks since her wedding their mutual antipathy had degenerated into covert warfare—all the more hostile for the frosty civility that masked it.

Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she continued her letter.

My husband makes me a generous allowance, so you must not think I will miss the small sum enclosed. Sir Edmund considers it in the interests of marital harmony for a wife to have her own funds.

Julianna shook her head as she penned this half truth. Sir Edmund gave her money to soothe his conscience for spending so little time with her. She seldom saw him, but for the few evenings a week he condescended to dine with her. The strained silence of those meals was punctuated by brief exchanges so banal they scarcely merited the title of conversation. She wondered if the kindness and humor she had glimpsed in him on their wedding night had been a figment of her overwrought imagination.

“There.” Gwenyth looked around the room where brass, wood and glass gleamed. “Now I’d best see to my other chores. Before I go, is there anything I can get for you, milady? A bite to eat? Auntie says you scarcely touched your breakfast. She’s worried vou aren’t partial to her cookine.”

“Never fear.” Julianna laid her pen aside. “Mr. Brock has already delivered me a lecture on that subject. Tell your aunt I like her meals very well. My appetite is poor, that is all.”

“Are you quite well, milady? You sleep the day away—straight to bed from dinner and lying in longer every morning.”

“I know.” Julianna was not certain herself what to make of her strange craving for sleep. “At first I thought I was only catching up on the sleepless nights between my father’s death and my wedding. Yet the more I sleep, the more tired I am through the day.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am...are you happy here?”

This straightforward question confounded Julianna for a moment. Finally she recovered her composure sufficiently to answer. “I would be a very wicked and ungrateful young woman not to be happy here, Gwenyth.” Each word sounded as if it had been well laundered and starched. “I have a beautiful home, plentiful food, servants to do my bidding, a generous allowance from Sir Edmund.” She had to bite her tongue to keep from adding, And I have not a single friend in the world.

“But you must miss your daddy. When I first came here after my daddy passed on, I missed him something dreadful.”

“Miss my father? Yes, I suppose I do. We were such good friends. He was always teaching me something new, letting me help him with his work. He was a very special man, Gwenyth.”

“You need to get out more, milady,” Gwenyth advised. “Why don’t you ask Sir Edmund to take you to that Chapter-house place.”

“Perhaps I should, Gwenyth.” In a pig’s eye, I should, Julianna thought to herself. Sir Edmund Fitzhugh was the most unsociable creature she had ever met. At home, he kept to his rooms or to the library with his books and his pipe. Once she had ventured to breach the solitude of that domain. He had treated her to so icy a glare, she’d speedily excused herself on the pretext of borrowing a book.

Gwenyth suddenly glanced at Julianna’s mantel clock in alarm. “Oh, look at the time! Here I’ve been pestering the life out of you, ma’am, when I’ve work to do.” Gwenyth bobbed a hurried curtsy and bustled off.

Julianna took up her pen again, determined to finish.

It will please you to hear that Cousin Francis’s wife has given birth to a healthy daughter, whom they have christened Pamela. I visit once a week, but no oftener, as Cecily is recovering slowly from her confinement.

She was hard-put to muster the energy for those weekly visits with the Underhills. Only the torture of her loneliness compelled her to it. Without quite realizing what she was writing, Julianna concluded.

Last Christmas, how little did I guess that a year would see my father dead, and me a bride. I miss Papa more and more as Christmas draws near. I must close now and bring this letter to Francis, who has promised to contract an honest agent to deliver it to you. Think of me when you sing the plygain on Christmas morning, as I will think of you.

Heaving an sigh, Julianna dusted the paper with blotting powder and blew it off again. Then she folded it into a compact parcel containing three gold sovereigns, and sealed it with wax.

A knock sounded on the sitting room door.

“Come in,” Julianna called, wishing she dared say exactly the opposite.

Mr. Brock entered, his bristling brows drawn together in a look of grim censure. What offense was she guilty of this time? Nothing she did met with Brock’s approval. Several times he’d pointedly inquired of her plans to visit the seamstress, with the unspoken suggestion that her wardrobe was unsuitable and reflected badly upon Sir Edmund. Yet whenever she requested a chaise and pair for an outing, he sternly implied that her timing was most inconvenient.

“May I speak with you, madam?”

Nodding stiffly, Julianna wondered if there was any way she could stop him.

“It concerns Gwenyth, madam,” said Brock, in his best mock-obsequious tone. “I was hoping you might be prevailed upon to restrict your calls on her. The poor child is hard-pressed to discharge her other important duties about the house.”

“Indeed? Can your staff not spare a single maid exclusively to attend the lady of the house? You were right in coming to me with this matter. The situation must be rectified at once. I will be happy to pay Gwenyth’s wages out of my own allowance.”

For an instant Julianna savored the sweet triumph of seeing her adversary entirely at a loss for words.

“Thank you for bringing the problem to my attention, Brock. I will discuss it with Sir Edmund at my earliest convenience.” It was all she could do to keep a straight face, watching the rapid desertion of Mr. Brock’s composure.

She hoped the steward would not call her bluff, Julianna thought after he had gone. She did not wish to complain to Sir Edmund about her treatment, partly because he was so unapproachable. Besides, when she considered the alternatives to her present life, her concerns seemed so petty and foolish. From years of habit, she had grown accustomed to keeping her troubles to herself and putting on a show of complacency. Her letter to Winnie was merely the latest prop in that show.

Julianna recalled the letter. She must deliver it to Francis. But that would mean another unpleasant exchange with Brock about a carriage. She would also have to change clothes. Tomorrow would be soon enough. What matter when her letter reached Caer Gryffud? Christmas no longer held the special significance it once had.

Her father had always made a great celebration of it. There had been guests to welcome and entertainments to plan. Julianna felt a tear run down her cheek. Gifts to buy and special outings to arrange. Another tear fell, then another. Wassail and carolers. She could not summon the strength to stern the tide. Dropping her head upon her arms, she gave way to aching, lonely weeping.

In the gallery beyond Julianna’s door, Edmund paced back and forth, berating himself for a cowardly fool. After all, over a pipe and coffee at the Chapterhouse, he regularly conversed with the most learned men in England. What made him hesitate to speak to his own wife? Whenever he came within ten feet of her, a wave of childish bashfulness assailed him and he could barely stammer the most tedious remark. He tried to cover his embarrassment with a mask of frigid reserve.

Only one other person had ever rendered him so frustratingly inarticulate. Often as a boy, he had squirmed between a desperate desire to please and a suffocating certainty of failure. What this slip of a girl had in common with his critical, forbidding father, Edmund could not fathom. He only knew that when he ventured a look into her strange golden-brown eyes, he saw longing and disappointment. As with his father, he had failed her without understanding how or why.

What more could she want from him? Edmund’s fists clenched and his step quickened. He had showered her with everything his first wife had nagged for so vehemently: a fine house, carriages, servants, money. He burdened her with as little of his company as appearances would permit. Did the silly child appreciate all he had done to ensure her ease and security? No. She moped about the house like a pathetic little ghost, hardly uttering a word, not eating enough to sustain a sparrow.

Since their marriage, he couldn’t call his home his own. The girl trailed behind him like a stray kitten, with her look of wordless reproach. She had even invaded the sanctuary of his library. Would she hound him out of his bedchamber next? In two months, she’d worn his patience threadbare. Imagine two years of this! Crispin had bloody well better appreciate his sacrifices.

Halting before her door, Edmund squared his shoulders. If he could brave this one interview, he might secure a few days’ breathing space. He’d pack the girl off to her relatives over Christmas, and reclaim a measure of his cherished privacy. With luck, she might develop a taste for visiting, and get out from under foot entirely.

As he raised his fist to knock, Edmund caught the sound of a muffled sob from behind the door. Damn women and their tears! In his day, he had fought Dutch mercenaries, pirates and headhunters. None of those put the fear of God in him like a weeping woman. Grinding his teeth, he let his hand drop and turned away. Just then, Brock appeared at the end of the corridor. Determined not to be caught in a humiliating retreat, Edmund administered a peremptory knock on the door.

The abrupt summons jolted Julianna from her crying spell. Hurriedly mopping the tears with a corner of her fichu, she hoped her red eyes and sniffling would not betray her. She opened her door to Sir Edmund for the first time since their wedding night.

“May I come in?” he asked. “There is a matter I would like to discuss with you.”

Had Mr. Brock fallen to telling tales? Julianna wondered.

“By all means, Sir Edmund. Do take a seat by the fire. With the air so damp and chill, it is pleasant to warm one’s hands.”

Seating himself, he made a show of chafing his fingers. “I believe this raw wind bodes our first snow.”

“Very likely.” Julianna took her seat on the chaise.

“Indeed.” Sir Edmund stared fixedly at the fire screen.

Silence reigned in the sitting room once again.

Julianna swallowed a sigh of impatience. “You wished to discuss some matter with me, Sir Edmund?”

He took the cue eagerly. “Just so. It regards the servants.”

This surprised Julianna not in the least.

“It had slipped my mind until Brock drew it to my attention.”

Julianna frowned. Very impolitic, Mr. Brock. The steward had evidently realized she was even more reluctant than he to drag Sir Edmund into their quarrels.

“You see, with Yuletide upon us, some changes must be made in the habits of my household.”

“Changes?” repeated a surprised Julianna. This had no bearing on her feud with Mr. Brock.

“Yes. You see, in past years, it was always our custom—Crispin’s and mine, to give the house servants a few days off and fend for ourselves.” Sir Edmund’s eyes took on a look of private remembrance, and he lapsed into a near smile. “Mrs. Davies would leave cold food enough for the whole British navy. We would take in a concert or a play, then dine at an eating house. On Christmas Day we’d fill the puncheon and play host to the carolers.”

Sir Edmund shook his head, as if to clear it of the memory. “This year circumstances have changed. I wondered if you might enjoy your own holiday. Take a few days and spend them with family, so the servants can still have their time off visiting.”

“I would not dream of denying the servants their accustomed holiday.” Julianna could imagine the animosity below stairs if they had such cause to resent her. “I will ride the stage to Bath, and take the waters.”

Sir Edmund’s left eyebrow flew so far upward, Julianna feared it would remain stuck on the top of his head. “Out of the question. Pack my bride off to Bath, unchaperoned? Beau Nash would never let me live it down. I thought...your cousin...?”

“No. The Underhills have little room to entertain a guest. I doubt Cecily would be equal to it, in any case. I trust you are not suggesting I holiday with my stepbrother, for I’d sooner throw myself in the Thames!”

Her earlier tears hovered, ready to fall again. Even as she bit her lip and willed them back, one escaped, then another.

“There now, child. I had no idea you had so little family.”

He had hardly taken the time to find out, had he?

Sir Edmund knelt beside her, swiping his handkerchief across her face, as one would do with a howling infant. Julianna felt mortified.

“We will keep the staff on, and plan some entertainment for our first Christmas together,” he declared in a voice tinged with desperation.

Julianna pushed away his hand and his clumsy attempt to comfort her. She was not a child. She had survived worse than a lonely Christmas.

“No, Sir Edmund. I will not spoil the servants’ holiday. I’m quite capable of dressing myself and finding a bite to eat.” Something possessed her to add, “Could we not continue your accustomed arrangement? I know I am not an agreeable substitute for Crispin....” But neither are you. She was barely able to stifle this biting assertion.

“Not so. I should be delighted to have your company,” said Sir Edmund, evincing all the delight of a man facing tooth extraction. “You can help me celebrate, as Crispin used to. I believe he would like that.”

Sir Edmund departed, obviously relieved to make his escape and likely wondering what he had let himself in for. Julianna thanked heaven that she would be free from the disapproving eyes of the Fitzhugh servants for a few days. At the moment, she could imagine no better Christmas gift

Looking forward to her holiday lifted Julianna’s spirits. The following morning found her up at an early hour, preparing for an excursion into the City. At lunch, she ordered Brock to arrange her transport, mentioning her errand with the seamstress to forestall his usual diatribe.

Being so new from girlhood, Julianna had seldom dealt with tradespeople. However, she soon found herself taken under the wing of the motherly seamstress Cecily Underhill had recommended. Though Julianna recognized the woman’s obliging manner as mere merchant’s courtesy, she hungered for a kind word, whatever the source. She spent a pleasant two hours in the cozy shop, ordering a modest but suitable winter wardrobe.

“These gowns should do quite nicely, Mrs. Naseby, but I would like something new, and rather special—for Christmas.”

The seamstress wagged her finger. “Say no more, Lady Fitzhugh. I have the very thing. A customer ordered it, and by the time I’d got the cloth she wanted in just the color, all made up as she’d asked, wasn’t the lady big with child, and me stuck with the gown. The color should suit you nicely, my dear, with that pretty hair. I believe you’ll find it a perfect fit.”

Mrs. Naseby bustled off to the back room, calling behind her, “I offered it to several of my other customers, but they found the cost too dear. I’ll make you a good price of it, Lady Fitzhugh, just to take it off my hands.”

Julianna gasped at the sum mentioned but gasped again, in admiration, when she saw the ravishing swath of lustrous deep-green silk in the seamstress’s arms. She needed no urging to try it on and perform a turn before the mirror. The gown’s rich hue, with ruches of cream-colored lace at the elbows and bosom, brightened her hair and complexion. Having never owned so becoming a garment. Julianna was determined to buy this one. Let Mr. Brock choke over the bill when it crossed his desk. She would remind him, sweetly, that her costume must reflect well upon his master.

From the dressmaker’s, Julianna made the rounds of the milliner’s, the bookseller’s and the fruitmonger’s, before stopping at her cousin’s place of business. There she delivered Christmas presents for all the Underhills, and entrusted Francis with her letter to Winnie. Just as she was setting out for home, Jerome hailed her. This was their first encounter since her wedding. Better ten irascible stewards, thought Julianna, than a single Jerome.

“Upon my word, Lady Fitzhugh! So I have run you to ground at last, sister dear. You and your bridegroom have been keeping so low a profile, I wondered if you would ever emerge from your honeymoon. I know newlyweds are traditionally preoccupied, but Sir Edmund scarcely seems the uxorious type.”

Julianna could hardly wait to show Jerome what a fool they had made of him. For the moment she affected an offhand retort. “Jealous, Jerome?”

“Of you?” His smirk deepened into a sneer. “I like a more womanly figure. You’re fading away to transparency. I don’t believe it suits you—playing broodmare to your old stallion.”

Sir Edmund might not have won her affection, but he had gained Julianna’s unqualified gratitude and respect. She would not stand to hear him spoken of thus, particularly by Jerome. Stepping past him into her carriage, she leaned toward her stepbrother and purred in his ear, “Any sane woman would give herself to my husband a thousand times, before suffering vermin like you to kiss her hand.” At her signal, the carriage pulled away smartly. Not before she had time to savor Jerome’s murderous look.

Julianna returned home late in the day, well laden with packages and flushed with the triumph of finally putting her stepbrother in his place. Not even Brock’s bristling scrutiny could cow her.

“Have someone bring these packages to my sitting room, and ask Mrs. Davies if she can spare me a cup of chocolate.” Julianna pulled off her gloves. “Pray don’t glower so during this merry season, Mr. Brock. I am certain it will. have a detrimental effect on your digestion.”

Flouncing away from the sputtering steward, she met Sir Edmund descending the staircase. Immediately regretting her impudence, she ducked her head in shame, steeling herself for his rebuke. Much to her surprise, he passed without a word. When Julianna glanced up, his face looked grave and impassive as ever, but she detected an unmistakable twinkle in his gray eyes.


Chapter Four

“Milady!” squealed Gwenyth, “a new cap for me? What a treat!”

Holding up the daintily laced creation for inspection, Julianna passed it to her maid with a flourish and a warm smile.

“Yes, Gwenyth, you must be sure to wear it on your visit. I understand it is the latest style. It would not surprise me in the least if you received several marriage proposals, thanks to this cunning bit of millinery. So, you must promise not to desert me—unless your beau is quite irresistible! Take along these nuts and sweetmeats for your Christmas feast. Eat plenty, sleep late and enjoy yourself completely. I will expect an entertaining report of the festivities upon your return.”

Gwenyth’s attention strayed momentarily from contemplation of the exquisite little cap. Her brow puckered. “Are you sure you’ll be all right without me, ma‘am? ’Tis all very well, two men on their own for several days, but a lady needs her maid. Who will help you dress and bathe and do your hair?”

“Never fear. I am quite capable of drawing my own bath and pinning up my own hair. As for dressing—if I encounter a hook or lace that I cannot reach, what else is a husband for?”

The thought of Sir Edmund stooping to the incongruous role of tiring woman sent both maid and mistress into an irrepressible fit of laughter. Impulsively, Julianna took Gwenyth’s hand. “I shall miss your company and high spirits more than all the services you do me. I wish you the merriest of Christmasses.”

Two ponderous knocks at the sitting room door announced the presence of Mr. Brock. “Gwenyth, your aunt is looking for you. I believe your ride has arrived.”

Holding her new cap and other Christmas bounty behind her skirt, Gwenyth withdrew. Once the steward had turned his back on her, she flashed Julianna a broad grin and a wink.

“I will also be taking my leave within the hour,” Brock informed Julianna. “Do you require anything in the meantime?”

He presented such a grim aspect, she could not resist a gentle jape. “I only require, Mr. Brock, that you endeavor to enjoy your holiday. I promise to refrain from mischief in your absence—so far as in me lies.”

The teasing did not sit well with Brock, who stalked off, wearing a look that told Julianna he would love to upend her over his knee and whip her like a naughty child. In reply, she abandoned decorum, thrusting out her tongue at his retreating back.

Spying through the frosted pane of her window some time later, Julianna confirmed Brock’s departure, along with the last of the other servants. Momentarily overcome by the giddy freedom of a prisoner set at liberty, she let out a loud whoop and danced a clumsy pirouette across the sitting room before collapsing upon the chaise in a heap of helpless mirth.

When her laughter subsided, Julianna began to consider what to do with herself for the next two-and-a-half days. She thought of looking for Sir Edmund, but decided his reluctant company held little appeal. Then another idea seized her. What better opportunity to explore Fitzhugh House? Tossing a wrap around her shoulders, she set off.

She passed a pleasant hour lingering in the dim galleries, viewing Sir Edmund’s collection of paintings—an eclectic mixture of landscapes, portraits and still-life studies.

Gradually, Julianna noticed how quiet and empty the house had become without the muted comings and goings of the servants. Her footsteps on the parquet floor reverberated down the wide, shadowy corridor, and she felt a sudden shiver of nameless unease. Pulling open the first door that came to hand, she happened upon Sir Edmund’s suite. As he was not there to find her prying, she decided to indulge her curiosity with a furtive look around.

Though Sir Edmund’s apartment lacked a separate sitting room, his bedchamber looked much larger than her own. An enormous, old-fashioned bed occupied a considerable space. Tall and boxlike, with plain posts of dark wood and hangings of a somber olive hue, it was practically a room unto itself. Besides a chaise and armchair, the only other furnishings were a battered sea chest and an open-shelved cabinet that housed a collection of exotic-looking statuary and lacquerwork, together with a set of brass navigational tools. Framed maps and charts adorned the walls. It gave Julianna the distinct impression of standing in a captain’s cabin on some great ship. She could have sworn she smelled a faint tangy odor of the sea. A spartanly masculine domain, Sir Edmund’s apartment did not invite her to linger.

On her way back to her own rooms, Julianna suddenly inhaled a familiar scent. Even before she realized it was Crispin’s favorite pomade, her heart gave a happy lurch of recognition. Following the smell, she discovered his chamber. She had known, in an abstract fashion, that she was living in Crispin’s home. Yet it had never felt that way, until now. The bedchamber appeared tidy and impersonal, but the cluttered little dressing room looked as if its tenant had just stepped out and might return at any moment.

A brush held strands of Crispin’s chestnut curls among its bristles. The wardrobe bulged with coats that Julianna knew like old friends. Taking out a well-cut dark blue velvet, she drew it around herself. Eyes closed, she nuzzled her cheek against the soft nap of the lapel, inhaling the essence of Crispin that clung to the fabric. At that moment, Julianna returned to the gardens at Vauxhall, and the fragrant summer afternoon when Crispin Bayard had proposed to her.

In early June, the gardens were awash in a palette of pastel flowers, on a backdrop of dewy green foliage. Attended by the gallant captain, Julianna savored her first taste of the amusements offered there. They hummed along with popular airs, performed by a string consort. They viewed statuary and displays of Mr. Hogarth’s engravings. They nibbled from a bowl of strawberries in the refreshment pavilion. By far Julianna’s favorite diversion was wandering the verdant footpaths on the captain’s arm, absorbed in polite flirtation. Finding a secluded bench, they paused to rest. Her escort grew unwontedly quiet

“Have I tired out your voice as well as your legs, Captain?” she asked in jest, only to be taken aback by the grave, pensive set of his handsome features. “Or is something wrong?”

“Miss Ramsay...Julianna...” Upon his lips, her name sounded the most lyrical word in the language. “It is wrong of me to speak, but neither can I keep silent. With the hazardous undertaking before me, it could not be a worse time for romantic distractions...most unfair to any lady... advancing a compact of so long duration, with no assurance of my safe return...”

“Captain Bayard...Crispin...” His name sparkled on her tongue like champagne. “I believe I have kept you too long in the sun. You are not making a particle of sense.”

“No wonder. Since the day we met, I have taken leave of my senses. Sense tells me it is madness to meet with you so often, when I may not tender an honorable proposal. However, the light of your beauty and the music of your voice are too sweet a madness to resist.”

Languidly drawing off her glove, Julianna reached out to push that unruly curl back from his brow, as she had longed to do since their first meeting. Her hand strayed down his cheek. Crispin needed no further invitation to kiss her. Their lips made a delicious confection of berries and cream.

“Crispin, are you asking for my hand?” Julianna asked breathlessly, when he drew back.

“Could you consider it? Two years without you stretches ahead like a lifetime. Could you wait two years for me, and look to wed upon my return?”

Smiling pertly, she replied, “You have tasted my answer.”

His anxious expression eased into a smile of barely containable happiness. “Ah, but I grow forgetful as well as mad,” he teased. “Give me your answer again, that I may remember.”

Laughing with delight, she obliged. Then, as Crispin held her, she rested her cheek against the soft velvet of his coat.

When Julianna opened her eyes, she saw that Crispin’s dressing room had grown dark in the early winter twilight. She had no wish to roam the eerily echoing galleries of Fitzhugh House in this deep gloom. With a reluctant sigh, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and returned it to the wardrobe. Pausing at the door, she blew a kiss back into the empty room.

In the darkened corridor, Julianna soon became disoriented. After one or two unsuccessful attempts, she confidently pulled open her own door.

Edmund set aside his razor and bolted a swallow of brandy. Dutch courage, he thought, grimacing at his half-shaved face in the looking glass. Nonsense, another part of him countered, just a drop of oil to lubricate my tongue. Raising a skeptical eyebrow, he slid the blade of his razor from ear to chin in a single deft sweep. Not that he’d need to do much talking if that goose of a girl didn’t soon put in an appearance. Where could she have gone? He’d noticed nothing missing during a quick inspection of her rooms. So she couldn’t have run away—more the pity.

Four quick strokes shaved the stiff whiskers from Edmund’s upper lip. Dashedly inconsiderate of the girl, bolting to who-knew-where, after all the trouble he’d taken to secure them a stage-side box at Drury Lane tonight. Odd she’d go missing now. Ever since she’d blackmailed him into letting her stay for Christmas, she had looked in far brighter spirits. It had been everything he could do to keep a sober face when he’d overheard the little chit saucing Mordecai Brock. Thinking back on it, Edmund grinned to himself and tipped another draft of his brandy. About time Brock had somebody to put him in his place.

Tilting his head back, Edmund held the razor poised above his neck. He started at the sound of someone barging into his bedchamber. “Who’s there!” he barked—a wonder he hadn’t slit his throat from ear to ear!

“It is I, Sir Edmund,” came an apologetic squeak. “I lost my way in the galleries and opened your door by mistake. Please excuse the intrusion.”

Before he could reply, Edmund heard the door close again. With a growl of vexation, he dropped the razor and splashed a palmful of water on his face. Tugging on a coat and grabbing a candle, he set off after Julianna.

“No need to run away,” he said, puffing as he caught up with her. “I didn’t mean to snap your head off, but the noise startled me. Even as I called out, I realized it must be you. Ghosts seldom haunt new houses.”

She glanced over at him with a nervous smile, probably wondering if he meant to flay her alive over an honest mistake. Had he given her reason to think him such an ogre? With a spasm of chagrin, Edmund acknowledged the possibility.

“Besides...” He made an effort to allay her fears. “I have been looking for you. I reserved us a box at Drury Lane for this evening. The company is staging a revival of Mr. Congreve’s The Way of the World. It is an excellent piece, very amusing.”

“I have read the text of the play,” Julianna replied eagerly. “I would love to see it performed. This will be my first time at the theater. Papa always protested I was too young. He had finally promised to take me...” Her voice trailed off.

Fearing she might start blubbering, Edmund hurried on, determinedly cheerful. “Then I must keep his promise.”

They reached Julianna’s rooms, where Edmund immediately set to work banking the coals of her sitting room fire.

“You must dress quickly... and warmly,” he called over his shoulder. “They put small braziers in the boxes on cold nights, but it can take a while to heat up.”

Having completed his fire-tending chores, Edmund replaced the screen. He sat on the chaise for a few minutes, twiddling his thumbs. “Have you eaten yet?” he shouted in to Julianna, but received no reply. “I thought we might take a late supper at one of the eating houses around Covent Garden. If you get hungry in the meantime, we can always buy some oranges at the theater.”

Edmund sat for a few minutes more. Then he got up and wound Julianna’s mantel clock, admiring the Flemish craftsmanship. He sat down again, drumming an impatient tattoo with his fingers on the arm of the chaise. Though he had managed to forget many aspects of his first marriage, he still vividly recalled how long it had taken Amelia to dress for any outing. Despite lengthy preparations, the result had never satisfied her.

“Sir Edmund...”

He spun about to see Julianna standing in her bedroom door, the half-secured back of her snuff-brown frock presented to him.

“May I impose upon you to finish hooking my gown?” She gave a deprecatory laugh at her own plight “I’m unequal to the contortions required to reach the two between my shoulder blades.”

“This will be a new job for me,” Edmund quipped, “but I believe I can manage.” He set to the task, resolutely trying to ignore the tantalizing distraction of wispy red-gold curls clustered at the nape of Julianna’s neck.

When, for an instant, his fingertips brushed the warm silk of her skin, he was overwhelmed by disquieting memories of the kiss she had offered him on their wedding night—memories he had ruthlessly suppressed for weeks.

“There, how is that?” He quickly stepped back. “I think I have all the hooks matched with their eyes. Throw on a cloak, girl, and let us go before we miss the first act.”

Julianna fairly danced at his side as they walked down to the foyer of Fitzhugh House and climbed into the waiting carriage. She kept up a voluble chatter about the plays she had read and would like to see performed. Edmund relaxed, sensing that he need not contribute much to the conversation. He couldn’t help approving of the girl’s taste in reading matter and her cogently expressed opinions.

As they took their seats in a prominent front box, Edmund felt many eyes upon them. On the nearest faces he read mingled respect and envy. How curious that no displays of his wealth had ever occasioned such covetous looks as his squiring of a beautiful young woman. Edmund scowled, trying to mask the ridiculous rush of elation that surged within him as the play commenced.

It concerned family intrigue—a battle for control over the estate of Lady Wishfort. Through the evening, Edmund found his glance often straying sidelong, to catch Julianna’s reaction to a particular jest or bit of stage business. She sat indecorously hunched forward, elbows resting on the lip of the box. Her chin cupped in one hand, his young wife appeared blind and deaf to anything but Congreve’s brilliant comedy.

Every nuance of the action played across Julianna’s luminous, mobile features. No one in the theater that evening laughed so readily and merrily at the subtlest quip. No one clapped with such appreciative glee when a favorite character gained the upper hand. No one joined so enthusiastically in the ovation when the actors took their bows. Edmund found his own laughter and applause flowing with less than usual restraint. Never could he remember enjoying an evening of theater so keenly. Julianna’s spontaneous delight was as contagious as it was refreshing.

The air had turned milder and damp when Edmund steered Julianna through the stream of exiting theatergoers. They made their way to supper on foot, through the light Christmas fog. A group of waits, the Yuletide street musicians employed by London’s aldermen, was performing carols near the busy intersection of Catherine and Russell Streets. As Edmund and Julianna approached, the waits concluded a lively rendition of “I Saw Three Ships.”

“My father’s favorite carol,” Julianna mused aloud.

In the diffuse glow of the streetlamp, Edmund looked down into her rosy girlish face. He saw a wistful luster in her wide doe eyes. Why, she was little more than a child, he realized, an orphaned child living on the charity of a virtual stranger. Who could blame her if she pined, or wept, or craved the poor comfort of his company? Edmund felt his craggy features warmed by a kindly, almost paternal smile.

‘“Three Ships’ is my favorite carol, as well,” he said, “like many an old sailor.” With that, he fished in his waistcoat pocket for a few coins to offer the waits.

Carriages clattered to and fro on the cobbles of busy Bow Street as they crossed. On a side street near Covent Garden, they entered a building whose signboard ostentatiously proclaimed it Eldridge’s Select Supper Club. Engrossed in the play, Julianna had not given food a second thought Now, as a host of succulent aromas assailed her nose, she found herself heartily famished. The warmth of the dining alcove made a pleasant change from the drafty theater box. A glass of port warmed her further, whetting her already sharp appetite to a keen pitch.

Fortunately, the food soon arrived. It was abundant and delicious: clear soup, rabbit smothered in onions, accompanied by herb dumplings, braised celery and carrots. Julianna groaned when offered her favorite Banbury cakes. If only she could have loosened the stays of her corset to relieve the pressure on her stomach! Throughout the meal, Sir Edmund ate little, as was his wont, but imbibed of his wine more liberally than usual. Perhaps for that reason he proved a surprisingly agreeable conversationalist. Julianna found their usual tongue-tied formality eased.

“Do I take it, from your rapt attention this evening, that you enjoyed the play?” he asked.

“It was everything I could have hoped,” Julianna sighed.

“Fitzhugh, old fellow!” A voice rang out. “Thought it must be you. Spotted you from clear the other side of the playhouse. Thought you might come back here for a bite. Haven’t seen you about the town in months. Had to indulge me curiosity and seek out the identity of your lovely young companion. Miss.”

The man executed an exaggerated bow in Julianna’s direction—a perilous feat for one so diminutive in height and almost perfectly spherical in shape. An ill-fitting peruke perched precariously upon the top of his head, and a roguish patch covered one eye.

Sir Edmund responded guardedly. “No, I have not been about in the evenings of late. This is my wife.” He hesitated over that last word, then smiled apologetically at Julianna. “My dear, may I present Langston Carew, Esquire. Carew, Lady Julianna Fitzhugh. Her father was the late Mr. Alistair Ramsay.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.” The little fellow beamed. “Knew your father slightly. Well, Fitzhugh, forgoing the bachelor’s life at this late date, what? Wise man! If I could find a pretty little baggage like this to warm me old bones on a winter’s night, I’d never step from me own hearth! Haw, haw!”

Sir Edmund cringed visibly. Julianna wondered if he expected her to take offense. In fact, every aspect of this comical old gallant proclaimed such honest admiration and irrepressible good humor, she felt drawn to Langston Carew. In reply to his ribald comments, she lavished upon him her most radiant smile.

Less amused, Sir Edmund fixed his mouth in an upturned grimace. His tone conveyed a forced pretense of cordiality. “Perhaps you should think of marrying, Carew. Never too late, they say.”

“Ahem. Yes, I suppose. Well, I’ll not keep you from your dinners. A merry Christmas, Sir Edmund and Lady Fitzhugh. Perhaps we’ll see more of you about the town this winter!”

Sir Edmund nodded dismissively. “Aye, Carew, perhaps.”

When Carew had retired out of earshot, Sir Edmund addressed Julianna on the quiet. “A vulgar old devil, but not bad at heart. He was the assistant factor at Madras when I was there.”

The information intrigued her. “You must tell me more of your adventures in the Indies, Sir Edmund.”

“Yes,” he replied, without offering to go on.

Just as they ascended the stairs, the tall pedestal clock in the entry hall of Fitzhugh House struck one. Sir Edmund escorted Julianna to her rooms. Once again he attended to her fire, and checked the level of coal in the scuttle. Then he turned from the hearth, rubbing a smudge of soot from his fingertips.

“Mr. Handel is giving a private presentation of his latest oratorio tomorrow evening at Haymarket. I have heard good reports of the work since it was performed in Dublin. The concert will raise funds for the Foundling Hospital. As a patron, I should attend. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Yes, please, Sir Edmund.” Julianna clapped her hands eagerly. “I so admire Mr. Handel’s music!”

“Now, now,” he cautioned, “do not expect too much. This is not a public premiere, more of a formal rehearsal.”

“I am sure I shall not be disappointed. Good night, Sir Edmund. Thank you for the play and the supper. I cannot recall when I have enjoyed myself more.”

At her door, Sir Edmund turned and posed an unexpected question. “You miss your father very much, Julianna?”

Perhaps because his query caught her off her guard, she answered with simple sincerity. “I do—especially at this time of year. We were very close.”

“I envy you.” She could scarcely hear his reply. Perhaps he had not intended it for her ears at all.

Before she could reply or question, he was gone.

Hurriedly Julianna undressed and burrowed, shivering, under the bedclothes. Bright scenes from the play danced through her mind. She smiled to herself in the darkness, anticipating tomorrow’s concert. Drifting toward sleep, she found her thoughts turning again and again to the enigma of Sir Edmund. Yawning, she shook her head in private perplexity. He could be such pleasant company one minute, then turn stonily reticent the next. For Crispin’s sake, she wanted to make a friend of his uncle. And for Sir Edmund’s sake as well. Beneath his show of cool self-sufficiency, she sensed a core of deep loneliness.


Chapter Five

The next morning, Julianna lingered in bed as long as she dared, dreading exposure to the chilly air. There were distinct disadvantages, she decided, to giving all one’s servants a holiday. She had become spoiled—used to rising in a warm room with hot water to wash and a steaming cup of tea to drink. Driven by hunger, Julianna finally took a deep breath and bolted from her bed. Hurriedly, she dressed in her warmest gown. Entering her sitting room, she found the fire already burning. On her breakfast table sat a plate of buttered bread and a pot of tea, still hot She could only smile to herself and shake her head, no closer to solving the riddle of Sir Edmund Fitzhugh.

Again that evening, Julianna considered wearing her new green silk gown. In the end, she decided it might be too bright and fashionable for an evening of sacred music. Instead, she settled on a frock of genteel gray. Its color gave her complexion a sallow cast, while the cut made her look no more than twelve years old. Julianna comforted herself with the thought that she was going to watch and listen, and not to display herself. She was beginning to regret her impulsive purchase of the stunning emerald gown she could never find an occasion to wear.

Any worries over her costume vanished with the opening bars of the oratorio. Though it was ostensibly a rehearsal, the musicians were doubtless aware of their highly critical audience and determined to perform well. London music lovers had turned out at the Opera House in force, curious for a taste of the work Dublin had received so well.

Julianna had never heard so many instruments and voices massed. In her estimation, the resulting music beggared description. The soloists’ fine voices soared above the lush orchestration in melodies so evocative and hauntingly familiar she longed to sing with them. During the great “Hallelujah,” the very air throbbed with exultant music. Lost in the moment, she reached for Sir Edmund’s hand, clasping it tightly. As the piece ended, she stirred from her trance and pulled her fingers away, her cheeks burning.

Under cover of the polite applause, Sir Edmund leaned toward her and whispered, “You mirror my feelings precisely. I understand Handel composed this work in three weeks. Having heard it, I can only credit Divine inspiration.”

A reception for the hospital patrons followed the concert. Julianna noted with chagrin that the other ladies had all dressed in high style. Beside them she looked thoroughly dowdy and callow. Embarrassment changed to resentment when she intercepted several surreptitious glances and covert nods in her direction. Her youth, not her dress, was drawing this silent censure.

Parity in age between a husband and wife was hardly a general circumstance, she mused indignantly. It could take years for a man to earn or inherit the means to support a family. By that time he must marry a younger woman, capable of breeding. Ten or fifteen years between husband and wife would not raise an eyebrow. However, when the gap widened to a score, folks looked askance at a so-called “Smithfield match,” with all the mercenary implications of the Smithfield cattle market.

She could tell Sir Edmund was aware of the critical scrutiny bent upon them. He strode about, stiff as buckram and painfully civil in his introductions. With an immense feeling of relief, Julianna spied a group of familiar figures, friends of her late father. Hauling Sir Edmund in her wake, she approached the gentlemen with an effusive greeting.

Mr. Kelway squinted in Julianna’s direction. Recognizing her, he called out, “Upon my word, fellows, if it isn’t our little tyrant, Miss Ramsay! My dear, I just returned from Florence and was shocked to hear the sad news of your father. He will be sadly missed.”

His companions nodded with vaguely sympathetic murmurings. Caught off guard by these expressions of condolence, Julianna could think of little by way of response.

“How kind of you to say so,” was her subdued reply. Then she brightened. “Gentlemen, may I introduce my husband, Sir Edmund Fitzhugh. Sir Edmund, Messrs. Smith, Nares and Kelway, fine musicians all. They very nearly wore out the strings of my father’s harpsichord, but in a glorious cause.”

The gentlemen bowed and shook hands all around. Sir Edmund opened with the expected conversational gambit. “You brought trained ears to this evening’s entertainment, gentlemen. What were your impressions?”

Nares’s lip curled. “Oh, it might have been worse. I expected wonders after the laudatory notices from Dublin.”

The other two musicians reacted with sagacious nods. “I must admit—” Smith pointed heavenward “—he had a good librettist.”

This caused some laughter but Nares resumed his carping tone. “I still say this piece won’t add anything to Handel’s popularity. The king may like his music but everyone else disdains it, to spite German Georgie.”

Sir Edmund did not let that go unanswered. “Society has come to a sorry pass indeed, when the appreciation of music becomes a province of politics.”

“Our friend Mr. Arne quite liked it,” ventured Kelway “Though that may simply be clannishness on his part, for his sister’s performance was very well received. I believe it has salvaged her reputation. Did you hear what the Dean of Dublin Cathedral pronounced upon hearing Mrs. Cibber sing her aria?”

To their questioning looks, he intoned ecclesiastically, “‘Woman, for this, are thy sins forgiven thee!’”

The three musicians laughed heartily.

Their merriment soon evaporated in the face of Sir Edmund’s curt rebuke. “Need I remind you gentleman there is a lady present?”

The three men reddened like schoolboys caught at mischief. Kelway muttered his apologies as they moved off. Behind the cover of her fan, Julianna cast them an apologetic smile. Privately, she found it sweetly amusing that Sir Edmund should spring to the defense of her feminine sensibilities.

The Cibber scandal was cold, albeit salacious gossip. Joseph Kelway had undoubtedly assumed she knew every unsavory detail since gossip claimed Jerome had played a particularly odious role in the whole shameful business. Still, if Sir Edmund chose to think of her as some paragon of innocence, Julianna was in no hurry to disabuse him. Having long admired Cervantes’ tragicomic senor de La Manche, she was flattered to play Dulcinea to his Quixote.

Sir Edmund spoke little on the drive home. Julianna wondered if he was still privately bristling over the implied censure of their marriage. Trying to draw him out, she asked how he had come to be involved with the Foundling Hospital, under construction in Bloomsbury. He quickly warmed to the topic.

“Thomas Coram instigated it all, and he press-ganged me early in the venture. As an old fellow seaman, he played upon the soft heart our kind are wont to harbor for needy children. I have little sympathy for the gin-swilling layabouts and cutpurses that make up half the parish paupers’ rolls. Still, no person of conscience can fail to pity the innocent infants who perish on the streets of this prosperous city every day, for want of care. Perhaps if there was some refuge for their mothers in the first place...” His voice trailed off and Julianna wondered if, once again, he was seeking to shield her from life’s darker side.

“Suffice it to say, there are two kinds of men in this world,” Sir Edmund continued in a tone of asperity. “Those who believe it is the prerogative of the strong to prey upon the weak, and those who know it is the duty of the strong to protect the weak. Unfortunately, the former far outnumber the latter.”

Nodding her agreement, Julianna smothered a yawn. Not because Sir Edmund’s conversation bored her—quite the contrary. But this would be her second evening in a row keeping late hours. Despite heavy eyelids, she vastly preferred the past two merry evenings to her former, cheerless early nights.

Leaning back on the comfortably upholstered seat of the carriage, she dismissed the reception from her mind. Instead, she concentrated on the beautiful music that had so touched her. Closing her eyes, she quietly hummed one especially sweet melody:

He shall gather the lambs with his arm, And carry them in his bosom.

Poised on the brink of sleep, she pictured the gentle, protective shepherd with her husband’s face.

Julianna was making music again the next morning. As soon as she had risen and dressed, she continued a Christmas tradition once shared with her grandmother. Plucking her harp by the light of the fire, she sang a plygain—a Welsh “dawn carol.” “The love of our dear Shepherd will always be a wonderment,” it began. Love in any incarnation, thought Julianna, would always be a wonderment,

Plygain sung, she felt truly in the Christmas spirit. She tiptoed down the hallway, treading with special care past Sir Edmund’s door. The kitchen was in rather a litter from the past two days of foraging for their meals. She would attend to that soon enough. First she started the great cook fire and set some water to heat for washing, and for tea. While the kettle boiled, Julianna cleared away the food scraps and stacked the dishes. Investigating the larder, she discovered a flitch of lean bacon and enough other foodstuffs to make a decent hot breakfast. Thankfully, Winnie had taught her the art of cookery.

Julianna remembered the old woman’s admonition. “You cannot always count on having help around, my girl. A body’s come to a sad pass when they can’t get themselves a bite.”

She hoped Winnie would soon receive her letter and rest easy about her fate. Perhaps when Crispin returned home, they could bring Winnie back to London. She would be getting past much useful work by then, but having her with them would complete Julianna’s happiness. How it would please Winnie to rock another generation of Gryffud infants in their cradles. Thinking ahead to that pretty domestic scene, Julianna let her hands work away, washing up and preparing the meal.

“Am I the slugabed this morning?”

At that casual query from the doorway, Julianna gasped and nearly dropped the platter she was washing.

“S-sir Edmund,” she sputtered, “you must have a tread like a cat! I never hear you coming.”

“A useful skill, perfected long ago. I do it without thinking now, and I’m afraid it often gets me into trouble.” He inhaled appreciatively. “What smells so delicious?”

Julianna gave a proprietary glance around the tidy kitchen, to the savory steam rising from the cook pots. “I thought a hot meal might make a pleasant change for Christmas morning. I fried up a mess of bacon and griddle cakes. I will just set the eggs to boil and make the tea. Could you assemble the dishes and cutlery on a tray? We can take breakfast in my sitting room. It should be warm in there by now.”

Sir Edmund pulled a mock salute. “Very well, zir, I have my orders.” His voice was a perfect take on the Somerset accent of their head coachman, all growling “r‘s” and buzzing “z’s”.

Julianna could not help laughing. “Was your gift for mimicry also a skill perfected long ago?”

“You might say so.” Sir Edmund flashed a rueful grin. “It is certainly another that gets me into trouble. If someone speaks to me in an unusual accent, I have a terrible habit of unconsciously incorporating bits of it into my own voice, until I sound just like them. People tend to think they are the butt of my fun, and take it rather ill.”

With some difficulty, they managed to carry all the food and utensils to the upper floor. The fire burned brightly in Julianna’s grate and the little sitting room felt deliciously warm. She and Sir Edmund both tucked into the food with a right good will. When he had cleaned his plate, Sir Edmund leaned back and patted his stomach.

“I don’t know when I have enjoyed a meal so much,” he declared heartily. “My thanks to you.”

Julianna smiled over her teacup. “It was the least I could do, after all your kindness to me of late. Just don’t let Mrs. Davies hear you praise my cooking!”

“Auntie Enid. Yes, I daresay she’d not be pleased about that, now, would she?” This time he spoke in the cook’s Welsh singsong falsetto. They both laughed.

“My grandmother always made much over Christmas,” Sir Edmund mused softly. “She grew up before the Civil War. Later, Cromwell’s government banned all Yuletide festivities. Grandmother always complained that Christmas was never as merry again, even after the Restoration. Since my father was so busy with church duties at that time of year, he would pack Alice and me off to Abbot’s Leigh until Twelfth Night or later. I looked forward to it all the year.”

Sir Edmund suddenly recalled himself, his smile twisting into a wry grin. He drew a narrow box from his waistcoat pocket.

“Here is a small gift, to celebrate the day. You may consider it from Crispin, and me.” The final words sounded to Julianna like a self-conscious afterthought.

“Why, thank you, Sir Edmund. That is very...oh...”

Lifting the lid, Julianna discovered a pendant on a heavy gold chain. It was a large cabochon emerald, cut very shallow.

“It opens,” Sir Edmund prompted her.

Indeed, the setting was delicately hinged at one side. When Julianna folded the pendant open, the most exquisite miniature of Crispin smiled back at her. The artist had captured his likeness so perfectly that it brought both a smile to her lips and a tear to her eye. How marvelous to see that beloved face again, after all these months!

“I had it commissioned before he left,” said Sir Edmund. “I thought it a very fine likeness. I knew you would treasure it.”

“Oh, I do! Indeed, I do! Thank you.” The only proper expression of her gratitude was an impulsive embrace, which Hustered Sir Edmund a trifle. He pulled back from her, clutching his teacup and raising it in the air, as if to ward her off.

“Shall we drink a toast to Crispin? To his successful voyage and safe return.”

“Oh, Sir Edmund, I almost forgot. I have a gift for you.” Rummaging through her father’s desk, Julianna extracted the book she had bought. “Just a token.”

“Well, well, a book by Mr. Fielding. Joseph Andrews. Newly printed, is it? It must be, for I do not have a copy—until now. I admire Fielding’s plays, so I trust this will be enjoyable reading. My thanks.”

Breakfast over, they cleared the dishes away and dressed for church. Not for the first time did Julianna thank a merciful God for her deliverance from Jerome and for the safe haven she had found with Sir Edmund. She prayed for Crispin’s safety at sea, for the success of his venture and for his swift return.

After church, they bolted a cold luncheon and prepared to receive the carolers who traditionally made their rounds on Christmas Day. The dull green fire of her emerald pendant made Julianna decide to wear her new gown, though she grumbled to herself that it was far too grand for such an occasion. Once dressed, she could not find a way to arrange her hair that suited her. In truth, it looked best falling free. Since they were not going out, she determined to leave it in this unfashionable but becoming style.

Descending the staircase, Julianna paused halfway down. When Sir Edmund looked up, she could have sworn he uttered an unintentional gasp of admiration.

“Whenas in silks, Julianna goes,

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows

That liquefaction of her clothes.”

He quoted Herrick with a slight alteration in her favor. Julianna replied with a toss of her curls and a flirtatious smile. She was secretly more flattered by his first unguarded response than by the mannered courtesy of his words.

“Your compliments are so gallant, Sir Edmund.” She fluttered her fan. “If only you would tender them more often.”

His mock scowl did not conceal a discernible reddening of Sir Edmund’s complexion. “Pray, do not try to vamp me, young lady,” he growled. “Every wise businessman knows that any currency thrown about too freely loses its value.”

Julianna poured two dippers of punch. “Are you all wise businessman, Sir Edmund., practicing thrift and parsimony even while paying court? Crispin is more the poet—lavish and profligate with his compliments.” She offered him a cup. “I don’t believe we ever completed the toast you proposed at breakfast. Here’s to Crispin and the success of his voyage. Two years hence, may we three raise a glass together.”

They soon found themselves immersed in company. Word of Sir Edmund’s hospitality had evidently spread, for the parade of carolers came on and on. There were groups as small as three or four and others numbering more than a dozen. Some were workmates. Others, originally from elsewhere in the country, had come together to sing the traditional carols of their region. The tailors sang their accustomed “Coventry Carol,” rendering the sweet, poignant harmonies particularly well.

Most groups entered and sang their piece, then stayed on for some food and drink. While taking their refreshment, they listened to the next group or two, then continued on their way with a few coins from Sir Edmund.

As a group from the West Country broke into a chorus of their traditional “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” the rest of the company joined in, including the host and hostess. At the end of this rousing song, a cheer went up and a voice from the crowd called out, “What about a tune for us, Sir Edmund? Ma’am?”

Julianna was about to demur, when Sir Edmund drew out her harp from beneath a table. “I forgot to mention,” he whispered, “this is also part of our Christmas tradition. Do you know ‘I Sing of a Maiden’?”

“You might have warned me, so we could have practiced.”

“You will find our audience decidedly uncritical.”

Julianna tentatively plucked out the notes on her harp, and together they sang the archaic words of the carol. Sir Edmund’s deep rich singing voice blended well with her own husky tones. Their audience proved most appreciative. People began calling out tunes for her to play and all joined in the singing.

It was late when the last of their guests departed. Tired from the early morning and the activity of their Christmas celebrations, Julianna felt rather flushed from the wine punch and the press of warm bodies in the room all day.

“Shall we clean this up now, Sir Edmund, or in the morning?” She sighed, looking around dispiritedly at the dirty cups and the muddy footprints on the marble floor.

“Leave it.” Sir Edmund’s voice sounded hoarse and weary. “Crispin and I never touched a thing other years. Some of the servants will be back early tomorrow—those visiting in London. They can take care of it. I suggest you stay abed until someone comes to light your fires and bring your breakfast. I know I intend to.” He shivered. “I believe I have caught a chill from the draft of the door opening and closing all afternoon.”

“Oh, I am sorry, Sir Edmund.” Julianna saw that his face also appeared flushed. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you, my dear. A drop of Hungary water before bed and a good night’s sleep should put me right. Good night.”

As they parted ways for the night, Sir Edmund called softly after her, down the shadowy corridor, “I am glad you decided to stay for the holiday. I enjoyed your company.”

“And I, yours, Sir Edmund. Rest well.” Julianna hoped the pleasant companionship she had shared with Crispin’s uncle over these past days might continue into the winter. Somehow, she. doubted it would survive the servants’ return.


Chapter Six

The return of the servants had certain benefits, Julianna discovered. It was pleasant to sleep late the next morning, without the prospect of dressing in the chilly air. She had not been awake long when a girl came to tend the fires. Gwenyth and her aunt would be spending a few more days in Chatham, visiting relatives of the late Mr. Davies. Julianna longed to see Gwenyth again and exchange the news of their respective holidays. From Hetty, who brought her breakfast, she learned that Mr. Brock had returned bright and early. She wondered how much of her recent felicity had been due to the absence of the lowering steward.

After the excitement and activity of Christmas, St. Stephen’s Day proved decidedly dreary. Julianna found herself unaccountably hungry for Sir Edmund’s company, though she doubted they could recapture the easy camaraderie of the past several days. There was no sign of him at luncheon. A search of the library yielded nothing more promising than a well-worn copy of Pilgrim’s Progress. Julianna borrowed it for want of better diversion. She assumed Sir Edmund must be keeping to his rooms, perhaps nursing the chill he had taken yesterday. Mr. Brock was very much in evidence, supervising the cleanup and organizing an abbreviated staff. Late in the afternoon, desperate for any kind of human society, Julianna tried to engage him in conversation.

“You had a pleasant Christmas, I trust, Mr. Brock.”

Brock continued to put the house in order while delivering an offhand reply. “Aye, ma’am. Pleasant enough.”

“You stayed in London?”

“Rotherhithe, ma’am,” came Brock’s short reply, speaking of an area on the south bank of the Thames.

“With friends or family?” Julianna persisted.

The steward’s eyes narrowed beneath his ferocious brows, but his answer remained civil. “With my brother and his family, ma‘am. Will that be everything, ma’am?”

Julianna found herself enjoying the show of consternation Mr. Brock took few pains to hide. Some streak of perversity kept her from acknowledging his question.

“I expect you would like to hear how Sir Edmund and I fared in your absence.” She rushed on before he could refuse. “We fared admirably, I think, though I would not care to do without our staff, on a continuing basis. Did Sir Edmund tell you we attended the theater and a charity concert? The music was superb. Yesterday we hosted the carolers, and even did a little musical turn of our own. I had no idea my husband possessed such a fine singing voice. Does it not sound a thoroughly enjoyable program?” she concluded breathlessly.

His nostrils flared, and for an instant Julianna feared he meant to pick her up and administer a sound shaking. The intent blazed in his face. Brock’s voice was barely under control as he growled, “It sounds a thoroughly exhausting program for one of Sir Edmund’s weak constitution. Little wonder he has taken to his bed, poor man. If I had been here—”

She would not stand a lecture from this man, as if any ailment of Sir Edmund’s might be her fault. “Surely your master is well past years of discretion, Mr. Brock, and capable of choosing his own activities.”

The steward turned on his heel and stalked off. He had done so, Julianna suspected, to forestall doing her an injury. Well, much as he might have wanted to shake her, she wanted equally to shake him. In spite of her pert reply, his barb had struck home. She had known of Sir Edmund’s poor health, noted his slight appetite and how easily he tired. Perhaps she should have gone away for a few days and given him a chance to rest, instead of enduring a succession of late nights and improvised meals. What a fine way to repay all his kindness! For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Julianna opened her locket for a glimpse of Crispin’s reassuring smile.

“Alice!”

Julianna jolted awake, her stomach in knots, her breath shallow and rapid. A dream. She sank back into her pillows, laughing at her own foolishness. She had been dreaming the strangest dream about Crispin in a Greek toga and herself in a classical chiton, saying their goodbyes in the gardens at Vauxhall. He had professed his love for her, then called her by the name Alice. When she had protested that her name was not Alice, but Julianna, he had begun to shake her and demand to know what she had done with Alice.

“Alice...”

The faint, distant cry made Julianna gasp and clutch the bedclothes before her, as she had clutched the chiton in her dream. Was she dreaming still? Then, as her waking mind began to function, she realized the voice intruding upon her dreams could have only one source—Sir Edmund. Grasping the bell at her bedside, she rang it vigorously. Gwenyth soon came running to answer her summons. The girl shivered in her wrap and nightcap but looked far too alert to have been recently woken.

“Gwenyth, what is going on?” Julianna demanded. “Is that Sir Edmund I hear?”

“Oh yes, ma’am. The master’s ever so ill.” Gwenyth rattled off her tale in a nervous staccato burst. “Clean mad with the fever, Auntie says. Did Mr. Brock not tell you? It’s that sickness he caught years ago in the tropics. He takes a spell of it every few years. He was ill the first winter I came here, see, and he almost died that time. Auntie says she’s never seen him worse than this. He’s been calling for his sister off and on for an hour now. Mr. Brock is at his wits’ end to quiet him.”

Julianna felt a sickening pang of self-reproach. “Can nothing be done?”

Gwenyth’s shoulders rose in a shrug, her lips pursed. “I dunno, ma’am. Not a doctor, am I? Mr. Brock’s sent John for the barber-surgeon. Perhaps he can—”

“No!”

Gwenyth’s words galvanized Julianna and brought forth a flood of vivid, painful memories. It had been dark and cold and late—just like this—on the night years ago when Winnie had shaken her from a sound sleep. Myfanwy Penallen was dying and wanted her little granddaughter with her at the end. Julianna would never forget her grandmother’s blanched skin, sunken eyes and wasted body. The red-gold hair about which she had once been so vain dulled to a ruddy ash, her strength and spirit bled and purged away—almost. A dash of pepper spiced her last words, flung at Alistair Ramsay over his daughter’s head.

“I’d not have died, if you hadn’t tried to cure me!”

That final, venomous accusation hung in the air after the old lady’s heart and breath had stilled and Winnie had taken Julianna back to her own bed. It had shaken Alistair Ramsay. No barber-surgeon ever crossed his threshold after that night. Over the years he had cultivated patronage for a rising young cadre of scientific physicians. Julianna was equally determined to allow no barber-surgeon in her house.

“Gwenyth, is there an old gown of Mrs. Bayard’s about?” she asked, a plan beginning to take shape in her mind.

“Oh yes, milady,” the girl replied, a query in her voice. “These used to be Mrs. Bayard’s rooms, see? Before you came, they were just as she left them. When we rearranged it all for you, her belongings just got moved across the hall, and—”

“Good.” Julianna had heard all she needed to hear. “Go fetch me one of her gowns, and be quick about it.”

As Gwenyth departed on her errand, Julianna took a moment to collect her wits. Feeling responsible for Sir Edmund’s condition, she resolved to remedy the situation in any way possible. From what Gwenyth had told her, the most urgent tasks would be to calm Sir Edmund and to keep the barber-surgeon at bay. Any action on her part would likely call down the wrath of the formidable Mr. Brock. By the time Gwenyth returned, Julianna was trying to steel herself for the confrontation.

“I hope this will do, ma’am. There are others, but I took the first that came to hand.”

Julianna fanned her nose against the camphoric fumes of Mrs. Davies’s mothproofing preparation. “This will have to serve. Tomorrow, make sure to have the rest aired, in case I need them. Help brush my hair up under this cap. Now, back to bed, Gwenyth. I may need your help tomorrow, so you must get your rest.”

As she made her way down the dark gallery, Julianna’s heart raced. Her palms felt cold and damp. She would sooner face down a great wild beast than her husband’s ferocious steward. Sir Edmund’s cries grew weaker, but no less agitated, as she approached his apartment. Hearing footsteps behind her, she spun around to find a young footman escorting a capped and cloaked stranger. Julianna recognized the satchel he carried.

Taking a deep breath, she thrust out her hand. “Doctor?”

The gentleman set down his case, doffed his hat and bowed over her hand. “Jonas Hanley, ma’am. I was summoned to attend Sir Edmund Fitzhugh. I understand his condition is very grave.”

A poor choice of words, Julianna reflected. “I am Lady Fitzhugh, Mr. Hanley. I regret we have summoned you out at so late an hour on a cold night. I must apologize for the misunderstanding. My husband will not require your services, after all.”

The surgeon opened his mouth to voice his obvious annoyance, but Julianna managed to forestall his tirade.

“Of course, we will recompense you handsomely for your trouble. John, show Mr. Hanley to the drawing room and poor him a cup of port to warm his journey home.”

“But, milady, Mr. Breck’ll...”

“Leave Mr. Brock to me, John.” Julianna strove to interject the proper note of matronly authority. “You have my orders.”

The men turned back, the surgeon huffing and clucking. Julianna overheard the young footman muttering excuses for the whims of his employers. She watched with relief as they retreated down the hallway. She knew better than to hope her next encounter would resolve itself so smoothly. Bracing her shoulders and muttering a prayer under her breath, she pushed open Sir Edmund’s door.

The light in the room was dim, fortunately. Sir Edmund half sat, half reclined upon his high bed, asking again and again for Alice. Mordecai Brock leaned over his master, vainly trying to calm the sick man and induce him to lie still. At the sound of the door, Brock looked over his shoulder.

“Doctor, at last...” He spied Julianna. His face, at first a mask of bewilderment, clouded with rage as he recognized her. “Get out of here, now!” His blazing eyes declared that he would rend her limb from limb. However, the steward’s body could not completely shield his master from the apparition at the door.

“Alice, you have come at last!” Sir Edmund collapsed back onto his pillows.

“Yes, Edmund, I am here.” Julianna moved toward the bed. Though she addressed her words to the patient, she kept her eyes locked on Mordecai Brock, daring him to stop her.

Sweat beaded Sir Edmund’s brow and his eyes were eerily vacant. Julianna put her hand to his fiery forehead.

“Lie still, my dear. Alice is here. You must sleep, while I sit with you and bathe your head.” Such words would a loving mother croon to a sick child. They had their desired effect.

“Yes, Alice, will try to rest.” Sir Edmund nodded with childlike contrition. “I feel so strange. I am glad you have come. I called and called for you.”

“Shh, you must not talk now, Edmund. Lie back and close your eyes. Mr. Brock, bring me a cloth and a basin of tepid water. And see that no one disturbs us, on any account.”

“May I speak to you in private, ma’am?” The steward pitched his voice low, so as not to rouse Sir Edmund, but Julianna could see a vein throbbing at one temple of his rage-mottled face.

“One moment, Mr. Brock.” She turned back to the bed. “Now, Edmund, I must step outside for an instant. I know you feel hot and unwell, but try to rest quietly.”

Sir Edmund raised her hand to a cheek rough with several days’ growth of whiskers. By contrast, his words were those of a plaintive little boy. “I will do as you say, Alice. Only, come back very soon.”

Once they were alone in the gallery, with a closed door separating them from Sir Edmund, Mordecai Brock erupted in a muted explosion of fury.

“What do you think you are playing at, jade? Have you not done damage enough, cavorting around London last week, getting him run down and prey to this? I have my hands full with him and I will not put up with your playacting and upsetting him further. Now get back to bed, before I pick you up and dump you there!”

Mordecai Brock was shorter in stature than Sir Edmund. By balancing high on her toes, Julianna could look him directly in the eye, her face within inches of his.

“Do that and it will be your last act as steward of this house.” Julianna strove to keep her voice firm, but dispassionate. She suspected he might strike her if she inflamed his temper further. If it happened, she would have no choice but to dismiss him. That was not her aim.

Her words must have left the steward momentarily speechless, for she was able to continue in a more conciliatory vein. “I will excuse your outburst, Mr. Brock, considering how distraught you are over my husband’s illness. But, mark me, I will not show such clemency again. In the first place, not that it is any of your business, our two Christmas outings were entirely Sir Edmund’s idea. Had you told me of the possible danger to my husband’s health, I would certainly have refused his invitations and contrived to keep him at home. Secondly, my ‘playacting’ seems to have done far more good than harm. Even I can see my husband needs to relax and rest. Believe it or not, I desire Sir Edmund’s recovery as much as you do. I can best accomplish that with your aid, but if need be, I will manage on my own. You have a choice, Mr. Brock, so consider well. Give me the assistance I need and the respect I deserve as mistress of this house or leave now and hinder me no more.”

To Julianna, the silence that followed her audacious little speech stretched on interminably. Her legs were beginning to shake and her breath was coming too quickly. Still, she dared not flinch from Mordecai Brock’s testing gaze.

At last he declared, “I will stay. Not on account of your daft threats but because you bear watching, my girl.”

“A wise choice, Mr. Brock.” Her voice almost broke. Drawing a deep breath, she added, with more confidence than she felt, “Your motives are nothing to me, for I can stand the scrutiny.”

Rather than meeting her eye, Brock stared at a point on her forehead. “Your orders, madam?”

She felt on firmer ground now. “Have one of the girls bring the water for drinking and cooling cloths. I have already sent the barber-surgeon away.”

“You have done what?” the steward thundered.

“Lower your voice, Mr. Brock, and remember your decision. I will not have those carrion craw in my house. Nor will I let Sir Edmund die of their so-called cures. They would let blood for a case of hiccups! At first light, you must go to Westminster Hospital on Chapel Street and ask for Jonathan Cail. On the way back, give him as much information as you can about this fever of Sir Edmund’s. That will do for now.”

Brock stalked off down the hall. When he had disappeared from sight, Julianna allowed herself to lean against the wall and let her trembling legs buckle beneath her. Her anger and indignation were spent. Though she felt a slight flush of triumph, tears sprang to her eyes. She scolded herself for such weakness. Well begun is half done, Winnie had always said. In spite of her promising beginning, Julianna knew she still had far to go. In the next room lay a feverish man who believed himself a young boy and she his long-dead sister, come back to nurse him.

When she returned to his bedside, she found Sir Edmund distressed anew.

“Please don’t go away again, Alice,” he begged. “My head hurts so. The light makes it hurt.”

Julianna snuffed the candle and returned to sit by the bed. Where was the girl with the water she had ordered?

“There now, is that better?” She reached for his hand in the darkness.

Sir Edmund clung to her fingers. “My head still hurts, and I feel so hot.” His voice sounded petulant.

“Lovely cool water will be coming soon. Is there anything else you would like in the meantime?”

“Sing me a song. I like to hear you sing, Alice. Please?”

“What shall I sing?”

“You know. ‘The Scarborough Fair.’ That is my favorite.” He sounded indignant that she had not remembered.

“Of course. How could I forget? ‘Go you now to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme...’”

Gently, hardly above a whisper, Julianna sang the old tune and every other quiet, soothing melody she could think of—airs and ballads, hymns and nursery rhymes. Between songs, she murmured the kind of endearments she could recall from her own childhood sickbed. When the water came, she bathed his fevered forehead, crooning all the while.

The late winter sun had risen when Julianna noticed Sir Edmund’s breathing becoming slower and more even. His head felt cooler. The fever broken, he slept.

Julianna’s own eyes were beginning to droop when Gwenyth appeared. “Mr. Brock has brought the doctor, ma’am. He would speak with you outside. I can sit with the master, if you like.”

“Very well, Gwenyth. Call me right away if he wakes.”

In the corridor, Julianna found Brock with Jonathan Cail.

“Dear Dr. Cail! Thank you so much for coming.”

The doctor took her hand. “Why, Miss Ramsay, what a lady you have become since last we met. Though you do look like you just stepped out of an old painting.”

“Excuse me? Oh, the dress!” Julianna gave a weary chuckle. “My husband was delirious last night from the fever, and calling for his dead sister. I thought the masquerade might calm his mind, and so it did.”

“A wise idea. It is always best to indulge a delirious patient, if possible. Any agitation only works against the healing process.”

Julianna cast Mordecai Brock a look to say she had told him so. He refused to take notice.

“I am pleased to say we will not require your services after all. My husband’s fever has subsided at last. He is sleeping.”

“Then I will not disturb him for the present. If what your steward tells me is true, your husband is not yet out of danger. Is there someplace private, where we may speak at greater length?”

“Why certainly. You have not yet broken your fast, I think.” Julianna turned to the steward. “Mr. Brock, order breakfast for two. Then get yourself to bed. I know you have lost more than one night’s sleep since Christmas.”

“I believe I will sit with Sir Edmund until you return, ma’am,” he replied.

“No, Mr. Brock.” Julianna almost stamped her foot for emphasis. “If Sir Edmund’s illness continues, I will need you rested and well to assist me. Gwenyth is with him now and he is sleeping. You must do the same. Consider that an order.”

“Aye, ma’am.” He heaved his words in a great sigh. Julianna doubted Mr. Brock would have any trouble obeying her command.

As Julianna and the doctor awaited their breakfast in the dining room, she asked, “What did you mean about my husband not being out of danger? What is this awful fever?”

“Of course I have not yet examined the patient, but your manservant’s account of Sir Edmund’s medical history was very specific and informative. He would make a fine physician.”





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