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“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.”
