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“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.
