Читать книгу My Lord Protector - Deborah Hale, Deborah Hale - Страница 10

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.