Читать книгу My Lord Protector - Deborah Hale, Deborah Hale - Страница 12

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.