Deborah Hale - My Lord Protector

“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.