Deborah Hale - My Lord Protector

“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.

Chapter Six

The return of the servants had certain benefits, Julianna discovered. It was pleasant to sleep late the next morning, without the prospect of dressing in the chilly air. She had not been awake long when a girl came to tend the fires. Gwenyth and her aunt would be spending a few more days in Chatham, visiting relatives of the late Mr. Davies. Julianna longed to see Gwenyth again and exchange the news of their respective holidays. From Hetty, who brought her breakfast, she learned that Mr. Brock had returned bright and early. She wondered how much of her recent felicity had been due to the absence of the lowering steward.

After the excitement and activity of Christmas, St. Stephen’s Day proved decidedly dreary. Julianna found herself unaccountably hungry for Sir Edmund’s company, though she doubted they could recapture the easy camaraderie of the past several days. There was no sign of him at luncheon. A search of the library yielded nothing more promising than a well-worn copy of Pilgrim’s Progress. Julianna borrowed it for want of better diversion. She assumed Sir Edmund must be keeping to his rooms, perhaps nursing the chill he had taken yesterday. Mr. Brock was very much in evidence, supervising the cleanup and organizing an abbreviated staff. Late in the afternoon, desperate for any kind of human society, Julianna tried to engage him in conversation.

“You had a pleasant Christmas, I trust, Mr. Brock.”

Brock continued to put the house in order while delivering an offhand reply. “Aye, ma’am. Pleasant enough.”

“You stayed in London?”

“Rotherhithe, ma’am,” came Brock’s short reply, speaking of an area on the south bank of the Thames.

“With friends or family?” Julianna persisted.

The steward’s eyes narrowed beneath his ferocious brows, but his answer remained civil. “With my brother and his family, ma‘am. Will that be everything, ma’am?”

Julianna found herself enjoying the show of consternation Mr. Brock took few pains to hide. Some streak of perversity kept her from acknowledging his question.

“I expect you would like to hear how Sir Edmund and I fared in your absence.” She rushed on before he could refuse. “We fared admirably, I think, though I would not care to do without our staff, on a continuing basis. Did Sir Edmund tell you we attended the theater and a charity concert? The music was superb. Yesterday we hosted the carolers, and even did a little musical turn of our own. I had no idea my husband possessed such a fine singing voice. Does it not sound a thoroughly enjoyable program?” she concluded breathlessly.

His nostrils flared, and for an instant Julianna feared he meant to pick her up and administer a sound shaking. The intent blazed in his face. Brock’s voice was barely under control as he growled, “It sounds a thoroughly exhausting program for one of Sir Edmund’s weak constitution. Little wonder he has taken to his bed, poor man. If I had been here—”

She would not stand a lecture from this man, as if any ailment of Sir Edmund’s might be her fault. “Surely your master is well past years of discretion, Mr. Brock, and capable of choosing his own activities.”

The steward turned on his heel and stalked off. He had done so, Julianna suspected, to forestall doing her an injury. Well, much as he might have wanted to shake her, she wanted equally to shake him. In spite of her pert reply, his barb had struck home. She had known of Sir Edmund’s poor health, noted his slight appetite and how easily he tired. Perhaps she should have gone away for a few days and given him a chance to rest, instead of enduring a succession of late nights and improvised meals. What a fine way to repay all his kindness! For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Julianna opened her locket for a glimpse of Crispin’s reassuring smile.

“Alice!”

Julianna jolted awake, her stomach in knots, her breath shallow and rapid. A dream. She sank back into her pillows, laughing at her own foolishness. She had been dreaming the strangest dream about Crispin in a Greek toga and herself in a classical chiton, saying their goodbyes in the gardens at Vauxhall. He had professed his love for her, then called her by the name Alice. When she had protested that her name was not Alice, but Julianna, he had begun to shake her and demand to know what she had done with Alice.

“Alice...”

The faint, distant cry made Julianna gasp and clutch the bedclothes before her, as she had clutched the chiton in her dream. Was she dreaming still? Then, as her waking mind began to function, she realized the voice intruding upon her dreams could have only one source—Sir Edmund. Grasping the bell at her bedside, she rang it vigorously. Gwenyth soon came running to answer her summons. The girl shivered in her wrap and nightcap but looked far too alert to have been recently woken.

“Gwenyth, what is going on?” Julianna demanded. “Is that Sir Edmund I hear?”

“Oh yes, ma’am. The master’s ever so ill.” Gwenyth rattled off her tale in a nervous staccato burst. “Clean mad with the fever, Auntie says. Did Mr. Brock not tell you? It’s that sickness he caught years ago in the tropics. He takes a spell of it every few years. He was ill the first winter I came here, see, and he almost died that time. Auntie says she’s never seen him worse than this. He’s been calling for his sister off and on for an hour now. Mr. Brock is at his wits’ end to quiet him.”

Julianna felt a sickening pang of self-reproach. “Can nothing be done?”

Gwenyth’s shoulders rose in a shrug, her lips pursed. “I dunno, ma’am. Not a doctor, am I? Mr. Brock’s sent John for the barber-surgeon. Perhaps he can—”

“No!”

Gwenyth’s words galvanized Julianna and brought forth a flood of vivid, painful memories. It had been dark and cold and late—just like this—on the night years ago when Winnie had shaken her from a sound sleep. Myfanwy Penallen was dying and wanted her little granddaughter with her at the end. Julianna would never forget her grandmother’s blanched skin, sunken eyes and wasted body. The red-gold hair about which she had once been so vain dulled to a ruddy ash, her strength and spirit bled and purged away—almost. A dash of pepper spiced her last words, flung at Alistair Ramsay over his daughter’s head.

“I’d not have died, if you hadn’t tried to cure me!”

That final, venomous accusation hung in the air after the old lady’s heart and breath had stilled and Winnie had taken Julianna back to her own bed. It had shaken Alistair Ramsay. No barber-surgeon ever crossed his threshold after that night. Over the years he had cultivated patronage for a rising young cadre of scientific physicians. Julianna was equally determined to allow no barber-surgeon in her house.

“Gwenyth, is there an old gown of Mrs. Bayard’s about?” she asked, a plan beginning to take shape in her mind.

“Oh yes, milady,” the girl replied, a query in her voice. “These used to be Mrs. Bayard’s rooms, see? Before you came, they were just as she left them. When we rearranged it all for you, her belongings just got moved across the hall, and—”

“Good.” Julianna had heard all she needed to hear. “Go fetch me one of her gowns, and be quick about it.”

As Gwenyth departed on her errand, Julianna took a moment to collect her wits. Feeling responsible for Sir Edmund’s condition, she resolved to remedy the situation in any way possible. From what Gwenyth had told her, the most urgent tasks would be to calm Sir Edmund and to keep the barber-surgeon at bay. Any action on her part would likely call down the wrath of the formidable Mr. Brock. By the time Gwenyth returned, Julianna was trying to steel herself for the confrontation.