Deborah Hale - My Lord Protector

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.