Deborah Hale - My Lord Protector

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...?”