My Lord Protector

“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.

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.