My Lord Protector

“De mortuis nil nisi bonum, ” the curate piously reminded Jerome. “Speak well of the dead.”

“Speak well? I did well to find my sister a husband at such short notice, and her without a penny’s dowry.” Taking a bottle off the sideboard, he poured himself a glass of wine.

Julianna barely stifled her urge to pick up the nearest piece of glassware and fling it at her stepbrother’s head.

“Ah, Skeldon, I see you have anticipated me.” Sir Edmund strode to the head of the table and lifted his own glass. “Let us begin our celebration with a toast to the bride.” Beneath the forced heartiness, Julianna detected an edge of hostility in his voice. Looking from Jerome to Sir Edmund, she recalled a saying of her old nurse. In times of trouble, Winnie had often complained of being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

“Permit me, Sir Edmund.” Jerome was beginning to slur his words. “As her brother of ten years, and lately her guardian, I believe I’m best equipped to offer a salute to your bride.”

Julianna felt the blood drain from her face. Salute—Jerome had used that very word last night as he’d ambushed her on the way to her room. Did you think I would send you to bed on your wedding eve without a brotherly salute? Fortunately he’d been drunk enough to slow his reflexes. Wriggling out of his pawing grasp, she’d escaped to the safety of her bedchamber with nothing worse than a bruised face. All through the night she had prayed she would soon become the property of a man too old and ailing to look upon her with Jerome’s brutal lust.

The gentlemen enthusiastically drank Julianna’s health, then settled down to the feast.

“I fear I may never dine so well again,” said Francis, as the servants brought in a course of soup and jellied eels, followed by hot kidney pie.

“Stuffed woodcock.” The curate poised his knife and fork eagerly over one of the birds. “Why, there are three brace of the creatures.” Popping a plump morsel of breast meat into his mouth, he groaned with pleasure.

Under other circumstances, Julianna would have relished such a fine meal, but today she dared not trust a bite upon her heaving stomach. Toying nervously with her food, she noticed Sir Edmund also took small helpings. As she watched from the corner of her eye, he pushed each morsel several times around his plate before lifting a half-empty fork to his lips.

Francis more than compensated for Sir Edmund’s lack of appetite, helping himself to everything as if he hadn’t eaten in months and expected to fast for several more. He and the curate kept up a cheerful banter while Jerome took his refreshment in the form of Sir Edmund’s stock of excellent French wines.

As the footman removed her barely touched plate, Julianna’s gaze strayed to a portrait above the mantel. It showed a handsome woman dressed in the style of the past generation. In her long face and cleft chin, she resembled Sir Edmund, but the lady’s lips were fuller and her eyes looked...familiar.

Curiosity overcame Julianna’s reticence. She leaned toward her new husband. “Sir Edmund, is that a portrait of your mother?”

He started at the question, as though her presence had slipped his mind. Francis and the curate were still engaged in sprightly conversation, while an inebriated Jerome contributed the odd vulgar jest. Almost lost in the hubbub, Sir Edmund’s words were addressed less to Julianna than to the lady in the portrait. To catch his reply, she had to lean closer still.

“Unfortunately I have no likeness of my mother. She died when I was born. That is my sister, Alice. She was some dozen years my senior and a mother to me in every way throughout my childhood. Alice has been dead fully ten years now.”

He seemed on the point of saying more when Francis interrupted with a question. “Sir Edmund, we were just admiring the Fitzhugh coat of arms upon the near wall. Is it true you are heir to a title that dates back to the Conquest?”

With labored joviality, Sir Edmund replied in a louder voice, “The first Fitzhugh did arrive in England with Duke William. However, I come from a long line of younger sons. One Edmund Fitzhugh was a Knight Hospitaller in the First Crusade and a later one fell at Agincourt, ‘upon St. Crispin’s day.”’

That name on Sir Edmund’s lips was almost more than Julianna could bear. She recognized the quotation, from Shakespeare’s Henry V, but never had she made the connection with her Crispin. Julianna caught her husband’s eyes upon her, his expression inscrutable. Perhaps Jerome had told him of her true love, and on their wedding day he meant to taunt her with it.

Under the table, her knees began to tremble. She clenched them together, but the palsy moved up her legs. She had to clasp her hands in her lap to still them. Light-headed, Julianna wondered how to go about excusing herself.

Sir Edmund rose abruptly. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse us, I believe my wife and I will retire. My health is not the best, and Lady Fitzhugh is likely exhausted with grief from her recent bereavement. Please stay and celebrate on our behalf.”

Taking Julianna’s arm, he propelled her out the door before she had time to object or the others had time to reply. Behind them, Julianna heard Jerome give an admiring whistle. “The old devil works fast!”

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. It felt as big as a whole stuffed woodcock. Perhaps it would be best to get this over with. Nothing could be worse than waiting.

As the door closed behind them, Sir Edmund’s shoulders bowed slightly. “I trust you do not mind leaving so soon. I could not stand to be in the same room with that man for another minute.”

Having no idea what he meant, Julianna nodded dumbly. Sir Edmund signaled a young housemaid. “Gwenyth, show Lady Fitzhugh to her rooms and help her unpack, or whatever she needs.”

He turned back to Julianna, his face looking suddenly drawn and weary. “I am afraid I must make my excuses to you as well, ma’am. I have overexpended my strength these past few days, and must rest. I will come by your rooms later. We can talk then.”

Nodding in reply to his stiff bow, Julianna trailed the maid up the staircase. Apparently she would have to wait, after all.

Chapter Two

“Your rooms are this way, milady.” The girl’s voice carried a familiar Welsh lilt. Julianna’s heart lifted at the sound. Whatever else lay ahead of her in Sir Edmund’s house, she meant to have at least one ally.

“Gwenyth?” Julianna had a poor command of her grandmother’s tongue, picked up mostly from ballads. Still, with a little effort she was able to put a few words of Welsh together, to ask how long the girl had been away from “home.”

The response proved well worth her effort. Gwenyth rounded upon her with startled delight, quickly jabbering off an animated tale of which Julianna could only pick out a word here and there.

Julianna held up her hand. “I’m sorry. My Welsh is not as good as that. My grandmother was a Cymru from the north coast. It cheers me to hear your voice, for it reminds me of home.”

“Ah-h well, to say again in English, milady—I came from the hill country north of Abergavenny two years back, when my daddy passed on. My auntie’s the cook here. What she won’t say when she hears you can speak the Old Tongue.”

Looking into Gwenyth’s beaming face, Julianna knew she had gained her ally.

Halfway down a wide gallery, the maid stopped before a closed door. “I hope your rooms will suit, ma‘am. We had quite a time readyin’ everything at such little notice. Auntie said if anyone had told her this past Sabbath that the captain would have a new bride before week’s end, she’d have...”

Julianna stepped over the threshold of her new quarters. They had entered a sitting room, past which she could see a bedroom, and a farther chamber beyond it—a dressing room, perhaps. Looking around, Julianna wondered if she had taken leave of her senses. Though she was seeing this small salon for the very first time, it felt as familiar as her own skin.

There in the far corner stood her father’s marquetry writing desk. In the center of the room was the brocade upholstered chaise upon which she had sat so recently with Cousin Francis. At the hearthside stood her little breakfast table. A tall case beside the door held books, the titles of which she could recite by heart. Not daring to move or speak, for fear of dissipating this lovely illusion, Julianna pressed her back against the door.

Though she did not trust the evidence of her eyes, her nose soon persuaded her it was no mere fancy. She smelled a compound of her father’s pipe tobacco and wig powder, together with her own rose water and the ghosts of favorite meals. All underlaid with the subtle musty odor of old books. No rare spice or expensive perfume could ever smell as sweet to her. Slowly, Julianna’s chest began to heave and warm tears welled up in her eyes. Since her father’s death and through the past several wretched days, she had not shed a single tear. Now she found herself overcome by this unexpected good fortune.

Rushing to the bedchamber, she discovered her own bed with its familiar linens and hangings. Her lap harp rested on the pillows. Her mother’s portrait looked down a blessing from the opposite wall. Julianna clambered onto the bed, crushing the harp to her bosom. She began to rock back and forth as her tears flowed unchecked, accompanied by great shuddering sobs.

“Are you sure ‘tis all right, milady?” Gwenyth ventured. “Like I said, we’d little time from when the fellows delivered everything last evening. Are you quite well, ma’am? Could I get you a cup of tea...or aught stronger?”

Bounding from the bed, laughter now mixed with her tears, Julianna grasped Gwenyth by the hands and danced her about the room. Among all these familiar things, the girl had suddenly become the image of her dearest Winnie, grown young again.

“Oh, Gwenyth, I am fine. The rooms are wonderful! Give the staff my warmest thanks.” Brushing away tears with the back of her hand, Julianna tried to collect herself. “I will take tea, please, and a basin of water to wash.”

“I could draw you a bath, milady. Your dressing room is all set up with one. Has its own fire and a kettle to heat water.” Gwenyth continued in a tone of apology, “The master does have his own notions about bein’ clean, ma’am. More than once I’ve heard him say. ”The most savage headhunter in all Borneo smells better than the average London hostess!”’

Julianna had no difficulty imagining Sir Edmund Fitzhugh uttering so pithy a sentiment. While some might disdain his fastidious attitude, she sympathized completely.

Gwenyth’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s why he won’t ever put on a wig, isn’t it? ‘A home for vermin,’ he calls ’em.” Together, the girls chuckled over this blunt but accurate assessment.

“I’ll go light the fire, milady. Then I’ll fetch your tea. By the time you finish it, the water’ll be hot.”

Once Gwenyth had gone, Julianna began to explore her living quarters. The little dressing room intrigued her, with its water kettle and shallow copper bathing tub. The cozy little room contained a pair of cherry-wood wardrobes from her old home, and something new to her. In the far corner sat a delightful low table with a large mirror, presumably for use in dressing her hair.

How had all this come about—her things bought at the auction and brought here to be so carefully assembled, awaiting her arrival? What touched Julianna more than the deed itself was the perceptive kindness that had anticipated her feelings and taken such pains to make her welcome. These were hardly the actions she would have expected from the stern-faced man with whom she had exchanged less than a dozen sentences. Had she misjudged him?

Reveling in the unaccustomed luxury of a private bath, Julianna continued to puzzle over her situation. As the scalding, soapy water ran over her shoulders and Gwenyth scrubbed her skin with a soft cloth, she tried to cleanse herself of Jerome’s amorous assault. Would it be any better tonight, when her bridegroom came to claim her? The thought of lying unclothed and intimate with a man she knew so little made Julianna cringe and blush so furiously the roots of her hair stung. Vows, clerical pronouncements and signed marriage bond notwithstanding, she doubted such an act could be anything but a violation.

She tried to imagine herself alone with her new husband. She did not expect the lascivious brutality of Jerome, nor the gentle ardor of her Crispin. Sir Edmund Fitzhugh looked so aloof and self-possessed. She could scarcely envisage kisses from that firm mouth, caresses from those cool, capable hands or tender murmurings from that commanding voice. Yet, did she not owe a duty to the man who had rescued her from a far worse fate?

Enfolded in a cozy wrap, Julianna sat before the mirrored table as Gwenyth combed out her tangled curls and chattered on about her own childhood in Wales. The steamy warmth of the room, together with the abashment of recent conjectures, had revived the rosiness of her complexion. The firelight played glints of gold and copper through her russet hair. She’d decided to leave it hanging long for her wedding night. Draped over her neck and around her face, it might obscure the marks Jerome had left.