Every nuance of the action played across Julianna’s luminous, mobile features. No one in the theater that evening laughed so readily and merrily at the subtlest quip. No one clapped with such appreciative glee when a favorite character gained the upper hand. No one joined so enthusiastically in the ovation when the actors took their bows. Edmund found his own laughter and applause flowing with less than usual restraint. Never could he remember enjoying an evening of theater so keenly. Julianna’s spontaneous delight was as contagious as it was refreshing.
The air had turned milder and damp when Edmund steered Julianna through the stream of exiting theatergoers. They made their way to supper on foot, through the light Christmas fog. A group of waits, the Yuletide street musicians employed by London’s aldermen, was performing carols near the busy intersection of Catherine and Russell Streets. As Edmund and Julianna approached, the waits concluded a lively rendition of “I Saw Three Ships.”
“My father’s favorite carol,” Julianna mused aloud.
In the diffuse glow of the streetlamp, Edmund looked down into her rosy girlish face. He saw a wistful luster in her wide doe eyes. Why, she was little more than a child, he realized, an orphaned child living on the charity of a virtual stranger. Who could blame her if she pined, or wept, or craved the poor comfort of his company? Edmund felt his craggy features warmed by a kindly, almost paternal smile.
‘“Three Ships’ is my favorite carol, as well,” he said, “like many an old sailor.” With that, he fished in his waistcoat pocket for a few coins to offer the waits.
Carriages clattered to and fro on the cobbles of busy Bow Street as they crossed. On a side street near Covent Garden, they entered a building whose signboard ostentatiously proclaimed it Eldridge’s Select Supper Club. Engrossed in the play, Julianna had not given food a second thought Now, as a host of succulent aromas assailed her nose, she found herself heartily famished. The warmth of the dining alcove made a pleasant change from the drafty theater box. A glass of port warmed her further, whetting her already sharp appetite to a keen pitch.
Fortunately, the food soon arrived. It was abundant and delicious: clear soup, rabbit smothered in onions, accompanied by herb dumplings, braised celery and carrots. Julianna groaned when offered her favorite Banbury cakes. If only she could have loosened the stays of her corset to relieve the pressure on her stomach! Throughout the meal, Sir Edmund ate little, as was his wont, but imbibed of his wine more liberally than usual. Perhaps for that reason he proved a surprisingly agreeable conversationalist. Julianna found their usual tongue-tied formality eased.
“Do I take it, from your rapt attention this evening, that you enjoyed the play?” he asked.
“It was everything I could have hoped,” Julianna sighed.
“Fitzhugh, old fellow!” A voice rang out. “Thought it must be you. Spotted you from clear the other side of the playhouse. Thought you might come back here for a bite. Haven’t seen you about the town in months. Had to indulge me curiosity and seek out the identity of your lovely young companion. Miss.”
The man executed an exaggerated bow in Julianna’s direction—a perilous feat for one so diminutive in height and almost perfectly spherical in shape. An ill-fitting peruke perched precariously upon the top of his head, and a roguish patch covered one eye.
Sir Edmund responded guardedly. “No, I have not been about in the evenings of late. This is my wife.” He hesitated over that last word, then smiled apologetically at Julianna. “My dear, may I present Langston Carew, Esquire. Carew, Lady Julianna Fitzhugh. Her father was the late Mr. Alistair Ramsay.”
“A pleasure, ma’am.” The little fellow beamed. “Knew your father slightly. Well, Fitzhugh, forgoing the bachelor’s life at this late date, what? Wise man! If I could find a pretty little baggage like this to warm me old bones on a winter’s night, I’d never step from me own hearth! Haw, haw!”
Sir Edmund cringed visibly. Julianna wondered if he expected her to take offense. In fact, every aspect of this comical old gallant proclaimed such honest admiration and irrepressible good humor, she felt drawn to Langston Carew. In reply to his ribald comments, she lavished upon him her most radiant smile.
Less amused, Sir Edmund fixed his mouth in an upturned grimace. His tone conveyed a forced pretense of cordiality. “Perhaps you should think of marrying, Carew. Never too late, they say.”
“Ahem. Yes, I suppose. Well, I’ll not keep you from your dinners. A merry Christmas, Sir Edmund and Lady Fitzhugh. Perhaps we’ll see more of you about the town this winter!”
Sir Edmund nodded dismissively. “Aye, Carew, perhaps.”
When Carew had retired out of earshot, Sir Edmund addressed Julianna on the quiet. “A vulgar old devil, but not bad at heart. He was the assistant factor at Madras when I was there.”
The information intrigued her. “You must tell me more of your adventures in the Indies, Sir Edmund.”
“Yes,” he replied, without offering to go on.
Just as they ascended the stairs, the tall pedestal clock in the entry hall of Fitzhugh House struck one. Sir Edmund escorted Julianna to her rooms. Once again he attended to her fire, and checked the level of coal in the scuttle. Then he turned from the hearth, rubbing a smudge of soot from his fingertips.
“Mr. Handel is giving a private presentation of his latest oratorio tomorrow evening at Haymarket. I have heard good reports of the work since it was performed in Dublin. The concert will raise funds for the Foundling Hospital. As a patron, I should attend. Would you care to accompany me?”
“Yes, please, Sir Edmund.” Julianna clapped her hands eagerly. “I so admire Mr. Handel’s music!”
“Now, now,” he cautioned, “do not expect too much. This is not a public premiere, more of a formal rehearsal.”
“I am sure I shall not be disappointed. Good night, Sir Edmund. Thank you for the play and the supper. I cannot recall when I have enjoyed myself more.”
At her door, Sir Edmund turned and posed an unexpected question. “You miss your father very much, Julianna?”
Perhaps because his query caught her off her guard, she answered with simple sincerity. “I do—especially at this time of year. We were very close.”
“I envy you.” She could scarcely hear his reply. Perhaps he had not intended it for her ears at all.
Before she could reply or question, he was gone.
Hurriedly Julianna undressed and burrowed, shivering, under the bedclothes. Bright scenes from the play danced through her mind. She smiled to herself in the darkness, anticipating tomorrow’s concert. Drifting toward sleep, she found her thoughts turning again and again to the enigma of Sir Edmund. Yawning, she shook her head in private perplexity. He could be such pleasant company one minute, then turn stonily reticent the next. For Crispin’s sake, she wanted to make a friend of his uncle. And for Sir Edmund’s sake as well. Beneath his show of cool self-sufficiency, she sensed a core of deep loneliness.
Chapter Five
The next morning, Julianna lingered in bed as long as she dared, dreading exposure to the chilly air. There were distinct disadvantages, she decided, to giving all one’s servants a holiday. She had become spoiled—used to rising in a warm room with hot water to wash and a steaming cup of tea to drink. Driven by hunger, Julianna finally took a deep breath and bolted from her bed. Hurriedly, she dressed in her warmest gown. Entering her sitting room, she found the fire already burning. On her breakfast table sat a plate of buttered bread and a