“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