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.
Her hair combed out and drying, Julianna dismissed her already faithful Gwenyth, extracting a promise that the girl would be her waiting woman. She would try to rest, Julianna told her maid, requesting a light tea later in the day.
After Gwenyth had gone, Julianna lay on her bed, staring up at the canopy. Despite so many recent restless nights, sleep eluded her. Searching the bookcase, she pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Don Quixote and sat down to read. She had devoted much of her sixteenth year to translating her beloved Cervantes from the original Spanish. Today, however, not even Senor de la Mancha had the power to distract her. After a half hour’s dogged attempt at concentration, she abandoned the project. Where was a knight-errant when a lady needs one? Julianna wondered, returning the book to its place on the shelf.
For a while she prowled her rooms like a caged animal. Now and then, she would pause to gaze out her window, which overlooked the rear courtyard and garden. The storm had gathered force again, the wind lashing waves of rain against the thick windowpanes. In the dark glass, her reflection floated—a ghost girl weeping raindrop tears.
Something in the wild sorrow of the tempest struck a chord in Julianna’s Celtic soul. If she could not keep her unease at bay, then she would drown herself in it. Drawing the hangings on her bed to create a cocoon of darkness, she groped for her harp. At last her hands closed over the familiar curves of carved ash wood. She hugged the venerable instrument to her aching heart.
Sitting alone in the darkness gave Julianna an illusion of safety. Even as a child, she had loved the dark. Darkness guarded hidden fears. Darkness kept watch over secret tears. Darkness respected private sorrow. In the cool embrace of the dark, she concentrated on the sound and feel of her harp. It was an easy armful. Carved with intricate twining knots, the sounding post rested in its accustomed place, bridging her lap and the hollow of her shoulder. She had dreaded losing it as much as she would have dreaded losing the fingers that plucked its strings. By ancient Welsh law, a person’s harp was the one possession that could never be seized to satisfy a debt. No Englishman would ever understand that.
Tonight no music would satisfy Julianna’s soul but the Welsh ballads her harp had been crafted to play. Its strings vibrated from the fleet undulations of her fingers as she played every haunting lament of her embattled people. How many of her ancestresses, younger than she, had gone off to marriages made by others? How many had been taken as spoils of war and used accordingly? How many, eschewing the love of mortal men, had found some barren peace in the arms of the church? So many centuries had passed, and still a woman was no more than chattel.
On and on Julianna played, long after her fingers had begun to ache, singing in a voice hoarse with unshed tears, lost in the sweet, mournful music. To one especially poignant lament she returned again and again. Composed by her ancestor, Gryffud ab yr Yneed Coch, the song was an elegy for Llywelyn Olaf, the last true prince of Wales:
“Do you not see the path of the wind and the rain?”
“Do you not see that the world has ended?” it concluded in despair.
“Oh milady, that sounded lovely!”
Julianna startled at the sound of Gwenyth’s voice. In the protective cavern of her bed, she had managed to lose herself. Now she must come out and face a fate she could not escape.
“I haven’t heard anyone play the harp since I came away from home.” Gwenyth drew back the bed hangings. “‘Llywelyn’s Lament,’ wasn’t it? It has a pretty sound, though it is so sad.”
As she laid her harp aside, Julianna wondered if Gwenyth would ask why a bride should sing a dirge on her wedding night.
Though