“I thought your woeful expression might be playacting for your stepbrother. I am sorry you had to suffer such distress, but it may have been worth it to convince Skeldon of your reluctance to marry me. Perhaps that was Underhill’s intent.”
“Cousin Francis? So he did come to you. I should have known better than to trust him with such a commission. He is the most kindhearted creature in the world, but...”
“But he is a very modest man, with ample reason to be so.” A fleeting smile warmed Sir Edmund’s features. “You could have found no fault with his mission on your behalf. Young Underhill argued your case with the utmost conviction. I’ll own, I took some convincing. I prize my solitude, you see.” Casting her a wary look, he reclaimed his seat on the chaise.
“I take your point, Sir Edmund. Neither of us came eagerly to this marriage. But what is this other business you alluded to, about your identity?”
“At luncheon, I made an awkward attempt to reassure you when I spoke of my family history. For centuries the name Crispin, like Edmund, has often been bestowed on hapless Fitzhugh infants. My father was the Reverend Crispin Fitzhugh. I also have a nephew, my sister Alice’s son—Crispin Bayard.”
Her Crispin, the nephew of Sir Edmund Fitzhugh? Julianna mulled this single fact over and over in her mind, that it might take hold. “Then you must be Crispin’s ‘quoting uncle’!”
“So he would often call me. And I would reply, ‘A word fitly spoken is like—’”
“‘—is like apples of gold.”’ Julianna laughed with delighted surprise. “It is you! I can’t believe it. How, for all the times we spoke of you, could Crispin not have told me your name?”
“My nephew is gentleman enough to know that talk of an aging uncle is no way to woo one’s ladylove.”
“Crispin did once tell me that everything he learned about being a gentleman came from your example.”
Sir Edmund shook his head. “He missed the mark there. I believe we both benefited from our upbringing by my dear Alice.”
Suddenly, as if conjured by their eager exchange, Julianna had the warmest, most palpable sense of Crispin’s presence. Grasping Sir Edmund’s hand, she wrung it heartily. “It is such a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Then Julianna recalled that not only had she met Crispin’s uncle, she had wed him. Abruptly, she dropped his hand.
Perhaps to reassure her, Sir Edmund continued. “Crispin talked much of you before his departure. I know he would want me do everything in my power to aid you. He need never have made this expedition to the South Seas, you know. As my heir, if he’d chosen to remain in England and marry you, I would have made him a handsome settlement. He is a true Fitzhugh, however. Pride is our besetting sin, so I can hardly grudge him his measure of it. Neither can I quarrel with his taste for adventure, as I was also smitten with it in my youth. He is a good lad, and I know he’ll fare well. He has been my ward since his mother died, and like a son to me in every way. Though perhaps we share a closer bond than most fathers and sons, who often grow at odds as time passes. My nephew is all the world to me.”
“And to me.” She had not intended to say this. Whatever the circumstances, it could hardly be polite, professing to a new husband one’s undying love for another man. “What I mean to say is... and you to him. He spoke of you with great affection.”
Sir Edmund graciously ignored Julianna’s gaffe, and her equally unsubtle attempt at recovery. “Affection is far too pale a term for the fervor with which Crispin recounted your charms, my dear. Most of our conversations in the past months lapsed into a catalog of your beauty, your wit, your understanding.” He ticked each off on a finger. “I once chided him with Shakespeare’s words. ‘My mistress’ eyes—’”
“‘—are nothing like the sun...’” countered Julianna. “Crispin told me of it.”
“He insisted that one day I would retract those words, and so I do. Whenever you speak his name, your eyes are lambent with June sunshine.”
In response to Sir Edmund’s courtly homage, the warmth of that sunshine spread from Julianna’s eyes to her smile. Though she suspected it must look rather ghoulish on her battered face.
“I see where Crispin acquired his gift for poetic flattery.” Rather than pleasing him, her compliment turned a man of mature years into a stammering schoolboy intent upon making his escape. “Well...hardly...in any case...now that you know...that is to say, understand...the facts...” Jumping from the chaise once again, he made a curt bow. “I trust you will sleep well.”
As he backed toward the door, Julianna rose. “So you will not be staying the night, after all.” Obvious relief infused the words she had not meant to speak aloud. But her instant embarrassment seemed to restore Sir Edmund’s composure.
“Much as I regret refusing such an invitation, I think it best, for many reasons, that our union remain... chaste. I regard you as Crispin’s bride, residing in my house. When he returns, our unconsummated marriage should make it relatively easy to secure an annulment. Besides, the state of my health is such that the exertions of playing the ardent bridegroom might leave you a widow sooner than would be convenient.”
Astonished, Julianna did not think to smile at his mordant jest. As he turned the door handle, another thought occurred to Sir Edmund. “The terms of this arrangement must remain in confidence. To the rest of the world it should appear we are husband and wife. I mistrust your stepbrother. There might be something to fear from him if he discovers our deception.”
“You have my word, Sir Edmund.” If she ever told such an improbable tale, Julianna knew she would be dispatched to Bedlam faster than Jerome could ever have managed.
“Good. Good. Then once again I bid you good-night.” With his abrupt departure, Julianna retired to bed, early and alone. Her heart seethed with a queer mix of emotions. She recognized astonishment, intense relief and profound gratitude, but puzzled over a shade of some nameless foreign feeling that defied definition. Surely it could not be...disappointment?
Chapter Three
15 December 1742
Dearest Winnie,
Christmas greetings from London to Wales. I trust this letter has reached you without delay, along with a more tangible remembrance. Besides bringing my kindest regards, it comes to reassure you of my fortunate situation. Shortly after you left London, I wed Sir Edmund Fitzhugh, a friend of Cousin Francis.
As her pen scratched softly against the sheet of thick creamy vellum, a frown of dissatisfaction creased Julianna’s brow. Her words sounded so stiff and formal. Unfortunately, she hadn’t the nerve to write this pack of lies in plainer language.
Gwenyth turned from her dusting. “It must be lovely, ma’am, to read all those grand books and write such a fine hand.”
“I suppose it is.” Julianna sighed. What had life come to, she asked herself, when her beloved studies no longer enthralled her? “If you would care to learn, I could teach you.”
“I wouldn’t dare presume, ma’am.” Gwenyth returned to her dusting with a vengeance, vigorously rubbing the woodwork with a lightly oiled cloth. “Whatever would Mr. Brock say?”
Julianna made a face at the mention of their steward. The last thing she needed was to provide him with another complaint against her. With a dispirited shrug, she resumed her writing.
I live in a fine big house with many servants and every possible comfort. Our cook and her niece, my maidservant,