What more could she want from him? Edmund’s fists clenched and his step quickened. He had showered her with everything his first wife had nagged for so vehemently: a fine house, carriages, servants, money. He burdened her with as little of his company as appearances would permit. Did the silly child appreciate all he had done to ensure her ease and security? No. She moped about the house like a pathetic little ghost, hardly uttering a word, not eating enough to sustain a sparrow.
Since their marriage, he couldn’t call his home his own. The girl trailed behind him like a stray kitten, with her look of wordless reproach. She had even invaded the sanctuary of his library. Would she hound him out of his bedchamber next? In two months, she’d worn his patience threadbare. Imagine two years of this! Crispin had bloody well better appreciate his sacrifices.
Halting before her door, Edmund squared his shoulders. If he could brave this one interview, he might secure a few days’ breathing space. He’d pack the girl off to her relatives over Christmas, and reclaim a measure of his cherished privacy. With luck, she might develop a taste for visiting, and get out from under foot entirely.
As he raised his fist to knock, Edmund caught the sound of a muffled sob from behind the door. Damn women and their tears! In his day, he had fought Dutch mercenaries, pirates and headhunters. None of those put the fear of God in him like a weeping woman. Grinding his teeth, he let his hand drop and turned away. Just then, Brock appeared at the end of the corridor. Determined not to be caught in a humiliating retreat, Edmund administered a peremptory knock on the door.
The abrupt summons jolted Julianna from her crying spell. Hurriedly mopping the tears with a corner of her fichu, she hoped her red eyes and sniffling would not betray her. She opened her door to Sir Edmund for the first time since their wedding night.
“May I come in?” he asked. “There is a matter I would like to discuss with you.”
Had Mr. Brock fallen to telling tales? Julianna wondered.
“By all means, Sir Edmund. Do take a seat by the fire. With the air so damp and chill, it is pleasant to warm one’s hands.”
Seating himself, he made a show of chafing his fingers. “I believe this raw wind bodes our first snow.”
“Very likely.” Julianna took her seat on the chaise.
“Indeed.” Sir Edmund stared fixedly at the fire screen.
Silence reigned in the sitting room once again.
Julianna swallowed a sigh of impatience. “You wished to discuss some matter with me, Sir Edmund?”
He took the cue eagerly. “Just so. It regards the servants.”
This surprised Julianna not in the least.
“It had slipped my mind until Brock drew it to my attention.”
Julianna frowned. Very impolitic, Mr. Brock. The steward had evidently realized she was even more reluctant than he to drag Sir Edmund into their quarrels.
“You see, with Yuletide upon us, some changes must be made in the habits of my household.”
“Changes?” repeated a surprised Julianna. This had no bearing on her feud with Mr. Brock.
“Yes. You see, in past years, it was always our custom—Crispin’s and mine, to give the house servants a few days off and fend for ourselves.” Sir Edmund’s eyes took on a look of private remembrance, and he lapsed into a near smile. “Mrs. Davies would leave cold food enough for the whole British navy. We would take in a concert or a play, then dine at an eating house. On Christmas Day we’d fill the puncheon and play host to the carolers.”
Sir Edmund shook his head, as if to clear it of the memory. “This year circumstances have changed. I wondered if you might enjoy your own holiday. Take a few days and spend them with family, so the servants can still have their time off visiting.”
“I would not dream of denying the servants their accustomed holiday.” Julianna could imagine the animosity below stairs if they had such cause to resent her. “I will ride the stage to Bath, and take the waters.”
Sir Edmund’s left eyebrow flew so far upward, Julianna feared it would remain stuck on the top of his head. “Out of the question. Pack my bride off to Bath, unchaperoned? Beau Nash would never let me live it down. I thought...your cousin...?”
“No. The Underhills have little room to entertain a guest. I doubt Cecily would be equal to it, in any case. I trust you are not suggesting I holiday with my stepbrother, for I’d sooner throw myself in the Thames!”
Her earlier tears hovered, ready to fall again. Even as she bit her lip and willed them back, one escaped, then another.
“There now, child. I had no idea you had so little family.”
He had hardly taken the time to find out, had he?
Sir Edmund knelt beside her, swiping his handkerchief across her face, as one would do with a howling infant. Julianna felt mortified.
“We will keep the staff on, and plan some entertainment for our first Christmas together,” he declared in a voice tinged with desperation.
Julianna pushed away his hand and his clumsy attempt to comfort her. She was not a child. She had survived worse than a lonely Christmas.
“No, Sir Edmund. I will not spoil the servants’ holiday. I’m quite capable of dressing myself and finding a bite to eat.” Something possessed her to add, “Could we not continue your accustomed arrangement? I know I am not an agreeable substitute for Crispin....” But neither are you. She was barely able to stifle this biting assertion.
“Not so. I should be delighted to have your company,” said Sir Edmund, evincing all the delight of a man facing tooth extraction. “You can help me celebrate, as Crispin used to. I believe he would like that.”
Sir Edmund departed, obviously relieved to make his escape and likely wondering what he had let himself in for. Julianna thanked heaven that she would be free from the disapproving eyes of the Fitzhugh servants for a few days. At the moment, she could imagine no better Christmas gift
Looking forward to her holiday lifted Julianna’s spirits. The following morning found her up at an early hour, preparing for an excursion into the City. At lunch, she ordered Brock to arrange her transport, mentioning her errand with the seamstress to forestall his usual diatribe.
Being so new from girlhood, Julianna had seldom dealt with tradespeople. However, she soon found herself taken under the wing of the motherly seamstress Cecily Underhill had recommended. Though Julianna recognized the woman’s obliging manner as mere merchant’s courtesy, she hungered for a kind word, whatever the source. She spent a pleasant two hours in the cozy shop, ordering a modest but suitable winter wardrobe.
“These gowns should do quite nicely, Mrs. Naseby, but I would like something new, and rather special—for Christmas.”
The seamstress wagged her finger. “Say no more, Lady Fitzhugh. I have the very thing. A customer ordered it, and by the time I’d got the cloth she wanted in just the color, all made up as she’d asked, wasn’t the lady big with child, and me stuck with the gown. The color should suit you nicely, my dear, with that pretty hair. I believe you’ll find it a perfect fit.”
Mrs. Naseby bustled off to the back room, calling behind her, “I offered it to several of my other customers, but they found the cost too dear. I’ll make you a good price of it, Lady Fitzhugh, just to take it off my hands.”
Julianna gasped at the sum mentioned but gasped again, in admiration, when she saw the ravishing swath of lustrous deep-green silk in the seamstress’s arms. She needed no urging to try it on and perform a turn before the mirror. The gown’s rich hue, with ruches of cream-colored lace at the elbows and bosom, brightened her hair and complexion. Having never owned so becoming a garment. Julianna was determined to buy this one. Let Mr. Brock