up at Gwenyth going cheerfully about her work, Julianna breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Without the Welsh girl’s loyalty and fellowship, she would have gone mad in the gilded cage of Fitzhugh House. The other maids’ smirking politeness irritated her more than outright insolence. Mrs. Davies gave no quarter, even for the sake of their common ancestry. As for Mr. Brock, in the weeks since her wedding their mutual antipathy had degenerated into covert warfare—all the more hostile for the frosty civility that masked it.
Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she continued her letter.
My husband makes me a generous allowance, so you must not think I will miss the small sum enclosed. Sir Edmund considers it in the interests of marital harmony for a wife to have her own funds.
Julianna shook her head as she penned this half truth. Sir Edmund gave her money to soothe his conscience for spending so little time with her. She seldom saw him, but for the few evenings a week he condescended to dine with her. The strained silence of those meals was punctuated by brief exchanges so banal they scarcely merited the title of conversation. She wondered if the kindness and humor she had glimpsed in him on their wedding night had been a figment of her overwrought imagination.
“There.” Gwenyth looked around the room where brass, wood and glass gleamed. “Now I’d best see to my other chores. Before I go, is there anything I can get for you, milady? A bite to eat? Auntie says you scarcely touched your breakfast. She’s worried vou aren’t partial to her cookine.”
“Never fear.” Julianna laid her pen aside. “Mr. Brock has already delivered me a lecture on that subject. Tell your aunt I like her meals very well. My appetite is poor, that is all.”
“Are you quite well, milady? You sleep the day away—straight to bed from dinner and lying in longer every morning.”
“I know.” Julianna was not certain herself what to make of her strange craving for sleep. “At first I thought I was only catching up on the sleepless nights between my father’s death and my wedding. Yet the more I sleep, the more tired I am through the day.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am...are you happy here?”
This straightforward question confounded Julianna for a moment. Finally she recovered her composure sufficiently to answer. “I would be a very wicked and ungrateful young woman not to be happy here, Gwenyth.” Each word sounded as if it had been well laundered and starched. “I have a beautiful home, plentiful food, servants to do my bidding, a generous allowance from Sir Edmund.” She had to bite her tongue to keep from adding, And I have not a single friend in the world.
“But you must miss your daddy. When I first came here after my daddy passed on, I missed him something dreadful.”
“Miss my father? Yes, I suppose I do. We were such good friends. He was always teaching me something new, letting me help him with his work. He was a very special man, Gwenyth.”
“You need to get out more, milady,” Gwenyth advised. “Why don’t you ask Sir Edmund to take you to that Chapter-house place.”
“Perhaps I should, Gwenyth.” In a pig’s eye, I should, Julianna thought to herself. Sir Edmund Fitzhugh was the most unsociable creature she had ever met. At home, he kept to his rooms or to the library with his books and his pipe. Once she had ventured to breach the solitude of that domain. He had treated her to so icy a glare, she’d speedily excused herself on the pretext of borrowing a book.
Gwenyth suddenly glanced at Julianna’s mantel clock in alarm. “Oh, look at the time! Here I’ve been pestering the life out of you, ma’am, when I’ve work to do.” Gwenyth bobbed a hurried curtsy and bustled off.
Julianna took up her pen again, determined to finish.
It will please you to hear that Cousin Francis’s wife has given birth to a healthy daughter, whom they have christened Pamela. I visit once a week, but no oftener, as Cecily is recovering slowly from her confinement.
She was hard-put to muster the energy for those weekly visits with the Underhills. Only the torture of her loneliness compelled her to it. Without quite realizing what she was writing, Julianna concluded.
Last Christmas, how little did I guess that a year would see my father dead, and me a bride. I miss Papa more and more as Christmas draws near. I must close now and bring this letter to Francis, who has promised to contract an honest agent to deliver it to you. Think of me when you sing the plygain on Christmas morning, as I will think of you.
Heaving an sigh, Julianna dusted the paper with blotting powder and blew it off again. Then she folded it into a compact parcel containing three gold sovereigns, and sealed it with wax.
A knock sounded on the sitting room door.
“Come in,” Julianna called, wishing she dared say exactly the opposite.
Mr. Brock entered, his bristling brows drawn together in a look of grim censure. What offense was she guilty of this time? Nothing she did met with Brock’s approval. Several times he’d pointedly inquired of her plans to visit the seamstress, with the unspoken suggestion that her wardrobe was unsuitable and reflected badly upon Sir Edmund. Yet whenever she requested a chaise and pair for an outing, he sternly implied that her timing was most inconvenient.
“May I speak with you, madam?”
Nodding stiffly, Julianna wondered if there was any way she could stop him.
“It concerns Gwenyth, madam,” said Brock, in his best mock-obsequious tone. “I was hoping you might be prevailed upon to restrict your calls on her. The poor child is hard-pressed to discharge her other important duties about the house.”
“Indeed? Can your staff not spare a single maid exclusively to attend the lady of the house? You were right in coming to me with this matter. The situation must be rectified at once. I will be happy to pay Gwenyth’s wages out of my own allowance.”
For an instant Julianna savored the sweet triumph of seeing her adversary entirely at a loss for words.
“Thank you for bringing the problem to my attention, Brock. I will discuss it with Sir Edmund at my earliest convenience.” It was all she could do to keep a straight face, watching the rapid desertion of Mr. Brock’s composure.
She hoped the steward would not call her bluff, Julianna thought after he had gone. She did not wish to complain to Sir Edmund about her treatment, partly because he was so unapproachable. Besides, when she considered the alternatives to her present life, her concerns seemed so petty and foolish. From years of habit, she had grown accustomed to keeping her troubles to herself and putting on a show of complacency. Her letter to Winnie was merely the latest prop in that show.
Julianna recalled the letter. She must deliver it to Francis. But that would mean another unpleasant exchange with Brock about a carriage. She would also have to change clothes. Tomorrow would be soon enough. What matter when her letter reached Caer Gryffud? Christmas no longer held the special significance it once had.
Her father had always made a great celebration of it. There had been guests to welcome and entertainments to plan. Julianna felt a tear run down her cheek. Gifts to buy and special outings to arrange. Another tear fell, then another. Wassail and carolers. She could not summon the strength to stern the tide. Dropping her head upon her arms, she gave way to aching, lonely weeping.
In the gallery beyond Julianna’s door, Edmund paced back and forth, berating himself for a cowardly fool. After all, over a pipe and coffee at the Chapterhouse, he regularly conversed with the most learned men in England. What made him hesitate to speak to his own wife? Whenever he came within ten feet of her, a wave of childish bashfulness assailed him and he could barely stammer the most tedious remark. He tried to cover his embarrassment with a mask of frigid reserve.
Only one other person had ever rendered him so frustratingly inarticulate. Often as a boy, he had squirmed between a desperate desire to please and a suffocating certainty of failure. What this slip of a girl had in common with his critical,