My Lord Protector. Deborah Hale
like this—on the night years ago when Winnie had shaken her from a sound sleep. Myfanwy Penallen was dying and wanted her little granddaughter with her at the end. Julianna would never forget her grandmother’s blanched skin, sunken eyes and wasted body. The red-gold hair about which she had once been so vain dulled to a ruddy ash, her strength and spirit bled and purged away—almost. A dash of pepper spiced her last words, flung at Alistair Ramsay over his daughter’s head.
“I’d not have died, if you hadn’t tried to cure me!”
That final, venomous accusation hung in the air after the old lady’s heart and breath had stilled and Winnie had taken Julianna back to her own bed. It had shaken Alistair Ramsay. No barber-surgeon ever crossed his threshold after that night. Over the years he had cultivated patronage for a rising young cadre of scientific physicians. Julianna was equally determined to allow no barber-surgeon in her house.
“Gwenyth, is there an old gown of Mrs. Bayard’s about?” she asked, a plan beginning to take shape in her mind.
“Oh yes, milady,” the girl replied, a query in her voice. “These used to be Mrs. Bayard’s rooms, see? Before you came, they were just as she left them. When we rearranged it all for you, her belongings just got moved across the hall, and—”
“Good.” Julianna had heard all she needed to hear. “Go fetch me one of her gowns, and be quick about it.”
As Gwenyth departed on her errand, Julianna took a moment to collect her wits. Feeling responsible for Sir Edmund’s condition, she resolved to remedy the situation in any way possible. From what Gwenyth had told her, the most urgent tasks would be to calm Sir Edmund and to keep the barber-surgeon at bay. Any action on her part would likely call down the wrath of the formidable Mr. Brock. By the time Gwenyth returned, Julianna was trying to steel herself for the confrontation.
“I hope this will do, ma’am. There are others, but I took the first that came to hand.”
Julianna fanned her nose against the camphoric fumes of Mrs. Davies’s mothproofing preparation. “This will have to serve. Tomorrow, make sure to have the rest aired, in case I need them. Help brush my hair up under this cap. Now, back to bed, Gwenyth. I may need your help tomorrow, so you must get your rest.”
As she made her way down the dark gallery, Julianna’s heart raced. Her palms felt cold and damp. She would sooner face down a great wild beast than her husband’s ferocious steward. Sir Edmund’s cries grew weaker, but no less agitated, as she approached his apartment. Hearing footsteps behind her, she spun around to find a young footman escorting a capped and cloaked stranger. Julianna recognized the satchel he carried.
Taking a deep breath, she thrust out her hand. “Doctor?”
The gentleman set down his case, doffed his hat and bowed over her hand. “Jonas Hanley, ma’am. I was summoned to attend Sir Edmund Fitzhugh. I understand his condition is very grave.”
A poor choice of words, Julianna reflected. “I am Lady Fitzhugh, Mr. Hanley. I regret we have summoned you out at so late an hour on a cold night. I must apologize for the misunderstanding. My husband will not require your services, after all.”
The surgeon opened his mouth to voice his obvious annoyance, but Julianna managed to forestall his tirade.
“Of course, we will recompense you handsomely for your trouble. John, show Mr. Hanley to the drawing room and poor him a cup of port to warm his journey home.”
“But, milady, Mr. Breck’ll...”
“Leave Mr. Brock to me, John.” Julianna strove to interject the proper note of matronly authority. “You have my orders.”
The men turned back, the surgeon huffing and clucking. Julianna overheard the young footman muttering excuses for the whims of his employers. She watched with relief as they retreated down the hallway. She knew better than to hope her next encounter would resolve itself so smoothly. Bracing her shoulders and muttering a prayer under her breath, she pushed open Sir Edmund’s door.
The light in the room was dim, fortunately. Sir Edmund half sat, half reclined upon his high bed, asking again and again for Alice. Mordecai Brock leaned over his master, vainly trying to calm the sick man and induce him to lie still. At the sound of the door, Brock looked over his shoulder.
“Doctor, at last...” He spied Julianna. His face, at first a mask of bewilderment, clouded with rage as he recognized her. “Get out of here, now!” His blazing eyes declared that he would rend her limb from limb. However, the steward’s body could not completely shield his master from the apparition at the door.
“Alice, you have come at last!” Sir Edmund collapsed back onto his pillows.
“Yes, Edmund, I am here.” Julianna moved toward the bed. Though she addressed her words to the patient, she kept her eyes locked on Mordecai Brock, daring him to stop her.
Sweat beaded Sir Edmund’s brow and his eyes were eerily vacant. Julianna put her hand to his fiery forehead.
“Lie still, my dear. Alice is here. You must sleep, while I sit with you and bathe your head.” Such words would a loving mother croon to a sick child. They had their desired effect.
“Yes, Alice, will try to rest.” Sir Edmund nodded with childlike contrition. “I feel so strange. I am glad you have come. I called and called for you.”
“Shh, you must not talk now, Edmund. Lie back and close your eyes. Mr. Brock, bring me a cloth and a basin of tepid water. And see that no one disturbs us, on any account.”
“May I speak to you in private, ma’am?” The steward pitched his voice low, so as not to rouse Sir Edmund, but Julianna could see a vein throbbing at one temple of his rage-mottled face.
“One moment, Mr. Brock.” She turned back to the bed. “Now, Edmund, I must step outside for an instant. I know you feel hot and unwell, but try to rest quietly.”
Sir Edmund raised her hand to a cheek rough with several days’ growth of whiskers. By contrast, his words were those of a plaintive little boy. “I will do as you say, Alice. Only, come back very soon.”
Once they were alone in the gallery, with a closed door separating them from Sir Edmund, Mordecai Brock erupted in a muted explosion of fury.
“What do you think you are playing at, jade? Have you not done damage enough, cavorting around London last week, getting him run down and prey to this? I have my hands full with him and I will not put up with your playacting and upsetting him further. Now get back to bed, before I pick you up and dump you there!”
Mordecai Brock was shorter in stature than Sir Edmund. By balancing high on her toes, Julianna could look him directly in the eye, her face within inches of his.
“Do that and it will be your last act as steward of this house.” Julianna strove to keep her voice firm, but dispassionate. She suspected he might strike her if she inflamed his temper further. If it happened, she would have no choice but to dismiss him. That was not her aim.
Her words must have left the steward momentarily speechless, for she was able to continue in a more conciliatory vein. “I will excuse your outburst, Mr. Brock, considering how distraught you are over my husband’s illness. But, mark me, I will not show such clemency again. In the first place, not that it is any of your business, our two Christmas outings were entirely Sir Edmund’s idea. Had you told me of the possible danger to my husband’s health, I would certainly have refused his invitations and contrived to keep him at home. Secondly, my ‘playacting’ seems to have done far more good than harm. Even I can see my husband needs to relax and rest. Believe it or not, I desire Sir Edmund’s recovery as much as you do. I can best accomplish that with your aid, but if need be, I will manage on my own. You have a choice, Mr. Brock, so consider well. Give me the assistance I need and the respect I deserve as mistress of this house or leave now and hinder me no more.”
To Julianna, the silence that followed her audacious little speech stretched on interminably. Her legs were beginning to shake and her breath was coming too quickly.