The English Wife

by Lauren Willig

  “Does the Ali Baba sound like the sort of establishment a lady would frequent?” Burke rested his palms on his knees. “I’ve been told that your brother and his wife were introduced by a mutual friend?”

  “Sir Hugo Medmenham.” Janie felt as though she were betraying her brother, laying his secrets bare for strangers. But that had been their deal: information for information. It just hadn’t occurred to her that she would have any information to give. “They must have been in the same party that night at the theater.”

  “You’re ignoring the other possibility,” said Burke. He pointed to the fragment of a name. Miss Geor … “Georgiana Smith?”

  “That’s assuming a great deal from very little.” The world was full of Georginas and Georgianas, a compliment to a succession of kings. “We don’t even know if there was a Georgiana Smith.”

  “Or is it just that you can’t abide the idea of your brother’s wife on the stage?”

  Janie opened her mouth on an automatic denial, but something in Mr. Burke’s face stopped her. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’d never thought … it’s hard to change your idea of someone. Annabelle always seemed so reserved.”

  Annabelle had refused to sing in public, even when all the other ladies were taking their turn at the piano. Was it because she was afraid someone might recognize her voice?

  No. She was building a mansion out of straws, presuming too much.

  “There were those missing years,” said Mr. Burke, as much to himself as her. “Even if everything Mr. Lacey said was a lie, what about those three years after Annabelle Lacey disappeared? She had to live somehow. Better to sing for her supper than—”

  “Other means?” Janie provided. She had worked long enough with the Girls’ Club to know that life wasn’t kind for a woman alone in a large city. “Yes. There is that.”

  Mr. Burke lifted the piece of paper, folding it carefully in his handkerchief. Tucking it away, he rose to his feet. “Would you mind if I took this with me?”

  “If I did mind, would you leave it?”

  Strange, how one could know someone for such a short time and still read their body. Burke went very still. “Is that what you want?”

  “No.” Janie took the hand he offered her, wincing as pins and needles shot up her leg. “We made a bargain, didn’t we? The truth, no matter the cost.”

  “If we’re talking about the truth…” Mr. Burke held her hand just a moment too long before abruptly letting go. Brusquely, he said, “It might be nothing to do with anything. The program.”

  It was an olive branch, but one Janie couldn’t accept. She wouldn’t be lied to, even in a good cause. “Then why burn it? You were right. This was something that someone wanted to hide.”

  Mr. Burke gestured for her to precede him through the nursery. “Yet, if they wanted to keep it secret, why all the references to Twelfth Night? It’s as if they were taunting the world with it. The name of their house, a Twelfth Night ball…”

  “Don’t forget Viola and Sebastian.” Janie drew a deep breath. “My mother was furious when she heard the twins’ names. They’re not family names.”

  “Any more than Genevieve?” When Janie acknowledged the point with a nod, Mr. Burke added casually, “She was a very useful sort of saint, Genevieve. Not only did she feed the poor and help the helpless, she’s said to have scared the fearsome Attila the Hun himself away from the gates of Paris.” He cast her a sideways glance. “She’s the sort of saint one likes to have in one’s corner.”

  Foolish to feel warmed by Mr. Burke’s words. It was only a name, and one she hadn’t used in years, not since her father died.

  “I don’t know much about St. Genevieve.” Only that her mother considered saints’ names impossibly popish. Together, they crossed the dark nursery, the dim figures of fairy-tale characters looking down on them from the walls. “If we go out the back way, we’ll be closer to the garden path.”

  “Lead the way.” But Mr. Burke didn’t follow her. He looked at her, and there was something in his expression that Janie couldn’t quite read. “Did you know that St. Genevieve is generally depicted with a candle?”

  Janie glanced, automatically, at the candle in her hands.

  Mr. Burke’s lips quirked. “There you have it, St. Genevieve. They say the devil tried to blow the saint’s candle out—but she made it light again. And ever after, she brought light into darkness.”

  Janie had to clear her throat before she could speak. “That’s very … poetic.”

  “And most likely apocryphal,” said Mr. Burke briskly. “But it’s a beautiful story, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Janie soberly. “A very beautiful story.”

  They walked in silence down the back stairs, out the narrow door that led into the old kitchen garden, brown with frost, smelling of dead plants with the crisp tang of snow to come. The sky was a slate gray, the moon tinting the darkness rather than defeating it.

  So much for St. Genevieve bringing light to the world, thought Janie, looking ruefully at the candle in her hand, the flame shivering in the wind.

  Janie cupped the flame to keep it from blowing out. Inside the great house, Mrs. Gerritt would be setting the table for Janie’s solitary supper. It was bad enough to have invited Mr. Burke for lunch. It was impossible to allow him to stay longer.

  “Miss Van Duyvil. Genevieve—” he began, just as Janie said, too quickly, “It’s late. Shall I have Gerritt take you to the station?”

  “I’d thought I might stay here tonight.” Mr. Burke glanced back at the old house, adding belatedly, “With your permission, of course.”

  “Alone?” It was painfully still, the sort of stillness that made the hair on the back of Janie’s neck prickle. Still, but not quiet. The night was full of noises. Twigs cracking, leaves rustling, small animals burrowing in the underbrush, and, always, the river, singing on its course. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  Mr. Burke raised a brow. “Are you offering to stay with me?”

  The idea was strangely tempting. With dignity, Janie said, “I was merely concerned for your well-being.”

  “Very kind, I’m sure. I’m better equipped than you are to deal with midnight intruders.”

  “Do you think there will be?”

  “Intruders? Likely not. But we’ll never know unless we try.”

  She should argue with him, Janie knew. She had no right to allow anyone to spend the night, particularly a reporter. Instead, she found herself saying, “You might at least light a fire. You’ll freeze.”

  “I’ve slept worse places.” Dropping the bravado, Mr. Burke said, “A fire would obviate the exercise. If our intruder sees someone here, he’s unlikely to appear.”

  Janie blinked against the bite of the wind. “Do you know this from experience?”

  “No,” said Mr. Burke drily, “from Sherlock Holmes. But the principle seems sound, don’t you agree?”

  Janie found herself laughing, despite herself, a laugh that shook with shivers. Had it grown colder, or was it the whisky wearing away? Impulsively, she put out a hand to him. “Don’t freeze on my account.”

  Mr. Burke looked down at her hand on his sleeve and then slowly covered it with his own. “Don’t worry. You can trust me to look out for my own interests. I’ve enough whisky to keep me warm.” A rueful smile twisted his lips. “I don’t envy you the head you’ll have in the morning.”

  “And you won’t?”

  “I’m a hardheaded Irishman, remember?” He lifted her hand briefly to his lips before releasing it. “Good night, Miss Van Duyvil. You needn’t worry that I’ll trespass on your hospitality. I’ll be gone before you wake.”

  Janie’s hand tingled where his lips had touched. “Don’t be foolish,” she said stoutly. “You’ll come to the house for breakfast.”

  For a moment, he seemed tempted. “I’ve an early train to catch. Too early to wake you. But I’ll leave you a note at the door before I go.”

  “And I’ll leave
you a basket,” said Janie decidedly. “Good night, Mr. Burke.”

  “Miss Van Duyvil?”

  Janie turned to see Mr. Burke still standing in the winter kitchen garden, his expression troubled. “Yes?”

  “Sleep well.”

  FIFTEEN

  Tarrytown, 1894

  October

  “Annabelle? Annabelle.”

  Georgie struggled out of the darkness with a sick feeling in her stomach and the sense that something was very wrong.

  Stop calling me that, she wanted to say. I’m not. I’m not. Don’t you know who I am? But her tongue felt thick and fuzzy, and moving made her want to retch.

  A voice she recognized now, low, a whisper. “Georgie!”

  And then a horrible stench that made her cough and start, flailing against a soft surface that only billowed around her when she tried to push against it.

  “Stop that!” Georgie blinked open her stinging eyes to see Bay bending over her, one hand chafing her wrist, the other holding a vinaigrette, reeking of brimstone.

  “You’re awake,” said Bay with almost comical relief. His face was a study in relief—but also something furtive, apprehensive.

  Why should he … and then Georgie remembered. She remembered the garden and Charlie. And Bay.

  “Get that thing away,” Georgie rasped, pushing the vinaigrette away.

  The walls around her were papered with blue flowers. They bloomed improbably over the counterpane covering her. She was still in her dress beneath it, her stays loosened, but not removed. The ends of her stays poked uncomfortably into her hips.

  Bay sat down abruptly on the bed beside her. He smiled unsteadily, reaching out to smooth the hair away from her face. “It’s only smelling salts.”

  Georgie flinched away from his touch. “It smells like the devil’s own breath.”

  Someone made a harrumphing noise. Georgie looked up to find her mother-in-law standing in the doorway, surveying the scene with displeasure.

  Bay rose hastily, extending the vinaigrette to his mother. “Thank you for the vinaigrette, Mother. Would you mind returning it to Mrs. Newland?”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil did not appreciate being dismissed. Ignoring her son, she said to Georgie, “You have caused a great deal of bother.”

  Bay rubbed his tired eyes. “Hardly that, Mother. Only Charlie…”—was it Georgie’s imagination, or did Bay stumble over the name?—“only Charlie Ogden saw, and he certainly won’t go spreading stories.”

  “If he won’t, his sister will.” Mrs. Van Duyvil looked pointedly at her son. “She’s spread enough rumors already.”

  Rumors about … but no. Mrs. Van Duyvil wasn’t thinking about that. She hadn’t seen what Georgie had seen. Georgie felt a crazy urge to laugh. The rumors about Bay and Anne seemed a lifetime ago, entirely inconsequential.

  “You might,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil to Georgie, “have shown the prudence to find a place of privacy before succumbing to the vapors.”

  Georgie levered herself up on her elbows, saying hoarsely, “In the future, I will endeavor to save all swoons for more convenient locations.”

  Bay stepped between the bed and his mother. “It will only cause more talk if we’re all gone. Someone from the family needs to see Anne off.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil nodded, tight-lipped, and retreated, vinaigrette in hand.

  Bay sat on the edge of the bed, his hand near, but not touching Georgie’s. “She doesn’t mean to be unkind. She’s upset about Anne’s marriage. If you hadn’t been ill, it would have been something else.”

  Why in the devil were they talking about his mother? She didn’t care about his mother. Georgie turned her head on the pillow, away from him. She could feel the mattress shift as Bay leaned closer.

  “Are you … how are you feeling?” A finger brushed her knuckles, a whisper of a movement. Georgie looked up at Bay, his face so familiar and unfamiliar, all at once. “You scared me, collapsing like that.”

  Don’t smile at me like that, Georgie wanted to say. Don’t smile at me as though I were a stranger and not a very bright one, someone chance met at a dinner party, someone with whom one had to make stilted conversation until the table turned and one could, with relief, turn to the person on the other side.

  “It wasn’t exactly enjoyable for me either,” said Georgie, her voice rusty. All she could see was Bay and Charlie, Charlie and Bay.

  “Here.” Bay rose hastily, pouring water from a pitcher into a glass. “Let me help you drink.”

  The glass was crystal, etched with flowers. Usually, Georgie found the casual opulence of Bay’s world amusing, something out of a Punch cartoon, too ridiculous to be real. Today it felt all too real, pressing around her, stifling her.

  She batted Bay’s hand away. “I’m perfectly capable of drinking by myself.”

  Meekly, Bay proffered the glass, accepting the rebuff without complaint. Don’t, Georgie wanted to scream. Tease me, fight with me. Anything but looking so guilty.

  Her fingers closed around the glass with difficulty; the room spun as she hoisted herself to a sitting position.

  Bay hovered over the side of her bed, looking like a golden retriever who had lost his ball. “I shouldn’t have kept you in the sun so long.”

  It wasn’t the sun. Georgie took a small sip of water, then another. The cool water felt good against her throat, keeping the queasiness at bay. She leaned back, against the pillow, letting her eyes drift closed.

  “May I?” Bay took the glass from her, gently. She could hear the chink of crystal against mahogany as he set it down. “Mrs. Newland has called for a doctor.”

  “There is no need.” With an effort, Georgie opened her eyes, forcing them to focus on her husband, her husband, his blond hair still streaked with sunshine from their months at Newport. Bay returned to his place on the edge of the bed, taking her hands in his, and Georgie let him, let the solid warmth of his fingers warm hers.

  The sun had been in her eyes. What had she seen, really? It seemed absurd to think she had seen her husband kissing another man. No, not her husband kissing another man, another man kissing her husband.

  Had it been a kiss, even? Or just an embrace between friends? Friends did embrace.

  “I came back for my bag.” The words were painful to speak, each word like a shard of glass on her tongue. “You were … with Carrie’s brother.”

  Yes, he could say. We were discussing torts.

  Or, We didn’t want to bore you with law school memories.

  But he didn’t. Georgie felt Bay’s hands tighten on hers, too tight. His grip would have hurt if the pain hadn’t all been located elsewhere, in the hunted expression on his face. “Charlie was my closest friend. In law school—”

  What happened in law school? The words were frozen on Georgie’s tongue. She couldn’t speak them. She wanted to shove the genie back in the bottle, to pretend she had never seen anything at all, to screw up her eyes and stick her fingers in her ears and chant, “Not listening!” as children did. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t speak, and she couldn’t look away.

  Bay bowed his head over her hands, his voice barely audible. “Charlie was the reason I left when I did. I had thought, if I could get away. He wanted…”—a pause, in which the echo of the laughter and voices from downstairs sounded obscene, like a child’s laughter at a funeral—“more than friendship.”

  Georgie realized she was holding her breath, waiting for Bay to say more, to say something to reassure her. But he didn’t.

  Rustily, she asked, “And what did you want?”

  “Not that.” Bay released her hands, staring at the wallpaper as though for inspiration. “I didn’t want … I didn’t want to spend my life ducking behind doors.”

  No, no, no. Bay’s face swam in front of her, curiously out of focus. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. That wasn’t an answer. Or maybe it was, and it just wasn’t the answer she wanted.

  She could hear Sir Hugo’s voice, a faraway buzz in her ear: The
y have what is known as a mariage blanc. A mariage blanc. A fancy term for a marriage of convenience, for a man who didn’t fancy women.

  Yes, but they were French. And that wasn’t Bay, Bay who had married her in spite of everything, who had told her he couldn’t live without her, who had given her every indication of devotion, of tenderness.

  Oh, yes. He was all tenderness. Especially in the marriage bed. Tenderness without passion, devotion without desire. They had tried. Goodness only knew, they had tried, in Paris with the chestnut trees blooming outside the window and the Parisian air whispering romance. Bay had no experience of marital relations; she knew that. He had told her so himself. The act of love was an art, not a birthright. It wasn’t surprising that their fumbling couplings had been more awkward than arousing. And Bay—Bay was so careful of her. Almost reluctant.

  If Bay was tentative in his caresses, that was her past, her past coming between them. Bay was protecting her sensibilities.

  Even now? Now that she had tried to show him, a hundred times over, that his embraces held no fear for her? How many times had she made a clumsy advance, only to have Bay gently stroke her cheek, kiss her forehead, close his arms around her in an embrace that was part affection, part deterrent?

  He had married a woman without family, without recourse.

  No. That wasn’t Bay. Georgie’s eyes ached with the strain of staring at her husband, at every line and crease of his face, the downward tilt of his mouth, the shadowed blue of his eyes, as if she might be able to see through the skin to the thoughts beneath.

  She wasn’t being fair to him, to Bay. What had she seen, really?

  Painfully, she pushed herself to a sitting position. “You didn’t ask him to … press his attentions on you.”

  Don’t pretend you didn’t want this. Giles’s voice, a mocking echo.

  Louder now, too loud, Georgie said, “It’s not your fault if someone presumes upon you.”

  Unless the presuming had gone the other way.

  “No, but—” Bay swallowed hard, the bed listing as he leaned closer to her, his face a picture of unhappiness. “I should have come with you back to the house. I should have seen you were ill.”