The English Wife: A Novel Page 34

  “Miss Van Duyvil?”

  Janie felt her cheeks flush. “Yes?”

  “What did you see then?” The coroner’s voice was very gentle. No wonder. He probably thought he was dealing with a half-wit.

  “My brother,” she said. “He was lying on the flagstones of the folly. There was … there was a knife in his chest.”

  The coroner nodded to the bailiff. “This knife?”

  The bulbous gems still glistened in the hilt, cabochon sapphires and rubies. It looked so innocent, but for the rusty stains along the blade. Janie swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “Yes.”

  “Do you know whose it might have been?” There was no urgency to the question; they knew this already.

  Janie nodded, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “Yes. My brother’s. It was part of his costume.”

  Like her mother’s pearls or the aquamarines sewn into Annabelle’s dress. Nothing but a bauble. A bauble with a blade.

  “When you arrived at the folly, was there any sign of Mrs. Bayard Van Duyvil?”

  “Yes.” Janie could feel the change of mood in the room. Giles Lacey, looking at her from beneath hooded lids—did he practice? she wondered irrelevantly—her mother, face frozen in the expressionless disdain that was her way of ignoring everything that displeased her; Anne, twisting the tail of a fox around and around one finger. “I saw my sister-in-law in the river.”

  “Are you quite certain, Miss Van Duyvil?”

  The dark, the snow, the flickering light of the lanterns. Memory played tricks. People remembered what they thought they ought to have seen. But this wasn’t what she thought she ought to have seen; this is what she had seen.

  “Yes,” Janie said determinedly. “The river wasn’t frozen yet.”

  But cold, so cold.

  The coroner beckoned to the bailiff, who came forward bearing a single shoe.

  “Miss Van Duyvil, do you recognize this shoe?”

  The satin shimmered against the dull tones of the courtroom like Cinderella’s glass slipper.

  “That is Annabelle’s shoe. She was wearing pale blue.” Pale blue that sparkled like water. But not like those waters. The waters of the Hudson had been a dark gray that night, cold and treacherous.

  The tides in the Hudson ran strong, and Annabelle’s dress had been heavy, sewn with gems.

  Of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes.

  The coroner gestured again to the bailiff, who replaced the shoe on its stand. “And do you recognize this brooch, Miss Van Duyvil?”

  The bailiff silently displayed the diamond brooch. In the courtroom, among the peeling paint and the scarred wood, it looked like a child’s bauble, a chunk of glass set in wire. Until the facets caught the light and it blazed as no glass ever had.

  Slowly, she shook her head. “That wasn’t Annabelle’s.”

  “Are you quite certain, Miss Van Duyvil?” The coroner glanced out the window, where the snow had been falling since morning. Falling and stopping, falling and stopping.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am quite certain.”

  A little murmur of interest about the room.

  “Do you know whose brooch it was?” the coroner inquired.

  Janie could almost picture it pinned to a bodice, between two long ropes of pearls. It was like trying to remember the whole of a song from a handful of notes. It taunted her and then slipped away again.

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know how the brooch might have arrived at that particular spot?”

  “There were lanterns in the gardens,” said Janie slowly. Pleasure gardens that no one had visited, because there wasn’t much pleasure to be had in a garden in January. “Anyone might have gone down there at any point in the evening.”

  Even as she spoke, Janie thought how unlikely it was that anyone would have lost such a jewel and not reported it missing. Just because the rich were rich didn’t mean they were careless with their belongings.

  “Miss Van Duyvil,” said the coroner, “can you recall anything else? Anything at all that might aid us in our inquiries?”

  That sensation of not being alone, the creeping feeling of being watched. No, that wasn’t something she could share without feeling foolish. She’d be seeing fairies and hobgoblins in the woods next. But there was something else.

  “My brother was still alive when we found him,” said Janie, choosing her words carefully. “He … he tried to speak.”

  Pens poised; notebooks out. Half-nodding heads upright again.

  The coroner managed to keep his voice even and calm. “What did he say, Miss Van Duyvil? To the best of your recollection.”

  George …

  “It was hard to hear,” Janie said apologetically. “The river and the wind … his voice wasn’t very strong.”

  “Was there anything that you could recognize?”

  Feeling her mother’s eyes on her, Janie was beginning to be sorry she’d said anything, but this was a court of law, and she was under oath. “It sounded like it might be a name. It began with G.”

  Mr. Lacey popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “Georgie! I told you! She killed him! You have it from Van Duyvil’s own lips, damn you!”

  Banging the gavel, the coroner said heatedly, “Mr. Lacey, if you cannot control yourself or your language, I will have you removed. I would remind you that there are ladies present.”

  Mr. Lacey subsided into his seat with a curl of his lip, but he looked ready to spring up again at any moment.

  Gently, the coroner said, “Miss Van Duyvil, was it Georgie?”

  Bay’s lips, barely moving. George …

  “It might have been.” At Mr. Lacey’s look of triumph, Janie added, “It might also have been Giles.”

  Mr. Lacey’s eyes narrowed on her in a way that made Janie feel the cold straight through to her chemise.

  “I don’t know,” Janie said, and at least that was true. She didn’t know. “It was just too hard to hear. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, Miss Van Duyvil. You may stand down.” The coroner looked again at the window and came to a decision. “Given the inclement weather, I hereby adjourn this court until Monday. The jury will deliberate at that time.”

  “No further testimony?” shouted a reporter.

  “I believe,” said the coroner, shuffling his papers together, “that we have heard quite enough.”

  “Or,” murmured Mr. Burke, wiggling his way to Janie’s side to offer her a hand down from the witness stand, “that he needs to get back to work and this is dragging on too long.”

  Janie could feel the warmth of his gloved hand on hers, straight through the leather of her gloves. Her gloves had been purchased more for elegance than utility. “Would he really conclude the inquest without an answer?”

  Mr. Burke used his body as a shield to provide her a clear path to the side of the room, keeping his voice low. “If you want predictions, get a crystal ball. But my guess is that the verdict will be murder by person or persons unknown, and they’ll leave it at that.”

  Janie’s steps slowed. “But … what about justice?”

  “The courts are busy. The weather is bad.” Seeing the expression on her face, Burke relented. “That doesn’t mean it’s over. If there are any new leads, the case will be reopened. If there’s anything to find, trust me, I’ll find it.”

  Janie could see Mr. Lacey’s tall hat on the other side of the room. He was standing by the exit, in close conference with Janie’s mother and Mr. Tilden.

  “They would all very happily see Annabelle hanged,” said Janie quietly. “My mother has ranged herself wholeheartedly with Mr. Lacey.”

  “Because he owns an abbey?”

  “No. Not entirely. I think she believes she is avenging Bay, that she ought to have protected him from Annabelle, and this is her chance to make amends.”

  “If you believe Mr. Lacey,” said Burke flatly.

  Janie glanced swiftly at Burke. “Do you t
hink he killed them? Mr. Lacey.”

  “I wouldn’t place money against it.” The trio by the door caught sight of Janie and Burke. Lacey’s expression as he looked at Janie was not fond. “You made an enemy today.”

  “Say rather that I didn’t make a friend,” said Janie.

  “Is there a difference?” inquired Mr. Burke.

  “I don’t believe he thinks I’m important enough to dislike,” said Janie frankly. “My mother has invited Mr. Lacey to stay with us at Illyria for the weekend—or, as he calls it, the Saturday to Monday.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?” Burke was not amused by her imitation of Mr. Lacey’s accent. “You could come back to town. There’s a train leaving in twenty minutes. You could be back on Monday morning in time for the verdict.”

  It was a tempting notion. To get on the train, to be free, even for two days.

  “I can’t,” Janie said regretfully. “I can’t leave Mother, not now. She may not look like it, but she is grieving. She’s—” The memory of the carriage ride back to Illyria flashed across Janie’s mind. The crack of her mother’s palm against Anne’s cheek. “She’s not herself.”

  “All right,” said Burke reluctantly. “But if Lacey so much as looks at you the wrong way, lock yourself in your room and find yourself a sturdy poker. Strike first, ask questions later.”

  “It’s hardly so dire as that. I doubt Mr. Lacey would murder me in my bed. Bodies piling up might give people ideas. And,” Janie added, before Burke could protest, “he wasn’t yet in the country on the night of the ball.”

  “Or so he claims. Once I’m back in town, I intend to take a look at the passenger list for that ship. There should also be a few telegrams from across the pond waiting for me in the newsroom.” When Janie looked at him in surprise, Burke’s cheeks reddened above his muffler. Gruffly, he said, “I made you a promise, didn’t I? Find the truth and publish it. I’m still working on the first bit. If anything makes you nervous, anything at all, telephone The World’s offices. If I’m not there, they’ll leave a message for me.”

  “If the telephone wires don’t go down,” said Janie. The wind battered against the windows of the courtroom, whipping the bare branches of trees into a frenzied dance. Stray flakes of snow dipped and eddied, a promise of more to come.

  Burke scowled at the slate gray sky. “I hate to leave you here.”

  “You’re more use to me in town,” said Janie lightly. Her mother, who never essayed a task that could be delegated to someone of inferior station, had sent Mr. Lacey to collect her. She could see him coming for her, his tall hat wending its way through the crowd. “Now go. Or you’ll miss your train.”

  Burke gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Be careful. It’s treacherous out there.”

  Giles Lacey was nearly upon them. Janie looked from the man who had lied to her to the man who might have killed her brother. “I know,” she said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Cold Spring, 1899

  January 5

  “May I have a word?”

  Georgie caught up with Bay near the rose garden—or rather what would be the rose garden at some point in the spring. Right now, it was a twig-and-thorn garden, spiky and joyless. He was conferring with David about the placement of the Chinese lanterns for tomorrow night, rather a ridiculous exercise, thought Georgie, given that it was too cold for any sane person to voluntarily seek the outdoors.

  But then this was the cream of New York society they were inviting. Sanity wasn’t always a prerequisite.

  “Certainly,” said Bay, and waited.

  Georgie darted a glance at David, who was tactfully inspecting a twig. Frustration seized her at having to beg for even this small crumb, the right to speak to her own bloody husband without a bloody audience. “In private?”

  “I’ll just be in the music room,” said David, and disappeared around an elaborate bit of topiary, leaving Georgie feeling as though she’d kicked a puppy. It would be easier if David weren’t so likable, if she could indulge in the treat of thoroughly resenting her husband’s lover without having to feel guilty about it every time she asserted her rights. Whatever those were.

  “What is it?” asked Bay, but Georgie couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes flicked over her shoulder as he said it, marking David’s progress back to the house.

  “Not here,” said Georgie. There were too many people about, gardeners and caterers and goodness only knew who. Through the bare branches of the trees, she could see the eaves of the old house, sturdy and plain. “Let’s go to the old house. We can be private there.”

  “Let’s hope there’s still some coal in the grate,” joked Bay, offering an arm.

  He hadn’t minded the cold when he was with David.

  Georgie pushed the thought aside, threading her arm through her husband’s. There was something about the nearness of him, his size, his touch, his smell, that made her feel safe, even now, even with Giles roaming the grounds, even knowing that David was in the music room waiting and hordes of guests were coming to disturb their peace tomorrow. There was something so very solid about Bay, so very safe.

  They’d weathered so much already. Surely, together, they could find a way to deal with Giles. Bay would understand. Georgie could feel the tight knot in her stomach beginning to relax at the thought of unburdening herself, being able, finally, to tell Bay the whole truth. He’d told her his truth; now it was her turn.

  Imperfect lovers, that was what they were. And hardly lovers anymore. But at least their imperfections matched, two imposters showing false faces to the world. But not to each other, not anymore.

  Surely, that was a bond stronger than sharing a bed?

  “It does feel small after the new house, doesn’t it?” said Bay as they took the back stairs up to the nursery.

  Georgie looked with affection at the narrow doorframe, the way the house closed around her like an embrace. “It feels like home.”

  Bay looked down at her, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “But Lacey Abbey is your home. Your real home.”

  In the nursery, Old King Cole led his musicians in a merry measure and Little Bo Peep looked forlornly for her sheep.

  “About that—” Georgie began.

  “Do you not like the house?” Bay looked at her with concern, that look that always seemed to say that she was the most important thing in the world and her wish was his command. Even when it quite frequently wasn’t.

  “It’s not about the house. Not really.” Stalling, Georgie walked through to the empty nurse’s room. She knelt by the grate. “There’s enough coal for a fire.”

  “I’ll do it,” said her husband, who had never lit his own fire in his life and stood looking helplessly from the kindling basket to the coal scuttle.

  “Here.” Striking a lucifer, Georgie lit a piece of kindling, setting it down on the grate. She placed sticks from the wood basket over it, waiting until they caught before reaching for the coal.

  “At least let me dirty my own hands,” said Bay, and set down the chunks of coal for her, gingerly, on top of the kindling wood. There was something about the way he looked at the smuts on his hands, trying to think of a place to wipe them clean, that made her heart twist, the way it did when Sebastian tried to feed himself and got porridge all around his mouth instead of in it.

  “Now,” said Bay, putting both hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  His sympathy almost undid her. For a moment, it was five years ago and she was alone and scared and Bay was a broad-shouldered stranger, Sir Galahad and Lancelot rolled into one.

  “Do you remember,” Georgie began and then had to stop and clear her throat. “Do you remember, when we first met and I told you that I was raised as Annabelle’s companion?”

  “Of course,” said Bay fondly. “But it wasn’t hard to guess the truth.”

  “That was the truth.” Bay blinked at her, and Georgie hurried on, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. “You were so su
re that I … it didn’t seem worth arguing. And it seemed fair in a way to get to be Annabelle, after all the trouble I had gone through for her sake…” Georgie’s voice faltered to a stop. She wished Bay would say something. Anything. She took a deep breath and laid herself bare. “The real truth of it is that I didn’t want to risk losing you. You were … you were everything I had ever dreamed of, and I couldn’t bear to let you go.”

  She blinked away the tears stinging the back of her eyes. She’d got her deserts, hadn’t she? She’d lied and seen her fairy tale turned on its head. If she’d been honest … no. It didn’t work that way. And she had more than most. She had a friend.

  She hoped.

  “I don’t understand,” said Bay hoarsely.

  Which meant that he did. Georgie’s hands were shaking, so she wrapped them together, trying to steady herself. She knew him so well, her Bay. Her Bay who liked to avoid bother, who preferred to pretend not to see what he didn’t want to see.

  “What I told you then was true, Bay. Annabelle was my half sister. My real name is Georgiana. Georgiana Smith. You would think they could have come up with a more inventive surname, couldn’t you?” Georgie tried to smile, but it didn’t come out quite right. It hurt, that smile.

  “You’re not Annabelle Lacey,” said Bay. He said it as though he hoped he were wrong.

  “Annabelle is married to a sheep farmer in New South Wales. We had an arrangement. I would help her escape, and in return—” You can have Giles if you want him. “In return, I would take her place. It just didn’t work out as well as we had planned.”

  “You told me you were Annabelle.”

  “No.” She couldn’t let him think that. She might have lied by omission, but never on purpose, not to Bay. “You decided I must be Annabelle and … it was too much trouble to disabuse you.”

  Even as she said it, she realized how weak it sounded. She could see it in Bay’s face in the way he looked at her, as though she were something unpleasant that had come out from under the carpet.

  “Bay. Everything else was true. Everything else I told you. I did grow up at Lacey Abbey. I did have a brother named George who died. Annabelle and I were sisters, Bay. Blood sisters.”