The English Wife: A Novel Page 9

  “It is her marriage,” Georgie pointed out drily. “Surely, she has some say.”

  “If you can think that, you haven’t met my mother.” Mr. Van Duyvil rubbed a hand against his temple. “I don’t know what my sister wants. To have a household of her own, I presume. It hasn’t been easy for her in my mother’s house. Sometimes, I wonder if I should have stood up for her more, at least made sure she could read a book without hiding it under her pillow, but if I intervened, who knew what might happen? It might only make things worse. No books under the pillow. No books at all.” Mr. Van Duyvil grimaced. “Teddy should be good for that, at least. He won’t care what she reads so long as she looks right in public.”

  “You sound less than pleased for her.”

  “Do I?” Mr. Van Duyvil glanced down at her, and she found herself struck, as always, by the warmth in those blue eyes, the honesty. “I suppose it’s because I see in it my own fate—and I find it a decidedly lowering prospect.”

  “Standing, breeding, and money?” Georgie teased. “Poor stuff indeed.”

  “It is when there’s no meeting of minds.” His voice was low; it seemed to resonate through her with the pounding of the horses’ hooves. “I don’t want to see my wife once a week at the Opera and pass messages through the servants in the between.”

  Georgie dropped her eyes before the expression in his. “That’s the problem with fate, isn’t it?” she said, starting to walk again, speaking rapidly, just to cover the silence. “It has a way of catching up with you. You’ve overstayed your time here as it is.”

  “Have I?” Mr. Van Duyvil caught up to her easily, his shadow covering hers, subsuming it. “I feel as though I could live a lifetime in London and still only know the part of it.”

  Georgie glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Don’t go looking too hard. There are dark corners you’d do well to avoid.”

  “There are dark corners in any city.”

  “Don’t forget the dark corners in our hearts,” said Georgie mockingly.

  “Those, too,” said Mr. Van Duyvil, so seriously that Georgie stopped by the rail to peer up at him. “Would you believe me…”

  “Yes?” There was something about the way he was looking at her, the indecision, the earnestness, that made Georgie’s chest feel tight.

  Mr. Van Duyvil cleared his throat and said, unevenly, “Would you believe me if I told you I found more to admire in a dark theater than a well-lit ballroom?”

  It wasn’t what he had originally intended to say.

  The leaves of the trees glittered through a fine haze of unshed tears as Georgie shook her head. “You might think that now, but you’d regret it by and by.”

  The brim of his hat lent an extra intimacy as he bent towards her, as though it were only the two of them in that little spot of shadow. “There are many things I regret,” he said, “but meeting you isn’t one of them.”

  Under the cover of the chattering crowds, his gloved hand found hers. Georgie could feel the shock of it, of his fingers twining with hers, such a small gesture, and yet so strangely intimate.

  She should pull her hand away, she knew, say something frivolous, something silly, but the words tangled on her tongue and she found she could only stare up at him, naked and bare in her despair, all her emotions written on her face for anyone to see.

  What a fool she had been, what a preening fool to imagine she could keep her heart in all diligence, that she was proof against love.

  She’d fancied herself in love before. The memory of it left a sour taste in the back of her throat. She’d fallen into infatuation with a set of regimentals and a fine mustache; bragging tales of daring and a showy hand with a whip.

  There was nothing the least bit showy about Mr. Van Duyvil, and that was just the danger of it. Slowly, insensibly, she had slipped into love with him, stroll by stroll, conversation by conversation, until she found herself sunk so deep she couldn’t muster the simple power to free her fingers from his. Georgie could feel all her hard-won pride crumbled into dust. The fact of it terrified her beyond measure.

  Helplessly, Georgie said, “Mr. Van Duyvil—”

  His fingers tightened briefly on hers. “It would give me great pleasure,” he said gravely, “if you could bring yourself to call me Bay.”

  “Bay,” she echoed, and the very sound of it on her lips shamed her into sense. Turning her head away, she said rapidly, “And who’s your sister, then? River? Lake?”

  “Janie.” With her hand still in his, even the simple statement of his sister’s name took on a strange intimacy, a door opened into his other life. “My mother wanted to remind the world that she had been a Bayard before marriage. My brother was Peter.”

  “Was?” Georgie asked gruffly. She hadn’t meant to ask; it was only to encourage a connection that couldn’t be. But the word came out anyway.

  “Fever.” They were both looking out at the riders, not at each other, but she could hear the knell of old loss in his voice. “Peter was four.”

  “I’m sorry,” Georgie whispered.

  “It was a very long time ago.” The conventional phrase hung between them. After a moment, Mr. Van Duyvil said with difficulty, “I can’t remember his face. I try—but it’s gone.”

  How long before Bay forgot her face?

  Gently, Georgie extricated her hand from Bay’s. This was madness; he’d go back to New York in a week, a month, and she’d be left alone with her memories. Better to have less to remember, only the impression of a well-cut suit and a tall hat and a shadow falling over the fence post.

  “Memory’s a tricky thing.” She’d meant to leave it at that, but she heard herself saying, “I had a brother once. My twin.”

  Mr. Van Duyvil stood next to her at the rail, his hand next to hers, not touching. Just there. “What happened?”

  “He died when I was very small.” Her voice felt like someone else’s, strange on her lips. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to think of him. Her brother. No. Not hers. Annabelle’s. “Sometimes, if I try hard enough, I think I can hear his voice—but it’s not, really. It’s just the voice of any small boy.”

  “And what should I do in Illyria? My brother, he is in Elysium,” Mr. Van Duyvil quoted meditatively. Twelfth Night as the Bard intended it, not the Ali Baba. As if to himself, he said, “But in the play, Viola does find a place in Illyria. She makes a new home for herself.”

  “Posing as a man. Under an assumed identity,” said Georgie repressively. “That’s not much of a life, is it, always pretending? Besides, it’s just a story. Goodness, they do kick up a dust, don’t they?”

  She was speaking too fast, making no sense, but it was better than letting Mr. Van Duyvil go on in that vein, wherever he was tending. What home could he offer her, but as his mistress? Georgie’s hands closed tightly over the rail. She couldn’t let him make that offer for fear she might say yes.

  And she would regret it, she knew; they both would. She couldn’t—not even for him. The memory of the last man’s hands on her made her chest constrict, turned the bright sunshine into shade, made the thrumming of the horse’s hooves into the frantic beating of her own heart.

  “How poorly some of them ride!” Georgie said, just to say something, to stop her own voice echoing in her ears. “Don’t you think? That man is about to lose his seat entirely.”

  She pointed at random at a man posting with such vigor that he bounded up and down like a jack-in-the-box.

  “That,” said Mr. Van Duyvil, “is Jock Rheinlander, pride of the New York Jockey Club. The woman with all the gold buttons is his wife, Carrie.”

  But Georgie didn’t see Carrie Rheinlander. All she saw was the man riding a little bit behind her. The broad cheekbones. The Roman nose. The familiar profile burned against her eyes, etched there for all time like an emperor on an ancient coin.

  Dust shimmered in the air, making Georgie’s eyes sting. It couldn’t be; it was just that she was thinking about him, about that time. Just
because he sat astride a horse with the same arrogant grace, that same proud carriage; just because his chestnut hair curled under his hat didn’t mean that it was he. She’d done this before, hadn’t she? Imagining him everywhere, seeing him in every man that passed in the street, every footstep in the shadow.

  She blinked, but the man on horseback didn’t dissolve into a stranger; he turned to speak to his companion, and his eyes caught on Georgie. Caught and narrowed.

  “Georgie?” Mr. Van Duyvil was speaking to her, but she couldn’t hear him over the roaring in her ears.

  Her knees buckled. Georgie’s fingers scrabbled for purchase against the rail; she could feel it slipping through her fingers.

  “Georgie!” Mr. Van Duyvil’s arm came around her, supporting her, bracing her. “Are you all right?”

  Yes, she should say. Yes, quite all right.

  But she wasn’t. Her lips worked, but the sound wouldn’t come out. She could hear it, the sound of tearing cloth; the wood of the stall biting into her back as he pushed her back. The smell of horses filled her nose, choking her.

  This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

  But not like that. Never like that. The pain of it. The shame. Lying broken on the dirt floor, bruises on her arms, watching his boots get smaller and smaller until they disappeared through the door into the sunlight. Those boots, just at the level of her eyes, winking away from her down the Row, up and down, up and down …

  This isn’t over.

  Mr. Van Duyvil’s face was very close to hers, his fingers chafing her wrists. “Miss Evans? Georgie? Are you ill?”

  “All these years … all these years—” The words came out on a single breath, like a chant. “I never thought—”

  She hadn’t thought. Georgie could feel mad laughter boiling up in her throat, choking her. Oh, God, after all this time. Nemesis didn’t go away, not ever, not really; it just waited until you didn’t expect it.

  Mr. Van Duyvil straightened, his face serious. He kept one arm protectively around her waist, bracing her. “I’m taking you to a doctor.”

  “It’s not … I’m not ill.” Even if she felt as though she was, her forehead clammy with sweat, her breath coming too fast, her stomach churning. The dust from the track shimmered in the sunlight. She forced herself to look up, but all she could see was laughing strangers. “Maybe I’m going mad. Maybe I imagined it. Imagined him.”

  But she hadn’t. She knew that, deep in her bones, in the ache in her side and the weakness in her knees. He’d changed the way he wore his hair; he’d shaved his mustache. She’d not have imagined that.

  “Imagined who?” Mr. Van Duyvil’s hands closed tight around hers. “Georgie! Talk to me. Tell me.”

  Speak of the devil, they said. Speak of the devil and he’ll appear. But he already had. He’d seen her, knew where she was.

  “Does it matter?” Georgie choked on the words. “He said he’d find me.”

  “Who?” Mr. Van Duyvil bent close to her, the concern on his face undoing her. “Please. Georgie. Let me help you.”

  Georgie forced out the name …

  SIX

  New York, 1899

  January

  Janie hurried into the drawing room, still in the skirt and waist she had worn to meet Mr. Burke. It was time for tea, her mother’s unbending ritual, and she was late.

  “I’m so terribly sorry. The Girls’ Club—” She stumbled over her words as a man rose from one of the deep damask chairs, his dark suit blending with the ebonized mahogany of the mantelpiece. “I wasn’t aware we had visitors.”

  “Only one,” said the man, smiling a crooked smile at her. His hair was a deep chestnut that glinted red in the lamplight, curling around his collar, longer than the fashion. His voice was English and educated.

  She had seen him before, Janie realized, among the blur of mourners at Bay’s funeral. The church had been filled with Livingstons, Van Rensselaers, Astors, and Goelets, all paying their respects, doing her mother the courtesy of attendance despite the dubious circumstances. And, in the very back, this man.

  “My daughter,” said Janie’s mother, with an edge to her voice Janie recognized, “is a martyr to her causes. Not even grief can deter her from her duties.”

  “I didn’t mean—” She wasn’t meant to be out of the house while in mourning. Janie could feel herself flushing, automatically stuttering for excuses. But if she wasn’t meant to be out walking, her mother wasn’t meant to be receiving. Janie pulled herself together enough to say apologetically, “I do hope you’ll forgive my rudeness, Mr.…”

  “Lacey,” drawled Anne, from the depths of her own chair. “He has come to join us in our bereavement.”

  “Mr.… Lacey?” repeated Janie, wondering if she had misheard.

  “Miss Van Duyvil.” The stranger bowed over Janie’s hand. He had the physique of a dedicated horseman, heavily muscled in the shoulder and thigh. “I hope you will forgive me for intruding on your grief. You see, Annabelle was my cousin. And when I heard of her death … You do understand, I’m sure.”

  “Of course,” said Janie numbly.

  She could hear Mr. Burke’s voice in her ear. Miss Lacey’s cousin went to some effort to have her declared dead.

  Here was Annabelle, dead. And here was Mr. Lacey in their drawing room. It was too much for coincidence. But if not a coincidence … then what? The man in her mother’s drawing room was no stage villain; his suit was well tailored without being dandified, his manner was ingratiating without being obsequious. He reminded Janie of the boys she had played with in Newport, who had grown up into just such ruddy-cheeked men, confident, uncomplicated, more interested in sport than books.

  A bit like Teddy Newland, in fact.

  Janie cautiously took a chair. “How is it that we’ve never met?”

  “Have a cup of tea, Janie. You look chilled,” said her mother.

  Anne laughed a low laugh deep in her throat.

  “Anne, would you pour?” It wasn’t really a suggestion. “More tea, Mr. Lacey?”

  All her life, her mother had managed her by incidentals, a cup of tea to be poured, a scarf to be fetched. Janie accepted the cup of tea from Anne, but didn’t drink. “I only wondered … Annabelle spoke so little about her family.”

  Mr. Lacey settled back into his seat, balancing his own cup on his knee. He tipped his head back, looking to the plasterwork of the ceiling for inspiration. “My cousin and I were estranged, Miss Van Duyvil. It is—was—a source of great sorrow to me.”

  Anne reached for a strawberry from the tray, a piece of hothouse extravagance. “Family can be a great trial, Mr. Lacey.”

  Mr. Lacey’s eyes followed Anne’s lips as she placed the strawberry between them. “I wouldn’t say that, Mrs. Newland.”

  Janie’s mother broke in, saying sharply, “I understand that it was your home that served as the model for my son’s renovations, Mr. Lacey.”

  “My … oh, yes. Lacey Abbey.” With an effort, Mr. Lacey returned his attention to Mrs. Van Duyvil. “I don’t think of it as so much mine as in my trust. It has been in my family for many generations.”

  The words felt flat to Janie, as though they had been recited too many times. “Annabelle spoke of it as a magical place,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Anne, reaching for another strawberry. Her amber eyes were fixed, like a cat’s, on Mr. Lacey’s face. “One wonders why she ever cared to leave.”

  Mr. Lacey shrugged, uncomfortable in his carefully tailored suit. “One never knew what Annabelle might take it in her head to do. She was always headstrong. Spirited, I mean. In a charming sort of way,” he amended quickly. “There was a time I had thought that we might … but here we are.”

  “Thought you might what?” Janie’s mother asked.

  Mr. Lacey ducked his head, the tips of his ears turning red. “Oh, that we might make a match of it. Nothing in it, of course. It was just what people said. And it would have been a way for Annabelle to stay in her home. Not that I wou
ld have turned her out. But it’s deuce—er, dashed awkward—to have an unattached woman under one’s roof.”

  “Indeed,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil. She didn’t look at Janie. She didn’t need to.

  Her very brevity seemed to encourage Mr. Lacey to an excess of speech. “I only came into the estate on my cousin’s death. I’d been in the Horse Guards”—that last with a glance at Anne, to see if she was suitably impressed—“but when the old, er, the colonel, died, I resigned my commission. But there was his daughter. Annabelle.”

  An inheritance, Mr. Burke had said. Something about an inheritance.

  Janie turned her cup in the saucer so the handle sat just so. “But wouldn’t Annabelle have had her father’s house?”

  “I forget. You do things differently here. In America, I mean.” Mr. Lacey mustered an uncomfortable laugh. “The house was entailed in the male line. So Annabelle … well, she just wasn’t in it.”

  Unless she was. They had only Mr. Lacey’s word that the estate had been entailed.

  What would a man do to secure what he viewed as his patrimony?

  “That seems rather hard,” said Anne, stretching sinuously in her chair, drawing Mr. Lacey’s gaze to the shimmering organza of her tea gown. The dark shades of mourning became her, turning her neck to pearl, throwing her golden hair into sharp relief. “To lose so much loveliness by a mere … accident of birth.”

  “Oh, Annabelle didn’t mind,” said Mr. Lacey hastily, his eyes drinking in the length of Anne’s body. “She was mad to see the world. I think it was George. She left because of George.”

  “George?” said Janie, before anyone else could say anything.

  Mr. Lacey didn’t even look at her as he answered, his smile all for Anne. “Her brother. Her twin.”

  Anne shifted, lifting pale fingers to the brooch she wore at her breast, ebony, with a lock of fair hair encased in crystal. “This is a day of surprises, Mr. Lacey. We’d thought Annabelle quite alone in the world. And now here you are … and a brother as well.”

  “Not anymore,” corrected Mr. Lacey quickly. “George died when he was just a boy—otherwise the abbey would have been his, not mine, eh?”