The English Wife: A Novel

by Lauren Willig

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have had quite so much of Mrs. Gerritt’s venison in bayberry sauce.

  “Shall we play cards?” suggested Anne. “Or would you prefer charades, Mr. Lacey?”

  Janie rose from her chair in the corner. “I’ll just go to the nursery and see how Viola and Sebastian are getting on.”

  “We can’t play bridge without a fourth.” Anne rose from the sofa with surprising alacrity. “If you must go, I’ll go with you.”

  “Janie can go.” Mrs. Van Duyvil turned to the long French windows looking out over the river, one hand touching the bunched fabric of the red velvet drapes. Her knuckles were white against the rich material. “We must take care with Bay’s son.”

  And what of Bay’s daughter? Janie thought. It wasn’t malicious, she knew. It was just the way her mother was. One took one’s family as one found them. Or so she kept telling herself. It was becoming harder and harder to believe it.

  “And I wouldn’t take a care?” Anne demanded.

  “No one has ever accused you of being domestic.” Mrs. Van Duyvil smiled acidly at Anne, her gold-and-silver hair shimmering like a helmet in the lamplight. “Perhaps if you had taken a care, you might be in France right now.”

  “With my husband and his mistress? Is that what you recommend, Aunt Alva?”

  “Er … do you need someone to see you to the nursery?” Mr. Lacey turned to Janie, a note of desperation in his voice, and Janie almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “There’s no need. I won’t be long,” said Janie. Exiting with more haste than grace, she collided with Mrs. Gerritt in the doorway.

  Mrs. Gerritt stood her ground, looking at Janie in a way Janie vaguely remembered from the days when she and Bay had been very small and Mrs. Gerritt had been their nursemaid. It was a look that made her feel as though she had forgotten to wash behind her ears.

  “Caller,” said Mrs. Gerritt tersely.

  “A caller?” Anne abandoned her argument in the light of this new development. “Is it an Eskimo, perhaps? Or one of those snow creatures from the Canadian wilds?”

  Mrs. Gerritt didn’t dignify that with a response. “It’s that man for you, Miss Janie.”

  “What man?” Janie heard her mother saying as Janie followed Mrs. Gerritt through the passage, into the Great Hall, where her caller was waiting.

  Man might have been stretching the description slightly. Snowman might have more to the point. Ice crusted over the scarf wrapped around his face. Snow was packed solid on the brim of his hat and flaked around him as he stepped stiffly forward.

  “Burke?” Only his eyes were the same, bloodshot but still green. The rest of him was rendered unrecognizable in layers of cloth and snow. “You look like a snow monster.”

  The snowman pawed at his scarf to free his mouth, sending ice chips flaking. He was shivering so hard he could hardly speak. “I tried to telephone, but the wires are down.”

  “Mrs. Gerritt,” said her mother in freezing tones, “we are not at home to callers.”

  Janie looked back sharply to see both her mother and Anne behind her. Mrs. Gerritt stood impassively to the side, as if disclaiming any responsibility.

  “What are you going to do?” inquired Anne sweetly. “Have Gerritt fling him into the snow? Just think what the papers would say.”

  Burke ignored them both. He advanced towards Janie, limping a little. “I need to speak to you.”

  “How did you get here?” It had to be at least ten below outside, possibly more. The papers had been calling it the coldest weather on record. That, of course, had been when there still was a paper. There had been no deliveries since the day before. The roads were impassable, Gerritt said, not so much from the snow as the ice beneath it.

  “Walked from the station.” Burke shivered uncontrollably, his whole body swaying. “Phone lines are down. I caught the last train out. They’ve had to close off portions of the El because the rails are too slick. The Staten Island ferries are frozen in their docks. The snow is lying in the street because it’s too cold to shovel—and there’s more coming.”

  “You need a fire,” said Janie, recovering from her paralysis and moving swiftly to Burke’s side. “You need dry clothes and a warm drink before you get frostbite. Mrs. Gerritt, is there any hot water to be had? Oh, and please prepare a room for Mr. Burke.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said her mother sharply. “Give him something warm in the kitchen and see him out, Gerritt. I refuse to allow this … actor to stay under my roof.”

  “Mr. Burke,” said Janie, through clenched teeth, “is a journalist. And this isn’t your roof.” Looking at Burke with concern, she added, “You’d best get out of that coat. You’ve more snow on you than outside.”

  “’s not the snow. ’s the wind,” Burke said and shook his head as though trying to wake himself.

  “You might ask Sebastian for permission,” suggested Anne to Janie. “He is the master of the house, after all.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil shortly.

  Anne shrugged. “It’s not absurd. It’s a legal fact.”

  Burke fumbled at the front of his coat, his frozen fingers sliding off the buttons. Janie moved quickly to help him. “Mrs. Gerritt, would you prepare a room for Mr. Burke?”

  “In the servants’ wing,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil sharply. “He can take his meals in the kitchen.”

  Janie could feel her spine straightening, pulling her up to her full height, a good three inches taller than her mother. “If Mr. Burke takes his meal in the kitchen, then I will take mine there, too.”

  “If we don’t get more coal,” muttered Mrs. Gerritt, “no one will be taking any meal anywhere.”

  No one paid any attention to her. Mrs. Gerritt shrugged philosophically and retreated to her kitchen.

  “Send … that … to the kitchen and then come back to the library,” said Janie’s mother, and turned on her heel. “Anne?”

  Burke grabbed Janie’s sleeve. “Listen to me. Lacey lied. He was here in New York on the first. I found the ship’s manifest. For the St. Paul. He wasn’t on it. He was on the Brittanic.”

  His words were slurred, disjointed. Was that a symptom of hypothermia? Janie didn’t know. She didn’t particularly want to find out. Her fingers moved busily from button to button, releasing him from the icy prison of his coat. “You need dry clothes. Did you bring a bag?”

  “Did you hear me?” Burke’s teeth were chattering so hard he could hardly get the words out. His coat fell in a sodden heap on the floor, revealing a thinner wool coat beneath. “Lacey lied. He was here in New York on the night of the ball. The man is dangerous. You didn’t see the way he looked at you in that courtroom.”

  “I was there,” said Janie, looking at him critically. He seemed to be breathing easier with his ice-encrusted coat and scarf off, but his frame was still racked with shudders and there was a purple tinge to his lips she didn’t like. “You need to get warm. It’s too cold in the hall. You’ll come down with pneumonia.”

  “That’s not all.” Burke staggered and caught himself against the back of a chair. “He’s in debt. Lots of debt. Needs Annabelle Lacey’s money.”

  Janie caught Burke’s arm, bracing him with her body. “Come into the parlor. There’s a fire there.” And also Mr. Lacey. But they could deal with that when they came to it. “You don’t have a bag, do you?”

  Mr. Burke tried to grin, but his facial muscles didn’t seem to want to work properly. “Didn’t think that far ahead. When I heard, I ran.”

  “Never mind. I’m sure we can find something of Bay’s.” And never mind that her mother would consider that heresy. “How did you learn about Mr. Lacey?”

  “I have friends in low places.” Burke stumbled as they walked into the passage, but Janie managed to right them. “Sorry. Not so steady. Lacey bribed the port officer to falsify the date of his arrival.”

  “He’s here, you know,” said Janie.

  “’ know,” said Bu
rke. “Didn’t want to leave you here—alone—with him.”

  “So you came rushing through the ice?” Janie didn’t know whether to be touched or shake him for being so foolish. “Slaying a dragon would have been easier. And warmer.”

  Burke winced as he flexed a hand. “Foolish. When I couldn’t get you on the ’phone … didn’t think. I thought I could get a cab at the station.”

  “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it,” said Janie politely, pushing down an entirely inappropriate giddiness. She drew her wrap more snugly around her shoulders. “All acts of knight errantry are much appreciated. Even if unnecessary. If anyone kills anyone, it won’t be Giles Lacey. It will be my mother.”

  “With me the target?” Burke’s blue lips parted in something that was almost a grin.

  “You’ll have to get in line,” said Janie. “If Mr. Lacey tells us one more time that Illyria is an inferior copy of Lacey Abbey, my mother may take a poker to him.”

  She slowed and stopped as she saw the way Burke was looking at her. He took a deep breath, speaking with an effort. “I’d meant to take you away with me. Back to Cold Spring, if not to town. But now—I’ve made a proper mess of this rescue, haven’t I?”

  She might have made light of it, but something in Burke’s face blunted easy banter. He had, realized Janie, with a constriction in her chest, been genuinely afraid for her. It must be very lowering to come charging to the rescue only to be thwarted by the elements.

  Janie chose her words carefully. “If Mr. Lacey is a villain, I believe he is one of impulse. He lost his temper and used the weapons that were to hand.” A single blow, the coroner had said. She tilted her head to look at Burke. “Perhaps your being here will be enough to blunt that impulse.”

  “Is this an attempt to salvage my pride?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “Yes,” said Janie. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t also true.”

  For a moment, she felt his damp head rest against hers. Lifting it, he said, “Shall we beard the dragon?”

  Janie stopped him before he could move forward. “Do we tell him we know? Or pretend and wait?”

  “I’m used to writing about dark deeds, not living them,” said Burke grimly, and Janie felt heartened because he sounded more like himself. “What do you think?”

  Janie bit her lip. “There are four of us—and only one of him.”

  “You, Miss Van Duyvil, have the face of a lady and the soul of a bandit,” said Mr. Burke. “All right. Let’s go poke the tiger. You wouldn’t happen to have a weapon handy?”

  “Does scorn count?”

  “It’s not very useful in hand-to-hand combat.” Burke grinned at her, the effect only slightly marred by the fact that he was still shivering. “Shall we? Your mother can always belt him with the poker if he gets out of hand.”

  When they opened the parlor doors, they were greeted with a rush of smoke and the sight of Mr. Lacey’s backside as he bent over the fire, poking futilely at the coals.

  “Can anyone do anything about this blo—this fire? It’s like Hades in here.” At the sound of footsteps, Lacey turned, squinting at them through the smoke, which all appeared to be going in instead of out. “Who’s this? The chimney sweep, I hope.”

  “This,” said Janie, “is Mr. Burke of The News of the World.”

  “Not,” contributed Anne, “an Eskimo.”

  Lacey turned, the poker still in his hand. “You don’t mean to tell me the press are stalking us through the snow?”

  “Apparently,” said Janie’s mother acidly. She would not, Janie knew, refer to Anne’s past transgressions in front of Mr. Lacey. Solidarity in distress went only so far. To Janie, she added, “I told you to take him to the kitchens.”

  “Mr. Burke has come all this way—at great personal danger—because he had news for us.” Janie could feel a slow burn of anger in her chest. She nurtured it, letting it warm her, letting it drive away her doubts and fears. A new Janie, born from the flames like a phoenix. “You lied, Mr. Lacey. You lied about when you arrived in New York. You weren’t on the—” She had forgotten the name of the ship.

  “St. Paul,” supplied Burke.

  “Thank you,” said Janie. She turned back to Lacey. “You arrived on the Brittanic.”

  Mr. Lacey poked at the fire. “What’s the difference between one ship or another?”

  “The difference,” said Janie, “is ten days. You were here on the night of the ball.”

  On the side of the room, Anne half rose from her seat, one hand tight on the red velvet arm. “What?”

  “What’s more,” said Janie, keeping her eyes on Mr. Lacey and his poker, “you lied about it. You went to the port master and paid him to change his records.”

  “Well, yes.” Mr. Lacey waved a dismissive hand, accidentally thwacking a table in the process. He looked down and realized he was holding the poker and, with a shrug, dropped it. “I didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

  “The wrong idea?” Anne’s voice rose on the last word. Her face was very pale in the lamplight. Her rouge stood out like stains on her cheeks. “You mean the idea that you just might have killed my cousin and his wife? That idea?”

  “See? That’s just what I mean.” Lacey choked on the smoke from the fire. “It would be just like that whore to try to ruin me from beyond the grave.”

  “Language, Mr. Lacey,” snapped Janie’s mother. “There are ladies present.”

  Anne shot her aunt a look of pure hatred. “That’s all you can say? Language? Do you have no feelings? Do you not care the least little bit that—”

  “Control yourself!” Mrs. Van Duyvil’s voice slashed through the air like a knife.

  Anne froze, and in the silence, Mr. Lacey’s voice rose up, loud and petulant.

  “She tricked you. Georgie tricked all of you. Wouldn’t think it to look at her, would you? Oh, no. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But there she stood, cool as ice—”

  “And what about Bay?” demanded Anne in a tight voice. She was standing, one hand on the arm of her chair, her knuckles white. “What did he do to you?”

  “He … I told you!” Mr. Lacey looked from one to the other as the impact of his own words hit him. “I never touched him. Never even met him. Devil take it, I pitied the man. He’d been gulled, right and proper. She was poison, that girl. Pure poison.”

  “And what,” said Janie, in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own, “would she have said about you, Mr. Lacey?”

  Janie felt Burke step closer to her, prepared to jump to her defense.

  “Lies,” Lacey said tightly. “Whatever she told you, it was all a lie.”

  “I should never have let Bay go abroad.” Mrs. Van Duyvil paced the back of the room, her heavy skirts sweeping the Aubusson rug. “I should have known what would come of it. He didn’t have the strength to take care of himself, to guard himself from fortune hunters.”

  “Annabelle wasn’t a fortune hunter,” said Anne flatly.

  “I’ve told you,” said Mr. Lacey. “She wasn’t Annabelle.”

  “He’s right. She wasn’t.” Even Janie’s mother stopped to stare. Burke looked apologetically at Janie. “That was the other news from London. There was a Georgiana Smith. Companion to Miss Annabelle Lacey. No one knew what happened to her. She disappeared at the same time as Miss Lacey.”

  “See?” said Mr. Lacey triumphantly. “I told you—”

  “Some people thought the gypsies took them,” said Burke, his voice carrying over the other man’s. “Others suspected Mr. Lacey. A groom reported hearing cries from the stables.”

  Mr. Lacey’s eyes darted around the room. “What does a groom know? All right, damn you. He heard something. But it wasn’t what you think. He heard me trying to get that witch to tell me what she’d done with Annabelle.”

  “Unless,” retorted Burke, “he’d heard you murdering Annabelle Lacey.”

  If Mr. Lacey wasn’t horrified, he was doing a good job of pretending it. “Murder Annabelle?
I loved her. I would never have hurt her.”

  “So you say. It’s not so pleasant when the shoe is on the other foot, is it, Mr. Lacey?” Burke was all reporter now, following up on a lead. “You can make accusations, but you can’t take them.”

  “Enough.” Mrs. Van Duyvil’s voice made them all start. “It was her fault. All of it. That Georgiana.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil came to a stop on the far side of the room, where her own portrait hung in pride of place, so that she seemed to be glaring at them twice over. Janie’s mother had never liked that portrait, had felt the painter had failed to do her justice, so it had been long since exiled from the house in Newport, to a dark corner on Thirty-Sixth Street, and then, at last, as a gift to Bay and Annabelle for their new home. In the painting, she was dressed in the grand tenue of the early ’80s, her magnificent pearls hanging in long strands around her neck and her bosom adorned with a large diamond brooch.

  A very familiar diamond brooch.

  Janie felt the cold seeping down the back of her neck. A goose walking over her grave, Mrs. Gerritt would say. But it wasn’t her grave it was walking over.

  “You,” her mother said, jabbing a finger at Burke. “You claim to be a journalist. Do your job properly. Tell the world about the imposter who lied and cheated and killed my son. Tell them that it was all her fault, all of it. If Bayard hadn’t married that woman…”

  Her mother’s words crashed and eddied around her as Janie stared at the portrait over her mother’s head, the brooch on her painted chest, the giant round diamond in the middle with the finials radiating out like the rays of an icy sun.

  “That’s your brooch.” Janie wasn’t aware that she had spoken until her mother broke off to look at her sharply.

  “Did you say something, Janie?”