The English Wife

by Lauren Willig

  Mr. Tilden shifted nervously. Mrs. Van Duyvil’s peculiar mixture of grief and gall left him unsure whether to proffer a handkerchief or back slowly towards the door. Taking pity, Janie moved soft-footed to the decanter, holding it over Mr. Tilden’s glass.

  Mr. Tilden gave her a look of real gratitude. “If I might presume to offer some advice? It is always best to say as little as possible when being questioned. Answer with a simple yes or no to all questions that bear of such answer and do not succumb to the temptation to elaborate.” He lowered his voice, as though speaking of something slightly indelicate. “It gives the, ahem, members of the fourth estate less meat for their speculations.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil rose from her chair, moving restlessly across the room. “The press will invent what they lack.” She stopped in front of Anne, favoring her with a look of naked distaste. “We have my niece’s indiscretions to thank for that.”

  Anne lounged back in her chair, with a poor imitation of her usual grace. “You do me too much credit.”

  Mr. Tilden cleared his throat again. “If you would permit me? Might I tender my apologies on behalf of my colleagues? The confidential papers referring to”—he looked from Mrs. Van Duyvil to Anne, finding himself incapable of voicing the term divorce—“er, ahem, ought never have been made available to the press. Mr. Newland’s attorney, Mr. Archibald Newland, has informed me that the guilty party has been let go. It was most unprofessional. Most unprofessional.”

  “That was not the indiscretion to which I referred.”

  “It is hard, isn’t it,” murmured Anne, “when there are so many from which to choose?”

  Janie shot her a warning look, but Anne only shrugged.

  Ignoring her daughter and her niece, Mrs. Van Duyvil turned to Mr. Tilden, her voice like steel. “Ten years ago—”

  “Was it that long ago?” Anne smiled brightly at Janie’s mother. “It feels like just yesterday. Perhaps because you keep reminding me of it.”

  “Ten years ago,” continued Mrs. Van Duyvil grimly, “Anne attempted to elope with an actor. He had, of course, expectations of her fortune.”

  Anne made a minute adjustment to the French lace at her cuffs. “Such a pity my father squandered it all. Or perhaps not. Had he been more provident, Aunt Alva, you should have had to pay far more for a house in Newport.”

  The lawyer sucked in his lips. Janie winced at the raw vitriol in her cousin’s voice.

  Mrs. Van Duyvil’s eyes narrowed. “Had you been more provident, Anne, we might have been spared this circus. Or do you mean to tell us that our persecution by Mr. Burke of The World is none of your doing?”

  “Mr.… Burke?” Janie interjected.

  Nobody paid the least attention to her.

  “Did you think I hadn’t noticed?” said Mrs. Van Duyvil to Anne. “I hope you are pleased. Your lover has finally found a means of bringing even greater disgrace upon our name.”

  Sharply, Anne said, “The press was never going to ignore a man with a knife in his chest.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil’s words came out one by one, soft and deadly. “You will not speak of my son that way.”

  “Why not?” Anne tried for bravado, but Janie saw her blink hard. “I saw him that way. You didn’t. You didn’t.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil’s chest rose and fell. The only sound in the room was the rattle of her jet beads and the ticking of the clock. “I would prefer,” she said through clenched teeth, “to remember Bayard as he was.”

  Anne swallowed an ugly laugh. “You mean as you would have liked him to be.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil’s lips tightened, but she recovered herself magnificently, her voice strengthening as she took command of the conversation. “Have you renewed your acquaintance with Mr. Burke? Have you betrayed your family for your lover?”

  Mr. Burke. Janie could feel her face go hot and cold. Lover. Anne’s lover.

  I got my start performing in Mr. Herne’s plays, that was what Mr. Burke had told her. He had been an actor once.

  No. There must be dozens of men named Burke in the city, hundreds.

  But how many who had acted at Daly’s Theatre and wrote for The World?

  “My lover?” Anne gave a bitter laugh. “How you exaggerate. I haven’t set eyes on Mr. Burke since you dragged me back here.”

  “You mean,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil with satisfaction, “that your Mr. Burke dropped you quickly enough once he discovered you had no money.”

  You’ll never catch a duke if you’re not an heiress.

  Anne’s voice was sharp. “Don’t you mean once you had him thrashed out of his pretensions?”

  “Really, Anne, we are hardly so barbaric as that. I simply made sure that Mr. Burke was reminded of his position.”

  “Groveling and tugging his forelock?” There were lines on either side of Anne’s lips. “When I went back to the theater, I was told there was no one of that name. I sometimes wondered just what you might have done to him.”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Anne,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil. Bickering with her niece acted on Mrs. Van Duyvil like a tonic. The sickly look on her face when they spoke of Bay was gone, replaced by her usual majestic complacence. “All I did was have a word with Mr. Daly. He quite understood the delicacy of the matter.”

  “You mean you had him sacked.” Anne tipped her head back and breathed in deeply. “How terribly humane of you. No gouging out his eyes for daring to gaze on his betters, then?”

  Your kind, Mr. Burke had called her. Gold-plated.

  “If I might beg your pardon.” Mr. Tilden half rose from his chair. “Another engagement.”

  Innocent until proven guilty. That was the principle, wasn’t it? She was the one who had sought him out, proposed their partnership.

  But only after she had found him in her mother’s kitchen.

  She could still taste the chestnuts on her lips, feel the press of his hand on hers. St. Genevieve, he had called her, bringing light to the world. Challenging her, debating with her. Using her?

  “It might not—” Janie scarcely knew what she was saying. “It might not be the same man. Burke is not an uncommon name.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Janie.” Mrs. Van Duyvil rose from her chair to see Mr. Tilden to the door. She looked pointedly at Anne. “The man vowed revenge, and now he has it. I hope he is satisfied.”

  She sailed out, Mr. Tilden trailing behind her.

  “Anne. Wait.” Janie scurried after her cousin, stopping her before she could follow. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” Anne asked impatiently.

  “That the reporter is … was—”

  “My lover?” It was impossible to be sure whether Anne was trying to shock her, or if she was just so used to shocking everyone that she did it automatically. “How would I know? I haven’t seen the man in a decade.”

  “But—” Did he have green eyes? Was his voice polished and smooth with something rough beneath? Had he held her hands and told her she was his candle in a dark world? “I should think you would remember him. After all, you tried to run away with him.”

  Anne shrugged. “He looked well in breeches. There was a scene in which he fenced. Really, Janie, you remember what it was like. Wouldn’t you have run away, too—if someone had asked?”

  SEVENTEEN

  New York, 1899

  February

  “Miss? Miss Van Duyvil?” One of Janie’s students cautiously waved a hand. Every woman in the room, from twelve-year-old Tilda to Mary Frances, who allowed as she might be upwards of forty, had read the papers and knew of the scandal hanging over Janie. But no one had breathed a word of it. They just treated Janie as though she were one of the chipped pieces of porcelain on the table, handling her with clumsy care. “Where does the funny-shaped fork go?”

  “That’s your fish fork.” With an effort, Janie recalled herself to the task at hand, six women standing around a scarred table incongruously draped in damask. “It goes to the left, here.”

  Solemnly, Mary Fran
ces moved the fish fork to the correct location. After a look from her, the other women did the same with theirs.

  Janie took a deep breath. “This knife is the fish knife. If there is no fish course, you will not need to use either, of course. We have no fish course today, so we can set them aside.”

  “Then why’d we have them?” muttered Gert, eying the tableware with mistrust. Her fingers, wrapped in her skirt, were rough and work-reddened.

  “So we know what to do with them, Miss Impertinence,” snapped back Mary Fran. “Now you mind Miss.”

  “Thank you.” Janie took a deep breath. “Now the table is set, you may take your seats. Place your napkins on your laps.”

  Tuesday was etiquette, a chance to instruct on the setting of a table, table manners, and, incidentally, to provide a meal to women too proud to admit they might need one. All the women paid their own way: Tilda, at twelve, supported an indisposed mother, two younger siblings, and a perpetually out-of-work stepfather. These stolen afternoons at the Girls’ Club were their chance at betterment, their one moment to themselves, and Janie tried to make them worth their while.

  But today she couldn’t quite get her mind to focus. Half a dozen times, she had set out purposefully for the streetcar. Half a dozen times, she had turned back, the hot phrases dying on her lips. What was she to say to him? Did you elope with my cousin? Have you been lying to me? Why ask when she knew the answer would be yes?

  Unless it wasn’t. Or it was, but there was an excuse.

  More acting. More lying. Janie could feel her muscles bunched tight in her back, all of her strained to the breaking point. Who could she talk to? There was no one. The only person who knew she had been meeting with Burke was Burke. She was ashamed, so terribly ashamed, of how badly she wanted to be convinced that she was wrong, that her mother was mistaken, that Anne was lying, that it had all been a misunderstanding, that there was another actor named Burke, that everything had occurred exactly as she had believed, that she had sought him out, not the other way around, that they were a team, partners.

  Except they never had been, had they? He hadn’t lied to her about that. She’d known Burke was using her, using her for a story, but that had been all right. That had been a use that she understood. Something that might be tempered, possibly, by … call it friendship. Or even fondness. Revenge was another matter entirely, something wild and unpredictable.

  What was it he had said to her back in the darkened house? If you can say that, Miss Van Duyvil, you’ve never been in love.

  Had he loved Anne like that? Loved her to distraction, to madness?

  She didn’t want to know. She didn’t.

  Except she did.

  When Janie caught herself biting her fingernails as she hadn’t since her mother had had her nails painted with iodine, she had set her spine and announced she was going back to the Girls’ Club to resume her classes. The resulting hue and cry was almost a relief. Her mother’s anger, Anne’s amusement, all afforded her occupation for her mind, a vent for her emotions. Her mother’s grudging, “Do what you like, then. You are of age,” had felt like a major triumph.

  Until she found the note from Burke waiting for her at the club. Where are you? Has something happened? And it all came rushing back again, tenfold, the hurt and confusion and anger and doubt.

  She had been right to come back to the Girls’ Club, Janie knew that, but she was far too aware of the golden globe of the World Building looming a mere block away. And beneath it, Mr. Burke.

  There was a rap at the door, and Maisie stuck her head through. “Miss Van Duyvil? There’s a gentleman to see you.”

  “A gentleman?” Janie had been about to serve the soup, which slopped onto the damask tablecloth. She gave a small cry of distress. Tilda jumped forward with a napkin. “What gentleman?”

  “A Mr. Burke.” When Janie hesitated, Maisie added, “He was very insistent. Would you like me to tell him to go?”

  Behind Maisie, Janie could see the shadow of a man in a dark coat. And so could all the women in the room, all of whom were looking with interest at the newcomer.

  “Here.” Janie thrust the ladle at Mary Fran. “Would you mind filling the bowls? I won’t be a moment.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Yes, miss!”

  “Not at all!”

  A chorus of assent followed Janie out the door as she slid through, trying to make herself as narrow as possible underneath the scrutiny of half a dozen pairs of eyes. In the hall stood the source of it all, hat in his hand, smiling at her as though he walked into women’s clubs every day of his life.

  Which, perhaps, he did. What did she know of him, after all, other than what he had told her? Or, rather, not told her.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Janie flatly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Burke’s smile slip a bit.

  “The mountain wouldn’t come to Mahomet, so…” He took a step forward, turning his hat in his hands. “When I didn’t hear from you, I began to worry. I thought perhaps your mother had locked you in a tower and thrown away the key.”

  “As you can see, I am quite at liberty.” Janie steeled herself against the caress of his voice. Glancing over her shoulder, she said stiffly, “They shouldn’t have admitted you. There are no gentlemen allowed on the premises.”

  “I thought we’d agreed I wasn’t one.” When she didn’t smile in return, Mr. Burke took a step forward, his face a study in concern. “Is something wrong?”

  Only everything, she wanted to say. It was some black magic in him or some weakness in her, that despite it all she yearned to confide in him, to treat him as the solution rather than the problem.

  It was that way he had of looking at her as though she were all that mattered in the world.

  Had he looked at Anne like that, ten years ago?

  “Walk with me,” Janie said.

  “Anywhere,” began Mr. Burke, but Janie cut him off.

  “Down the hall will do.” When they were in the alcove by the back door, Janie stopped and turned. She could see Mr. Burke’s shoes, scuffed and worn against the carpet runner someone had donated three years ago. Without preamble, Janie said, “A decade ago, my cousin attempted to elope with an actor from Mr. Daly’s theater. She was retrieved, and the actor, I understand, made to lose his position.”

  She looked up to find that Mr. Burke’s face had gone blank. “That’s a very politic way of putting it,” he said.

  Janie’s teeth dug into her lower lip. “But … accurate?”

  He let out a long sigh. “Such as it is.”

  “Such as it is?” Janie echoed. She felt frozen, her wits gone sluggish. What are you talking about? he was meant to have said. “In what way is it incorrect?”

  “Not so much incorrect as incomplete.” Mr. Burke shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at her, his brows raised. “There’s a sequel to the story, of course—but I think you already know it. Mr. Daly, who was a kind man, put in a word with the theater critic at The World, who pulled a string here and a string there and found the actor a job delivering papers.”

  “You,” said Janie, the word scraped from the back of her throat. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “It didn’t seem … relevant.” Mr. Burke followed her as Janie yanked, blindly, on the handle of the door and stumbled out into the patch of flagstone that they called a garden. “And it was a long time ago.”

  The cold hit Janie like a slap. “Ten years ago.”

  “Twelve,” Mr. Burke corrected her quickly, trying to catch her eye. “It was twelve years ago.”

  “Twelve years ago. Why not? What difference does two years make, more or less?” Janie put out a hand, and felt the scratchy wood of the garden wall against her palm.

  “Janie.” Mr. Burke’s hand touched her shoulder. Janie moved sharply away. An expression of annoyance crossing his face, Burke rested one hand on the wall next to her head. “Miss Van Duyvil. Look. When I got the news about … about your brother … I’ll ad
mit it. There was a certain … oh, I don’t know. Did I want to rub your mother’s nose in the dirt? Yes. Of course I did. But it was mostly about the story. That’s my job: getting the story. What happened twelve years ago happened twelve years ago. When you came to see me—”

  The wall scraped against the back of Janie’s dress. “You saw an easy mark?”

  “I admired your guts,” he said roughly. “I admired you.”

  For a moment, they stood like that, close enough to kiss. And then sanity returned, and Janie pushed away from the wall, treading on Mr. Burke’s foot in the process. “Like you admired Anne?”

  Mr. Burke emitted a muffled curse as he shifted from one foot to the other. “I barely knew your cousin. I was sixteen. People do stupid things at sixteen. I won’t lie to you—”

  Janie could hear herself emitting a very unladylike snort.

  Mr. Burke winced, but pressed on. “I flirted with her. I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be? But I wasn’t in love with her.”

  Janie glared up at him. “Then why did you elope with her?”

  “I didn’t elope with her!” Vaguely, Janie was aware of heads sticking out of the windows above, people leaning out to listen. But Burke was there, in front of her, his expression strained, blotting out everything else. “Your cousin showed up with her bandboxes and told me we were running away together. That was all. I never meant … it was a stupid mistake, that was all.”

  “How naïve do you think I am?” Janie wrapped her hands in the folds of her skirt, as though that could stop their shaking. “My mother had you stripped of your livelihood. That’s not the sort of thing you forget.”

  Mr. Burke scraped a hand through his hair. “Believe it or not, but your mother did me a good turn when she had me turned off. I hated the stage. When you’re onstage … you can’t see for the lights in your eyes. Not to mention that I was a miserable actor.”

  Janie’s eyes stung from the wind. “I’d say you were a very good one. You’ve been performing with me for weeks.”