The English Wife

by Lauren Willig

  “That brooch,” she said, and her voice was stronger than she would have imagined. She lifted a finger to point at the painting above her mother’s head. “The brooch they found by the folly. It was yours.”

  The wind shook the windows. The coals cracked and sparked on the grate. Anne drew in her breath with a sharp hiss.

  Mrs. Van Duyvil stared at the portrait as though she had never seen it before. “A maid—” she began, and then, with more conviction, “Anne always has her fingers in my jewel box. She must have borrowed it.”

  Wordlessly, Anne shook her head.

  “Would someone tell me what the devil is going on?” demanded Giles Lacey. “Who cares about a bloody brooch?”

  This time, no one reproved him for language.

  “Mother,” said Janie, and her voice felt strange to her ears. “Why was your brooch by the folly?”

  Her mother’s hand went to the mourning brooch at her neck, tightening around it so hard that Janie thought it might crack.

  “If you must know…” Her lips twisted as she looked behind Janie. “Do make sure you are writing this down, Mr. Burke. I shouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

  “Mother?” prompted Janie. The smoke from the fire was making her eyes sting, scraping the back of her throat.

  In the silence, the wind howled around the windows like a lost soul.

  “My brooch was there because I was there. I was there when that woman killed my son.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Cold Spring, 1899

  Twelfth Night

  “What country, friend, is this?” demanded the herald, as he had been demanding every five minutes by the clock for the past hour.

  “This,” shouted back his counterpart on the other side of the door, “is Illyria.”

  Then they both lifted their trumpets to their lips for a royal, if slightly ragged, fanfare.

  Georgie was beginning to hate those bloody trumpets.

  “Welcome,” she said for the five hundredth time. “Welcome to Illyria.”

  “So good of you,” Bay was saying by her side. “So good of you to come.”

  To their left, the scene began again. “What country, friend—”

  Georgie turned her head and grimaced at Bay. His eyes crinkled back at her, and she felt something catch in her chest at the ease of it, the familiarity. They had always been able to speak without words.

  Just not about the things that mattered.

  “Welcome to Illyria.” This time it was a man dressed in gold-chased armor so heavy that it creaked while he walked. Oliver Belmont? Georgie wasn’t sure; the visor had been down. What she was sure of was that whoever it was would dearly regret his costume choice within five minutes of entering the ballroom. It might be January, but the four hundred were generating their share of body heat.

  “So good of you to come,” said Bay at her side.

  Vizards and masks and visors, farthingales and ruffs and doublets. There were at least a dozen Mary, Queen of Scots, and, much to her mother-in-law’s annoyance, six rival Elizabeths. There were Sir Walter Raleighs and Sir Philip Sidneys spouting verse and a mournful Prospero toting his book and tripping over his robes, never mind that he was from the wrong play.

  In all the mass of colorful characters, there was no sign of Giles.

  That surprised her. She had rather expected him to stroll through the receiving line, just to put her on her guard, just to see what she would do. She was, Georgie thought wryly as she murmured greetings to yet another faceless guest, doing Giles too much credit. This was her fief, not his. Giles only had the gall to exercise his droit du seigneur where he knew he ruled unchallenged.

  “Nothing?” murmured Bay in her ear, and Georgie shook her head in response.

  “This isn’t Shakespeare,” she muttered to him. “It’s Dante.”

  “The circle he never mentioned.” Bay’s face lit as he looked at her. There was a tenderness to it that made her chest ache. “Condemned to hear the same lines from Twelfth Night over and over from now unto eternity.”

  Georgie smiled back with an effort. “We’ve made our own Inferno.”

  “Not much longer now,” said Bay, and she knew he wasn’t just talking about the receiving line. They’d agreed to postpone any discussion of their future until after the ball. It lent a strange poignancy to the simplest utterances, the most mundane gestures. Watching Bay spoon jam onto his muffin at breakfast had nearly made her weep. “We’ve stood here long enough to satisfy the sticklers.”

  “Good. This dress weighs more than the twins.” It had seemed such a statement to wear no jewels, to have crystals and aquamarines embroidered into the fabric of her gown: one in the eye for the gem-decked matrons. But she could feel the weight of Bay’s wealth dragging her down.

  Bay put a hand to the dagger at his belt. “Would you like me to slash your laces?”

  “Stop playing with that,” said Georgie. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  Bay looked like Bast, balked of a toy. “It’s just a bauble.”

  “A very sharp bauble.” A band of wandering minstrels roamed past, crooning about Greensleeves. “If you must use it, apply it to the man with the lute.”

  “He wasn’t that bad,” said Bay. His eyes met hers, that deceptively clear blue, like the sky on a cloudless day. “He’s simply not as good as you.”

  So many memories. It was as if burning their past had simply released it into the air between them; they couldn’t take a breath without choking on memories.

  Despite herself, Georgie reached for her husband’s hand, squeezed it. “I’m done performing, remember?”

  “I know,” said Bay, and there was so much unspoken between them that Georgie couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “I need a breath of air,” she said, faking a smile as best she could. “We’ve nearly an hour until the German. Make sure everyone’s tucked in at the trough?”

  Bay covered her hand in his, a courtly gesture that caused whispers and snickers among the viewers. “Don’t be too long. We don’t know who might be out there.”

  “Don’t worry.” In defiance of the crowd, Georgie lifted a hand to Bay’s cheek and then wished she hadn’t. The illusion of intimacy came too close to the real thing. “I’m not afraid of Giles anymore.”

  Bay smiled ruefully at her, a perfect Renaissance prince. “That’s what scares me.”

  Georgie wrinkled her nose at him over her shoulder and swirled away, or as much as one could swirl in a skirt braced with horsehair and weighed down with semiprecious stones. Around her, the ball was proceeding apace. The supper was already set out in the dining room; the dancing would begin again at one, when she and Bay would open the German. Even her mother-in-law couldn’t find fault with the arrangements.

  Or, rather, she would, but it wouldn’t be Georgie’s fault.

  Upstairs, through the balusters of the gallery, she could see two white-nightgowned figures, their nurse’s hands bunched in the fabric on each side. Georgie considered going up, but she knew that if she did, she might never come down again.

  Don’t go, Bay had told her. We can make this right.

  She had agreed that they could discuss it later, but deep down, she knew she had already made her decision. She didn’t want to live her life in thrall to Lacey Abbey anymore, living first in Annabelle’s shadow, then Bay’s. She wanted to find her own place, whatever and wherever that might be.

  What would it be to strike off into the world? Not running, not afraid. She could take the twins to Venice and scold them out of plunging into the canals; take them to ride on the donkeys in the Tuileries Garden.

  She could feel exhilaration rising at the thought, and a strange sense of rightness. As much as she loved Bay, she didn’t want to see Bast and Vi raised as he had been raised, stifled into correctness, swimming on a rocky beach because it was where “our people” went, or twisting themselves into molds that didn’t fit because people might snicker at the Opera. She would raise them to be strong an
d free.

  With the freedom that came of having the Van Duyvil money and name. There was that, but she was a pragmatist, wasn’t she? She wasn’t ashamed of using the tools that came to hand.

  “May I have a word?” It was David, dressed as Michelangelo, complete with tights, floppy hat, and easel.

  Georgie put an arm familiarly through his. Amazing how much more affectionate she could feel towards David now that he was no longer a rival. “I was just going to get a breath of air. Come with me.”

  “Is that wise?” David glanced over his shoulder, where half a dozen people were marking their conversation with interest.

  “Possibly the wisest thing we’ve done.” Georgie deliberately leaned into his arm, making David twist nervously. She batted her eyelashes at him. “Shall we give them one last show? For Bay’s sake?”

  “That was … well, that was what I wanted to talk to you about.” David dropped his voice as she led him out through the French doors onto the winter-blasted balcony.

  Chinese lanterns glimmered in front of them like fairy lights, stretching down the terraces to the river. But there was an emptiness to it. The women in gowns and gallants with swords at their waists who ought to have been trysting among the topiary were wisely remaining inside, by the warmth of the supper table. Only the shadows kissed beneath the lanterns.

  David was shivering in his doublet, his teeth chattering as he said, “I wanted you to know … I’m leaving after the ball.”

  Georgie looked up at him, the cold forgotten. Something about the way he said it made her feel very old and very cynical; there was something about noble gestures that brought out her worst impulses. She also suspected that Bay had put him up to it. Because Bay, no matter how much he might love David, was his mother’s child first.

  Heaven help anyone who sullied the noble name of Van Duyvil.

  As gently as she could, she said, “There’s no need, David.”

  David walked beside her down the lantern-strung paths. The high yew bushes hid them from the house. “I won’t be the cause of your leaving Bay.”

  She could tell him that he wasn’t, that if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. But that would be petty. Instead she said, thoughtfully, “I’ve always thought it would be horrible to be Count Paris. No one wants to be the person to stand between Romeo and Juliet.”

  Bay would have had a quick response for her. David just looked uncertain. Shakespeare wasn’t his chosen tongue. “No one’s going to take poison.”

  “I didn’t mean it literally.” They walked together for a moment, David thoughtfully matching his pace to hers. “I’m tired of being the odd one out. I want something of my own, David. Is that so strange?”

  David cast a quick, worried look down at her. “But you’re married.”

  That didn’t stop you from falling in love with my husband, Georgie almost said, but held her tongue.

  Instead, borrowing a phrase from Anne, she said lightly, “We’re almost in the new century, after all. If Mrs. Vanderbilt can divorce, why can’t a Van Duyvil?”

  “Annabelle.” It was Elizabeth I standing behind them, in all her offended majesty. There might be half a dozen Elizabeths at the ball, but this was the only one who mattered, her mother-in-law, in red wig, ropes of pearls, and a face that sank a thousand ships. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Brilliant. This was all she needed. Georgie looked at her mother-in-law. “Were you following me?”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil seemed taken aback at being on the receiving end of the interrogation. “Someone needed to remind you of the proprieties, Annabelle.” She looked pointedly at David. “Since you don’t appear to be able to control yourself.”

  “I’ll just be going back to the house,” murmured David, and suited actions to words.

  “Is that the sort of man for whom you would risk my son’s good name?” Mrs. Van Duyvil’s bosom had swollen to truly alarming proportions. Georgie had an image of the bodice bursting, scattering pearls and diamonds and wounded vanity.

  “It’s not what you think,” said Georgie as she walked away, just away, because she didn’t have the patience to deal with Mrs. Van Duyvil, not on top of David, not on top of everything else.

  “No. It’s worse than I thought.” Mrs. Van Duyvil’s voice rose as Georgie kept walking. “What do you think you’re doing? Come back here! Don’t you turn your back on me!”

  Georgie could hear the slap of Mrs. Van Duyvil’s slippers on the frost-hardened gravel behind her.

  And behind them, another pair of shoes, moving fast, as a male form burst onto the path between them.

  “Mother?” Bay caught up with them by the overlook at the entrance to the folly, skidding to a stop between them. “What are you doing out here?”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil looked down at Georgie, her elaborately curled wig adding an extra four inches to her height. “Ask your wife.”

  So Bay did. “Is everything all right?” He took Georgie’s hands, chafing them to warm them. Georgie would have been amused at the look of consternation on Mrs. Van Duyvil’s face if she hadn’t been feeling so unsettled. “Someone saw you go outside. When I saw David come back without you … you don’t know who might be out here.”

  Georgie pressed her eyes shut. “It’s all right, Bay.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil’s heavy skirts rustled behind them. “No,” she said shrilly, “it is not. This woman you married has no concept of propriety, no concern for your reputation, no respect for the family name. If I hadn’t intervened—”

  “What?” demanded Georgie. “What would have happened? People would have whispered? They’re whispering already.”

  “And why?” demanded Mrs. Van Duyvil. “Because you have carried on like a common trollop.”

  “Mother—” Bay cast a pleading look at Georgie, but Georgie crossed her arms over her chest and took a step back.

  “It’s bad enough,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil, the diamonds at her breast flashing in the light of the lanterns, “that I have to endure your cousin’s indiscretions. That actor and now this nonsense with Teddy. I would have expected better from a Newland. But at least I could take comfort in the fact that the Van Duyvil name, our name, was free of stain. And now this. Did you know that your wife was planning to run off with that architect?”

  “No,” said Georgie, her eyes meeting Bay’s, “I’m not.”

  “She isn’t, Mother,” said Bay, and Georgie rolled her eyes at him for the fact that his mother still had the power to reduce her husband to a schoolboy.

  “Oh, no?” Mrs. Van Duyvil drew herself up to an impressive height, her wide skirts adding to her majesty. To Georgie, she said, “If you won’t have a care for my son’s name, at least think of your children.”

  Georgie felt something snap. “I am thinking of my children. Do you think I’d let you have any hand in the raising of them after what you’ve done to yours? Your daughter is afraid to say boo to a goose, and your son … your son had to run halfway around the world to get away from you.”

  “Bayard!” Mrs. Van Duyvil looked to her son, who looked as though he would rather be anywhere rather than where he was. “Bayard, I expect you to do something about your wife.”

  “What?” demanded Georgie. “Lock me in a tower? Commit me to an asylum? On what grounds? Insufficient reverence for the Van Duyvil name?”

  “Mother … Annabelle—” Bay strove for peace and got glared at by both sides. “Can we continue this discussion another time? Our guests—”

  “Will all be extremely edified by the sight of your wife running off with her lover!” retorted Mrs. Van Duyvil.

  Georgie spoke through clenched teeth. “Mr. Pruyn is not my lover.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Don’t take me for a fool. I know what I see when I see it.”

  “No,” said Georgie, feeling the cold biting through her dress, creeping beneath her skirts, making her skin crack. She was cold and angry, and she had had enough. Heaven only knew she had
sinned, but she was sick of being blamed for sins that weren’t her own. “You don’t. Mr. Pruyn isn’t my lover. He’s your son’s.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Bay press his eyes briefly shut.

  “What did you say?” Mrs. Van Duyvil was all indignation, rounding on Georgie with her scepter held like a spear. But Georgie didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked towards Bay. And then away again. “It wasn’t enough to cuckold my son; now you feel the need to malign him? If I ever hear you utter such nonsense, such ludicrous nonsense—”

  “Mother!” Bay had to raise his voice to make himself heard. “Mother. It’s not nonsense. It’s true.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil made a noise like a bellows deflating. “No,” she said flatly.

  Bay hesitated, but he didn’t falter. His eyes met Georgie’s, rueful, resolved. “Yes.”

  Mrs. Van Duyvil stepped towards him. “You will not,” she said succinctly, “say that again. This did not happen. This conversation did not happen.”

  “Just the way my final year at the law school didn’t happen?” said Bay with a tired smile. “I can pretend in public, Mother, but not for you. And certainly not for my wife.”

  “Your wife.” Mrs. Van Duyvil turned back to Georgie, her voice dripping venom. “None of this needed to have been said but for you. None of this will be said again. Send the architect away—goodness knows, he’s outlived his use. All of his uses.”

  Georgie saw Bay wince at his mother’s casual treatment of his lover. She might have had her own battles with Bay over David, but it was none of Mrs. Van Duyvil’s affair. And certainly not like this.

  “That isn’t your decision to make,” said Georgie levelly. “It’s Bay’s. And mine. Not yours.”

  “You made it my concern,” retorted her mother-in-law. “All you needed to do was turn a blind eye. Do you think I cared that my husband shared his bed with a pile of dusty books? Stop whining and fulfill your social obligations.”

  “Your social obligations,” said Georgie. “Not mine.”