Page 108 of The English Wife

Something about Anne’s dismissive tone tweaked Janie’s temper. “They, meaning journalists? Or they, meaning men?”

“Both.” Anne settled her furs closer about her neck. “You shouldn’t play at games you don’t understand. If you knew the world as I do—”

“Or Mr. Burke as you do?” retorted Janie, nettled. She might not have the benefit of a continental tour and a philandering husband, but she had eyes. And ears. She was sick of everyone treating her like an invalid.

“Bay would want me to look out for you,” said Anne shortly. “I’m only telling you this for your own good. James Burke is using you.”

“As you did him?” He looked well in breeches, Anne had told her. Wouldn’t you have run away, too? “Did you never stop to think that you might have wronged him? You got a scolding from Mother. Burke was thrown onto the streets.”

“Must you be so dramatic about it? I never meant him harm. It wasn’t my fault Aunt Alva overreacted.” Anne twitched at her furs. “I should think you would have more pride than to cultivate my cast-offs.”

Janie looked at her cousin, really looked at her, at the fine lines of her face, prematurely aged with discontent, the flamboyant stuff of her gown, the mourning bands on her sleeves that were wider than custom required. And she found, for the first time, that Anne had no power to daunt her.

“I never took your cast-offs. You married mine.” And as Anne’s face changed, from shock to anger, Janie added genuinely, “I only wish it had brought you more joy.”

It took Anne several tries to find her tongue. “Teddy laughed about you.”

And now Teddy was laughing about Anne, somewhere on a yacht in the South of France, with his candidate for second wife already in residence. Janie moved so that they stood on the very edge of the steps, away from the madding crowd. “Why did you say I was first to find Bay?”

Anne looked away, her face half buried in her luxuriant fox stole. “Weren’t you?”

Once, Janie might have mumbled something conciliatory and agreed that Anne must be right. But not now. Not anymore. “No. You were.”

“Forgive me if I was too busy grieving to be making timetables.” Anne fumbled for the gold case at her waist. “I need a cigarette.”

“Don’t even think of it.” Janie’s mother took Anne by the arm, marching her down the stairs as though she were a child of ten, caught experimenting with her aunt’s powder. “I won’t have you making a display for these people.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Anne shrugged away from her aunt. “Don’t you see that it’s too late?”

“Get in the carriage,” was all Janie’s mother said, but an unspoken message seemed to pass between them.

With one dark look over her shoulder, Anne obeyed, climbing into the closed carriage Mr. Tilden had arranged to convey them from Carmel to the house in Cold Spring. Janie’s mother followed, with the dignity of an offended dowager. Mr. Tilden handed Janie into the carriage last. He looked as though he wanted to apologize for it. But, then, he always looked as though he wanted to apologize.

“That,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil as Mr. Tilden had settled himself next to Janie on the rear-facing seat, “went as well as one might expect. Mr. Lacey was quite effective.”

“Effective,” Anne repeated flatly, looking at her aunt with loathing. Turning to Mr. Tilden, she demanded, “How much more of this?”

“That,” said Mr. Tilden, choosing his words carefully, “depends upon how many witnesses the coroner chooses to call. Should he feel that this matter can be resolved, he will, of course—”

“Resolved?” Anne put her hands to her face. It took Janie a moment to realize that she was laughing, wild, uncontrollable laughter. “Just wrap it up in a tidy little package and never mind that Bay is … oh, God.”

Janie’s mother’s hands were tight in her lap. “Control yourself.”

“Why? What else can happen? Will the word get out that your niece was seen having an unsightly fit of emotion? We can’t allow that to occur.”

“You sound just like your mother.” Mrs. Van Duyvil’s voice was so low Janie almost couldn’t make out the words.

“And thank goodness for that,” said Anne, swiping her eyes with one hand in a way that revealed beyond doubt that the color of her lashes was due to art rather than nature.

“Your mother was a disgrace.”

“And why was that? Because she wouldn’t dance to your tune? Because she married my father?”

The carriage jolted over a rut. “Goodness,” said Mr. Tilden brightly, “the roads are difficult at this time of year.”

“Your father,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil, “was unbalanced.” Her voice was controlled, but her hands were in fists in her lap, and there was a tension in the air that made the cold coach feel several degrees colder.

“Only because you drove him to it. Egging on his competitors, buying up his mortgages…” The venom in Anne’s voice should have stripped the paint off the exterior. “Why did you hate them so much? Was it because they actually enjoyed themselves? Or because they had no use for you?”