Page 111 of The English Wife

She could remember, even now, the feel of George’s hand in hers. And the emptiness, later on.

George and Georgiana, Georgiana and George. Had it suited her father to name his bastard children after himself? Or had it been her mother who had done so, in a bid to win her lover’s allegiance? A compliment to his virility, if not his morals. Georgie suspected the latter, but she would never know for certain. Her mother had died of childbed fever, a common enough occurrence, and particularly in India. Georgie had no memories of her, no pictures, only the name her mother had given her: Georgiana.

Nor had her father ever spoken to her of her mother. The polite fiction had been maintained, at all times, in private as well as in public, that Colonel Lacey was merely her benefactor, not her father, that George was Annabelle’s brother, not Georgie’s.

And then George had died, and it had all been for nothing, all her father’s subterfuge, the lies, the pretense.

She could remember still, those long nights, Annabelle creeping into her bed in the nursery, lying with their arms around each other, needing the solidity of each other, holding on to each other as though trying to ward off fate. It felt, at times, as though Georgie had exchanged one twin for another, as though with George gone, Annabelle had fallen into his place, the other half of her, neither complete without the other.

Annabelle might put on airs at times, they might squabble, as sisters did, but in the end, there was always that, the feel of their arms around each other at the dead of night, keeping each other safe.

She and Annabelle, all in all to each other, two halves of the same coin.

Georgie slipped out a side door, blinking in the January glare, so much brighter and harsher than the light at home. The past and the present danced around each other in an intricate pas de deux, spinning in and out. The house, so familiar and so strange, sprawled across the rise, the land sloping gently down behind to the river and the ruins of the old abbey that stood like a bulwark against time on the verge of the banks. She could see, through the bare branches of the trees, the spiky emptiness of rosebushes without their bloom, the shadow of a man, not the form, just a shadow.

They used to meet there, Annabelle and her lover.

But it wasn’t Annabelle’s lover, and these weren’t the ruins. Georgie recalled herself with a shake of her head. That was the folly; their own folly, not the folly of monks centuries past. And that wasn’t Annabelle’s lover lurking beneath the bare ruined choirs where nothing yet sang; it was David, with yet another trifling question in which she had to pretend an interest when she had no interest at all.

Poor David. He made a point of deferring to her in all his decisions, ostensibly because she was the Lacey of Lacey Abbey and the woman for whom this edifice had been constructed, but really, Georgie knew, because he felt guilty. She was tired of assuaging his guilt.

Really, she was just tired.

Let their nurse sit up with them, Bay would tell her. That’s what we pay her for. And perhaps she should. But she wouldn’t. They were hers, Vi and Bast, hers as no one else was or ever would be, and she loved them with a love that sometimes terrified her.

She had finally fallen asleep somewhere past dawn in the rocking chair in the nursery, with Vi slumped bonelessly on top of her and Sebastian curled on the rug at her feet. She had woken a scant hour later to find that the fire had all but burned out, her toes were numb, and she’d lost all feeling in her arm and thigh. She had carried Viola and Sebastian to their beds, one by one, tucking them under their covers, and leaving instructions with their nurse not to wake them for breakfast. Let them sleep in the warmth of their blankets while they could.

Maybe she should ignore David, ignore the preparations, and just crawl into bed. It would be a decadent thing, going to bed in the middle of the day.

When I’m grown-up, I’m going to sleep as long as I like. A voice from the past. Annabelle, with that glint in her eye. Annabelle, who had been so sure the world would be hers.

Annabelle Lacey of Lacey Abbey.

For a moment, Georgie thought she could see her, see her by the river, her long hair pulled back at the sides and left to fall free, putting out a leg to jump onto that dilapidated old raft they used to pole up and down the river.

One last go? They won’t miss us for hours yet …

And then the sun winked behind the clouds and Annabelle was gone and Georgie was alone, wishing she had had the sense to wear a fur-lined cloak rather than relying on a wool dress and woolly shawl.

“Hello?” David was probably somewhere in the depths of the folly, calculating something or other. That he was very good at what he did, Georgie knew. She just didn’t feel particularly constrained to pay any attention to it. “David?”

It was dark inside the folly, dark and cold. David had reproduced it perfectly, the fallen arches of the cloisters, the roofless rectangle of the refectory.

“David?” Georgie called again, impatiently now, because it was cold and she was tired and enough was enough. She’d never liked the ruins. They had been Annabelle’s place, not hers.

“Were you expecting your lover?” A man stepped through the hollow door of the refectory, down a hollowed step.

He had abandoned his caped greatcoat for a fitted model that was more in the mode, with black velvet insets in the collar. His tall hat cast a shadow over his face. But there was no mistaking him.

“Hello, Annabelle,” said Giles.

Georgie took a deep breath of the cold January air. “Hello, Giles. It’s been a long time.”

“Seven years,” said Giles, and waited.

Once, the sight of Giles would have had her cold with fear. But right now, Georgie just felt numb. Numb and tired. “What do you want, Giles?”

His eyes traveled over her with deliberate insolence. “Is that any way to greet your long-lost cousin … Annabelle?”