Page 113 of The English Wife

Georgie tucked her hands beneath the edges of her shawl, feeling the January chill seeping into her bones. “Annabelle knew that if she eloped you would come after her. So she found another way.”

With all the blithe insouciance of seventeen. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. It had never occurred to either of them that their plans might go awry. Annabelle would have Adam, and Georgie would have Giles and the abbey. All fair and square.

Except it never quite worked that way, did it? thought Georgie wearily. Only for the Annabelles of the world, the gold-touched children on whom the sun always shone.

Giles bristled. “Eloped? What are you on about? Who would it have been? There was no one…” He sputtered to a stop, apprehension written across his face as Georgie stood there looking at him, waiting for him to finish.

“Wasn’t there?” she said.

Giles cast about feverishly for rivals. “No. Who else was there? Old Enderby up at the manor … but he was fifty if he was a day. Hawkswood, in the militia, was toothsome enough, but he was on the lookout for an heiress, everyone knew that. No.” Giles looked at Georgie with ugly satisfaction on his face. “There was no one who could offer her what I could. Name, position … me.”

“Perhaps not,” Georgie said. “Nevertheless, Annabelle was in love with Adam Ferrars.”

“The farmer?” The disbelief on Giles’s face was almost funny.

Georgie drew in a deep breath through her nose, remembering the shadows in the ruins, Annabelle and Adam trysting in the twilight. She had tasked Annabelle with it, warning her that she was risking her reputation, but Annabelle only laughed and said she didn’t care for her reputation; she only cared for Adam. And someday Georgie might understand.

“She’d been meeting him in secret for months,” said Georgie flatly. “It wasn’t anything to do with you, Giles. It was never anything to do with you.”

“You’re lying,” he said hoarsely. “She wouldn’t have done that. She was going to come around. Just a little time…”

Enough was enough. She had children to care for and five jugglers and six jongleurs who needed to be fed and given their instructions. Georgie turned to go. “She didn’t want to marry you, Giles.”

Giles followed after her, out into the pitiless January sunlight. “You’re just saying that. You did it because you wanted me, didn’t you? You wanted me—and the abbey.” He stopped stubbornly on an artistically cracked flagstone. “She wouldn’t just leave her inheritance like that. She wouldn’t leave the abbey.”

Wouldn’t she? Georgie looked back at him. “You never did know Annabelle at all, did you? Annabelle never cared for money or position.”

And it was true. Having always had it, Annabelle had never considered the lack of it. Of course, that was only so long as she wasn’t challenged. When challenged, Annabelle could lord it with the best of them. Particularly over Georgie.

It was time to end this once and for all. “She thought you were a nuisance, Giles. She said your endless stories about the Horse Guards were enough to send anyone howling into the wilderness.” Georgie couldn’t resist adding, “When it came down to it, she preferred the company of sheep.”

Giles squinted at her in the sunlight. “You vicious slut.”

Georgie felt her back stiffen. She gathered her skirts and walked determinedly up the path to the house. “If you don’t like the truth, don’t come looking for it.”

She could hear Giles’s voice, low with anger. “Do you want to talk about the truth … Annabelle?”

“Good-bye, Giles.” Georgie didn’t turn. One foot after the other. Don’t look back. He was like a monster under the bed. He couldn’t hurt her unless she let him.

“Does your husband know about you? Does he know who you are?”

Just keep walking, that was what she needed to do. Never let him know he had struck a nerve. Georgie turned, saying patiently, “Go home, Giles. There’s nothing for you here.”

Giles remained rooted where he was, staring after her. “You made a fool of me.” Not love, then, but pride. “You and Annabelle.”

And you took your revenge. Georgie stopped herself before saying it. She wouldn’t give him that power over her. Not again. Not ever.

“Go find Annabelle and take it up with her,” said Georgie. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time in New South Wales. So many friendly sheep.”

“What if I were to attend your ball? Would you dance with me?”

Giles made to follow her, but stopped with a wince as he landed on the foot she had stomped on. But that didn’t stop him from one last, valedictory shot.

The words carried on the wind behind her. “This isn’t over … Annabelle.”

TWENTY-THREE

Cold Spring, 1899