Page 120 of The English Wife

“Certainly,” said Bay, and waited.

Georgie darted a glance at David, who was tactfully inspecting a twig. Frustration seized her at having to beg for even this small crumb, the right to speak to her own bloody husband without a bloody audience. “In private?”

“I’ll just be in the music room,” said David, and disappeared around an elaborate bit of topiary, leaving Georgie feeling as though she’d kicked a puppy. It would be easier if David weren’t so likable, if she could indulge in the treat of thoroughly resenting her husband’s lover without having to feel guilty about it every time she asserted her rights. Whatever those were.

“What is it?” asked Bay, but Georgie couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes flicked over her shoulder as he said it, marking David’s progress back to the house.

“Not here,” said Georgie. There were too many people about, gardeners and caterers and goodness only knew who. Through the bare branches of the trees, she could see the eaves of the old house, sturdy and plain. “Let’s go to the old house. We can be private there.”

“Let’s hope there’s still some coal in the grate,” joked Bay, offering an arm.

He hadn’t minded the cold when he was with David.

Georgie pushed the thought aside, threading her arm through her husband’s. There was something about the nearness of him, his size, his touch, his smell, that made her feel safe, even now, even with Giles roaming the grounds, even knowing that David was in the music room waiting and hordes of guests were coming to disturb their peace tomorrow. There was something so very solid about Bay, so very safe.

They’d weathered so much already. Surely, together, they could find a way to deal with Giles. Bay would understand. Georgie could feel the tight knot in her stomach beginning to relax at the thought of unburdening herself, being able, finally, to tell Bay the whole truth. He’d told her his truth; now it was her turn.

Imperfect lovers, that was what they were. And hardly lovers anymore. But at least their imperfections matched, two imposters showing false faces to the world. But not to each other, not anymore.

Surely, that was a bond stronger than sharing a bed?

“It does feel small after the new house, doesn’t it?” said Bay as they took the back stairs up to the nursery.

Georgie looked with affection at the narrow doorframe, the way the house closed around her like an embrace. “It feels like home.”

Bay looked down at her, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “But Lacey Abbey is your home. Your real home.”

In the nursery, Old King Cole led his musicians in a merry measure and Little Bo Peep looked forlornly for her sheep.

“About that—” Georgie began.

“Do you not like the house?” Bay looked at her with concern, that look that always seemed to say that she was the most important thing in the world and her wish was his command. Even when it quite frequently wasn’t.

“It’s not about the house. Not really.” Stalling, Georgie walked through to the empty nurse’s room. She knelt by the grate. “There’s enough coal for a fire.”

“I’ll do it,” said her husband, who had never lit his own fire in his life and stood looking helplessly from the kindling basket to the coal scuttle.

“Here.” Striking a lucifer, Georgie lit a piece of kindling, setting it down on the grate. She placed sticks from the wood basket over it, waiting until they caught before reaching for the coal.

“At least let me dirty my own hands,” said Bay, and set down the chunks of coal for her, gingerly, on top of the kindling wood. There was something about the way he looked at the smuts on his hands, trying to think of a place to wipe them clean, that made her heart twist, the way it did when Sebastian tried to feed himself and got porridge all around his mouth instead of in it.

“Now,” said Bay, putting both hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

His sympathy almost undid her. For a moment, it was five years ago and she was alone and scared and Bay was a broad-shouldered stranger, Sir Galahad and Lancelot rolled into one.

“Do you remember,” Georgie began and then had to stop and clear her throat. “Do you remember, when we first met and I told you that I was raised as Annabelle’s companion?”

“Of course,” said Bay fondly. “But it wasn’t hard to guess the truth.”

“That was the truth.” Bay blinked at her, and Georgie hurried on, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. “You were so sure that I … it didn’t seem worth arguing. And it seemed fair in a way to get to be Annabelle, after all the trouble I had gone through for her sake…” Georgie’s voice faltered to a stop. She wished Bay would say something. Anything. She took a deep breath and laid herself bare. “The real truth of it is that I didn’t want to risk losing you. You were … you were everything I had ever dreamed of, and I couldn’t bear to let you go.”

She blinked away the tears stinging the back of her eyes. She’d got her deserts, hadn’t she? She’d lied and seen her fairy tale turned on its head. If she’d been honest … no. It didn’t work that way. And she had more than most. She had a friend.

She hoped.

“I don’t understand,” said Bay hoarsely.

Which meant that he did. Georgie’s hands were shaking, so she wrapped them together, trying to steady herself. She knew him so well, her Bay. Her Bay who liked to avoid bother, who preferred to pretend not to see what he didn’t want to see.