Page 123 of The English Wife

Bay showed a spark of life. “I don’t give a … I don’t care what Mrs. Astor thinks of us. But what about the children, Georgie? They’ll be damaged goods. You know that.”

“They’re Van Duyvils. As you’ve pointed out, that counts for something in your world.” His world. Never really hers. Georgie wasn’t sure what her world was. But she knew she wanted the chance to find out. “Alva Vanderbilt’s children don’t seem to have suffered.”

“It’s not just the … the social repercussions.” Georgie watched Bay struggled for the words and felt her heart ache for him. He looked up at her with that honesty she had never been able to resist. “I do love you, Georgie.”

“I know.” Georgie sat down on the bed beside him and felt Bay’s arm come around her shoulders. He smelled of bay rum and Mrs. Gerritt’s own secret soap. So familiar. So safe. She wanted to bury her head in his chest and stay there forever. Georgie let her head drop into the familiar place on his shoulder. She didn’t want a divorce. Not really. Not entirely. “We don’t need to do anything hasty. Bast gets that horrible cough every winter. No one would think it odd if I were to take the twins away for a season. To Italy, perhaps. Or Switzerland. Just to see.”

She could feel Bay’s cheek against the top of her head, his breath ruffling her hair. How many times had they sat like this?

“Why not Florida?” Bay asked, his voice muffled.

Georgie rubbed her cheek against his jacket, feeling the rub of the wool. “Your mother’s rule extends to Sarasota Springs.”

Bay coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Don’t take them away from me, Georgie.”

“Only for a season, Bay.” Georgie straightened in his arms, looking him in the face, seeing the familiar tracery of lines around his eyes, the faint gold around his chin. “You’re their father. They adore you. I would never try to take them away from you.”

“What if I gave up David?” Bay sounded like a little boy, promising to give up his pudding if it meant he could have his old dog back. “What then?”

Part of Georgie wanted to leap at the offer. But what did that mean, really? That Bay loved her, she knew. But not enough. Never enough. “And make you miserable for nothing?” she said with an attempt at humor that failed utterly. “I want something for me, Bay. Something that’s mine.”

Not Annabelle’s leavings, not the crumbs of her husband’s attention.

“I would offer you jewels,” said Bay with a touch of the wry humor that had won her heart, “but I don’t think that will answer, will it?”

“No. I’ve never longed for jewels.” Pushing herself up from the bed, Georgie began shuffling up the papers Bay had dropped on the floor, the ones that hadn’t gone into the fire. Back into the hatbox they went. “We should go back.”

Bay didn’t move. “We can resolve all this, Georgie. I know we can. There’s no need for divorce.”

Georgie looked down at her husband. “Even if Giles Lacey tells the world I’m not Annabelle? Your mother will be clamoring for the papers to be drawn.”

“You said it yourself. If we stand together, it’s our word against his.” Georgie admired the attempt at resolution, even if it wasn’t entirely convincing. “Or we could pay him off.”

“No,” said Georgie firmly. “If we give him money, he’ll only present that as proof that we had something to hide. We’ll never be free of him. And neither will Viola or Sebastian.”

Bay flexed his neck, wincing. “Then what are we going to do about him?”

This was the response she had wanted: working together as a pair. But something about the way Bay said it made her feel more alone than before.

One thing she did know, she wasn’t going to let Giles Lacey get the better of her. Not again.

Georgie held out a hand to help her husband up. “Leave him to me, Bay. I’ll think of something.”

Bay took the offered hand, rising stiffly to his feet. “I could have Mr. Tilden speak to him.”

“What is he going to do, bore him to death? Mr. Tilden would run straight to your mother, you know.”

Bay grimaced. “Maybe that’s what we need. There’s no one more fearsome than my mother in a snit.”

“A snit doesn’t sound very fearsome,” said Georgie, plunking the hatbox into her husband’s arms.

“It does,” said Bay, “when it’s my mother.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Cold Spring, 1899

February 11