Page 125 of The English Wife

“And I wouldn’t take a care?” Anne demanded.

“No one has ever accused you of being domestic.” Mrs. Van Duyvil smiled acidly at Anne, her gold-and-silver hair shimmering like a helmet in the lamplight. “Perhaps if you had taken a care, you might be in France right now.”

“With my husband and his mistress? Is that what you recommend, Aunt Alva?”

“Er … do you need someone to see you to the nursery?” Mr. Lacey turned to Janie, a note of desperation in his voice, and Janie almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“There’s no need. I won’t be long,” said Janie. Exiting with more haste than grace, she collided with Mrs. Gerritt in the doorway.

Mrs. Gerritt stood her ground, looking at Janie in a way Janie vaguely remembered from the days when she and Bay had been very small and Mrs. Gerritt had been their nursemaid. It was a look that made her feel as though she had forgotten to wash behind her ears.

“Caller,” said Mrs. Gerritt tersely.

“A caller?” Anne abandoned her argument in the light of this new development. “Is it an Eskimo, perhaps? Or one of those snow creatures from the Canadian wilds?”

Mrs. Gerritt didn’t dignify that with a response. “It’s that man for you, Miss Janie.”

“What man?” Janie heard her mother saying as Janie followed Mrs. Gerritt through the passage, into the Great Hall, where her caller was waiting.

Man might have been stretching the description slightly. Snowman might have more to the point. Ice crusted over the scarf wrapped around his face. Snow was packed solid on the brim of his hat and flaked around him as he stepped stiffly forward.

“Burke?” Only his eyes were the same, bloodshot but still green. The rest of him was rendered unrecognizable in layers of cloth and snow. “You look like a snow monster.”

The snowman pawed at his scarf to free his mouth, sending ice chips flaking. He was shivering so hard he could hardly speak. “I tried to telephone, but the wires are down.”

“Mrs. Gerritt,” said her mother in freezing tones, “we are not at home to callers.”

Janie looked back sharply to see both her mother and Anne behind her. Mrs. Gerritt stood impassively to the side, as if disclaiming any responsibility.

“What are you going to do?” inquired Anne sweetly. “Have Gerritt fling him into the snow? Just think what the papers would say.”

Burke ignored them both. He advanced towards Janie, limping a little. “I need to speak to you.”

“How did you get here?” It had to be at least ten below outside, possibly more. The papers had been calling it the coldest weather on record. That, of course, had been when there still was a paper. There had been no deliveries since the day before. The roads were impassable, Gerritt said, not so much from the snow as the ice beneath it.

“Walked from the station.” Burke shivered uncontrollably, his whole body swaying. “Phone lines are down. I caught the last train out. They’ve had to close off portions of the El because the rails are too slick. The Staten Island ferries are frozen in their docks. The snow is lying in the street because it’s too cold to shovel—and there’s more coming.”

“You need a fire,” said Janie, recovering from her paralysis and moving swiftly to Burke’s side. “You need dry clothes and a warm drink before you get frostbite. Mrs. Gerritt, is there any hot water to be had? Oh, and please prepare a room for Mr. Burke.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said her mother sharply. “Give him something warm in the kitchen and see him out, Gerritt. I refuse to allow this … actor to stay under my roof.”

“Mr. Burke,” said Janie, through clenched teeth, “is a journalist. And this isn’t your roof.” Looking at Burke with concern, she added, “You’d best get out of that coat. You’ve more snow on you than outside.”

“’s not the snow. ’s the wind,” Burke said and shook his head as though trying to wake himself.

“You might ask Sebastian for permission,” suggested Anne to Janie. “He is the master of the house, after all.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil shortly.

Anne shrugged. “It’s not absurd. It’s a legal fact.”

Burke fumbled at the front of his coat, his frozen fingers sliding off the buttons. Janie moved quickly to help him. “Mrs. Gerritt, would you prepare a room for Mr. Burke?”

“In the servants’ wing,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil sharply. “He can take his meals in the kitchen.”

Janie could feel her spine straightening, pulling her up to her full height, a good three inches taller than her mother. “If Mr. Burke takes his meal in the kitchen, then I will take mine there, too.”

“If we don’t get more coal,” muttered Mrs. Gerritt, “no one will be taking any meal anywhere.”