Page 133 of The English Wife

“Bay!” Regaining her wits, Georgie flung herself towards him, but two hands caught her squarely in the chest, pushing her back hard enough to knock the breath out of her.

“You.” The words came out as a hiss. “This was your doing.”

And that was the last Georgie heard as her mother-in-law’s hands pushed her again, knocking her back, over the balustrade. She grabbed at the ropes of pearls, hanging from her mother-in-law’s breast, but caught only something cold and hard, that came off in her hand and clattered to the ground as the force catapulted her over, over, backwards over the balustrade.

“Georgie…” She thought she heard her name on Bay’s lips, but then there was nothing but the sensation of falling.

Falling, falling down deep into the icy waters below.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Cold Spring, 1899

February 11

“Do you know what it’s like to witness the death of your child? Can you imagine it, Mr. Burke?” Mrs. Van Duyvil addressed herself to Burke, as though delivering the story for posterity. Not to her daughter, not to her niece. To the press. “Not an ordinary death, not a death by mischance or disease. A death by malice. Murder.”

“You came back to the ballroom.” Anne rose from her chair, her fingers tight on the embroidered arm. “You came back to the ballroom. You sent me to look for him.”

Mrs. Van Duyvil didn’t look at her niece. She kept her gaze fixed on Burke. “Do you know what it is to see your child murdered? My child. My only son.”

“You left him there.” It was Anne’s voice, raw and fearful. “You left him there and sent me to find him.”

Janie felt as though she were falling, clutching at handholds. Her mother had known. Her mother had seen it all. And yet she had come back to the ballroom and danced. “Why didn’t you say? If you knew—”

Mrs. Van Duyvil glanced fiercely at her, and Janie saw her mother’s face clench in an attempt to maintain control. “Your brother was dead. Did it matter?”

“Yes!” Janie burst out. “If someone had come sooner, perhaps—”

“He was dead.” Mrs. Van Duyvil’s voice cracked through the room.

“He was still alive when we found him. Lying in the cold by himself.” Janie could feel herself shaking. How long had it taken before Anne had found her in the supper room? How long until they discovered Bay? “If you had raised the alarm … if you had let anyone know—”

“No.” Mrs. Van Duyvil shook her head. “No.”

“Oh, God. Was that why you sent me?” Anne was staring at her aunt with a combination of loathing and horror. “I always knew you hated me, but I never knew how much. You wanted them to think I did it. You wanted them to think I killed Bay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” For a moment, Mrs. Van Duyvil sounded like herself again, uttering her favorite phrase. And then her voice faltered. “I … there would have been questions. Do you think I wanted my grandson’s mother branded a murderess? You knew nothing. It was safer that way.”

“Safer for whom?” With her hair glowing red gold in the lamplight, Anne looked like an avenging angel, the sort who wielded sword rather than harp. “Not for Bay.”

“Bay was dead.” Janie’s mother wrung her hands, shaking as though she had been the one in the cold. “He was gone. Gone. What good would it do? Let them think it was a tramp, a vagrant, a robber.”

But they hadn’t thought that. Bay had been branded a murderer. The papers, the inquest, all the doubt and the questions and the worry. Through a fog, Janie felt Burke’s hand beneath her elbow, steadying her. “All these weeks—not knowing. With the papers saying such awful things about Bay. How could you just stand by and watch it happen?”

“He was dead!” The windows rang with the words. Mrs. Van Duyvil glanced over her shoulder, a strangely furtive look. “She killed him, that woman. She took my son away from me. She took my son away from me and she killed him.”

“No.” It was Anne who spoke, Anne who took a step forward, her eyes fixed on her aunt. “She loved him. They may not have been perfect lovers, but she loved him. Why would Annabelle kill Bay?”

“Because she wasn’t Annabelle,” interjected Giles Lacey, rubbing his wrists. “I keep telling you that.”

“Loved him?” Mrs. Van Duyvil couldn’t seem to stay still. She paced the room, her long skirt brushing the carpet, bumping against the furniture. “Ha! She wanted a divorce. She wanted a divorce so that she could run off with that architect of hers. Ridiculous man. He can’t even design a working chimney! Did she really think he would waltz her off to an absurd lover’s paradise?” Recalling herself, she raised her chin, saying, “Bay wouldn’t have it, of course. He told her no.”

“And she stabbed him?” said Janie. She couldn’t wrap her head around it. She could see Annabelle and Bay together, Annabelle’s head barely reaching Bay’s shoulder, small-boned and slight, her wrists nearly as slim as Viola’s. Janie looked at Burke. “She was so little.”

Anne’s face was very still, her eyes very bright. “No,” she said. “Annabelle would never have run off with David Pruyn.”

“Why not?” demanded Mrs. Van Duyvil. “Do you think that you’re the only one with poor judgment? Just because you are entirely lost to propriety doesn’t mean that Bayard meant to follow in your footsteps. He knew what was owed to his name. It was that woman that he married—she was the one who caused the trouble.”