Page 17 of The English Wife

“It wasn’t a night.” Kitty’s voice was so low, Georgie could barely hear her.

“What?”

Kitty tugged at the brim of her bonnet, nearly breaking the ribbon. “It wasn’t a night, all right? It wasn’t even an hour. He had me up against the wall like a Covent Garden whore. And then he couldn’t even—”

Georgie could feel the wall, hard against her back; the grunting, the thrusting. That voice, that familiar voice, taunting her all the while. Don’t tell me you didn’t want this.

Georgie jerked as she cut her finger on a piece of glass. She stared at her finger, at the red drop of blood.

“Oh, Kitty.” She fumbled for a bit of grease-stained cloth to wrap her finger. “If you’d only come with me—”

“And why would I do that? I thought he’d take me home with him. Or at least give me supper. So much for that, then, right?” Kitty gave an ugly bark of a laugh. “At least he paid me. Shoved the coins into my hand and thanked me for a lovely evening.”

The echo of Sir Hugo’s mockery made Georgie want to slap the man. “You’re better off without Sir Hugo,” she said gruffly, wishing Kitty might have been spared this. “He has a reputation.”

“What do I care for his reputation?” Kitty’s voice was shrill. She turned away, but not before Georgie saw the tears in her eyes, tears of fatigue and desperation. “What am I going to do when the theater closes, Georgie? What then? Sell cloth by the yard at Liberty’s? Wear a white pinny in a tearoom?”

They’d played to a nearly empty house again. The show couldn’t last much longer. Georgie had spotted Mr. Dunstan in the back of the theater, engaged in conversation with two men who seemed like they’d be more at home in St. Giles than Leicester Square. None of them had looked happy with the conversation.

Rising awkwardly from the floor, Georgie dropped the broken pieces of cheap glass onto the dressing table. “Pouring tea might be preferable to selling yourself on street corners to the likes of Sir Hugo.”

“Oh, la-di-da!” Kitty marched to the door, her voice hoarse with unshed tears. “Maybe if you’d left it alone, it wouldn’t have been a street corner. All you had to do was stay for supper. But you couldn’t even make yourself do that, could you? Too busy making up to that rich American.”

“Kitty! I wasn’t making up—”

But Kitty had already given vent to her feelings by slamming the door behind her.

Georgie took a deep breath, irritation warring with guilt. She might have stayed with Kitty. But Kitty hadn’t wanted her to stay. What was she meant to do, sit there while Sir Hugo fondled them both over the oysters and champagne?

Georgie hesitated a moment and then flung the door open. “Kitty? Kitty, don’t be like—ooph!”

Hands caught her shoulders, hard. She was pressed against a chest redolent of bay rum cologne. The scent rose around her, choking her.

Blindly, Georgie pushed back, just trying to get away, away—before the touch of hands on her arms lifted, and she heard a voice saying, with concern, “Miss Evans? Miss Evans?”

Georgie took an unsteady step back, holding out a hand to set distance between them. She drew in a deep breath, and then another. “Mr. Van Duyvil.”

Mr. Van Duyvil looked down at her concern. “I came here to beg your pardon, and now it seems I need to beg your pardon again. May I help—”

“No, it’s all right,” said Georgie shortly, evading the arm he offered her. “Did you want something?”

“Only to apologize for last night,” Mr. Van Duyvil said hastily. “But I didn’t mean to intrude on … that is—”

His eyes flicked to her legs in their tight breeches and then away again. Something about his obvious confusion made Georgie’s own cheeks warm, as though she weren’t accustomed to showing those same legs to many other men, every night. But that was from the safe distance of a stage.

Georgie crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s no matter. Didn’t your friend tell you there’s little modesty in the theater?”

But she retreated behind the dressing screen all the same.

“My friend,” said Mr. Van Duyvil’s voice from the other side of the screen, “told me a great many things. I am beginning to believe they were of little value.”

Stepping hastily into her dress, Georgie peeked between the panels of the screen. Mr. Van Duyvil was standing on the edge of the room, holding his high-crowned hat between his hands. “You can sit down if you like.”

“Er, thank you.” Tentatively, Mr. Van Duyvil seated himself on the one chair, in front of the dressing table, looking curiously at the pots and jars, the grease-stained cloths. He snuck a glance at the screen. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I only wanted to make my apologies for last night.”

He’d made his apologies for last night last night. Georgie wiggled out of her breeches beneath the added cover of her skirt. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“Haven’t I?” Mr. Van Duyvil turned a little on the stool, but he kept his face averted from the screen, doing his best to afford Georgie some measure of privacy. To the wall, he said, “You must understand, when Hugo suggested dinner, I never thought—”