Page 20 of The English Wife

It was surprisingly seductive to be allowed to speak of Annabelle. How had their conversation become so intimate? She had shared more with Mr. Van Duyvil in an hour than she had told Kitty in a year. It must be because he was a stranger, an American. She could use him as a Catholic would a confessor, murmuring one’s sins into the ear of a stranger.

Georgie cleared her throat, trying to get the huskiness out of her voice. With forced lightness, she said, “What’s the problem with your sister?”

Mr. Van Duyvil took her cue, saying, with an expression of mock distress, “There isn’t any. That’s the problem. She’s very correct.”

Georgie couldn’t help laughing. “And your cousin?”

Mr. Van Duyvil’s lips creased in a smile so indulgent it made Georgie feel almost jealous. “Is anything but correct. She tried to elope with an actor when she was seventeen. The family caught her and brought her back. She wasn’t repentant. She was furious.”

Seventeen. The same age Georgie had been when she had staged her own elopement of sorts. But she hadn’t run away with a man; she had run from one. “You sound like you admire her.”

Mr. Van Duyvil glanced through the thick panes of the window, a faraway expression in his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to be as strong as Anne.” His eyes came back to Georgie’s, rueful, resigned. “I wouldn’t know how to begin, though.”

“You could always elope with an actress.” She’d spoken without thinking. Hastily, Georgie said, “I didn’t mean … never mind.”

Mr. Van Duyvil politely ignored her confusion, pretending to consider the notion. “It’s not a terrible idea. At least it would stop my mother trying to marry me off to the daughters of her friends. Do you have an actress to recommend?”

Was he flirting? Georgie hoped not. Despite herself, she’d been enjoying their conversation. It would be disappointing to find Mr. Van Duyvil like the others, just angling for one thing.

Georgie shrugged. “I’d suggest Kitty, but she’s holding out for a title.”

“And what about you, Miss Evans?”

“Georgie.” In her topsy-turvy world, to be on first-name terms felt somehow safer than being a miss. It reminded her, as the bard would say, feelingly what she was. A survivor, outside the social pale. “I’m not looking for a prince—or a baronet.”

“What about a mere mister?”

Georgie stabbed her fork into her pie. “Not until man is made of some other matter than earth.”

Mr. Van Duyvil raised a brow. “Much Ado? It is Much Ado.”

“About something,” said Georgie. There were times when it was best to be blunt. “I’m not looking for a protector.”

“What are you looking for?”

A bit of peace. A place she could call her own.

Unbidden, the image came to her of Lacey Abbey; the broken cloisters laced about with thick summer growth, the heady scent of primroses and honeysuckle, the whisper of Queen Anne’s lace against the folds of her dress. In memory, those summers seemed to last forever, all the boredom and dissent leached away by longing. She wanted that back: the sunlight on the water, the lazy song of the birds, the blackberries ripe on the branch. She wanted Lacey Abbey as it had been and could never be to her again.

“Another drink,” said Georgie and twisted to catch Bert the barman’s eye. “Now. Tell me more about your cousin Anne and her actor…”

New York, 1899

January

“Extra!”

“Mind how you go, lady!”

“Boy! Hey, you! Get out of the street!” The streetcar driver rang his bell, scattering a ragged band of newsboys as it clanged by on its tracks.

Janie’s nose tingled with the smell of burned pretzel, roasting chestnuts, and the inevitable presence of horse manure, faint now in the stinging cold. It was a familiar backdrop to the less familiar scents of ink and paper, the shouts of the newsboys, the clamor of traffic, the rumble of wheels and printing presses buried in basements beneath the headquarters of The Tribune, The Sun, The Journal, The Times, The World, each racing the other to produce the biggest headline, the most sensational story.

Right now, Bay’s and Annabelle’s deaths were that story. Janie could see it shouting out from the sandwich boards, above the fold on the papers being parceled out to the newsies.

WHERE IS ANNABELLE VAN DUYVIL?

MURDERED SOCIALITE’S BODY STILL MISSING