Page 27 of The English Wife

Mr. Van Duyvil remembered altogether too much of what she’d told him. Or maybe it was her own fault for succumbing to the temptation of confiding in someone with whom she didn’t have to play a role, didn’t have to be on guard.

“The colonel died.” So quickly, without warning. He’d gone out for a day’s hunting and come home in the back of a wagon, his neck broken going over a fence he’d jumped a thousand times before. “When … when the colonel died, a cousin inherited the abbey.”

“Not Annabelle?” Mr. Van Duyvil’s voice was gentle, unobtrusive.

Georgie ran a finger over the jagged edges of the cut pages of the book, feeling the bite of the paper against her skin. She welcomed the pain; it brought her back to herself, grounded her. “Annabelle had her portion, but the house was entailed.”

Such generosity, everyone had agreed, Mr. Lacey letting his bereaved cousin stay on in her childhood home. Chaperoned, of course, by her companion, Miss Smith. As if the presence of an extra woman in the household was an assurance of propriety.

“Was that why you left?”

Georgie pressed her lips tightly together. “Let’s just say that you have a home to go back to. I don’t.”

“There are homes and homes.” Mr. Van Duyvil traced the rim of his cup with a finger. “My mother has an idea of the man she wants me to be. I’m to marry a Van Rensselaer or a Livingston, occupy the family box at the Opera, and begin work on a suitable cottage at Newport. In time, I’ll have a son who’ll do the same. And so it goes.”

“What’s so dreadful about that?” Feeling churlish, Georgie lightened her tone. “I’ve not met any Van What’s-Its or Livingstons, so I defer to your judgment in the matter.”

“The system has its benefits, I suppose. Money. Security.” Mr. Van Duyvil moved restlessly in his seat, making an abortive gesture with one hand. “One finds one’s escape where one can. My father collected early editions of plays and poetry. It was an eccentricity that could be tolerated, provided he confined his spoils to a glass case in an appropriate room and never allowed it to interfere with the performance of his social obligations.”

Georgie was taken aback by the edge of bitterness in his voice. “What’s your indulgence, then?”

Mr. Van Duyvil paused a moment, thinking. His eyes lifted to her face. Slowly, he said, “Would you believe me if I said you?”

Exhilaration warred with alarm. They were friends; she’d no desire for him to make love to her. Why, then, were her hands tingling, her cheeks burning?

Georgie gripped her hands together in her lap. “I don’t believe I would enjoy being confined to a glass case in an appropriate room. It seems rather limiting.”

Mr. Van Duyvil cast her a long, considering look. “You’ve already broken out of one, haven’t you?” Before she could answer, he said, “If you’re not averse … I have a proposition for you.”

Disappointment came crashing down on her. She ought to have known it would happen sooner or later. It was just that it was later that made it harder. She might have snubbed him with impunity a month ago, but she’d grown accustomed to his face, his company. “What sort of proposition?”

“Would you come to a play with me?” When she didn’t answer, Mr. Van Duyvil said, with a fine air of self-deprecation, “I know it’s a bit of a busman’s holiday for you, but I’ve been wanting to see Lady Windermere’s Fan, and I don’t like to go alone.”

London, 1894

May

They saw Lady Windermere’s Fan and Arms and the Man, Georgie’s only requirement being that there be no song and dance.

Georgie felt decidedly odd on the other side of the looking glass, sitting in the audience, dressed in her best, on the arm of a man in evening attire. There were no impediments, now, to her accompanying Mr. Van Duyvil to the theater in the evening or for a walk in the park in the afternoon; Eleven and One Nights had closed, had closed with no promise of a sequel. The doors of the Ali Baba were locked and barred. After three weeks, the building already had a look of abandonment about it. The rumor was that it was to be razed, the leasehold sold for a block of flats.

In Hyde Park, the trees were brilliant with new leaves, and the grass along the Serpentine was dotted with daisies. Coats were unbuttoned; heavy wools abandoned for lighter fabrics. Children raced ahead of their nannies, rolling hoops and chasing balls, tossing wads of bread to the ducks, who raised their bills from the water. The world had been reborn, and everyone was frolicking.

Except for Georgie, who felt as though she had brought winter’s pall with her, wrapped around her like a cloak.

“Did the audition go well?” Mr. Van Duyvil bent his head to hers as they walked through the arch at Hyde Park Corner, navigating their way through other pedestrians and the steady stream of equestrians bound for Rotten Row.

Georgie ducked her head, letting the brim of her unfashionable hat shield her face. “The less said about it, the better.”

“That bad?”

To their left, a wild-haired man in a dirty cravat harangued a largely uninterested audience. He might be roaring about anything: workers’ rights, the price of coal, the oncoming apocalypse. But it was spring, and no one was disposed to feel indignant, not with the breeze bringing the scent of new grass and the sun warm on their shoulders.

Georgie blinked back sudden tears. “Worse,” she said gruffly. And it had been worse, so much worse. She’d worn some scanty costumes in her time, yes, but she’d not yet been reduced to dancing in her shimmy.

Yet.

Mr. Van Duyvil gently squeezed her elbow. “Something will come along.”