Page 29 of The English Wife

Mr. Van Duyvil cleared his throat and said, unevenly, “Would you believe me if I told you I found more to admire in a dark theater than a well-lit ballroom?”

It wasn’t what he had originally intended to say.

The leaves of the trees glittered through a fine haze of unshed tears as Georgie shook her head. “You might think that now, but you’d regret it by and by.”

The brim of his hat lent an extra intimacy as he bent towards her, as though it were only the two of them in that little spot of shadow. “There are many things I regret,” he said, “but meeting you isn’t one of them.”

Under the cover of the chattering crowds, his gloved hand found hers. Georgie could feel the shock of it, of his fingers twining with hers, such a small gesture, and yet so strangely intimate.

She should pull her hand away, she knew, say something frivolous, something silly, but the words tangled on her tongue and she found she could only stare up at him, naked and bare in her despair, all her emotions written on her face for anyone to see.

What a fool she had been, what a preening fool to imagine she could keep her heart in all diligence, that she was proof against love.

She’d fancied herself in love before. The memory of it left a sour taste in the back of her throat. She’d fallen into infatuation with a set of regimentals and a fine mustache; bragging tales of daring and a showy hand with a whip.

There was nothing the least bit showy about Mr. Van Duyvil, and that was just the danger of it. Slowly, insensibly, she had slipped into love with him, stroll by stroll, conversation by conversation, until she found herself sunk so deep she couldn’t muster the simple power to free her fingers from his. Georgie could feel all her hard-won pride crumbled into dust. The fact of it terrified her beyond measure.

Helplessly, Georgie said, “Mr. Van Duyvil—”

His fingers tightened briefly on hers. “It would give me great pleasure,” he said gravely, “if you could bring yourself to call me Bay.”

“Bay,” she echoed, and the very sound of it on her lips shamed her into sense. Turning her head away, she said rapidly, “And who’s your sister, then? River? Lake?”

“Janie.” With her hand still in his, even the simple statement of his sister’s name took on a strange intimacy, a door opened into his other life. “My mother wanted to remind the world that she had been a Bayard before marriage. My brother was Peter.”

“Was?” Georgie asked gruffly. She hadn’t meant to ask; it was only to encourage a connection that couldn’t be. But the word came out anyway.

“Fever.” They were both looking out at the riders, not at each other, but she could hear the knell of old loss in his voice. “Peter was four.”

“I’m sorry,” Georgie whispered.

“It was a very long time ago.” The conventional phrase hung between them. After a moment, Mr. Van Duyvil said with difficulty, “I can’t remember his face. I try—but it’s gone.”

How long before Bay forgot her face?

Gently, Georgie extricated her hand from Bay’s. This was madness; he’d go back to New York in a week, a month, and she’d be left alone with her memories. Better to have less to remember, only the impression of a well-cut suit and a tall hat and a shadow falling over the fence post.

“Memory’s a tricky thing.” She’d meant to leave it at that, but she heard herself saying, “I had a brother once. My twin.”

Mr. Van Duyvil stood next to her at the rail, his hand next to hers, not touching. Just there. “What happened?”

“He died when I was very small.” Her voice felt like someone else’s, strange on her lips. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to think of him. Her brother. No. Not hers. Annabelle’s. “Sometimes, if I try hard enough, I think I can hear his voice—but it’s not, really. It’s just the voice of any small boy.”

“And what should I do in Illyria? My brother, he is in Elysium,” Mr. Van Duyvil quoted meditatively. Twelfth Night as the Bard intended it, not the Ali Baba. As if to himself, he said, “But in the play, Viola does find a place in Illyria. She makes a new home for herself.”

“Posing as a man. Under an assumed identity,” said Georgie repressively. “That’s not much of a life, is it, always pretending? Besides, it’s just a story. Goodness, they do kick up a dust, don’t they?”

She was speaking too fast, making no sense, but it was better than letting Mr. Van Duyvil go on in that vein, wherever he was tending. What home could he offer her, but as his mistress? Georgie’s hands closed tightly over the rail. She couldn’t let him make that offer for fear she might say yes.

And she would regret it, she knew; they both would. She couldn’t—not even for him. The memory of the last man’s hands on her made her chest constrict, turned the bright sunshine into shade, made the thrumming of the horse’s hooves into the frantic beating of her own heart.

“How poorly some of them ride!” Georgie said, just to say something, to stop her own voice echoing in her ears. “Don’t you think? That man is about to lose his seat entirely.”

She pointed at random at a man posting with such vigor that he bounded up and down like a jack-in-the-box.

“That,” said Mr. Van Duyvil, “is Jock Rheinlander, pride of the New York Jockey Club. The woman with all the gold buttons is his wife, Carrie.”

But Georgie didn’t see Carrie Rheinlander. All she saw was the man riding a little bit behind her. The broad cheekbones. The Roman nose. The familiar profile burned against her eyes, etched there for all time like an emperor on an ancient coin.