Page 32 of The English Wife

“Oh, Annabelle didn’t mind,” said Mr. Lacey hastily, his eyes drinking in the length of Anne’s body. “She was mad to see the world. I think it was George. She left because of George.”

“George?” said Janie, before anyone else could say anything.

Mr. Lacey didn’t even look at her as he answered, his smile all for Anne. “Her brother. Her twin.”

Anne shifted, lifting pale fingers to the brooch she wore at her breast, ebony, with a lock of fair hair encased in crystal. “This is a day of surprises, Mr. Lacey. We’d thought Annabelle quite alone in the world. And now here you are … and a brother as well.”

“Not anymore,” corrected Mr. Lacey quickly. “George died when he was just a boy—otherwise the abbey would have been his, not mine, eh?”

No one else found this funny.

Mr. Lacey tugged at his cravat with his fingers. “She’d always said, Annabelle, that if George were alive, he’d have, er, done great things. Traveled and all that. So she was going to do it for him.”

“A woman?” said Mrs. Van Duyvil, looking at Mr. Lacey as though he’d sprouted a second head.

“Women have been known to travel, Auntie,” pointed out Anne. “Sometimes even all the way to Saratoga Springs.”

“Well, that was Annabelle.” Mr. Lacey let out his breath in a rush. “Never did know what was good for her.”

His words seeped into the air like smoke, grating and unpleasant.

Mrs. Van Duyvil’s nostrils flared as though she had smelled something unpleasant. “Apparently not.”

Janie felt a rush of affection for her mother. Her mother might not have loved Annabelle in life, but she would be her defender in this, at least. And she did know how to crush fools.

Mr. Lacey’s face reddened. “I didn’t mean … I had the, er, greatest esteem for Annabelle. She was a cracking girl.”

As an epitaph, it left something to be desired.

Janie’s mother rose from her chair, regal in black silk and jet. “Thank you for your words of condolence, Mr. Lacey. You are so kind to share with us your memories of your cousin.”

Mr. Lacey had no choice but to rise to his feet as well. “Gladly. Er, I mean—that is, with a very heavy heart. I’d heard—unless I was mistaken—I’d heard that there were children?”

“The children”—Janie noticed how her mother carefully avoided saying their names—“are in the country. The air is clearer there.”

“Yes, of course. Wouldn’t want to take a child to town.” Mr. Lacey hovered at the drawing room door, shifting from one foot to the other. “I feel a fool, but … if I might ask a small indulgence—”

“Yes?” Janie’s mother uttered the syllable in clipped tones. Mr. Lacey might possess an estate in England, but he had been judged and found wanting.

Mr. Lacey was discomfited, but not deterred. “My cousin—Annabelle—she was very, er, dear to me once. I would like—” Mr. Lacey’s Adam’s apple moved up and down beneath his collar. “I would like to see her face again.”

Janie had never seen her mother look so stern, so much like a statue of Justice. All she wanted were the scales in her hand. “You are aware, Mr. Lacey,” Mrs. Van Duyvil said, in words that cut like ice, “that your cousin’s body has not been recovered.”

Mr. Lacey took an involuntary step back. “I didn’t mean … that is—” He was sweating, sweating in the chill of the room, the sweat beading on his forehead, and Janie wondered what it was that made him pale so. “All I wanted was a picture. A remembrance. It has been so very long since I saw my cousin’s face…”

Janie’s mother moved, her petticoat making a sound like ice cracking. “Then why didn’t you say so, Mr. Lacey? Here.”

She took a silver-framed photograph from the table in the corner of the room. It had been taken at Newport, several summers before. A costume ball, to celebrate Bay’s marriage.

Mr. Lacey took the picture from Janie’s mother, his brows drawing together as he lifted it closer. Janie couldn’t blame him for squinting. Annabelle’s features were blurred, her face partly obscured by the garlands and garlands of flowers that had been woven into her elaborately curled hair. It was a much better picture of Janie’s mother, dressed as Ceres, the Mother of All, golden sheaves of wheat in her hands, specially designed diamond brooches in the shape of corn adorning the bodice of her dress. She stood behind the couple, elevated on a slight platform, lending countenance to the match of Proserpina and Hades.

Janie had always thought it was rather poor form to cast one’s own son as Hades, but there was no denying that the black hose and silver-embroidered doublet had suited Bay very well. Annabelle’s features were blurred, but Bay’s weren’t. He was looking down at his bride with an expression of affection and wonder that made Janie feel as though she were spying on something she shouldn’t.

Mr. Lacey did not appear to be experiencing similar sentiments. “There’s been a mistake,” he said, thrusting the picture away from him. “That’s not Annabelle.”

Mrs. Van Duyvil’s fingers closed around the frame. “Annabelle,” she said, in the sort of tones one might use with the very slow, “is the one in front. With her husband. My son.”

The last two words echoed in Janie’s ears, resonant with unexpressed grief.