Page 34 of The English Wife

“It might be easy,” said Janie’s mother in a rusty voice, “but there are legal proceedings to prevent such claims.”

“Libel?” said Anne. “That is the term, isn’t it? You must forgive my ignorance. It was my cousin who was the lawyer, not I.”

There it was again, that knell of grief beneath the bright words. Mr. Lacey didn’t seem to hear it, though. He clapped his hat on his head with unnecessary force, like a child balked of a treat.

“It’s not my fault that your son married an adventuress. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it is what it is.” Now that he wasn’t trying to be charming, there was an ugly cast to Mr. Lacey’s handsome face. He jabbed a finger at the silver-framed picture on the table. “That’s not Annabelle. Annabelle died seven years ago.”

Seven years before Mr. Lacey could claim Annabelle’s inheritance.

“My solicitors will have to be informed,” Mr. Lacey was saying as he retreated into the hall.

Janie’s mother replied with tight-lipped dignity, “I trust that your solicitors are the only people with whom you will discuss these absurd allegations.”

“Do you mean…? I would never go to the press.” But his eyes shifted as he said it. “My goal isn’t to cause you further pain, Mrs. Van Duyvil, only to, er, set the record right.”

And to claim Annabelle’s inheritance?

It was mad even to think it, but there it was. As they all filed into the chill of the hall, Janie looked at Mr. Lacey afresh. He might remind her of Teddy Newland, of Jock Rheinlander, of the men who raced their yachts in Newport in the summer and whose raucous laughter disturbed her mother’s musical evenings, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t capable of violence, or of strong action in furtherance of his own interests.

Just look at Teddy. Whatever one might think of Anne—and there were times Janie had thought some very uncharitable things indeed—Teddy’s threat of suit for divorce seemed an extreme remedy, like Henry VIII, lopping off the heads of his wives as the fancy took him. He had been a bluff sportsman, too, by all accounts, prone to taking what he wanted when he wanted it and coming up with justifications later.

They had only Mr. Lacey’s word for it that Lacey Abbey had been entailed, that it had come to him rather than Annabelle.

And if it hadn’t been … what might he do to claim it?

Katie came trotting in with Mr. Lacey’s coat and stick.

As Mr. Lacey shrugged into his coat, Janie’s mother said with dignity, “You must do what you feel fit, Mr. Lacey. But I would bid you recall that we are a house of mourning. And that you, sir, claim to be a gentleman.”

The fragility of those words struck Janie like a blow. All her life, her mother had been a force to be feared and reckoned with. And why? Because the power of her disapproval could close the doors of ballrooms, empty boxes at the Opera, turn good opinion into bad. Her directives carried the force of law.

But not now.

Not here.

Janie felt as the ancients must when they realized that their gods were mere idols, which, when smashed, turned to dust. Her mother stood in her own home, the seat of her power, surrounded by all the majesty of wealth and ancestry. And, for the first time, it wasn’t enough. Like an ancient god, her mother’s power was only as strong as the faith of her believers—and Mr. Lacey didn’t care about Van Duyvils or Bayards or whether Mrs. Astor refused to squeeze him into her famous ballroom.

Like Annabelle. Or the woman they had known as Annabelle.

Balked of a hand over which to bow, Mr. Lacey contented himself with a brief bow from the neck. “Mrs. Van Duyvil, Mrs. Newland, Miss Van Duyvil. My condolences for your loss.”

And he was gone in a blast of arctic air, his heels clicking against the stairs.

“He’s lying,” said Anne flatly as Katie wrestled the door closed.

Janie’s mother cast Anne a quelling look. “Remember yourself.”

It was the mantra of Janie’s childhood. Pas devant les domestiques, one of the few French phrases for which her mother had any use.

It felt strange to feel sorry for her mother; there was almost a hint of lèse-majesté about it. One wasn’t supposed to pity an absolute monarch. But her mother’s kingdom was crumbling about her, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put it back together again.

First Anne’s divorce, then Bay, and now this, this allegation about Annabelle.

Following her mother and cousin back into the drawing room, Janie felt as though she were returning to a stage after the scene had been played. That was what it had felt like, she realized. A scene from a play, staged and rehearsed. Only not all the actors had uttered the correct lines.

As she seated herself in her usual chair in the corner, her conviction grew. Mr. Lacey had insisted upon seeing that picture, had his speech about Georgiana Smith—was there even a Miss Smith?—down pat. Except when interrupted. He hadn’t expected the interruptions.

Anne drifted to the window, peering through the crack between the curtains. “He’s gone.”