Page 38 of The English Wife

Georgie struggled to sit upright, losing Bay’s handkerchief in the folds of her skirt. The tears were still blurring her eyes; she could see a kaleidoscope of Bay’s, all spinning this way and that, blond and blurry. “Don’t be daft.”

“I mean it, Georgie.” Bay retrieved the handkerchief and handed it to her. Georgie received it in numb fingers. “Marry me. He can’t hurt you then.”

Georgie pushed back as far as she could in the chair, trying to keep herself detached, to stay away. Her hand clenched around Bay’s handkerchief. “You’re wasted on the modern age. You should have been at Arthur’s court.”

“It’s not chivalry.” Bay sat back on his knees, tilting his head back to look up at her. Georgie had to fight with herself not to lean forward, not to smooth the tousled hair back from his brow. “I’m being selfish, not noble. When I’m with you, the rest of the world falls away. New York can sink into the harbor, London can be swept into the Thames—none of it matters.” He grimaced. “I’m putting it very badly, aren’t I? I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to give you up. And there’s really only one way to make sure that I keep you with me.”

Marriage. For a moment, Georgie let herself be swept away by the dream of it, orange blossoms and old lace.

She pressed her eyes close together, feeling the sting of old tears, her throat scratchy and dry. “You’re a Van Duyvil. You can’t marry a chorus girl.”

“But you’re not really, are you?”

Georgie made a noise that was half-laugh, half-hiccup. “You’ve seen me onstage. In breeches. You know exactly what I am.”

“Yes, I do.” Gently, Bay took both her hands in his. “You don’t need to pretend with me, Annabelle.”

Pain began to throb in Georgie’s temples; her tongue felt thick and fuzzy. “Why did you call me that?”

Bay squeezed her hands tenderly. “You don’t need to pretend with me. I guessed your secret long ago. I’ve known almost from the beginning.”

“My secret.” Georgie could feel her pupils dilating, her eyes going black.

“You gave yourself away from the first time you said Annabelle Lacey,” explained Bay earnestly. “Every time you said the name, there was a catch, as though you needed to be reminded that she was meant to be someone else. And then there was your voice, your manner, the way you looked when you spoke of Lacey Abbey…”

“I told you”—Georgie felt as though she were choking on the sea of words, fighting her way up through an undertow—“I was Annabelle’s companion. I was raised with her.”

“Georgie! Don’t look like that.” Bay was chafing her wrists, concern in his blue eyes, eyes like a cloudless sky. How could he understand what she was, what she had done? “Do you really think I would unmask you? I didn’t say it to alarm you, only to let you know … well, that I know. That I’m in your corner.”

“I don’t—I can’t—I’m not Annabelle.” Her voice came out as a croak. Georgie didn’t blame Bay for looking skeptical. It wasn’t the most convincing negation. “Annabelle is gone. Don’t you understand? Annabelle is gone.”

Bay rose slowly to his feet, looking down at her. She had forgotten how tall he was; she had come to think of him as a mind, rather than a body. “Are you afraid your cousin will find you?”

“He’s not … I’m not … he is my cousin, yes, but—”

Only on the wrong side of the blanket.

The words wouldn’t come; she couldn’t choke them out.

Bay put a soothing hand on her shoulder. “He can’t do anything to you once you’ve married me.”

Georgie lurched away, laughing a laugh that had more than a touch of hysteria in it. “Is that your feudal Dutch ancestors speaking?”

Bay took a step back, looking at her with such tenderness and pity that Georgie wanted to rend her hair and scream. “It’s common sense. Whatever he may have done in the past, he won’t risk an incident with the wife of a wealthy foreigner. You’ll be Mrs. Bayard Van Duyvil, under the protection of the United States of America.”

“A whole country to protect me?” Her voice was harsh, mocking. She knew she was being ungracious, but the alternative was worse. “What do you get out of this? I’m damaged goods, however you look at it.”

“Not to me.” Bay stayed where he was, a full yard away, his hands hanging loose at his sides, but his look felt like a touch. “When you talk to me, I know you’re talking to me. You don’t look past me and see my mother or my name. You don’t giggle or simper or pretend to opinions you don’t have simply to please me.”

“Are you saying,” said Georgie, “that you like me because I insult you?”

Bay took a half step closer and caught himself, his hands clenching at his sides. “I like you because you’re you. Because you’re not afraid to say what you mean. Because there’s no pretense about you.”

“Oh, Bay.” Georgie choked on something that wasn’t quite a sigh and wasn’t quite a sob. “I’m nothing but pretense. I told you that when we met.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago, that horrible night on that miserably cold walk to the Criterion with Kitty simpering up at Sir Hugo and Bay a stranger beside her. It was incredible that there had been a time when she hadn’t known every shade of emotion on this man’s face, every timbre of his voice, when she couldn’t anticipate his words before her own.

“I think,” said Bay softly, “that you are the truest person I have ever met.”