Page 54 of The English Wife

“For us it is.” The skin around Bay’s eyes crinkled. “Only with more seaweed.”

“Van Duyvil!” An elderly man whose side-whiskers appeared to be attempting to eat his chin waved imperiously to Bay. “A moment of your time?”

“It’s that miserable golf club,” said Bay under his breath. “I wish I’d never agreed to join.”

“Hadn’t you better talk to him before he shouts the club down?”

Bay fished a key out of his pocket. “Our cabana is three down to the left. You’ll be all right on your own?”

Georgie rolled her eyes. “I’m hardly likely to be eaten by a sea serpent, am I?”

“It’s the jellyfish I was thinking of,” said Bay, his eyes on a gaggle of women in heavy black bathing costumes. “They leave a powerful sting.”

“Only if one cares enough to feel it,” said Georgie. “Don’t fuss, darling.”

The darling was for the benefit of the jellyfish, who were watching from beneath their parasols. Georgie’s advent in Newport society had caused considerable thrashing of tails. Did jellyfish have tails? Or was it tentacles? She wasn’t sure, but either way, she found them more amusing than intimidating. After so many years of living in fear, scrabbling for her bread, the relief of being a continent away from Giles, the luxury of having her breakfast brought to her on a tray, the comfort of knowing that there was someone who had pledged his hand and honor to hers felt like drawing a deep breath after years of tight lacing.

Let the jellyfish expend their poison to no purpose. She couldn’t blame them envying her her husband. Looking at Bay now, his golden head shining in the sun, head and shoulders taller than the other men, she could only marvel at her amazing luck. Not because he was a Van Duyvil or because he was rich, but because he was Bay.

There had been a time when Georgie had felt the same way about Annabelle: one of life’s golden children, fortune’s favorite, so sure that nothing could touch her. Until the colonel’s death had torn away the safe foundation of Annabelle’s life, leaving her powerless in the face of the Abbey’s new owner: Giles. It could all go so quickly, everything lost in a moment.

Georgie felt a frisson of superstitious fear. Those whom the gods love …

But then the sun went behind a cloud and he was Bay again, just Bay, who liked his coffee with three spoons of sugar and couldn’t abide marmalade on his toast.

And, really, having to live one’s life surrounded by liveried servants in bilious colors was more penance than gift.

Mr. Havemayer was becoming agitated. “Van Duyvil!”

Bay cast Georgie a look of mock appeal. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”

“Always.” It was simple truth beneath the mocking words. She did need him. She couldn’t imagine life without him. And that terrified her more than she could say. “Go on. I can manage to get out of my clothes without your assistance. This once.”

“Baggage.” Bay leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek, but Georgie turned her head and the kiss fell on her lips instead. His lips lingered on hers; his finger lightly touched her cheek. “I won’t be long.”

Georgie waggled her fingers at him as he jogged up to the clubhouse.

She’d told him she didn’t mind being on her own, but it wasn’t entirely true. She felt odd picking her way alone to the correct cabana, knowing herself the censure of all eyes. It was one thing to be brave with Bay standing golden beside her, another to be fitting her key in a lock and hoping that she wasn’t committing barratry. The key turned, and she found herself in a simple building with two dressing rooms—one on each side—and a makeshift sitting room in the middle, crammed with beach chairs and other detritus of the summer season.

A bathing dress had been left for her, Bay had told her, and so it was. It was an odd contrast, the simple building and the ubiquitous presence of servants, the silver brush, comb, and mirror waiting for her in the dressing room. As she brushed out her hair and put it up again beneath a deep bonnet suitable for bathing, Georgie felt like Marie Antoinette playing shepherdess at the Trianon.

Perhaps she should be grateful they didn’t bathe in cloth of gold? The bathing costume that had been acquired for her was of black wool, a full skirt over bloomers, as surprisingly plain and practical as the cabana.

And yet tonight, Georgie knew, these same people who bathed in their narrow patch of beach in black wool dusted with sand would put on their silks and jewels, climb into carriages attended by liveried retainers, and dine in marble halls. It was all very odd.

She was dressed, and there was still no sound of Bay.

She could, however, hear the click of the door of the neighboring cabana and a high-pitched voice complaining, “Even for newlyweds, it’s a bit much.”

Georgie recognized the voice as Carrie Rheinlander’s. Carrie had fallen over herself in organizing a Venetian breakfast to welcome Georgie to Newport, largely, Georgie suspected, in an attempt to gain as much ammunition as possible. Georgie slipped over to the window, from which she had a view of two profiles beneath two very large hats.

“I think it’s sweet.” The second woman was also familiar, one of Carrie’s satellites, a wealthy industrialist’s Southern wife, so genteel that Georgie could only hope she was covering up a far less genteel past. It would be nice not to be the only one of dubious origin.

“Don’t be naïve.” Carrie’s voice was sharp. Her acolytes were expected to echo, not argue. “You weren’t here last summer, were you? They kept it quiet.”

“Kept what quiet?” Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name’s accent was so thick it made Georgie yearn for Kitty’s London twang.

“Bayard’s fall from grace, of course,” said Carrie impatiently. “Not that anyone admitted it. They gave it out that Mrs. Van Duyvil sent Bay to Europe for his health.”