Page 55 of The English Wife

“Didn’t she?”

Carrie pursed her lips in annoyance. “Does he look like he’s wasting away? Mrs. Van Duyvil told everyone that Bay was suffering from overwork and needed rest, but really, he and my brother, Charlie, were in the same class, and it didn’t sound to me like they opened a book. It was all boating parties and flirting with the Boston belles.”

There it was, thought Georgie, the real source of Carrie’s discontent. She pronounced Boston belles as though they were a form of plague, akin to showers of frogs.

“If you ask me,” Carrie said darkly, “it was all to do with Anne. Jock thinks Mrs. Van Duyvil must have found them together and sent Bay away.”

“Found them together?”

“In flagrante.” Carrie rolled the phrase on her tongue, savoring the scandal and her own moral superiority. “Bay never paid the least attention to any other woman when Anne was there. And don’t think Mrs. Van Duyvil didn’t notice. Don’t you find it the least bit suspect that Anne announces her engagement and Bayard appears with a brand-new bride? Jock and I dined with him in London in April, and he didn’t make the least mention of forming an attachment.”

Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name fanned herself languidly with a paper fan. “It was love at first sight, that was what Janie Van Duyvil told me. One look and they knew.”

“Oh, Janie. What would she know of it? She couldn’t even manage to bring Teddy up to scratch.” Carrie shook her head at the stupidity of people. “One can only wonder where he found her.”

“Janie?”

“No, the wife. The English wife.” Carrie made Georgie’s place of origin sound like a minor sort of crime, as though Georgie were the opening salvo in an attempt to bend the former colonies to Britain’s will. Or simply co-opt their eligible bachelors.

“Why, they met at the theater. Didn’t they? That’s what Mr. Van Duyvil told my husband. A friend introduced them. Sir Hugo Middleman?”

“Sir Hugo Medmenham?” Carrie’s eyebrows rose. Georgie froze in her spot beside the window, no longer the least bit amused by what she was overhearing.

“Do you know him, then?” said Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name in her slow drawl.

Carrie took her time answering, turning her parasol around in her hand, adjusting the angle. “A little. At least, we know of him.”

Sir Hugo wouldn’t follow them to New York, Bay had said. Perhaps he didn’t need to. There was an old saying about taint by association. Georgie wondered just what Carrie had heard.

After a moment, Carrie said, grudgingly, “It’s said that Sir Hugo is quite friendly with the Prince of Wales. He moves in the best circles.”

Only of the masculine variety. The Prince of Wales would befriend anyone who could offer him fast horses and loose women. Friendship with the Prince of Wales didn’t mean that the better drawing rooms of London were open to Sir Hugo. Carrie Rheinlander had no idea. And thank goodness for that.

Feeling a giddy surge of relief, Georgie stepped out into the sand, saying conversationally, “Were you speaking of Sir Hugo? We have an acquaintance in common, then.”

“Mrs. Van Duyvil! We didn’t see you there.” Carrie’s surprise seemed a bit exaggerated. More than a bit. Georgie could have kicked herself for her own foolishness. Naturally, Carrie Rheinlander would know exactly which was the Van Duyvil cabana. This was her native heath; she knew the territory. And exactly how to strike.

“No. I don’t expect you did,” said Georgie coolly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Carrie’s eyes narrow. “Did you have the opportunity to visit Sir Hugo at Medmenham Abbey while you were in England? It’s quite well known.”

Largely for its extensive collection of erotic statuary. The family home was primarily famed for being the seat of an eighteenth-century Hellfire Club, which Sir Hugo had done his best to revive, with some success. But Carrie Rheinlander and Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Was wouldn’t know that.

“Our visit was so short.” Carrie managed to give the impression that only time had prevented her from a lengthy stay. Georgie wondered how Carrie would react if confronted with a roué in a monk’s robe drinking claret out of a skull. She would probably want to know the provenance of the skull and if he had acquired it from the better sort of corpse. “We will see you at the Casino tomorrow, won’t we? Our little customs must seem so quaint to you, but we do pride ourselves on our archery tournament.”

“Not at all. I adore archery. There’s something so satisfying in watching the arrow strike the target, isn’t there?” A bit heavy-handed, perhaps. But subtlety was not an attribute at which Newport society appeared to excel. Standing on tiptoes, Georgie waved an embroidered handkerchief at her husband. “Bay, darling! There you are. If you’ll excuse us? I’ve been promised a dip in the ocean.”

“Mind the currents,” said Carrie, lifting her parasol over her head. “They can be dangerous for those who aren’t accustomed to them.”

ELEVEN

Cold Spring, 1899

January

A cold current of air snaked around Janie’s ankles, up beneath her skirt.

Downstairs, she could hear the old floorboards creaking as someone stepped inside.

Viola had heard it, too. Before Janie had time to say anything, the girl took off running, ruffled pantalets showing beneath her skirt, duck thumping behind her.