Page 6 of The English Wife

“I’ll dispose of this,” said Janie, and was aware of just how much she sounded like her mother. A movement by the door caught her eye. A man, behind Katie, in the narrow passage between the scullery and the street. Sharply, she said, “And who might this be?”

Katie cast an agitated glance at Mrs. O’Malley. “It’s … my cousin. Jimmy.”

The man unfolded himself from the wall, stepping into the light, the gas lamp casting a reddish glow against his black hair, setting shadows beneath his cheekbones.

He held his cap in one hand; the other hand he extended to Janie. “My condolences for your loss, Miss Van Duyvil.”

Janie kept her own hands pressed close to her sides. “This is not a time to be receiving callers—even cousins.”

If he was one. The ink on his fingers said otherwise.

The byline on the article in Janie’s hands read James. James Burke.

James Burke. The name sounded oddly familiar, as though she had heard it before. On the pages of a newssheet? The family didn’t read those sorts of papers, but it was hard to ignore them entirely, plastered as they were across the city.

Janie pressed her eyes shut, seeing the glare of the gaslight against the inside of her lids. “It would be a great deal less painful if people would respect that loss.”

The interloper met her eyes, unabashed. “Surely, truth should be a consolation to the family, Miss Van Duyvil.”

“Do you call this truth … Mr. Burke?”

He didn’t deny the charge. Instead, he inclined his head in something that was almost, but not quite, a bow. “Truth comes in all forms, Miss Van Duyvil.”

On his tongue, the use of her name sounded impossibly intimate. “But seldom in The News of the World. I take it that you are the person responsible for perpetrating this … nonsense?”

The man had the gall to widen his eyes in innocence. “We prefer to call it investigative reporting, Miss Van Duyvil.”

“I call it scandal-mongering, pure and simple.” Janie was too angry to be shy; all she could think of was Viola and Sebastian in their nightclothes, crying for their mother. They were too young to understand what was being said. But what of when they were older? It was easier to fling mud than to scour a reputation clean. “Making capital out of the suffering of innocent souls.”

Mr. Burke leaned one hand familiarly against the back of a chair. “And isn’t that the same way most of your friends on Fifth Avenue made their fortunes?”

“That’s not—” That was what he wanted, to keep her talking. She’d find her own words flung back at her in the press, twisted and distorted. Stiffly, Janie said, “This is a house of mourning. I would urge you and your colleagues to remember that.” To Katie, she added, “Mrs. Van Duyvil is waiting for her tea.”

Katie bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, ma’am.”

Janie kept her attention fixed on Katie, her voice prim. “I trust you will, in the future, restrict your family reunions to your half day. They have no place in this kitchen.”

She sounded like her mother. No. Worse. She sounded like a sour spinster, tyrannizing the staff to mask her own powerlessness.

Mr. Burke stepped forward, a knight errant in a shabby gray suit. “It’s not Katie’s fault.”

“In which case, it must be yours.” Janie turned her displeasure where it belonged. “This discussion is over, Mr. Burke. You are disrupting the household and keeping Katie from her duties.”

“And we mustn’t have that.” Mr. Burke’s eyes met hers, the gray-green of moss over stone. “Good day, Miss Van Duyvil.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Burke.”

His only reply was a tilt of his cap as the door closed behind him.

A hint of French perfume warred with the scent of burning crumpets. “Who was that?”

Janie turned hastily, blinking at Anne in the kitchen door. “No one. One of Katie’s cousins.”

Anne shrugged, already losing interest. She looked out of place in the domestic confines of the kitchen, her taffeta gown too rich, her blond hair too bright for workaday use. “Aunt Alva wants her tea sent to her rooms. Sometime this century.”

Mrs. O’Malley sprang into action, assembling a tray with more force than grace.

“You’re to go to her.” Anne waved one long, white hand at Janie. “When you’re done with your … reading.”