Page 60 of The English Wife

And if she had to put up with a few Carrie Rheinlanders and a dragon of a mother-in-law, well, that seemed a just price to pay for the prince and the palace.

Butterflies skimmed through the summer air, discomposed by the musicians already setting up their instruments, the servants carrying tables and lanterns. By the evening, the gardens rolling down towards the sea would be a fairyland. Now, they were just busy.

Light-footed, Georgie tripped along the lawn, past the formal parterres with their carefully shaped topiary, past the fountain where, tonight, Poseidon would shoot water from his spear, to the wilderness garden. She knew where Bay would be, away from the bustle, beneath the pergola that seemed to be peculiarly his own, screened with roses on three sides, with a view of the sea.

TWELVE

Newport, 1894

August

Georgie heard the voices before she saw them, first Bay’s, low and urgent. “You can still cry off.”

There was the sweep of a long skirt against the gravel as the wearer paced, turning with a flourish. Georgie drew closer, lifting her skirts so they wouldn’t betray her.

“The seamstresses are already embroidering the linens, Bay. Think what a waste it would be to have to unpick all of those monograms.”

“You don’t marry for linens, Anne.”

“Not just for linens, no … there’s also the silver and the china and those amusing little ornaments that fit in the corner cupboard. And the yacht and the house near Rhinebeck.”

Through the gaps between the vines, Georgie could just make out Anne’s face, her chin lifted to display all the fine lines of her face and neck, the pride of her carriage. She looked like a Burne-Jones princess, wrapped about with briars. They were beautiful, both of them, Anne and Bay, tall and golden.

Anne’s voice was husky and sweet as the scent of the flowers. “Is it so wrong to want something of my own, Bay?”

“But they’re not yours. They’re Teddy’s.”

“And Teddy will be mine. I find him rather handsome. Don’t you? It won’t be such hardship.” Anne’s voice softened, losing its arch edge. “Don’t fuss, dearest. I know what I’m doing. I can manage Teddy.”

“And if you can’t?” The pain in Bay’s voice woke an answering pain in Georgie. She bit her lip so hard she could taste the blood on her tongue. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to marry for appearances.”

“No?” Anne lifted a hand to Bay’s cheek in a casual gesture of possession. “You did.”

Georgie felt as though she were drowning, the water rising up around her mouth and nose. She couldn’t seem to breathe; her limbs felt heavy, too heavy to move. She blundered back a step, and then another, rose petals catching beneath her slippers, perfuming the air with their too-heady scent.

But he married me, Georgie wanted to cry out. Why would he marry an actress but for love?

Her skirt must have given her away, the hem heavy against the ground, because Anne looked up. Coolly, without hurrying, she took her hand from Bay’s cheek. “Oh, hello, Annabelle. Did you want us?”

Bay turned, too quickly. If he had been a moment slower, Georgie would have been spared the expression on his face. Emotion. Raw emotion of a sort that Georgie didn’t associate with her husband.

Georgie wanted to shake him, to demand to know what had just happened. But what had she seen, really? Just two cousins, talking. Talk, only talk.

She drew in a deep breath, grappling for composure. “I … Janie wanted me to remind you that we’re to meet for portraits before supper.”

“Oh, yes, the ball,” said Anne, and managed to make it sound like something impossibly gauche, a child’s plaything. She placed a hand on Bay’s arm, fleeting, caressing, a badge of ownership. “Proserpina, isn’t it? And Hades. How fortunate we are to have you bring the spring to us, cousin dear.”

Bay stepped too quickly forward, like a puppet handled by an inexpert master. “Is it time to dress? I didn’t hear the gong.”

“It hasn’t gone yet. I was just…” Eager to see you? It made her feel childish to say it.

“Indulging in an excess of caution?” Something about the way Anne said it, with a sideways smile at Bay, made Georgie want to take her corset tapes and pull them tighter and tighter until that satisfied smile faded from her face. “Very wise, cousin. Aunt Alva gets so cross when her plans are balked.”

Bay crossed in front of Anne, blocking her from Georgie’s view. Taking Georgie’s arm, he said, “Shall we go inside? You look rather flushed.”

“Have you had too much sun, Annabelle?” Anne’s parasol mushroomed open, elaborately bedecked. “You must take care, my dear. Bay would hate for you to overexert yourself.”

Anne managed to make everything she said sound like not a double, but a triple entendre. It was just Anne’s way, Georgie told herself. She couldn’t help it. It didn’t mean anything.