Page 65 of The English Wife

New York, 1899

January

There it was, the crack in the vase, the stain on the tablecloth, the topic that had been hanging over them both.

“And hiding in her own house?”

“A murderess,” said Mr. Burke, “returned to the scene of the crime to burn the evidence. She knows the house. She has a motive. It makes a compelling story. Wronged wife stabs husband and flees. The classic crime of passion.”

“Wronged wife?” It took Janie a moment to realize what Mr. Burke was talking about. “You don’t really think—”

“Mr. Newland cites your brother in his divorce petition. Alienation of affection.” Mr. Burke tipped back in his chair. “Amazing, isn’t it, the way a lawyer can manage to make even a love affair sound stale?”

“Bay and Anne? No.” Never mind that she had once wondered the same thing herself. It was one thing to harbor suspicions, another thing to trumpet them abroad in legal proceedings. Janie shook her glass, watching the bit of liquid at the bottom redistribute itself. “There must be some misunderstanding. I can’t imagine why Teddy would—”

“Teddy, is it?” Mr. Burke rose from his chair, crossing to the decanter. He paused next to her chair, looking at her assessingly. “I’d forgotten. You were engaged to him once.”

Janie made a quick gesture of negation. “Never engaged. Just … an understanding. Not even an understanding. More of a misunderstanding.” She would have lifted her hand to tuck a strand of hair away, but her glass appeared, oddly, to still be in it. She drained it and set it down, her voice rusty from the spirits. “Our mothers wanted the match. And Teddy … well, it’s very hard to say no to my mother.”

“He seems to have managed it.” Mr. Burke yanked the crystal stopper out of the decanter. “Otherwise you would be Mrs. Newland now.”

Not by choice. But it seemed foolish to say that. The lady protests too much, that was how the saying went. No one would believe it. No one would believe that plain Janie Van Duyvil might balk at handsome Teddy Newland, toast of the Union Club.

Mr. Burke splashed whisky into a glass. “You could probably get him back if you liked, slightly the worse for wear. Never mind that he’ll never appreciate you as he should. I’m sure you’ll have lovely blue-blooded children.”

Janie flung her hands in the air in frustration. “My blood isn’t any bluer than yours is! Probably less, for all I know. My ancestors were merchants, that was all. We sold silks and tea. Our blood isn’t blue. It isn’t even purple. And Teddy’s great-grandfather was a fur trader,” she added for good measure.

“Old Mr. Newland might have skinned his own otters with his bare hands, but his daughters wore silks and his grandsons sat on committees.” Mr. Burke set the decanter down gently on the rosewood table. “If you really think that doesn’t count for anything, you’re fooling yourself.”

“It didn’t protect my brother, did it?” The words choked in Janie’s throat. “Never mind. I didn’t mean to say that.”

Mr. Burke’s voice softened. “I am sorry, you know. About your brother.” He reached for the decanter. “Have another glass of whisky.”

Why not, after all? Janie held out her glass to be filled. “I just can’t believe Teddy would imply that Anne and Bay … it’s monstrous.”

Mr. Burke returned the decanter to its tray, leaning back against the table. “Is it? There’s no law prohibiting cousins marrying. It’s been done before. Quite frequently.”

Janie gulped down a substantial portion of the contents of her glass. “My mother would never have allowed it. Bay was … he was meant to make a far better match.”

“And instead he married an unknown Englishwoman,” said Mr. Burke softly.

“Yes.” Janie had never thought before that Annabelle might be a substitute for Anne.

Annabelle. Anne. Even the names sounded the same. They looked nothing alike. Annabelle had been small, slight, even, with dark hair and eyes, and a narrow, pointed chin, while Anne’s was a golden beauty, all classical features and bright colors, like a portrait newly painted. Like Mary, Queen of Scots, aware of her own charms, lips primmed in a self-satisfied smile that lasted through centuries and cracked paint. But there was something similar about Anne and Annabelle all the same, a way of taking on the world, a sense of secrets unspoken.

Mr. Burke set his glass down, holding out a hand to her. “Shall we examine the room in the other house—while you’re still capable of locomotion?”

The world quivered disconcertingly when Janie looked up at him. She felt as though she were on the deck of a ship, everything swaying slightly. “I’m not the least impaired.”

It might have sounded more convincing if the words hadn’t been slightly slurred.

“As you will,” said Mr. Burke, offering her his arm. It was a stronger arm than Janie had realized. Not the showy strength of Teddy, who bragged of his prowess on the tennis court, but a lean strength. Fencing? Janie wondered vaguely. Actors tended to do that sort of thing. Or perhaps hauling milk bottles. Either way, she was grateful for his aid. Her skirts were much heavier than usual and seemed inclined to tangle about her ankles.

Full dark had fallen, turning the gardens into something dark and sinister. Behind them, the lights of the library glowed dimly through the French doors, but the light only served to emphasize the darkness beyond. Down, down, down to the folly and the river.

Janie swayed slightly, Mr. Burke catching her around the waist. “All right?”

“All right. Just … everything looks different at night, doesn’t it? I’d forgotten how dark it gets here.” There was a moon, silvering the frost on the blasted grass, creating shadows in strange places.