Page 68 of The English Wife

Picnics in the Tuileries Garden, mornings, days, nights together, uninterrupted. “Sometimes.” There were days when she wished she could turn the clock back, be again in their suite in the Meurice. But was that only memory? Hadn’t there been a snake in the garden there, too? And Anne would be in Paris now. Georgie looked at the hills, at the glimmer of the river. “It is beautiful here.”

Bay glanced sideways at her. “Sometimes I forget that you were raised in the country. I should take you to Duyvil’s Kill.”

“Duyvil’s what?”

“Our house on the Hudson.” Bay grinned, looking like himself again. “Kill is the Dutch word for river, that’s all. Peekskill, Fishkill, Miller’s Kill…”

“Duyvil’s Kill.” Georgie tried the name on her tongue and grimaced. “Have you ever thought of changing it to something more euphonious?”

“Bellomont? The Knoll?” Bay looked down at her, his expression tender, his voice softening. “Illyria?”

Even now, even with her stomach churning, even with the gossiping world feasting on their reputations in the dining room of the Knoll, when Bay looked at her like that, Georgie felt herself melting, like wax in the sun. “Are you picturing yourself as Orsino?” she mocked. “Just don’t go pining after any Olivias.”

“How could I with my Viola here before me?” They paused at an elaborate belvedere, a viewing point for the river below. One crimson leaf had been missed by the vigilant gardeners; it rested, ruby red, on the pale, fluted stone. “I’ll never forget that first time I saw you staggering from the sea, still clinging to a broken spar…”

“Singing off-key,” Georgie provided for him.

Bay touched a finger to her cheek. “You sang like a siren. It was the orchestra that was off-key.”

Georgie set her reticule down on the broad marble rail. “Drunk, most of them. It was the only way they could get through the show again and again.”

“I stayed sober.”

Georgie slid her arms around his waist, feeling her stomach settle at the contact, the warmth of him, the peace. “You’re something out of the ordinary.” She rested her cheek against his waistcoat, bruising the petals of the flower in his buttonhole. “Your strength is as the strength of ten.”

“Because my heart is pure?” Bay rested his cheek against her hair. Georgie could feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers, hear the steady rhythm of his breath as the leaves rustled gently around them and the water whispered on its course below. Haltingly, he said, “I’m no Galahad, Georgie.”

Georgie tilted her head and smiled up at him, even though her stomach protested the motion. “I should hope not,” she said cheerfully. “He always struck me as a cheerless sort. All that time crusading for a cup. And not even anything at the bottom of it.”

“Hush,” said Bay, but he was laughing. “Philistine.”

“Pragmatist,” Georgie corrected. “Someone has to be.”

“Perhaps.” Bay tucked a strand of hair into her chignon, his fingers grazing the opal earrings that had been one of his first gifts to her. “What’s your grail, Georgie?”

A pint of gin, she almost said. But he would know that for a lie in a moment. Bay? True and not. People changed, people left you. People might not be what they seemed. She leaned against her husband, looking out at the river.

One last go, Georgie? For a moment, it seemed that she could see Annabelle, lifting a hand imperiously to her. And then the sun winked on the water and she was gone.

A place of peace, that was what she wanted. Someplace that was really and truly hers.

“Right now? A cup of weak tea and a biscuit.”

Bay examined her face with concern. “You are looking a bit rough. I’m sure Mrs. Newland could find you a bed. Or at least a divan.”

“To loll on like an odalisque?”

“That would certainly enliven the proceedings.” A new voice spoke from behind them, clipped and caustic.

Georgie turned to see one of the groomsmen approaching them. He doffed his tall hat to her. “Forgive me. I seem to be intruding.”

“Charlie.” Bay drew into himself in, like a snail hiding in its shell. With practiced courtesy, he said, “Annabelle, may I introduce my old comrade-in-arms, Charles Ogden?”

The name struck a bell. Carrie Rheinlander’s brother. The resemblance was faint, but it was there, in the sharp features, not unhandsome, but with a fox-like shrewdness that put her on her guard. Great friends, Janie had called them, but there was a chill in the air between them; Georgie could feel it in Bay’s withdrawal and Mr. Ogden’s watchful gaze.

“Comrade-in-arms?” said Georgie, holding out a hand to Mr. Ogden. “Were you in the wars together, then?”

“The supposition is not entirely inaccurate,” said Mr. Ogden, bowing over her hand. “We were at the law school at Harvard together.”