Page 75 of The English Wife

“Miss Van Duyvil. Genevieve—” he began, just as Janie said, too quickly, “It’s late. Shall I have Gerritt take you to the station?”

“I’d thought I might stay here tonight.” Mr. Burke glanced back at the old house, adding belatedly, “With your permission, of course.”

“Alone?” It was painfully still, the sort of stillness that made the hair on the back of Janie’s neck prickle. Still, but not quiet. The night was full of noises. Twigs cracking, leaves rustling, small animals burrowing in the underbrush, and, always, the river, singing on its course. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Mr. Burke raised a brow. “Are you offering to stay with me?”

The idea was strangely tempting. With dignity, Janie said, “I was merely concerned for your well-being.”

“Very kind, I’m sure. I’m better equipped than you are to deal with midnight intruders.”

“Do you think there will be?”

“Intruders? Likely not. But we’ll never know unless we try.”

She should argue with him, Janie knew. She had no right to allow anyone to spend the night, particularly a reporter. Instead, she found herself saying, “You might at least light a fire. You’ll freeze.”

“I’ve slept worse places.” Dropping the bravado, Mr. Burke said, “A fire would obviate the exercise. If our intruder sees someone here, he’s unlikely to appear.”

Janie blinked against the bite of the wind. “Do you know this from experience?”

“No,” said Mr. Burke drily, “from Sherlock Holmes. But the principle seems sound, don’t you agree?”

Janie found herself laughing, despite herself, a laugh that shook with shivers. Had it grown colder, or was it the whisky wearing away? Impulsively, she put out a hand to him. “Don’t freeze on my account.”

Mr. Burke looked down at her hand on his sleeve and then slowly covered it with his own. “Don’t worry. You can trust me to look out for my own interests. I’ve enough whisky to keep me warm.” A rueful smile twisted his lips. “I don’t envy you the head you’ll have in the morning.”

“And you won’t?”

“I’m a hardheaded Irishman, remember?” He lifted her hand briefly to his lips before releasing it. “Good night, Miss Van Duyvil. You needn’t worry that I’ll trespass on your hospitality. I’ll be gone before you wake.”

Janie’s hand tingled where his lips had touched. “Don’t be foolish,” she said stoutly. “You’ll come to the house for breakfast.”

For a moment, he seemed tempted. “I’ve an early train to catch. Too early to wake you. But I’ll leave you a note at the door before I go.”

“And I’ll leave you a basket,” said Janie decidedly. “Good night, Mr. Burke.”

“Miss Van Duyvil?”

Janie turned to see Mr. Burke still standing in the winter kitchen garden, his expression troubled. “Yes?”

“Sleep well.”

FIFTEEN

Tarrytown, 1894

October

“Annabelle? Annabelle.”

Georgie struggled out of the darkness with a sick feeling in her stomach and the sense that something was very wrong.

Stop calling me that, she wanted to say. I’m not. I’m not. Don’t you know who I am? But her tongue felt thick and fuzzy, and moving made her want to retch.

A voice she recognized now, low, a whisper. “Georgie!”

And then a horrible stench that made her cough and start, flailing against a soft surface that only billowed around her when she tried to push against it.