Page 77 of The English Wife

“There is no need.” With an effort, Georgie opened her eyes, forcing them to focus on her husband, her husband, his blond hair still streaked with sunshine from their months at Newport. Bay returned to his place on the edge of the bed, taking her hands in his, and Georgie let him, let the solid warmth of his fingers warm hers.

The sun had been in her eyes. What had she seen, really? It seemed absurd to think she had seen her husband kissing another man. No, not her husband kissing another man, another man kissing her husband.

Had it been a kiss, even? Or just an embrace between friends? Friends did embrace.

“I came back for my bag.” The words were painful to speak, each word like a shard of glass on her tongue. “You were … with Carrie’s brother.”

Yes, he could say. We were discussing torts.

Or, We didn’t want to bore you with law school memories.

But he didn’t. Georgie felt Bay’s hands tighten on hers, too tight. His grip would have hurt if the pain hadn’t all been located elsewhere, in the hunted expression on his face. “Charlie was my closest friend. In law school—”

What happened in law school? The words were frozen on Georgie’s tongue. She couldn’t speak them. She wanted to shove the genie back in the bottle, to pretend she had never seen anything at all, to screw up her eyes and stick her fingers in her ears and chant, “Not listening!” as children did. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t speak, and she couldn’t look away.

Bay bowed his head over her hands, his voice barely audible. “Charlie was the reason I left when I did. I had thought, if I could get away. He wanted…”—a pause, in which the echo of the laughter and voices from downstairs sounded obscene, like a child’s laughter at a funeral—“more than friendship.”

Georgie realized she was holding her breath, waiting for Bay to say more, to say something to reassure her. But he didn’t.

Rustily, she asked, “And what did you want?”

“Not that.” Bay released her hands, staring at the wallpaper as though for inspiration. “I didn’t want … I didn’t want to spend my life ducking behind doors.”

No, no, no. Bay’s face swam in front of her, curiously out of focus. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. That wasn’t an answer. Or maybe it was, and it just wasn’t the answer she wanted.

She could hear Sir Hugo’s voice, a faraway buzz in her ear: They have what is known as a mariage blanc. A mariage blanc. A fancy term for a marriage of convenience, for a man who didn’t fancy women.

Yes, but they were French. And that wasn’t Bay, Bay who had married her in spite of everything, who had told her he couldn’t live without her, who had given her every indication of devotion, of tenderness.

Oh, yes. He was all tenderness. Especially in the marriage bed. Tenderness without passion, devotion without desire. They had tried. Goodness only knew, they had tried, in Paris with the chestnut trees blooming outside the window and the Parisian air whispering romance. Bay had no experience of marital relations; she knew that. He had told her so himself. The act of love was an art, not a birthright. It wasn’t surprising that their fumbling couplings had been more awkward than arousing. And Bay—Bay was so careful of her. Almost reluctant.

If Bay was tentative in his caresses, that was her past, her past coming between them. Bay was protecting her sensibilities.

Even now? Now that she had tried to show him, a hundred times over, that his embraces held no fear for her? How many times had she made a clumsy advance, only to have Bay gently stroke her cheek, kiss her forehead, close his arms around her in an embrace that was part affection, part deterrent?

He had married a woman without family, without recourse.

No. That wasn’t Bay. Georgie’s eyes ached with the strain of staring at her husband, at every line and crease of his face, the downward tilt of his mouth, the shadowed blue of his eyes, as if she might be able to see through the skin to the thoughts beneath.

She wasn’t being fair to him, to Bay. What had she seen, really?

Painfully, she pushed herself to a sitting position. “You didn’t ask him to … press his attentions on you.”

Don’t pretend you didn’t want this. Giles’s voice, a mocking echo.

Louder now, too loud, Georgie said, “It’s not your fault if someone presumes upon you.”

Unless the presuming had gone the other way.

“No, but—” Bay swallowed hard, the bed listing as he leaned closer to her, his face a picture of unhappiness. “I should have come with you back to the house. I should have seen you were ill.”

Georgie’s fingers groped for her husband’s. Somehow, if she could touch him, it would be all right. There was something about the physical presence of Bay, his touch, his smell, that soothed fears. “I’m not ill.”

Bay gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You’ve been pale for days now. And don’t tell me it was the lobster mousse.”

Georgie stared up at Bay, feeling herself falling back into the old patterns. If Bay looked guilty, it was because he had failed in his duty in her, leaving her to make her way to the house alone. That was all. So easy just to banter back, to let the familiarity of his voice, his manner, lull her into pretending nothing had happened. And what had? If anyone had kissed anyone, it had been Charlie kissing Bay.

Bay, she realized with a pang, had been far more generous with her than she with him. He had never once presumed to blame her for losing her virtue to Giles. How was this any different?