Page 79 of The English Wife

“I don’t want to go to Florida.” It came out sounding petulant, but wasn’t she entitled to be petulant? She was increasing, which, apparently, rendered her unfit for everything, including eating. She might at least get some benefit out of it. “It will just be all the same rules in Florida. And no ham.”

Bay made a sympathetic face. “When we have our own house…” he began.

“You have four houses,” Georgie said crossly. “None of which you occupy.”

“Yes, but the Florida house is let, and the Newport house is really more my mother’s—” Bay broke off, a strange expression crossing his face.

“Bay?” Georgie waved a hand. “I’m supposed to be the one in a strange state, not you.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before,” said Bay, looking like a little boy who had just found a toy under his pillow.

“Newport?” said Georgie dubiously. The place had felt like a marble mausoleum in the summer; she couldn’t imagine how grim it would be in the winter.

“No, not Newport. Duyvil’s Kill!” He grinned at her with such unfettered delight that Georgie couldn’t help grinning back, even if she felt there must be something quite wrong with a house with death in the name. “She’ll never follow us there. Of course, this isn’t really the time of year for it—but my grandparents lived there year round and didn’t mind the snow. It is somewhat isolated.”

“Bay, I was raised in the country. I’m not afraid of a few trees.” Georgie felt a surge of optimism. Isolated meant Mrs. Van Duyvil wouldn’t be there to tell her to stay in bed, or to tell the cook what she couldn’t eat, or to inform her that her corset wasn’t laced tightly enough, or to ask her to retire from the drawing room because heaven forbid anyone see what they already knew, that there was a perfectly legitimate child making a bump beneath her dress. “Didn’t Dr. Greeley say I might benefit from country air?”

The mention of Dr. Greeley had been a mistake. Bay’s smile faded. “I didn’t think. What if you need a physician?”

“I wouldn’t trust Dr. Greeley to deliver kittens,” said Georgie bluntly. “Is there a midwife near this house of yours?”

Bay looked doubtful, but he said, “There is Mrs. Gerritt. She’s housekeeper now—such as it is—but she was my nurse when I was very young.”

“Only when you were very young?”

Bay cast her a sheepish glance. “She didn’t get along with my mother.”

“Well, then,” said Georgie. There couldn’t be any better recommendation than that. “Can’t you send someone to her and tell her to open the house? Nothing elaborate. We won’t be entertaining. We’ll just need rooms made up for us. And a nursery.”

Bay’s eyes met hers, and she knew she had him.

The notion of going elsewhere, being by themselves again, felt like the promise of rain after a drought. No coughing in the ever-present coal smoke, no being shooed back indoors lest someone get a glimpse of the younger Mrs. Van Duyvil’s expanding stomach, no endless list of dos and don’ts.

And no worries about what Bay might be doing without her.

Despite their comfort together, despite Bay’s obvious joy over their child, there were nights when Georgie would sit on that thrice-blasted chaise longue and the clock would chime midnight and she would wonder if there was a Charlie Ogden at the ball, drawing Bay away to a library or a disused anteroom. She believed Bay when he said he didn’t want Charlie’s attentions, she did. And she knew—because Bay had told her, offhandedly, as if it were just another piece of society gossip—that Charlie was spending the season in the nation’s capital, tied up with a case that was to be heard before the Supreme Court, although what the case was, Bay didn’t say and Georgie didn’t ask.

She didn’t want to talk about Charlie or think about Charlie, but sometimes Charlie wandered into her mind all the same, Charlie and Sir Hugo. And it was those times that she heard Annabelle’s voice in her head, Annabelle mocking as only she could mock. “Really, Georgie, why did you think he would marry you if not for that?”

But never when Bay was with her, as they were now.

“Just think of it,” said Georgie coaxingly. “No coal smoke. No omnibuses.”

Bay leaned his head against the back of his chair. “No balls or receptions or endless nights at the Opera.”

Georgie was briefly diverted. “I thought you liked music.”

Bay stifled a yawn. He had had another late night with his mother and sister, another night when Georgie paced their room alone, listening to the carriage wheels beneath the window. “Does anyone go to the Opera to listen to the music? My mother never arrives until the middle of the first act, and we generally leave before the second.” He turned his head sideways. “There’s a pianoforte at Duyvil’s Kill.”

Georgie could feel the smile starting to curve her lips. “Is that a proposition?”

“Call it a proposal. Or perhaps an invitation.” Rising, Bay went down on one knee before the chaise. “Mrs. Van Duyvil, may I persuade you to elope with me to Duyvil’s Kill?”

“Can you elope if you’re already married?” asked Georgie, and then, “We really must think of a better name.”

Bay grinned at her, his face alight, and Georgie wondered if he had been chafing at his mother’s regime as much as she.

“Illyria, then. Come along, Cesario. We’ll break the news to my mother.”