Page 83 of The English Wife

“So we know what to do with them, Miss Impertinence,” snapped back Mary Fran. “Now you mind Miss.”

“Thank you.” Janie took a deep breath. “Now the table is set, you may take your seats. Place your napkins on your laps.”

Tuesday was etiquette, a chance to instruct on the setting of a table, table manners, and, incidentally, to provide a meal to women too proud to admit they might need one. All the women paid their own way: Tilda, at twelve, supported an indisposed mother, two younger siblings, and a perpetually out-of-work stepfather. These stolen afternoons at the Girls’ Club were their chance at betterment, their one moment to themselves, and Janie tried to make them worth their while.

But today she couldn’t quite get her mind to focus. Half a dozen times, she had set out purposefully for the streetcar. Half a dozen times, she had turned back, the hot phrases dying on her lips. What was she to say to him? Did you elope with my cousin? Have you been lying to me? Why ask when she knew the answer would be yes?

Unless it wasn’t. Or it was, but there was an excuse.

More acting. More lying. Janie could feel her muscles bunched tight in her back, all of her strained to the breaking point. Who could she talk to? There was no one. The only person who knew she had been meeting with Burke was Burke. She was ashamed, so terribly ashamed, of how badly she wanted to be convinced that she was wrong, that her mother was mistaken, that Anne was lying, that it had all been a misunderstanding, that there was another actor named Burke, that everything had occurred exactly as she had believed, that she had sought him out, not the other way around, that they were a team, partners.

Except they never had been, had they? He hadn’t lied to her about that. She’d known Burke was using her, using her for a story, but that had been all right. That had been a use that she understood. Something that might be tempered, possibly, by … call it friendship. Or even fondness. Revenge was another matter entirely, something wild and unpredictable.

What was it he had said to her back in the darkened house? If you can say that, Miss Van Duyvil, you’ve never been in love.

Had he loved Anne like that? Loved her to distraction, to madness?

She didn’t want to know. She didn’t.

Except she did.

When Janie caught herself biting her fingernails as she hadn’t since her mother had had her nails painted with iodine, she had set her spine and announced she was going back to the Girls’ Club to resume her classes. The resulting hue and cry was almost a relief. Her mother’s anger, Anne’s amusement, all afforded her occupation for her mind, a vent for her emotions. Her mother’s grudging, “Do what you like, then. You are of age,” had felt like a major triumph.

Until she found the note from Burke waiting for her at the club. Where are you? Has something happened? And it all came rushing back again, tenfold, the hurt and confusion and anger and doubt.

She had been right to come back to the Girls’ Club, Janie knew that, but she was far too aware of the golden globe of the World Building looming a mere block away. And beneath it, Mr. Burke.

There was a rap at the door, and Maisie stuck her head through. “Miss Van Duyvil? There’s a gentleman to see you.”

“A gentleman?” Janie had been about to serve the soup, which slopped onto the damask tablecloth. She gave a small cry of distress. Tilda jumped forward with a napkin. “What gentleman?”

“A Mr. Burke.” When Janie hesitated, Maisie added, “He was very insistent. Would you like me to tell him to go?”

Behind Maisie, Janie could see the shadow of a man in a dark coat. And so could all the women in the room, all of whom were looking with interest at the newcomer.

“Here.” Janie thrust the ladle at Mary Fran. “Would you mind filling the bowls? I won’t be a moment.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yes, miss!”

“Not at all!”

A chorus of assent followed Janie out the door as she slid through, trying to make herself as narrow as possible underneath the scrutiny of half a dozen pairs of eyes. In the hall stood the source of it all, hat in his hand, smiling at her as though he walked into women’s clubs every day of his life.

Which, perhaps, he did. What did she know of him, after all, other than what he had told her? Or, rather, not told her.

“What are you doing here?” asked Janie flatly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Burke’s smile slip a bit.

“The mountain wouldn’t come to Mahomet, so…” He took a step forward, turning his hat in his hands. “When I didn’t hear from you, I began to worry. I thought perhaps your mother had locked you in a tower and thrown away the key.”

“As you can see, I am quite at liberty.” Janie steeled herself against the caress of his voice. Glancing over her shoulder, she said stiffly, “They shouldn’t have admitted you. There are no gentlemen allowed on the premises.”

“I thought we’d agreed I wasn’t one.” When she didn’t smile in return, Mr. Burke took a step forward, his face a study in concern. “Is something wrong?”

Only everything, she wanted to say. It was some black magic in him or some weakness in her, that despite it all she yearned to confide in him, to treat him as the solution rather than the problem.

It was that way he had of looking at her as though she were all that mattered in the world.