Page 89 of The English Wife

Janie gave up pretending not to read the paper. She held it in both hands, flipping through from front to back. Mr. Giles Lacey had a great deal more to say on the matter. But there was no mention on page seven, page eight, or any of the related editorials, of the Ali Baba Theatre or a play called Eleven and One Nights.

“I should never have allowed Bay to go abroad.”

Her mother’s voice startled Janie. The paper flopped from her hands, onto the carpet. Janie scrambled for it, but her mother didn’t seem to notice, sitting straight-spined on the settee, staring out at the winter gray sprawl of the growing city.

“Don’t you think Bay might have had something to say about that?” Anne rested a hand against a cherrywood table, swaying gracefully with the motion of the train. “He was well past his majority.”

“Age has nothing to do with it,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil fiercely, and Janie felt herself pull back a little at the force of her mother’s gaze. “At home, I might have protected him from fortune hunters.” Her face contorted as her eyes fell to the paper in Janie’s lap, to Annabelle’s engraved image. “I might have saved him from her.”

“We have no proof of it.” Janie flinched at her mother’s displeasure, but soldiered on. “That Annabelle was … someone else.”

George, murmured her brother’s voice.

“It’s in print,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil repressively, and Janie wasn’t sure whether she was being facetious or serious. “They wouldn’t have printed it if they didn’t believe it.”

“That’s not what you said a week ago,” commented Anne, eying her aunt coolly. “Lies, lies, all lies.”

“Sometimes,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil, the words coming out in staccato, “justice works in strange ways. That is all I desire. Justice. For my son.”

“Justice?” Anne raised a well-shaped brow. “You turned Mr. Lacey from the door, as I recall. For casting aspersions on the family name.”

“Perhaps…” Mr. Tilden spoke with the diffidence of one used to dealing with difficult patrons. “An action for libel…”

“No.” The word shivered through the room. Mrs. Van Duyvil raised her chin. She looked, Janie thought irrelevantly, like Joan of Arc, leading soldiers into battle. First to victory and later to the pyre. “As much as it pains me, I believe these … scandal mongers have the right of it. My son fell prey to a scheming adventuress. Had I known … had I known…”

The words had the quality of a dirge, a lament for what might have been, had there been no Grand Tour, no English wife.

“What of the family name?” Anne leaned forward in a whisper of taffeta and lace. “What of your grandson’s reputation?”

Mrs. Van Duyvil’s lip curled. “When have you ever cared for either?”

“I,” said Anne silkily, “have no name. Isn’t that what you keep reminding me? But Annabelle was a Van Duyvil.”

“Annabelle,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil, “killed my son.”

Janie shivered at her mother’s words. Not angry, no. But cold. So very cold. So cold and sure. Her mother had always been implacable in her opinions, ruthless to those she believed had wronged her, but her dislikes had always been human in scale. This was what hatred sounded like, not the little grudges of daily life, but true hatred, the sort that ground continents to dust and acknowledged no cost in the pursuit of vengeance.

“Tea?” said Mr. Tilden. A liveried footman stood swaying at the gap between the cars, holding a heavy silver tray, laden with whisper-thin porcelain.

“Yes, thank you,” said Anne. “Train travel does make one’s throat terribly dry, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Tilden eagerly. “There was one occasion where it was necessary for me to take the train to Saratoga Springs. When I arrived in Florida, it was to discover that I had entirely lost my voice.”

He looked hopefully at his client, but Mrs. Van Duyvil sat impervious, ignoring the tea tray that had been set in front of her. Janie busied herself with the cups.

“Tea?” she said tentatively, holding out a cup to her mother.

Her mother looked at her as though she were speaking another language. “She killed him. She killed my son.”

Janie bit down on her lip. “We don’t know—”

“Why?” Her mother’s voice was like a lash. “Because the coroner hasn’t pronounced on it? Mr. Lacey knew. I know.”

Anne lowered herself into a gilt-backed chair. “It’s amazing that shouldn’t be sufficient for a jury. Mrs. Van Duyvil says it is so, and so must it be.”

There was a horrible pause as Mr. Tilden attempted to disappear into his teacup.

Mrs. Van Duyvil looked silently at Anne. “I should never have taken you in.”