Page 91 of The English Wife

“A mare, no doubt,” said Georgie, taking a sip of her tea, which had been brewed too weak. Americans, no matter how they aped English manners, no matter how they imported hampers from Fortnum’s, failed to understand tea.

“No doubt. My husband is very fond of horseflesh. And he has the means to indulge himself.” Anne dropped a lump of sugar into her tea with a set of elaborate silver tongs. A jester in motley formed the handle, his legs the pincers. “Not all of us expect our husbands to live in our pockets.”

Georgie fought the urge to snap back. “We are simple souls,” she said, in a fair imitation of her husband’s mild tones. “Content with country matters.”

Bay would have caught the double meaning in that.

“Oh, yes, very simple,” said Anne, dropping the silver jester down among the sugar lumps. “Tell me, my dear, how do you like the plans for your new house?”

Georgie bared her teeth in a smile. “I had never imagined that Bay planned anything so extravagant. But it’s very like him. He knows I have no interest in mere jewels.”

Anne’s hand went instinctively to the diamond-and-ruby brooch at her neck. Teddy’s guilt offerings kept the jewelers of New York and Paris very happy indeed.

Anne straightened in her chair. “It was only to be a doll’s house at first. For Violet.”

“Viola,” Georgie corrected her.

“But once Bay met Mr. Pruyn, why, the design simply blossomed. They’ve been plotting and planning for months now.” Anne paused, to allow that salient detail to sink in. She rearranged a fold of her skirt. “You would be astounded at their devotion to detail.”

“Bay has an eye for beauty,” said Georgie, for want of anything else to say. She had put too much sugar in her tea. Its sweetness set her teeth on edge.

Anne leaned back, seductive even when there was no one to seduce. “But does he, really? Bay has never been a fool for a pretty face.” She arched a brow at Georgie in what Georgie was fairly sure was meant to be an insult. Georgie waited, impassive, until Anne, with a shrug, resumed. “If anything attracts Bay, it’s … a quality of the mind. Ideas act on him like a slender ankle on my husband. When he met Mr. Pruyn…”

“Yes?” said Georgie, looking Anne in the eye, and wishing her hands weren’t shaking quite so much on her saucer.

“Well,” said Anne brightly. “Bay has been so dull in the country. The poor man deserves a new interest.”

She looked so smug, Anne, so pleased with herself.

Georgie felt a sick weight at the base of her stomach. That was what this was all about. Not just a new interest, but a new interest of Anne’s choosing. Something to bring Bay back to her, to bind him to her.

Georgie breathed in through her nose, feeling her dress too tight around her ribs. Beneath her lids, she could see the beads of a reticule glinting in the sunlight as Bay kissed Charlie Ogden—no, as Charlie Ogden kissed Bay. It was there, in the triumph Anne didn’t bother to conceal, the fact that she knew something about Bay that Georgie didn’t, that she had found something that Bay wanted. Dangling a man in front of him like a bauble, like a toy.

“Bay has plenty of interests in the country,” said Georgie tightly. “His children, for one.”

“My dear, have you ever known a man who could abide the nursery? It’s all very sweet to play milkmaid for a season, but, eventually, the fantasy has to end.” There was a sharp note in Anne’s voice. “I’m sure Bay has been enjoying his bucolic pleasures, but one must return to reality eventually. Frankly, I never expected to see Bay married.”

“And why is that?” There was a buzzing in Georgie’s ears, even though there were no bees in the flowers. This was a sham paradise, the flowers rooted in pots, rather than the ground. Everything was a sham, and Georgie was sick of it, of the pretense and lies and double entendres.

“Why? Because…” Confronted outright, Anne’s invention failed her. “Well, you know Bay.”

“Yes. I do.”

The two women stared each other down, and Georgie could feel the anger rising red behind her eyes. She wouldn’t play Anne’s game, not anymore.

“Anne,” she said patiently, and it took her more effort than Anne would ever know to maintain that tolerant tone. “There’s no need for all this nonsense. I know about Bay.”

“You know.” The words had the desired effect. The smile was gone from Anne’s face, but Georgie didn’t feel triumphant. She felt hollow.

Georgie tried for a smile and failed. “I’ve always known.”

And maybe it was true. Maybe she had known. Maybe she had known without realizing it. It was only in stories that princes married beggar maids for love.

It hurt, though. Just thinking it hurt drove the knife a little deeper.

“Bay told me long ago,” Georgie lied, fighting to keep her voice level, her expression pleasant.

“About Charlie Ogden?” Anne’s voice was rich with disbelief.