Page 98 of The English Wife

Janie turned to Anne. “I wasn’t first. You were.”

“Was I?” There were lines on either side of Anne’s mouth; powder had fallen into the cracks, turning them into a spider’s web. “I forget.”

“Does it matter?” said Mrs. Van Duyvil impatiently. “They should be looking for the true culprit, not putting on a show for the masses. One can only hope that Mr. Lacey can make the magistrate see sense.”

“Mr. Lacey?” Janie looked quizzically at her mother.

“English accent,” supplied Anne helpfully. “Curly hair.”

“He is a man who has suffered much from the same scheming adventuress who murdered your brother. He deserves your sympathy, not your mockery.” Mrs. Van Duyvil looked thoughtfully out at the courtroom. “Perhaps I shall invite him to stay with us at Illyria.”

“Forgive my tardiness. The crowd, you know.” Mr. Tilden appeared by their side with an apologetic cough. “I have arranged for a private parlor at the nearest hostelry.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil, her voice as dry as autumn leaves. “It will be a luxury to be free of the scrutiny of the press.”

“Don’t you think they deserve their pound of flesh?” Anne was at her most flippant, her face shuttered, making up for her ordeal on the stand. “They’ve got little enough else. We might at least put on a show for them.”

“I do not put on shows.” Mrs. Van Duyvil took Mr. Tilden’s proffered arm. “Come, Janie.”

“Heel,” murmured Anne. “There’s a good girl.”

Mrs. Van Duyvil shot her a look over her shoulder. “Your levity is singularly ill placed.”

A clerk escorted them through the back regions of the courthouse, out a small door giving onto an alley, away from the hordes outside the courthouse. It felt very odd to be slipping through side doors, hustled through service entrances. An apologetic man met them at the back of the hotel, apologizing for conveying them through the nether regions. Their luncheon was hurried and largely silent. They returned to the courtyard as they had come, like thieves, beneath a hard, flat sky from which no light shone.

They had been returned early, but already people were milling about, making sure of their seats. No one wanted to miss the trial of the century. Never mind that last year there had been another trial of the century and another one the year before that. There were still ten months left to the century and this was the trial of it. For now.

The people fell back, like courtiers at Versailles, as they passed. Janie’s mother stalked stone-faced through their midst, looking neither left nor right.

“Miss Van Duyvil.” A man stepped out of the throng, his voice low. Even muffled in coat, hat, and scarf, Janie would have known him anywhere. It was in the way he moved, the way he spoke. “A word. If I may.”

Janie could feel her entire being come alive, anticipation and trepidation and irritation, a hundred emotions roiling together beneath her black dress, her black gloves, her black half veil.

It took all her training not to stop, but to turn slowly, very slowly. “One word. But you’d best be quick about it.”

The crowd trailed after the scandalous Mrs. Newland. It was easy, too easy, to fade into the background, to melt around a bend in the corridor, where a mop and bucket stood abandoned, the water at the bottom of the bucket sporting a thin crust of ice.

“Mr. Burke,” said Janie, resisting the urge to tug her hat back into place. “Have you phoned in your story to your editor? You’d best be quick. There’s a line for the telephone.”

Burke made a swift, awkward movement. “There’s no story to phone in. I’m not covering the inquest.”

“No?” Janie looked at him skeptically. “If you’re not here to report, why have you come? Don’t tell me it’s for the beauties of nature. You’ll hardly find them in the courthouse.”

“Won’t I?” Mr. Burke removed his hat, clamping it under his arm. “I’m here because I needed to speak to you. When I saw the evening edition, I went through ten kinds of hell. Crazy, isn’t it? I know you think I’m dirt, but … I needed you to know. I didn’t write that story.”

He sounded sincere, but Janie knew by now that that was no guarantee. “You might have provided the information for it.”

“And left my name off the byline? I’d be handing a prime piece to someone else. That’s not ambition, that’s foolishness.”

“Unless you thought you might get still more out of it.”

He looked puzzled for a moment until realization dawned. “By winning your confidence back?”

Janie folded her arms across her chest. “Yes. You said it yourself. It’s foolish to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

And she had been foolish to bring back that night. The memory of it, of their kiss, was a tangible thing between them.

Mr. Burke dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his temples with his gloved fingers. “I’ve really made a botch of this, haven’t I? For what it’s worth, I’ve recused myself. I’ve asked to be assigned to another story.”