Cold Spring, 1899
January
Slipping through the gate in the hedge felt like stepping back in time.
Viola skipped ahead of Janie, down the path, her red muffler lending color to her pale cheeks, her breath frosting in the air as she made determinedly for the white house that sat well back from the river, on the site Janie’s ancestors had chosen long, long ago, still homesick for their native Holland.
There were no gargoyles here, no mullioned windows or stone facing, just a white frame house, with a large central block and low wings protruding from either side. The original farmhouse had been burned down during the Revolutionary War, by either the rampaging British or familial carelessness, depending on which story one preferred to believe, but Janie’s ancestors had thriftily reused the old foundations in building the new. The green-painted shutters had been closed over the windows, giving the house the look of a comfortable matron who had nodded off over her knitting.
A flight of three stone steps led up to the front door, framed in a narrow arch, with a simple pediment above. Viola was already at the top, fizzing with impatience. Janie followed more slowly. In her imagination, she could smell apple fritters frying, spitting and hissing on the open range in the old kitchen. This had been her grandmother’s house when she was a child. Her mother and her grandmother had had little use for one another, but she and Bay had been sent for long weeks in the summer to stay with her grandmother, in the nursery up beneath the roof, where the sloping ceilings and dormer windows had made a cozy haven.
Janie could still remember the smell of those country mornings, the chill tang of the air, the chirpings of the birds in the trees, the bluebirds, robins, and sparrows as foreign and exotic to her city-bred ears as a flock of parrots.
“I used to visit here when I was your age,” she said, but Viola was deeply uninterested.
“We’re here, we’re here, we’re here,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Can we go in? Please, Aunt Janie?”
It was only when she reached for the knob that it occurred to Janie that the house, disused, might be locked. But it wasn’t. The knob turned easily, and Janie felt her breath release. It would have been miserable to disappoint Viola, and she hadn’t looked forward to the prospect of demanding the key from Mrs. Gerritt.
The house had seemed large when she was little, a sprawling place built for a large family, but in contrast to the baronial splendor of Illyria, the square hall felt low-ceilinged and quaint. Through the doors to right and left, Janie could see shadowed rooms, chandeliers wrapped in sacking, Holland covers over the furniture. The fireplaces were cold and dark, the grates scrubbed clean.
“It does seem small after the new house, doesn’t it?”
A flounce of petticoat and a flash of dark eyes. Viola was already halfway up the stairs, moving with the determination of the very young. “My mother liked the old house better. She didn’t want to leave, either.”
“Didn’t she?” Janie followed her niece up the narrow stair with its solid oak banister. Viola must have misunderstood. Or reinvented her mother’s words for her own purpose. “It’s very beautiful. The new house, I mean.”
Viola paused on the landing, drawing herself up imperiously. “Nurse says it’s haunted and she wouldn’t stay there for a night if it weren’t for the poor wee mites.”
Janie bit back a laugh. She could just see Nurse, in her white cap, with her hint of an accent she tried to hide. “You’re a very good mimic.”
Viola looked at her blankly. “What’s a mimic?”
“It’s a—” How many words did one know simply because one knew them? “Like an actor. Someone who can pretend to be someone else.”
Viola had already lost interest. She tugged on Janie’s hand. “Come to my room.”
She didn’t take Janie up to the third floor, where the old nursery had been, but to the second, down two steps to one of the wings that overlooked the river. This had been an adult bedroom, Janie vaguely remembered, dark and formal, papered in green stripes with heavy drapes at the windows and a large bed hung with embroidered curtains. Now it was an open space, scattered with toys. Janie recognized some from her own youth: a battered wooden duck on a string, the yellow paint chipped and scraped; toy soldiers in various states of decrepitude; lopsided tops and leather balls missing their stuffing.
Viola pounced on the duck with cries of joy. She tugged on the string, sending the duck’s wheels clattering across the floorboards. “Polly! There’s Polly!”
“Polly the duck?” Janie turned slowly around the room, old jarring with new. “In my day, she was Mrs. Mallard.”
Viola cast her a narrowed-eyed look. “It’s not Mrs. Mallard; it’s Polly.”
“Polly,” said Janie and received a nod of acknowledgment.
Someone had papered the walls of the room. In a stylized forest, blackbirds flew out of a pie, a king lolled under a tree, and the knave of hearts stole some tarts. The old blue-and-white tiles around the fireplace had been replaced with ones that matched the wallpaper: Cinderella kneeling while the birds picked the lentils from the hearth; Rapunzel letting down her hair; Jack shimmying up the beanstalk, where a giant harp awaited him. Janie thought she recognized Annabelle’s touch.
The rest of the house, the little she had seen of it, seemed unchanged, with the sturdy furniture her grandmother had favored. But here, someone—Annabelle—had created an enchanted bower.
There were doors off to the sides. A quick look revealed a night nursery with two narrow beds, forlorn without their bedding. On the walls, the cow appeared to be vaguely surprised to be jumping over the moon. Through another door was the nurse’s room, the brass bedstead still made up with blanket and pillow, but clumsily, as though they had been used and quickly drawn into place again.
Thump, thump, thump. Polly the duck rumbled over the lintel. Abandoning the duck on the threshold, Viola clambered up on the quilted bedspread and buried her face in the pillow.
And that, thought Janie, accounted for the rumpled blanket. A moment of doubt caught her. But hadn’t Viola said she hadn’t been allowed to go back?
Perhaps she meant it in the larger sense, that she hadn’t been allowed to go back to live there. She seemed, if current events were any indication, to have free run of the house; small children burrowed like mice through narrow places, making their way where adults feared to tread.
Janie sank down on the mattress next to Viola. “Viola, won’t Nurse be missing you?”
Viola scrunched her head deeper into the pillow. “She’s with Bast.” Lifting her head, she added, in her strangely adult way, “He had a bad night.”
“Nightmares?” said Janie. She didn’t wonder at it.
Viola shook her head. “Bast gets coughs in the winter. He has a Weak Constitution and needs Constant Care. He has to have mustard plasters.”
“I’ve had a mustard plaster. I didn’t much like it.” Janie thought she was beginning to understand. Mrs. Gerritt was busy with the house, and Nurse was preoccupied with Bast, who had a weak constitution. Which left Viola to her own devices. Tentatively, she rested a hand on her niece’s back. “And what of your constitution?”
“I’m shamefully hardy.” Viola’s voice was muffled by the pillow.
“I shouldn’t call it shameful. Consider it a blessing, rather.” Before she was told not to be too strong or too fast; before she was laced into dresses that stole her breath and hobbled her legs. “It’s Bast you should feel sorry for, cooped up in the house while you get to run and play.”
“It’s too cold to play outside, that’s what Nurse says.” Viola still had her head buried in the pillow and gave every appearance of planning to remain prone indefinitely.
“She’s not wrong.” It was cold in the old house, too. Janie could see her breath in the air. There was a fireplace on one wall, a strange luxury for a nurse’s room, and a scuttle full of coal still by the side.
And ashes in the hearth.
Janie slid off the bed, kneeling on the hearthrug. Fragments of paper were scattered among the ashes. Janie thought of the scrupulously clean grates downstairs. This was a small room, all the way off to the side of the house, easily forgotten. It might merely have been overlooked in the cleaning.
But there was the rumpled bed. And the paper in the grate.
A piece of paper had drifted under the bed, unscathed. No, not paper. A picture. On her hands and knees, Janie fished it out from beneath the iron bedstead and found herself looking at Annabelle. But this wasn’t the Annabelle she remembered. Not Annabelle with her close-lipped smile and watchful eyes. This was a different Annabelle, with a bow in her hand and a quiver of arrows at her waist, laughing at someone just out of the frame of the picture.
Janie sank back onto her knees, seeing the picture at once in both sepia and in glowing color. She had been there, too, hovering under the awning, doing her best not to be noticed. That had been at the Casino, that summer at Newport, that horrible, painful summer. Janie was meant to play in the archery tournament, but she had never been very good at it. She had ceded her place gratefully to Annabelle, who had won handily, receiving her trophy from a tight-lipped Carrie Rheinlander, the previous year’s champion.
“That’s my mama.” It was Viola, hanging over the edge of the bed.
“Yes.” Janie felt like she should say something more, so she added, “She won a trophy for archery.”
She had forgotten that about Annabelle. She had forgotten about that first summer. Or maybe it was merely because she couldn’t think of that summer without the pinch of remembered pain, the strain of having to smile and pretend not to mind while Anne paraded past with Teddy on her arm and a large sapphire ring on her finger. It wasn’t that she had wanted Teddy. She hadn’t. But there was no one who would have believed that if she had told them so. Except, perhaps, Annabelle.
Janie hadn’t minded Annabelle; she had been grateful to Annabelle, grateful to her for seizing attention, for giving people something else to gossip about. And it had seemed like Annabelle was everywhere that summer: splashing in the water at Bailey’s Beach, playing lawn tennis at the Casino, promenading on the Cliff Walk. She’d put them all to shame riding sidesaddle and danced her slippers to tatters. Her Paris dresses, breathtakingly à la mode, had inspired more than one woman to run to her dressmaker with orders for urgent modifications. But it wasn’t the clothes one remembered, not really. It was Annabelle, and the sense of vitality about her. Her vitality and the magic that seemed to surround her and Bay; the way they would look at one another, as though they were exchanging jokes no one else could hear.
Janie had been grateful for the advent of Annabelle, but she had found it very hard to be near them.
For the first time, she was struck with the oddity of it, the gulf between the Annabelle who had taken Newport by storm and the Annabelle who had lived with Bay at Illyria. Something had happened, something to change her. Annabelle’s humor had become more mocking, her vitality turned into something hard. And there had been the sense of a secret about her, something hidden.
An affair with Mr. Pruyn? Or the knowledge that Mr. Giles Lacey was just behind her, a threat to her and her children?
“Mama said she would teach me.” It took Janie a moment to realize that Viola was talking about archery.
The child’s dark eyes were focused on her mother’s photograph with such naked grief that Janie felt ashamed of herself for the pettiness of her thoughts.
“I can teach you if you like,” said Janie, painfully aware that she was committing herself to a promise she might not be able to keep. Well, she would keep it, if she was able. Some arrangements would have to be made for the twins. They couldn’t stay here alone indefinitely. She offered the photograph to Viola. “Would you like this?”
Viola snatched it up, saying, belatedly, “Thank you, Aunt Janie.”
“You’re welcome.” Whatever else had been in the hearth was unrecognizable. Janie wondered if the photo had been about to meet the same fate, saved only by a chance draft. But why burn pictures? Pictures and—she poked gingerly with one finger—letters? Newspaper?
“You’ll get your fingers dirty,” said Viola importantly, sliding off the bed. “Nurse says we’re never to play in the ashes.”
“Nurse is right.” Janie wiped her finger on her handkerchief. The window of the room commanded a fine view of the new house, in all its Gothic glory. Someone had been here, and recently she would guess. Someone had burned pictures and letters in the hearth. Someone had lain on the bed. “Viola, has anyone used this house since you left?”
“Can I take Polly back with me?” Viola was clutching the duck’s string in a grimy hand, and Janie was forcibly reminded that she wasn’t quite four years old. It was easy to forget that at times.
“Perhaps Polly had better stay here?” Janie found herself reluctant to let anyone know they had been in the old house. Not, she told herself, because she hadn’t the right to take Viola anywhere on the property—hadn’t this once been her home, too?—but because, if someone had been using this room, it might be best not to draw attention to it.
Viola was looking mulish, but before she had the chance to say anything, Janie heard the sound of a door opening downstairs, the creak of a floorboard, and then another.
Someone was in the house.
Newport, 1894
July
“Hullo, Potter. Busy day?”
“Yes, Mr. Van Duyvil.” A liveried gatekeeper hurried to open the gates of the beach club. “If I may say, it’s good to see you, Mr. Van Duyvil.”
“He forgot to tug his forelock,” murmured Georgie as they drove through.
“Forelock tugging is purely for you decadent Old World sorts. Hasn’t anyone told you we’re a democracy?” Bay jumped down from the carriage and held up a hand to help Georgie descend. The coachman was also in livery, in a caped coat and high hat that were absurd in the July heat. “Come back for us in two hours? Good man.”
“Yessir.”
Georgie caught only a glimpse of a red, sweating face in between the coachman’s gold braid and the low brim of his beaver hat. Mrs. Van Duyvil kept a full complement of servants all attired in the Van Duyvil colors, orange and red with the gold emblem of a rising sun. Georgie had thought she’d stumbled into a fancy dress party until Bay had explained it was merely the staff, assembled to meet her.
When Bay had told her they would spend the next month in his mother’s cottage by the sea, Georgie had imagined something with a thatched roof and roses blooming below the windows. Instead, she had found herself in a mansion that made Blenheim look like an architect’s afterthought, with thirty bedrooms and gilded taps on the bath.
“Mother didn’t build it,” he’d said by way of apology. “She bought it from my aunt’s husband—Anne’s father—when he went bankrupt. It wasn’t what she would have chosen. We had a much simpler house before.”
“Hmm,” said Georgie. As an act of philanthropy, buying an Italianate palace and filling it with liveried retainers seemed somewhat lacking in moral suasion. Her mother-in-law did not appear unduly pained by the necessity of playing queen of the castle.
Georgie suspected that she owed the fact that she hadn’t been roundly snubbed to the fact that the appearance of Bayard Van Duyvil’s English bride had directed attention away from Janie’s not-quite-engagement that now wasn’t and Anne’s engagement that was.
As for Anne, well, she was a problem for another day. For now, Georgie was to have a day at the beach with her husband, frolicking in the sand at Newport’s most fashionable club.
Bay indicated the beach with a flourish. “Welcome to the most exclusive patch of sand on the eastern seaboard.”
“You are joking,” said Georgie. The clubhouse was shabby, the beach narrow and choppy with seaweed and shale. She looked back over her shoulder. “Wasn’t there a much prettier patch of coast that we saw from the walk? I think people were bathing there.”
“Yes, but they were”—Bay lowered his voice for dramatic effect—“ordinary people. The water may be muddy here, but only members can enter.”
Georgie shook her head at him. “So much for your democracy. Anyone can walk in Hyde Park.”
“Yes, but can anyone curtsy in the queen’s drawing room?”
Georgie wrinkled her nose at her husband. “It’s hardly the same thing.”
“For us it is.” The skin around Bay’s eyes crinkled. “Only with more seaweed.”
“Van Duyvil!” An elderly man whose side-whiskers appeared to be attempting to eat his chin waved imperiously to Bay. “A moment of your time?”
“It’s that miserable golf club,” said Bay under his breath. “I wish I’d never agreed to join.”
“Hadn’t you better talk to him before he shouts the club down?”
Bay fished a key out of his pocket. “Our cabana is three down to the left. You’ll be all right on your own?”
Georgie rolled her eyes. “I’m hardly likely to be eaten by a sea serpent, am I?”
“It’s the jellyfish I was thinking of,” said Bay, his eyes on a gaggle of women in heavy black bathing costumes. “They leave a powerful sting.”
“Only if one cares enough to feel it,” said Georgie. “Don’t fuss, darling.”
The darling was for the benefit of the jellyfish, who were watching from beneath their parasols. Georgie’s advent in Newport society had caused considerable thrashing of tails. Did jellyfish have tails? Or was it tentacles? She wasn’t sure, but either way, she found them more amusing than intimidating. After so many years of living in fear, scrabbling for her bread, the relief of being a continent away from Giles, the luxury of having her breakfast brought to her on a tray, the comfort of knowing that there was someone who had pledged his hand and honor to hers felt like drawing a deep breath after years of tight lacing.
Let the jellyfish expend their poison to no purpose. She couldn’t blame them envying her her husband. Looking at Bay now, his golden head shining in the sun, head and shoulders taller than the other men, she could only marvel at her amazing luck. Not because he was a Van Duyvil or because he was rich, but because he was Bay.
There had been a time when Georgie had felt the same way about Annabelle: one of life’s golden children, fortune’s favorite, so sure that nothing could touch her. Until the colonel’s death had torn away the safe foundation of Annabelle’s life, leaving her powerless in the face of the Abbey’s new owner: Giles. It could all go so quickly, everything lost in a moment.
Georgie felt a frisson of superstitious fear. Those whom the gods love …
But then the sun went behind a cloud and he was Bay again, just Bay, who liked his coffee with three spoons of sugar and couldn’t abide marmalade on his toast.
And, really, having to live one’s life surrounded by liveried servants in bilious colors was more penance than gift.
Mr. Havemayer was becoming agitated. “Van Duyvil!”
Bay cast Georgie a look of mock appeal. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”
“Always.” It was simple truth beneath the mocking words. She did need him. She couldn’t imagine life without him. And that terrified her more than she could say. “Go on. I can manage to get out of my clothes without your assistance. This once.”
“Baggage.” Bay leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek, but Georgie turned her head and the kiss fell on her lips instead. His lips lingered on hers; his finger lightly touched her cheek. “I won’t be long.”
Georgie waggled her fingers at him as he jogged up to the clubhouse.
She’d told him she didn’t mind being on her own, but it wasn’t entirely true. She felt odd picking her way alone to the correct cabana, knowing herself the censure of all eyes. It was one thing to be brave with Bay standing golden beside her, another to be fitting her key in a lock and hoping that she wasn’t committing barratry. The key turned, and she found herself in a simple building with two dressing rooms—one on each side—and a makeshift sitting room in the middle, crammed with beach chairs and other detritus of the summer season.
A bathing dress had been left for her, Bay had told her, and so it was. It was an odd contrast, the simple building and the ubiquitous presence of servants, the silver brush, comb, and mirror waiting for her in the dressing room. As she brushed out her hair and put it up again beneath a deep bonnet suitable for bathing, Georgie felt like Marie Antoinette playing shepherdess at the Trianon.
Perhaps she should be grateful they didn’t bathe in cloth of gold? The bathing costume that had been acquired for her was of black wool, a full skirt over bloomers, as surprisingly plain and practical as the cabana.
And yet tonight, Georgie knew, these same people who bathed in their narrow patch of beach in black wool dusted with sand would put on their silks and jewels, climb into carriages attended by liveried retainers, and dine in marble halls. It was all very odd.
She was dressed, and there was still no sound of Bay.
She could, however, hear the click of the door of the neighboring cabana and a high-pitched voice complaining, “Even for newlyweds, it’s a bit much.”
Georgie recognized the voice as Carrie Rheinlander’s. Carrie had fallen over herself in organizing a Venetian breakfast to welcome Georgie to Newport, largely, Georgie suspected, in an attempt to gain as much ammunition as possible. Georgie slipped over to the window, from which she had a view of two profiles beneath two very large hats.
“I think it’s sweet.” The second woman was also familiar, one of Carrie’s satellites, a wealthy industrialist’s Southern wife, so genteel that Georgie could only hope she was covering up a far less genteel past. It would be nice not to be the only one of dubious origin.
“Don’t be naïve.” Carrie’s voice was sharp. Her acolytes were expected to echo, not argue. “You weren’t here last summer, were you? They kept it quiet.”
“Kept what quiet?” Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name’s accent was so thick it made Georgie yearn for Kitty’s London twang.
“Bayard’s fall from grace, of course,” said Carrie impatiently. “Not that anyone admitted it. They gave it out that Mrs. Van Duyvil sent Bay to Europe for his health.”
“Didn’t she?”
Carrie pursed her lips in annoyance. “Does he look like he’s wasting away? Mrs. Van Duyvil told everyone that Bay was suffering from overwork and needed rest, but really, he and my brother, Charlie, were in the same class, and it didn’t sound to me like they opened a book. It was all boating parties and flirting with the Boston belles.”
There it was, thought Georgie, the real source of Carrie’s discontent. She pronounced Boston belles as though they were a form of plague, akin to showers of frogs.
“If you ask me,” Carrie said darkly, “it was all to do with Anne. Jock thinks Mrs. Van Duyvil must have found them together and sent Bay away.”
“Found them together?”
“In flagrante.” Carrie rolled the phrase on her tongue, savoring the scandal and her own moral superiority. “Bay never paid the least attention to any other woman when Anne was there. And don’t think Mrs. Van Duyvil didn’t notice. Don’t you find it the least bit suspect that Anne announces her engagement and Bayard appears with a brand-new bride? Jock and I dined with him in London in April, and he didn’t make the least mention of forming an attachment.”
Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name fanned herself languidly with a paper fan. “It was love at first sight, that was what Janie Van Duyvil told me. One look and they knew.”
“Oh, Janie. What would she know of it? She couldn’t even manage to bring Teddy up to scratch.” Carrie shook her head at the stupidity of people. “One can only wonder where he found her.”
“Janie?”
“No, the wife. The English wife.” Carrie made Georgie’s place of origin sound like a minor sort of crime, as though Georgie were the opening salvo in an attempt to bend the former colonies to Britain’s will. Or simply co-opt their eligible bachelors.
“Why, they met at the theater. Didn’t they? That’s what Mr. Van Duyvil told my husband. A friend introduced them. Sir Hugo Middleman?”
“Sir Hugo Medmenham?” Carrie’s eyebrows rose. Georgie froze in her spot beside the window, no longer the least bit amused by what she was overhearing.
“Do you know him, then?” said Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name in her slow drawl.
Carrie took her time answering, turning her parasol around in her hand, adjusting the angle. “A little. At least, we know of him.”
Sir Hugo wouldn’t follow them to New York, Bay had said. Perhaps he didn’t need to. There was an old saying about taint by association. Georgie wondered just what Carrie had heard.
After a moment, Carrie said, grudgingly, “It’s said that Sir Hugo is quite friendly with the Prince of Wales. He moves in the best circles.”
Only of the masculine variety. The Prince of Wales would befriend anyone who could offer him fast horses and loose women. Friendship with the Prince of Wales didn’t mean that the better drawing rooms of London were open to Sir Hugo. Carrie Rheinlander had no idea. And thank goodness for that.
Feeling a giddy surge of relief, Georgie stepped out into the sand, saying conversationally, “Were you speaking of Sir Hugo? We have an acquaintance in common, then.”
“Mrs. Van Duyvil! We didn’t see you there.” Carrie’s surprise seemed a bit exaggerated. More than a bit. Georgie could have kicked herself for her own foolishness. Naturally, Carrie Rheinlander would know exactly which was the Van Duyvil cabana. This was her native heath; she knew the territory. And exactly how to strike.
“No. I don’t expect you did,” said Georgie coolly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Carrie’s eyes narrow. “Did you have the opportunity to visit Sir Hugo at Medmenham Abbey while you were in England? It’s quite well known.”
Largely for its extensive collection of erotic statuary. The family home was primarily famed for being the seat of an eighteenth-century Hellfire Club, which Sir Hugo had done his best to revive, with some success. But Carrie Rheinlander and Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Was wouldn’t know that.
“Our visit was so short.” Carrie managed to give the impression that only time had prevented her from a lengthy stay. Georgie wondered how Carrie would react if confronted with a roué in a monk’s robe drinking claret out of a skull. She would probably want to know the provenance of the skull and if he had acquired it from the better sort of corpse. “We will see you at the Casino tomorrow, won’t we? Our little customs must seem so quaint to you, but we do pride ourselves on our archery tournament.”
“Not at all. I adore archery. There’s something so satisfying in watching the arrow strike the target, isn’t there?” A bit heavy-handed, perhaps. But subtlety was not an attribute at which Newport society appeared to excel. Standing on tiptoes, Georgie waved an embroidered handkerchief at her husband. “Bay, darling! There you are. If you’ll excuse us? I’ve been promised a dip in the ocean.”
“Mind the currents,” said Carrie, lifting her parasol over her head. “They can be dangerous for those who aren’t accustomed to them.”