New York, 1899
February
“It distresses me deeply to be the bearer of bad tidings.” Mr. Tilden, Mrs. Van Duyvil’s lawyer, was deeply apologetic.
Janie rearranged the folds of her skirt and kept her head bowed. With the drapes drawn and no fire lit, her mother’s parlor contrived at once to be both stuffy and cold. After a week in the country, the house on Thirty-Sixth Street felt like a prison. All the more so for the cordons still in place outside, as the crowd pressed in, trying to sneak glimpses through the shuttered windows.
SCANDAL ON THE HUDSON! screamed The Journal. BAYARD VAN DUYVIL’S AFFAIR WITH COUSIN WHO WAS RAISED AS HIS SISTER.
The World was more direct, if no less sensational. CUCKOLD OR ADULTERER? BAYARD VAN DUYVIL CITED IN COUSIN’S DIVORCE.
Teddy Newland, apparently, could not be reached for comment on his yacht in the Riviera. His lawyers refused to confirm or deny the charge. But that didn’t stop The Journal from stretching the story until it squeaked.
The city was ripe with speculation. Annabelle Van Duyvil had discovered her husband’s affair with his cousin and killed him and herself. No, no. It was Bayard Van Duyvil who was the wronged party and Annabelle who was the adulteress. Warring camps took sides; omnibus drivers and chemists wrote letters to the editor in which they thrashed out the relative merits of each side.
A former maid at Illyria came forward with stories of scandalous goings-on that boosted The Journal’s circulation dramatically until it was proved, by The World, that the so-called maid had, in fact, never set foot in the house.
It was Mr. Burke’s name on the byline of that article, tearing the maid’s story to shreds. Discrediting The Journal was his job, after all, but Janie couldn’t help but feel obscurely heartened all the same. It made her feel as though she had a champion in the lists, someone ready to wield his pen on her behalf. The fancy made her half smile to herself, silly as it was, fountain pens in place of lances, papers for shields. And Mr. Burke in a bowler hat in place of a visor.
They had met twice more since Illyria, stolen moments in City Hall Park beside the statue of Nathan Hale: once he told her that his colleagues in London had identified the name of the actress on the program as a Georgina Evans, not Georgiana Smith, and the second time he warned her that the date of the inquest had been set and that Janie, her mother, and Anne were all to be called to testify.
The official notice had arrived hours later, presented by a harried Mr. Tilden. It had been easier than Janie expected to pretend she knew nothing about it, largely because no one ever imagined she might. As always, she sat in a chair a little behind the others, draped in crêpe and dullness. Janie Van Duyvil, who never did anything improper.
Except that she had. And she wasn’t sorry.
She was only sorry that the opportunity hadn’t arisen again. Did that make her shameless? Perhaps. Or perhaps it merely made her honest. She could still feel the burn in her skin from the wind, nipping her cheeks, making her feel alive. She had attended the most exclusive balls in the city, danced with New York’s most eligible bachelors, and yet she had never felt so alive as when she stood in City Hall Park with a reporter of no family, burning her lips eating hot chestnuts out of a twist of newspaper.
Mr. Burke had taken the paper away, insisting that she allow him to test them for her. Janie had reclaimed her prize, protesting that it hardly counted as gallantry to eat them all before they cooled.
“Even if I save you from a scorched tongue?” he’d countered.
“You don’t seem to be suffering,” Janie retorted.
“How do you know?” he’d said, and there was something in the way he’d said it that made her hastily return her attention to the chestnuts.
They’d both sobered quickly enough when Mr. Burke told her about the impending summons, but the thought of the afternoon still brought a glow to Janie’s chest, burned lips, frozen fingers, and all. For a moment, she had felt … like anyone else. Like Katie, who might walk out with a charming man on her half day, simply for the pleasure of being in his company.
It was nonsense, of course. Theirs was a partnership. Possibly even a friendship. She had felt more herself in their brief acquaintance than she had with anyone since her father had died. But anything else was—
“Impossible,” Janie’s mother said so forcibly that Janie half feared she had said something aloud. But Mrs. Van Duyvil’s ire was directed at the hapless Mr. Tilden. “The coroner must be aware that we are a household in mourning.”
Mr. Tilden gave a delicate cough. “If you have been called, you must testify at the coroner’s inquest. Your bereavement is, I fear, no excuse under the law.”
“Barbaric,” pronounced Mrs. Van Duyvil, white-lipped. “Would they make me exhume my son so they might batten on his body?”
Mrs. Van Duyvil looked, for the first time, old. Janie felt a sudden twinge of conscience. Her mother was so strong, so … so armored, that sometimes Janie forgot that she was grieving, that it was her heart and not just her family pride that was aching.
Mr. Tilden took a cautious sip of his sherry. “If it is any consolation,” he offered, “it is highly unlikely that you will be called to the stand, Mrs. Van Duyvil. I believe your summons was a mere formality.”
“To force me to dwell on my son’s death so that they may all glory in my grief?” Mrs. Van Duyvil’s nostril’s flared. Janie reached out a hand to cover her mother’s. Mrs. Van Duyvil brushed it away, saying brusquely, “And what of my daughter? Must she be subjected to this … farce?”
It was cold in the room, bitter cold, but a fine sheen of sweat could be observed upon the lawyer’s brow. Mr. Tilden wasn’t, thought Janie with some sympathy, accustomed to dealing with such matters. True, telling disgruntled relatives that they were to receive, after all, no bequest, must be unpleasant, but it wasn’t on the same order as court proceedings relating to unnatural death. To his credit, Mr. Tilden had done his best to refer them to a lawyer who did specialize in what he euphemistically referred to as “such matters,” but Mrs. Van Duyvil was adamant in her refusal. Entrust their private affairs to the sort of man who consorted with criminals and wore loud waistcoats? Never.
Useless to protest that not every trial lawyer was a William Howe, the flamboyant defender. Mrs. Van Duyvil’s mind was made up. Mr. Tilden had spent years drinking her sherry; he could very well guide them through the thicket of the coroner’s court without flinging them on the mercies of low people with large fees.
“Miss Van Duyvil”—Mr. Tilden tilted his head in Janie’s direction in a courtly gesture, then did the same for Anne—“and Mrs. Newland will undoubtedly be questioned as to their observations upon, er, discovering Mr. Van Duyvil.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil bitterly. “There was a time when an unmarried girl would not be put on display in such a way. But perhaps I am behind the times. I must offer up my offspring to the vulgarity of every passing member of the public who might take a fancy to enter the courtroom.”
“For what it is worth, I do not believe that is the coroner’s purpose. He hopes, as do we all, to discover the method of Mr. Van Duyvil’s untimely death.” Mr. Tilden looked longingly towards the sherry.
Mrs. Van Duyvil ignored him. “Then, why, I ask you, have they not done so already? It is nothing but sensation-seeking. We should be allowed to bury our dead in peace. Or such peace as we may find in this fallen world.”
Mr. Tilden shifted nervously. Mrs. Van Duyvil’s peculiar mixture of grief and gall left him unsure whether to proffer a handkerchief or back slowly towards the door. Taking pity, Janie moved soft-footed to the decanter, holding it over Mr. Tilden’s glass.
Mr. Tilden gave her a look of real gratitude. “If I might presume to offer some advice? It is always best to say as little as possible when being questioned. Answer with a simple yes or no to all questions that bear of such answer and do not succumb to the temptation to elaborate.” He lowered his voice, as though speaking of something slightly indelicate. “It gives the, ahem, members of the fourth estate less meat for their speculations.”
Mrs. Van Duyvil rose from her chair, moving restlessly across the room. “The press will invent what they lack.” She stopped in front of Anne, favoring her with a look of naked distaste. “We have my niece’s indiscretions to thank for that.”
Anne lounged back in her chair, with a poor imitation of her usual grace. “You do me too much credit.”
Mr. Tilden cleared his throat again. “If you would permit me? Might I tender my apologies on behalf of my colleagues? The confidential papers referring to”—he looked from Mrs. Van Duyvil to Anne, finding himself incapable of voicing the term divorce—“er, ahem, ought never have been made available to the press. Mr. Newland’s attorney, Mr. Archibald Newland, has informed me that the guilty party has been let go. It was most unprofessional. Most unprofessional.”
“That was not the indiscretion to which I referred.”
“It is hard, isn’t it,” murmured Anne, “when there are so many from which to choose?”
Janie shot her a warning look, but Anne only shrugged.
Ignoring her daughter and her niece, Mrs. Van Duyvil turned to Mr. Tilden, her voice like steel. “Ten years ago—”
“Was it that long ago?” Anne smiled brightly at Janie’s mother. “It feels like just yesterday. Perhaps because you keep reminding me of it.”
“Ten years ago,” continued Mrs. Van Duyvil grimly, “Anne attempted to elope with an actor. He had, of course, expectations of her fortune.”
Anne made a minute adjustment to the French lace at her cuffs. “Such a pity my father squandered it all. Or perhaps not. Had he been more provident, Aunt Alva, you should have had to pay far more for a house in Newport.”
The lawyer sucked in his lips. Janie winced at the raw vitriol in her cousin’s voice.
Mrs. Van Duyvil’s eyes narrowed. “Had you been more provident, Anne, we might have been spared this circus. Or do you mean to tell us that our persecution by Mr. Burke of The World is none of your doing?”
“Mr.… Burke?” Janie interjected.
Nobody paid the least attention to her.
“Did you think I hadn’t noticed?” said Mrs. Van Duyvil to Anne. “I hope you are pleased. Your lover has finally found a means of bringing even greater disgrace upon our name.”
Sharply, Anne said, “The press was never going to ignore a man with a knife in his chest.”
Mrs. Van Duyvil’s words came out one by one, soft and deadly. “You will not speak of my son that way.”
“Why not?” Anne tried for bravado, but Janie saw her blink hard. “I saw him that way. You didn’t. You didn’t.”
Mrs. Van Duyvil’s chest rose and fell. The only sound in the room was the rattle of her jet beads and the ticking of the clock. “I would prefer,” she said through clenched teeth, “to remember Bayard as he was.”
Anne swallowed an ugly laugh. “You mean as you would have liked him to be.”
Mrs. Van Duyvil’s lips tightened, but she recovered herself magnificently, her voice strengthening as she took command of the conversation. “Have you renewed your acquaintance with Mr. Burke? Have you betrayed your family for your lover?”
Mr. Burke. Janie could feel her face go hot and cold. Lover. Anne’s lover.
I got my start performing in Mr. Herne’s plays, that was what Mr. Burke had told her. He had been an actor once.
No. There must be dozens of men named Burke in the city, hundreds.
But how many who had acted at Daly’s Theatre and wrote for The World?
“My lover?” Anne gave a bitter laugh. “How you exaggerate. I haven’t set eyes on Mr. Burke since you dragged me back here.”
“You mean,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil with satisfaction, “that your Mr. Burke dropped you quickly enough once he discovered you had no money.”
You’ll never catch a duke if you’re not an heiress.
Anne’s voice was sharp. “Don’t you mean once you had him thrashed out of his pretensions?”
“Really, Anne, we are hardly so barbaric as that. I simply made sure that Mr. Burke was reminded of his position.”
“Groveling and tugging his forelock?” There were lines on either side of Anne’s lips. “When I went back to the theater, I was told there was no one of that name. I sometimes wondered just what you might have done to him.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Anne,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil. Bickering with her niece acted on Mrs. Van Duyvil like a tonic. The sickly look on her face when they spoke of Bay was gone, replaced by her usual majestic complacence. “All I did was have a word with Mr. Daly. He quite understood the delicacy of the matter.”
“You mean you had him sacked.” Anne tipped her head back and breathed in deeply. “How terribly humane of you. No gouging out his eyes for daring to gaze on his betters, then?”
Your kind, Mr. Burke had called her. Gold-plated.
“If I might beg your pardon.” Mr. Tilden half rose from his chair. “Another engagement.”
Innocent until proven guilty. That was the principle, wasn’t it? She was the one who had sought him out, proposed their partnership.
But only after she had found him in her mother’s kitchen.
She could still taste the chestnuts on her lips, feel the press of his hand on hers. St. Genevieve, he had called her, bringing light to the world. Challenging her, debating with her. Using her?
“It might not—” Janie scarcely knew what she was saying. “It might not be the same man. Burke is not an uncommon name.”
“Don’t be foolish, Janie.” Mrs. Van Duyvil rose from her chair to see Mr. Tilden to the door. She looked pointedly at Anne. “The man vowed revenge, and now he has it. I hope he is satisfied.”
She sailed out, Mr. Tilden trailing behind her.
“Anne. Wait.” Janie scurried after her cousin, stopping her before she could follow. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?” Anne asked impatiently.
“That the reporter is … was—”
“My lover?” It was impossible to be sure whether Anne was trying to shock her, or if she was just so used to shocking everyone that she did it automatically. “How would I know? I haven’t seen the man in a decade.”
“But—” Did he have green eyes? Was his voice polished and smooth with something rough beneath? Had he held her hands and told her she was his candle in a dark world? “I should think you would remember him. After all, you tried to run away with him.”
Anne shrugged. “He looked well in breeches. There was a scene in which he fenced. Really, Janie, you remember what it was like. Wouldn’t you have run away, too—if someone had asked?”