Cold Spring, 1899
February 9
“Mr. Giles Lacey.”
The courtroom woke again. People twisted in their seats, whispered to one another, craned their necks for a sight of the latest sensation, the man who had provided The World with the titillating information that Annabelle Van Duyvil, née Lacey, was really Georgiana Smith, of uncertain parentage and dubious morals, the dubious morals being implied by the uncertain parentage.
Mr. Lacey, in tailoring that proclaimed its own origin as Not From Here, took his time sauntering to the stand, allowing the crowd to look their fill. Even Janie’s mother looked upon him with an auspicious eye, having determined that the enemy of one’s enemy, if not one’s friend, was one’s ally.
Janie wasn’t quite so sure. There was something about him, about his obvious enjoyment of the attention, that put her on her guard.
Turning with the rest to watch Giles Lacey, she caught Mr. Burke’s eye in the back of the room and felt some of the tension in her stomach lighten. Which was ridiculous, she knew. If she had any sense, she would be as wary of Mr. Burke as she was of Mr. Lacey. But, however absurd it was, she trusted that, whatever his other motives, he would be dogged in his pursuit of the truth. There had been something in his face when he spoke of his work, something like the way her father had looked when he had been among his books.
People could be careless about many things, her father had once said to her as he reverently turned the pages of a new acquisition, but not about the ones that mattered most to them.
“Mr. Giles Peregrine Adolphus Lacey?” The coroner spoke the names with a remarkably straight face.
“I am he.” Janie half expected to hear trumpets.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
Mr. Lacey’s eyes flickered sideways. “I swear.”
The coroner got right down to the point. “You were cousin to Annabelle Van Duyvil?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Lacey, drawing out the word. He flashed a smile at the press bench. “And no.”
The coroner looked up, his lips pressing together. “That does not answer the question.”
“It does, really.” Mr. Lacey rolled his shoulders, one after the other, like an athlete preparing to enter the ring. The tightly tailored material of his suit moved with him, causing, as the papers would no doubt report later, no little fluttering among the female members of the audience. Personally, Janie wasn’t feeling the least bit fluttery, but she could envision the newsprint already. Some of the reporters might even believe it. “Annabelle Lacey was my cousin. And Mrs. Bayard Van Duyvil was my cousin—across the bar sinister, as it were—but Annabelle Van Duyvil? There was no such woman.”
“That,” said the coroner, “is a very serious allegation.”
“It is a matter I take very seriously indeed,” said Mr. Lacey gravely, but there was a light in his eyes that reminded Janie of a rider taking a difficult fence—serious, perhaps, but exhilarated, pitting himself against the elements. “My cousin Annabelle was very dear to me. We were,” he added confidingly, “to be married.”
An excited murmur ran through the courtroom.
“I still have the license,” said Mr. Lacey, turning to the coroner. He produced it from his pocket, a crumpled piece of paper, on which the ink had run from rough treatment. “I have kept it with me all these years. As a keepsake. And in hope that, against all odds, my Annabelle might be returned to me.”
The coroner took the piece of paper with the tips of his fingers, handing it to the bailiff. “May the record reflect that the witness has produced a marriage license for one Giles Lacey and one Annabelle Lacey, dated the fifth of May, eighteen hundred and ninety-one.”
“It is, of course,” said Mr. Lacey, “more traditional to cry the banns, but neither Annabelle nor I wanted to wait to, er, join our lives together. You understand, I am sure, what it is to be young and in love.”
Half the men in the audience were smirking along with Mr. Lacey. Mr. Burke caught Janie’s eye and grimaced.
People do stupid things at sixteen.
Janie looked away, focusing very closely on the coroner as he handed another piece of paper to the bailiff.
“Here,” said the coroner, sounding very weary, “is a picture of Mrs. Bayard Van Duyvil, hereafter to be referred to as Exhibit Sixteen. Mr. Lacey, can you identify the woman in this picture?”
He had, Janie was sure, read the papers, but the form of the law needed to be followed. Janie felt very sorry for the coroner.
Mr. Lacey held the picture out in one hand, scrutinizing it with exaggerated effort. At length, he set it down. “I regret to say that I can. This is Georgiana Smith, my cousin’s natural daughter.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lacey, you may—”
“My cousin never acknowledged her, of course. He called her his ‘ward.’ But everyone knew. And it ate away at Georgie. That’s what everyone called her: Georgie.” The disdain in Mr. Lacey’s voice was palpable.
“Yes, Mr. Lacey, thank—”
Mr. Lacey stampeded on. “Whatever Annabelle had, Georgie wanted. She couldn’t bear that Annabelle was Miss Lacey of Lacey Abbey and she was lower than a foundling. She used to deck herself in Annabelle’s cast-offs and play at being a lady. It was my cousin’s fault, of course, for raising her with Annabelle. He ought to have known better. It gave the girl ideas above her station.”
Next to her, Janie’s mother was regarding Mr. Lacey with approval. Her mother had strong ideas about people with ideas above their station. Anne shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the rich purple grosgrain of her skirt in odd contrast to the scarred wood of the bench.
“Georgie was sick with jealousy of Annabelle. She even had a mad idea that Annabelle’s brother was really her brother, her twin, torn away from her at birth because my cousin needed a male heir to inherit the abbey.” Mr. Lacey laughed, but the sound was hollow. “If that isn’t insane, I ask you, what is?”
“Thank you, Mr. Lacey.” The coroner half rose from his seat. “You have been very helpful—”
“That’s why, when Annabelle disappeared, I knew immediately what must have happened. I didn’t want to believe it; who would? No one wants to think that someone they know is capable of”—Mr. Lacey’s voice dropped thrillingly—“the Ultimate Sin.”
The coroner sat back down in his chair, looking in serious need of a headache powder. “What are you implying, Mr. Lacey?”
“I’m not implying it, I’m saying it.” For a moment, there was almost a dignity about Mr. Lacey, but then he spoiled it by saying, incredulously, “Can you believe she had the gall to come to me and tell me that now that Annabelle was gone we could be together? As if I would ever lower myself to marry the likes of her.”
Janie’s gloved hands were cold; she pressed them together in her lap, her breath tight in her chest. Of everything Mr. Lacey had said, this had the ring of truth. The indignation. The arrogance. Everything else had sounded like a sham, but this, in all its ugliness, its naked pride, sounded more like memory than fabrication.
Mr. Lacey’s voice dropped to a throbbing baritone. “I have spent the past seven years trying to bring Georgiana Smith to justice—for the murder of my cousin Annabelle.”
The courtroom exploded into excited chatter, but Mr. Lacey managed to raise his voice just enough to get one valedictory shot into the fray.
“When I heard what had happened here, I knew. She’s killed before. Why wouldn’t she kill again?”
The bailiff had to call for order several times before the noise in the courtroom abated, and even then the room kept bursting into excited chatter.
One woman had fainted, managing to aim herself clear across a full row of people, upsetting one man’s flask, which saturated the room with the scent of strong alcohol. The press bench were in an uproar, divided between staying to see what else Mr. Lacey might have to say and rushing off to be first to telephone the scoop back to their respective news organs. If imposters made good news, mad, murderous imposters were even better.
Mr. Lacey leaned back against the wooden back of the stand, well pleased with the sensation he had created.
The coroner pounded the table with his gavel to no avail, looking as if he rather wished it were Giles’s head.
“Thank you, Mr. Lacey,” he said when he was able to make himself heard. “You may step down.”
“But—”
“The court is adjourned sine die. We will reconvene in the morning.”
There was grumbling, but the sky was already turning the early dark of winter. The courtroom, even with the press of people, was colder than comfortable—which, Janie noticed, hadn’t prevented a light sheen of sweat from appearing on the coroner’s forehead. She didn’t blame him. It wouldn’t take much for the excitement in the room to turn ugly.
“It’s too fantastical,” Janie said to Anne as the room behind them heaved with people gathering possessions and jostling towards the doors. “Lost heirs and false twins and impersonations.”
“The press appears to be enjoying it,” said Anne.
As they both looked to the press bench, Mr. Burke tipped his hat at Janie, then turned to file out with the rest.
Anne adjusted her fur-lined cuffs, her eyes on Burke’s retreating back. “Should you be fraternizing with the press, Janie?”
“It’s not what you think,” said Janie, and felt her cheeks pink at the look Anne gave her. Anne, of all people. “We needed someone who would tell us frankly what was being said. I have an arrangement with Mr. Burke. A business arrangement.”
A network of lines fanned from Anne’s nose to her lips. “Don’t be naïve, Janie. They’re all out for what they can get. You should look how you go.”
Something about Anne’s dismissive tone tweaked Janie’s temper. “They, meaning journalists? Or they, meaning men?”
“Both.” Anne settled her furs closer about her neck. “You shouldn’t play at games you don’t understand. If you knew the world as I do—”
“Or Mr. Burke as you do?” retorted Janie, nettled. She might not have the benefit of a continental tour and a philandering husband, but she had eyes. And ears. She was sick of everyone treating her like an invalid.
“Bay would want me to look out for you,” said Anne shortly. “I’m only telling you this for your own good. James Burke is using you.”
“As you did him?” He looked well in breeches, Anne had told her. Wouldn’t you have run away, too? “Did you never stop to think that you might have wronged him? You got a scolding from Mother. Burke was thrown onto the streets.”
“Must you be so dramatic about it? I never meant him harm. It wasn’t my fault Aunt Alva overreacted.” Anne twitched at her furs. “I should think you would have more pride than to cultivate my cast-offs.”
Janie looked at her cousin, really looked at her, at the fine lines of her face, prematurely aged with discontent, the flamboyant stuff of her gown, the mourning bands on her sleeves that were wider than custom required. And she found, for the first time, that Anne had no power to daunt her.
“I never took your cast-offs. You married mine.” And as Anne’s face changed, from shock to anger, Janie added genuinely, “I only wish it had brought you more joy.”
It took Anne several tries to find her tongue. “Teddy laughed about you.”
And now Teddy was laughing about Anne, somewhere on a yacht in the South of France, with his candidate for second wife already in residence. Janie moved so that they stood on the very edge of the steps, away from the madding crowd. “Why did you say I was first to find Bay?”
Anne looked away, her face half buried in her luxuriant fox stole. “Weren’t you?”
Once, Janie might have mumbled something conciliatory and agreed that Anne must be right. But not now. Not anymore. “No. You were.”
“Forgive me if I was too busy grieving to be making timetables.” Anne fumbled for the gold case at her waist. “I need a cigarette.”
“Don’t even think of it.” Janie’s mother took Anne by the arm, marching her down the stairs as though she were a child of ten, caught experimenting with her aunt’s powder. “I won’t have you making a display for these people.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Anne shrugged away from her aunt. “Don’t you see that it’s too late?”
“Get in the carriage,” was all Janie’s mother said, but an unspoken message seemed to pass between them.
With one dark look over her shoulder, Anne obeyed, climbing into the closed carriage Mr. Tilden had arranged to convey them from Carmel to the house in Cold Spring. Janie’s mother followed, with the dignity of an offended dowager. Mr. Tilden handed Janie into the carriage last. He looked as though he wanted to apologize for it. But, then, he always looked as though he wanted to apologize.
“That,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil as Mr. Tilden had settled himself next to Janie on the rear-facing seat, “went as well as one might expect. Mr. Lacey was quite effective.”
“Effective,” Anne repeated flatly, looking at her aunt with loathing. Turning to Mr. Tilden, she demanded, “How much more of this?”
“That,” said Mr. Tilden, choosing his words carefully, “depends upon how many witnesses the coroner chooses to call. Should he feel that this matter can be resolved, he will, of course—”
“Resolved?” Anne put her hands to her face. It took Janie a moment to realize that she was laughing, wild, uncontrollable laughter. “Just wrap it up in a tidy little package and never mind that Bay is … oh, God.”
Janie’s mother’s hands were tight in her lap. “Control yourself.”
“Why? What else can happen? Will the word get out that your niece was seen having an unsightly fit of emotion? We can’t allow that to occur.”
“You sound just like your mother.” Mrs. Van Duyvil’s voice was so low Janie almost couldn’t make out the words.
“And thank goodness for that,” said Anne, swiping her eyes with one hand in a way that revealed beyond doubt that the color of her lashes was due to art rather than nature.
“Your mother was a disgrace.”
“And why was that? Because she wouldn’t dance to your tune? Because she married my father?”
The carriage jolted over a rut. “Goodness,” said Mr. Tilden brightly, “the roads are difficult at this time of year.”
“Your father,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil, “was unbalanced.” Her voice was controlled, but her hands were in fists in her lap, and there was a tension in the air that made the cold coach feel several degrees colder.
“Only because you drove him to it. Egging on his competitors, buying up his mortgages…” The venom in Anne’s voice should have stripped the paint off the exterior. “Why did you hate them so much? Was it because they actually enjoyed themselves? Or because they had no use for you?”
A loud crack rent the air.
It was all over in a moment, Anne crouched in the corner of the seat, cradling her cheek with one hand; Janie’s mother sitting very upright, staring straight ahead.
“I would advise,” said Mrs. Van Duyvil in a tight voice, “that you take a tray in your room tonight.”
Slowly, Anne lowered her gloved hand. There was a bold red mark on her cheek, like a brand. “And there you have it,” she said to Mr. Tilden. “My aunt’s favorite way of resolving the matter. Make it disappear.”
Mr. Tilden rubbed his gloved hands together. “Is it just my imagination, or has it grown colder? They say that this may be the coldest February on record.” When no one took up his lead, he tried another tack. “I am looking forward to a hot supper. There is nothing like a warm meal on a cold day. As that great man Samuel Johnson once said—”
Mrs. Van Duyvil just looked at him. “I think,” she said, “we should all take trays in our rooms.”
The rest of the ride to Illyria was conducted in silence.