New York, 1899
January
“Mother?”
Servants could enter without knocking, but not Janie. She rapped again at the oak door, half hoping there would be no answer.
Another knock, more tentative now. Janie heard noises on the other side of the door, a sound like a dog panting, heavy, wet breathing. Like sobs. Janie paused, one hand pressed flat against the door, unsure whether to enter or leave. It seemed the sort of thing a daughter should do, comfort her mother in time of grief. But her mother wouldn’t thank her for being caught out in a weakness. If that was what it was, and not the sound of the wind howling in the chimney, or, as Janie’s mother would undoubtedly say, Janie’s own overactive imagination, turning silence into sobs and sorrow.
Janie was about to slip away when the summons came. Her mother’s voice was muffled by the wood, but no less autocratic for all that. “What are you waiting for? Come in.”
Janie cracked the door open. “Anne said you wanted me?”
Her mother’s eyes were suspiciously red, but if she had been crying, she gave no other sign. “Sit and read to me.”
No protestations of affection; no words of consolation. But for the black beads on Mother’s dress and the thin lines on either side of her mouth, it might have been any other night. Janie had always suspected that her mother’s demand that Janie read to her before supper was a form of penance for both of them: for Janie, for her failure to be married, and for her mother, for having a daughter so alien to her in taste and temperament.
“Well? Don’t just stand there.”
Murmuring an apology, Janie sat in her usual place, on a low stool on the far side of her mother’s dressing table. A book sat ready for her, a heavy volume in red morocco covers, with a leather bookmark inserted into it. Janie opened it and began reading at random, the words tripping off her lips without touching her mind.
A small enough rebellion, to let her mind wander while reading her mother’s chosen words, but it made her feel as though she were keeping some small part of herself, something that hadn’t been pounded into drabness.
Her father had been a collector of rare books. Not Americana, which might have been respectable in its familiarity, but French poetry and plays. He had been a quiet man in everyday life, his hair brown to his wife’s gold, a bit stooped in his stance, his Van Duyvil blue eyes blurred behind spectacles. And yet in the privacy of his own study, he became something else entirely: an actor, on his private stage. Janie’s earliest memories were of sitting beside her father in his study while the sonorous phrases rolled off his tongue.
Her father had died when she was eleven years old, his absence scarcely detectable in the house in which his wife ruled as queen—except to Janie. Her mother found her one night, curled in her nightdress in her father’s chair, reading to herself from the fairy tales of Madame le Prince de Beaumont. Within a month, his books had been boxed, the room in which her father had stored his treasures dismantled.
Janie had stolen what she could, squirreling a handful of precious books away in caches in the nursery.
Bay had known, but he hadn’t said anything. By some alchemy, he had persuaded Anne to hold her tongue as well. Anne had shrugged and said she didn’t see what the bother was about a bunch of old books. Janie might have told her if she could have found the words, but, as always with her brother and cousin, her tongue tied in knots, and all she could do was hug the book to her chest and duck her head.
When she thought of Bay, that was what she remembered, his hand silently replacing the book that had fallen from beneath her pillow. They might not have been close, but he had always been kind, not out of any desire for gratitude, or to extract favors in return, but because that was part of who he was. It came as naturally to him as breathing.
They had never confided in one another. But Bay had shielded her in a dozen ways: drawing their mother’s attention away from Janie at the breakfast table, giving her a respite from the endless admonitions to sit up straighter, chew more quietly; stepping in front of her in the water at Bailey’s Beach to shield her from curious eyes that day her bathing costume had torn.
The Bay she had known wasn’t capable of pushing his wife into a river or plunging a knife into his chest. What had happened in that house on the Hudson?
Janie let the book fall into her lap. “What happens next?”
It took her mother a moment to realize the reading had stopped. Mother’s head turned a fraction, the slight tightening of her brows the only sign of her displeasure.
“Nothing that need concern us.”
She hadn’t seen him, Janie reminded herself. Her mother hadn’t seen Bay, spangled with snowflakes like silver thread; hadn’t heard the horrible rattle and wheeze of his breath as he struggled to speak.
And even if she had, her mother came of an older, sterner school that prized self-control over sentiment. Janie had always thought her mother would have made a brilliant Roman matron, all strong profile and impeccably draped white robes, half-marble even in the flesh. No, that was unfair. It wasn’t that her mother was made of stone, devoid of feeling; it was more that the deeper the emotion, the more firmly her mother strove to contain it. And Bay’s loss must have cut very deep, indeed.
Bay had been her mother’s darling, the hoped-for heir to the Van Duyvil name.
Janie closed the book around her finger, feeling the weight of the pages digging into her flesh. “Will there … will there be an inquest?”
“One assumes.” It was the clipped voice her mother used to dampen the pretensions of the wives of railroad barons and copper kings. “You appear to lack attention tonight, Janie. Is the reading matter not to your taste?”
It was never to her taste, but that was beside the point. Janie edged forward on her stool. “Have you thought—have you considered—that we might perhaps hire someone to determine—that is, to discover…” The words tangled on her tongue, but she forced herself to keep going. “There are men who do such things. Pinkerton agents, I believe they call them?”
An awful silence filled the room. Janie pressed her lips together, wishing she hadn’t spoken.
“Surely, there must be some comfort in knowing the truth?”
It struck her, belatedly, that James Burke had said much the same thing. And she had looked at him much the way her mother was looking at her now, with a mixture of distaste and pure scorn.
“Do you wish to invite a stranger into the family’s affairs?” Her mother’s words were shards of ice, each knife sharp.
It was too late to back down now, too late to wish the words unsaid.
Janie stared down at the red morocco binding of the book in her lap. “They’re in our affairs, whether we invite them or not.” She could picture James Burke, in the kitchen, his green eyes making mock of her scruples. “They don’t care for the truth; all they care for is a good story. If someone had a grudge against Bay…”
Her words trailed off as her mother fixed her with a hard, brown stare. “I had never thought to see the day that a daughter of mine would pander to the common press.”
“It’s not about the press. It’s about … about justice.” Janie wasn’t sure what she meant, only that she couldn’t let it go. Not now that she’d come so far. “What of the children? Surely, Viola and Sebastian deserve better than to have their father branded a murderer and … and suicide.”
The horrible words tainted the air between them. The scent of the hothouse flowers on her mother’s dressing table saturated the room, overripe and sickly, cloying at Janie’s nose.
After a long, long moment, her mother turned back to her dressing table.
“You are overwrought.” Her mother reached for a strand of beads, held them against her high collar as though to study the effect, and then set them down again. Without looking at Janie, she said, “You needn’t bother to come down to dinner. A tray will be brought to your room.”
Janie’s hands tightened around the book in her lap as she felt the familiar patterns closing around her. She was twenty-six years old, but her mother could still send her to bed without supper.
“I … I don’t mind coming down.” She winced as she said it. Anne wouldn’t have asked. Anne would have simply brazened her way downstairs in a Paris gown and dared Mrs. Van Duyvil to say anything about it.
Sometimes, Janie wondered if her life would have been different if she had been more like Anne, showier, stronger. There was a state of constant war between her mother and her cousin, but there was, she thought, a form of understanding as well. They respected each other, as warring nations do.
But she wasn’t like Anne. She was only bold and brave within the covers of her books.
“We mustn’t risk your health.” Her mother slid a ring onto her finger, considered it, and replaced it with another. Her eyes met Janie’s in the mirror. Her lips twisted into something like a grimace. “You are the only child I have left to me.”
Janie lowered her eyes to her lap, guilt and resentment twisting in her stomach.
In the churchyard at Grace Church were two small graves, two brothers Janie had never known, both carried away by the measles that had, miraculously, spared Bay. They never spoke of them, but Janie had always known that she was meant to be another boy, a replacement for Peter and Nicholas. Her failure to be so had been the first in a long series of disappointments that she had offered her mother.
She wasn’t really delicate, but it had become a family myth, invoked when convenient.
You wear yourself to the bone with your charity work, Janie. Surely, there is no need for such zeal at the expense of your health?
How pale you look in that gown, Janie. It seems a trifle … youthful, don’t you think?
Never an outright command, always an expression of concern. It was very hard to rail against measures taken, ostensibly, for one’s own good. And perhaps they were. Whenever Janie felt herself pushed to the point of rebellion, she remembered those gravestones and her protests died, stillborn, on her lips.
And now Bay was gone, too.
“I am sorry.” It seemed such an inadequate thing to say and, somehow, very odd to be apologizing for her own existence. Lifting her eyes to her mother’s, she asked, tentatively, “Will you bring the children to town?”
“No.” Her mother rose from her seat, moving abruptly away. “They’re better where they are.”
Alone, on the Hudson, with the snow swirling around the battlements. “In the house where their parents—”
Her mother tugged at the bell to call her maid. “It’s their home, Janie. And they’re only—what?—two years old? They’ll scarcely notice the difference.”
“Three and a half. Nearly four.” It didn’t matter. Her mother knew exactly how old the twins were. To the day, Janie had no doubt. It was just more convenient for her to pretend otherwise. “It was only a thought.”
Maybe her mother was right. Maybe it was better to leave the children in their castle on the Hudson, rather than confining them to a suite of rooms on the fifth floor, with lessons in the morning and formal outings on fine afternoons. She had been a child in this house; she knew what it was like.
But she couldn’t quite stop herself from adding, “These are Bay’s children. Van Duyvils.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” The words cracked through the room, loud enough to make Janie’s ears ring.
Janie saw the flush rise up her mother’s neck, creeping up from her jet collar, past her dangling earrings, up to her brow. Lower your voice, Janie. Ladies don’t shout. But that had been a shout just now, unmistakably a shout. It was the first time she could recall her mother raising her voice. Ever.
Someone cleared her throat from the doorway.
Janie’s mother drew herself up straighter, visibly pulling herself together, drawing her face back into its accustomed lines.
As if nothing had happened, Janie’s mother said, “Gregson, Miss Janie is feeling unwell. You will prepare a tisane.” Turning to her daughter, she added, “Your face is flushed, Janie. I suggest you lie down.”
It was her mother who was flushed, not Janie, but Janie wasn’t going to argue, not now. Janie rose from her seat, smoothing down her rumpled skirt. “Yes, Mother.”
Her mother stood by the cloth-shrouded window, her profile to Janie. She seemed diminished, her spine less erect, the skin of her jaw less firm. Her color was still high, making her face look like a wax model of itself, out of drawing, not quite right.
Janie hesitated. She should go to her, console her. But Gregson stood sentinel by the door, ready to repel any liberties.
“Good night, Mother,” Janie said instead and received only a nod in return, as though the act of speaking was too much for her mother to bear.
Feeling all her own inadequacy, Janie found her way to her own room, the room into which she had moved when she graduated from the depleted nursery into a bedroom on the third floor. It had seemed a momentous thing, a step into the adult world to come. She couldn’t have been aware, then, that her steps would be stopped at the threshold of this room, that she and her mother would be yoked together for all eternity, each an irritant to the other.
Her mother’s silent grief reproached her.
Her mother had worn black for her father, but it had been for form’s sake. This was something different, something that cut to the bone. There were two things Janie knew her mother to truly love: the family’s good name and Bay. Both gone in a night.
Maybe—for all that he had been the one to speak it—maybe Mr. Burke was right. Maybe there was consolation in truth. Janie sat down on the slipper chair by the window, staring sightlessly at the cretonne shade. Outside, the crowd still clamored. Nothing would bring her brother back, but couldn’t she rescue the memory of him?
Janie pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose. Fine words, but she might as well cry for the moon. This wasn’t a story by Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle. There was no keen-eyed detective to put together a tiny shred of fabric here and a particular blend of tobacco there and, like that, produce a villain from the air.
George.
The name of the assailant? Or merely her own imagination, grafting meaning onto meaningless sounds?
Even if she were willing to go against her mother’s expressed wishes, she hadn’t the first idea of how to hire a Pinkerton agent. A call on the family lawyer, the nearest male figure of authority, would only generate a corresponding call to her mother, who would make concerned noises about sick headaches and order Gregson to prepare another tisane.
It was galling to consider that James Burke had better access to news about her brother’s death than she. It was even more galling to think how selectively such information might be used. For all his fine words about truth, the business of a paper was selling papers. The most sensational stories were the ones most likely to be printed.
The minions of The World had been over every inch of that ground, ignoring notices to keep out. It was common knowledge that the press had far better resources than the police when it came to the investigation of a crime. The New York Journal’s infamous Murder Squad was one of the sights of the city, a phalanx of reporters on bicycles, wheeling through the city like a flock of crows following the scent of carrion. Macabre, yes, but effective.
She didn’t know how to hire a detective, but she did know where to find Mr. Burke. The World Building, with its bold golden dome, loomed over Park Row. She had passed it hundreds of times, on her way to the Girls’ Club on Frankfort Street, where she performed those charitable offices that her mother tolerated so audibly.
Her mother had never stinted her allowance. She had more than enough money to—her mind winced away from the word bribe. To persuade Mr. Burke that it might be more noble to share his information before publishing it.
It was a mad idea.
And yet …
Her door opened. Gregson set the tisane on a tray on Janie’s nightstand. “Madame says you’re to drink this.”
The cup smelled of herbs and, beneath it, the familiar sleepy scent of laudanum.
“Thank you,” said Janie, but she didn’t drink. Now was not the time to court oblivion.
As the door closed behind Gregson, Janie lifted her hands to her cheeks. Her mother was right: her face was flushed. But not with fever.
London, 1894
February
“Are you all right?”
Georgie didn’t see any obvious signs of abuse, no purple bruises beneath the grease paint, no fingerprints on Kitty’s wrists, but something was wrong. Kitty had been distracted all evening, missing her cues and blundering over her lines.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Kitty yanked on her gloves, knocking over a vial of scent in the process. The lid shattered against the floor, releasing a strong odor of violets. “Now look what you’ve made me do!”
Georgie knelt to help gather the shards, the tight breeches she wore as Viola straining dangerously. “Sorry, Kit,” she said. “It’s just, after your night with Sir Hugo—”
“It wasn’t a night.” Kitty’s voice was so low, Georgie could barely hear her.
“What?”
Kitty tugged at the brim of her bonnet, nearly breaking the ribbon. “It wasn’t a night, all right? It wasn’t even an hour. He had me up against the wall like a Covent Garden whore. And then he couldn’t even—”
Georgie could feel the wall, hard against her back; the grunting, the thrusting. That voice, that familiar voice, taunting her all the while. Don’t tell me you didn’t want this.
Georgie jerked as she cut her finger on a piece of glass. She stared at her finger, at the red drop of blood.
“Oh, Kitty.” She fumbled for a bit of grease-stained cloth to wrap her finger. “If you’d only come with me—”
“And why would I do that? I thought he’d take me home with him. Or at least give me supper. So much for that, then, right?” Kitty gave an ugly bark of a laugh. “At least he paid me. Shoved the coins into my hand and thanked me for a lovely evening.”
The echo of Sir Hugo’s mockery made Georgie want to slap the man. “You’re better off without Sir Hugo,” she said gruffly, wishing Kitty might have been spared this. “He has a reputation.”
“What do I care for his reputation?” Kitty’s voice was shrill. She turned away, but not before Georgie saw the tears in her eyes, tears of fatigue and desperation. “What am I going to do when the theater closes, Georgie? What then? Sell cloth by the yard at Liberty’s? Wear a white pinny in a tearoom?”
They’d played to a nearly empty house again. The show couldn’t last much longer. Georgie had spotted Mr. Dunstan in the back of the theater, engaged in conversation with two men who seemed like they’d be more at home in St. Giles than Leicester Square. None of them had looked happy with the conversation.
Rising awkwardly from the floor, Georgie dropped the broken pieces of cheap glass onto the dressing table. “Pouring tea might be preferable to selling yourself on street corners to the likes of Sir Hugo.”
“Oh, la-di-da!” Kitty marched to the door, her voice hoarse with unshed tears. “Maybe if you’d left it alone, it wouldn’t have been a street corner. All you had to do was stay for supper. But you couldn’t even make yourself do that, could you? Too busy making up to that rich American.”
“Kitty! I wasn’t making up—”
But Kitty had already given vent to her feelings by slamming the door behind her.
Georgie took a deep breath, irritation warring with guilt. She might have stayed with Kitty. But Kitty hadn’t wanted her to stay. What was she meant to do, sit there while Sir Hugo fondled them both over the oysters and champagne?
Georgie hesitated a moment and then flung the door open. “Kitty? Kitty, don’t be like—ooph!”
Hands caught her shoulders, hard. She was pressed against a chest redolent of bay rum cologne. The scent rose around her, choking her.
Blindly, Georgie pushed back, just trying to get away, away—before the touch of hands on her arms lifted, and she heard a voice saying, with concern, “Miss Evans? Miss Evans?”
Georgie took an unsteady step back, holding out a hand to set distance between them. She drew in a deep breath, and then another. “Mr. Van Duyvil.”
Mr. Van Duyvil looked down at her concern. “I came here to beg your pardon, and now it seems I need to beg your pardon again. May I help—”
“No, it’s all right,” said Georgie shortly, evading the arm he offered her. “Did you want something?”
“Only to apologize for last night,” Mr. Van Duyvil said hastily. “But I didn’t mean to intrude on … that is—”
His eyes flicked to her legs in their tight breeches and then away again. Something about his obvious confusion made Georgie’s own cheeks warm, as though she weren’t accustomed to showing those same legs to many other men, every night. But that was from the safe distance of a stage.
Georgie crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s no matter. Didn’t your friend tell you there’s little modesty in the theater?”
But she retreated behind the dressing screen all the same.
“My friend,” said Mr. Van Duyvil’s voice from the other side of the screen, “told me a great many things. I am beginning to believe they were of little value.”
Stepping hastily into her dress, Georgie peeked between the panels of the screen. Mr. Van Duyvil was standing on the edge of the room, holding his high-crowned hat between his hands. “You can sit down if you like.”
“Er, thank you.” Tentatively, Mr. Van Duyvil seated himself on the one chair, in front of the dressing table, looking curiously at the pots and jars, the grease-stained cloths. He snuck a glance at the screen. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I only wanted to make my apologies for last night.”
He’d made his apologies for last night last night. Georgie wiggled out of her breeches beneath the added cover of her skirt. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
“Haven’t I?” Mr. Van Duyvil turned a little on the stool, but he kept his face averted from the screen, doing his best to afford Georgie some measure of privacy. To the wall, he said, “You must understand, when Hugo suggested dinner, I never thought—”
“No?” Georgie rather thought he hadn’t, but she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.
“No.” Earnestly, Mr. Van Duyvil said, as though it made all the difference. “He has a fiancée. In Buckinghamshire.”
Did Mr. Van Duyvil really think a man’s vows precluded him from taking his pleasure where he found it? Perhaps it was different in New York. Or perhaps it was just Mr. Van Duyvil who was different.
Georgie poked her head up over the edge of the screen. “How did someone like you get mixed up with Sir Hugo? If you don’t mind my asking. You seem an odd pair.”
Mr. Van Duyvil looked down at the hat balanced on his knees. His hair was the color of August wheat, a dark blond with lighter streaks speaking of a recent sojourn in sunnier climes. “I’d been traveling with friends of the family. But when I met Hugo, he … well, he persuaded me to leave my party. They’re all in Switzerland now.”
Georgie emerged from around the side of the screen, dressed now in a reasonable imitation of what a lady might wear, buttoned high to the chin, long and narrow through the sleeves.
Mr. Van Duyvil sprang up from his seat, moving aside so that Georgie might reclaim it.
It might be as Mr. Van Duyvil said. There were plenty of impoverished nobles eager to batten off the wealthy and naïve. Americans, in their perpetual innocence, made a particularly tempting target.
Georgie reclaimed her gloves from the dressing table, directing her attention to drawing them on, finger by finger. “Whatever persuaded you to go with him?”
Mr. Van Duyvil turned his hat around in his hands, his expression rueful. “Hugo can be very charming—when he likes. I’d never met anyone quite like him. When he invited me to return with him to London…”
Despite herself, Georgie felt herself softening towards him. “Will you join your friends in Switzerland?”
Mr. Van Duyvil grimaced. “Not now. It’s always rather galling to have to admit one’s own foolishness. I suppose … I suppose I ought to have stayed with them. But I’d thought there must be something more to Europe than trotting around with a Baedeker and making a fuss over the locals not speaking a civilized language.”
Georgie grinned at his depiction of his party. “It seems you got your wish. I imagine that Sir Hugo knows more than Baedeker about certain corners of the world and that he was willing to share it … for a fee?”
“Something like that.” Mr. Van Duyvil didn’t share her amusement. “I’d never imagined myself worldly, but I hadn’t thought myself quite so … gullible.”
The words hit Georgie harder than she liked to show. She could remember that first month in London, pawning first one, then another piece of jewelry, not sure who to trust, not trusting her own instincts. The one thing she’d learned those first few weeks was how little she knew, how ill prepared she was to face the world beyond Lincolnshire.
But there’d been no choice in it for her.
“What will you do now?” Georgie asked. “Go back to New York?”
“I ought, I suppose,” Mr. Van Duyvil said without enthusiasm. “Hugo was the only person I knew in London.”
He’d got off lightly, Georgie knew. Sir Hugo might have fleeced him in a million ways. Gaming houses had arrangements with the likes of Sir Hugo to bring in likely flats, drawing them deeper and deeper into debt. There were also houses promising all sorts of pleasures. While the pleasure might endure for an evening, the resulting blackmail could go on for years after. Some hardy souls declared “publish and be damned,” but far more stumped up the blunt demanded for silence.
But she couldn’t help feeling just a little sorry for Mr. Van Duyvil, all the same.
It might be a gull, but if it was, Mr. Van Duyvil was a far better actor than anyone she had ever known, either on the stage or off.
Slowly, wondering if she was making a mistake, Georgie said, “We never did have that supper last night…”
They could go to the Feathers, where the landlord knew her. She’d be safe there, so long as they stayed in plain view. And it wasn’t as though Kitty were likely to join her tonight. They’d both lost a friend from this.
Making up her mind, Georgie jammed her hat on her head and gestured imperiously to Mr. Van Duyvil. “What you need is a warm meal in you. A good meat pie does wonders for melancholy.”