The Death of Jane Lawrence(42)

Shaking herself, she donned her practiced smile as she was cornered by one of the other men, who probed about her family and education. She was recounting her introduction to sums and records when Vingh returned to the room and came straight to her side.

“The drivers have all been sent back to town,” he proclaimed. “And I begin to see why you are so pessimistic about your ability to change our Augustine’s mind. He is quite different from how I knew him.”

“Is he?” Jane said, moving with him to the sideboard. Her previous glass had been abandoned, but Vingh found a fresh one for her and filled it, pressing it into her hands. He was careful not to touch her. “I have only known him thus. Dedicated to his work.” And dissembling.

“He is transformed. Prickly and recalcitrant,” Vingh said.

“I didn’t know about Elodie,” she confided, desperate for some reaction, hoping that he would perceive the wrong that had been done to her and present a solution.

But Vingh only shrugged. “I’m not surprised. I hear it drove his family from him, as well. They cared for Elodie like a daughter and were happy to accept his responsibility for the death.” He snorted. “They should have blamed the marshlands, and their mosquitos and agues, and the doctor they called to aid her in Augustine’s absence. They should have blamed themselves, for leaving Camhurst for this—pardon the aspersion—damp manor. Foolish, to blame him. He’s a surgeon by nature and by training, not an internist.”

Jane looked to Augustine, then stiffened as Augustine caught her gaze and came to her, drawn as if by magnetism.

“Andrew,” he said.

“Augustine. Your wife is lovelier than I could have pictured.”

He inclined his head, lifted his glass, and smiled at her. “She is a wonder.”

Jane felt bile rise in her throat.

Augustine turned to her, taking her hand. “Can I beg you to ask after Mrs. Luthbright?”

He was trying to get her away from Vingh, of that she was certain. But she could not read if his countenance was fearful or jealous. Vingh laughed and grasped Augustine’s shoulder. “Surely you can rely on your staff.”

“They are not accustomed to such guests,” Augustine returned, never looking away from Jane.

Jane considered asking him about Elodie in front of witnesses, then thought better of it. Vingh had already excused Augustine once; she could not stand to have it waved off again, as if the lie meant nothing. She smiled and fled to the kitchen.

The pageantry continued. Every time she returned to the sitting room, Augustine was there to ask another favor of her. Ask Mrs. Purl to fetch the linens from the third-floor closet, make sure Mrs. Luthbright had found the remaining good silver. He interrupted every time she began to speak with one of his guests, and her suspicion grew with each deflection. On her third trip to the kitchen, she asked Mrs. Purl to draw Augustine into the hallway, so that she could speak with her husband about sleeping arrangements. The sun was nearly set, and Mrs. Purl was all too eager to oblige.

Augustine stood, frowning, as Mrs. Purl left him without much in the way of explanation in the hallway by the kitchen door, but before he could retreat, Jane was on him. She crossed the gaslit hall between them, and saw his eyes widen as she trapped him in the corner.

When she was close enough that she was sure nobody else might overhear, she whispered, “I know you lied to me, Augustine.” She was so close she could feel his breath upon her chin, stuttered out, a crack in his fa?ade. She drove her fingers into it, pried it apart a little farther. “I remember what I saw last night.”

“Jane—”

“I know about Elodie, about who she really was. A patient, Augustine? A patient, not your wife?”

His flesh went white, his expression shuttering. Triumph flared in her breast.

But then his jaw firmed. He met her gaze.

“This was never supposed to be a true marriage, Jane,” he said.

She stepped back as if struck.

“You asked me to marry you as a business arrangement only,” he continued, voice lowering. “I agreed, for that reason only. I told you that you could not come here, and you were more than happy to agree as well.” His brow furrowed, and he reached out as if to clasp her shoulders. But his hands fell short, tensing in the air, then falling back to his sides.

“And yet I am here,” she said. “And you have betrayed me.”

He grimaced. “Is it betrayal? Or is it jealousy, this fury over Elodie? Because you do not own this part of me. I did not offer it in the bargain.”

He was right.

Curse her heart, traitorous organ, for hating that fact. She wanted to scream, to argue, but their terms had been clear, and she had never demanded honesty. She had only assumed he would give it to her, that she deserved to know everything, that his life was now hers as well.

She hadn’t known to ask for honesty. She hadn’t realized all that she had wanted.

A miscalculation. An error of judgment.

His hand settled at last upon her shoulder, and it was gentle, not angry. “You should never have had to know any of it,” he murmured. “It should never have touched you.”

“And this morning?” she said, clinging to the sharp edge of betrayal that still remained, aching and blood-soaked in her chest. “You made me think I was going mad. You erased me from reality.”