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George waited, listening for Turner's footsteps pad down the hallway and far away from him until he judged it safe enough to step back from the door, a little ashamed at himself for the way his hands shook. He hoped she hadn't noticed. It wouldn't do for her to think him aroused instead of furious.
He went to sit down on the bed, stopping before he reached it, his hand recoiling from the quilt. His stomach turned a little at the thought of returning to bed until the sheets could be changed, as though they had been touched by scarlet fever instead of a misguided woman. He flopped down instead on the high-backed lounge chair that his wife had insisted on including in the room's decor. It had belonged to some earl or another, though it really made no difference to him as long as she liked it and it wouldn't collapse under him.
George let out a long breath. His wife. Bertha.
He'd told Turner they wouldn't speak of it. If this had been a business decision, there would have been no reason to. The business side of things was his domain, to be discussed between them, certainly, but his conversation to direct. When he and Bertha discussed business, that had always been their understanding, just as he deferred to her judgement of such things when it came to social matters. If one was ever angered that the other of them had hidden information, it would always be tempered by the understanding that the information had been outside their purview.
Then again, if this had been business, he would want all the facts laid out laid out for those involved unless he was trying to deceive them on purpose. And woe betide the man who tried to hide information from him during a business deal. One of his and Bertha's many commonalities, as the high society of New York was beginning to discover.
All wealth sprung from information. Bertha had told him that once. A very long time ago now, the memory tinged gold at the edges - he'd caught her sneaking glances at the financial section of a newspaper that had been left out at someone's afternoon tea party. He'd said something teasing, something trite about women and money and she'd fixed him with such a withering look that he would have left the room had her attention not been helpfully redirected by their hostess.
He'd repeated the phrase to his bosses a week later after a particularly successful trade which he had orchestrated using knowledge from that very same newspaper and had received a chuckle and a conspiratorial head nod in return, high praise for any junior partner. He'd started courting Bertha in earnest the next day. Never let it be said that George Russell couldn't turn a tremendous profit from secondhand goods.
He let out a sigh. There was little profit to be found here. Turner was valuable. His wife did trust her, did find a kind of social wealth in her knowledge of the old world. He himself had thought she was a perfectly acceptable lady's maid, though that was mostly due to Bertha's good opinion. If Bertha had this particular piece of information, Turner's value would be no better than junk stock, and his would surely plummet along with it.
When one was considering a risky market investment, one talked to the experts before putting money on it. Bertha, in this matter, was unfortunately his only expert. The only one who mattered, at any rate.
George scrubbed a hand over his face. There was nothing to do but take the leap, whatever he'd said to Turner earlier. At least on top of everything else Turner could not claim that he gave his word that she would keep her job. As for his own fate, he'd have to hope that their many years of marriage was enough to trade in for a little belief.
He didn't bother dressing more than he already was, pulling his dressing gown tight around him and pausing before he opened the door. The hallway was silent, no sign of maids or any other predators roaming the halls. His wife's doorway gleamed a little in the lantern’s light. A beacon to him, as always.
He eased the door to her room open carefully. Her room was quiet and still. Years of sharing the same room, the same bed, told him that Bertha was asleep. Everything was as it should be. He paused. Perhaps this was a sign to leave things as they lay. Let the market do what it would without his hand in it.
Bertha stirred slightly, the lantern's light illuminating the curl of her fingers on the silken pillow. George felt captivated by the sight, as though it was his first time seeing so much as her naked hand.
They'd been at a party, in the summertime he was fairly sure. She'd been in some green dress or other, a fact that he wouldn't have remembered if not for the fact that someone had compared it rather unflatteringly to the trees around them. She was truly a sight to behold in fury, quiet or otherwise, a delight to watch directed at one's enemies and a wretched thing to have directed at one's self. He remembered her smacking her fan angrily against her bare palm.
He remembered taking that same hand in his, later that same night, and wondering how a single person could contain such fury and such gentleness inside them at once.
Something creaked behind him, jolting him from the memory, and George glanced back. Nothing there, of course, just the house settling. The great and fearsome George Russell, reduced to jumping at shadows by his wife's maid.
It made something twist in the pit of his stomach. If you had asked him this morning he would have said that he feared nothing in the world. Now, there was something, intangible, to be feared - the prospect of giving his wife news which she would not like, news he could not soften if he was to be truthful. And there was no point in sharing it if he were not wholly truthful. Bertha did not enjoy discovering that she had been working with inferior information, and she would not thank him for any attempt at softening the blow that he might be inclined to do.
He steeled himself, stepping further into Bertha's room and closing the door quietly behind him.
“Bertha?”
A small line formed across her forehead, a frown tilting the edges of her lips.
“Bertha,” he tried again, a little louder this time.
Her eyelashes fluttered, her frown deepening. “George? It's very late-”
She sat up, her eyes focussing on his face in the near-dark. She had always held the particular ability to read his moods, a talent that had frustrated and enticed him in equal measure during their early courtship. There was nothing a young man liked less than to be easily read, and nothing a husband of over twenty years enjoyed more. Changing market conditions.
“Is everything all right?” asked Bertha. He saw her eyes go to the window, as though trying to judge the hour. “The children?”
“The children are fine,” said George. “Asleep in their beds, I should think.”
“Then what…” Her expression shifted, amusement tinging the edges. “George, it really is quite late for that.”
His stomach twisted again. That was quite possibly the last offer for such a thing he would get for some time. His thoughts must have shown on his face because her expression shifted back to concern, moving as though to get up before George lifted a hand, gesturing to her to stay as she was.
“Then what…”
She lifted a hand as though to rub her eyes and then let it drop back down to the covers. Her mother had told her that rubbing one's eyes increased wrinkles, George remembered. Something ached in his chest at the thought. To know someone so well was its own kind of wealth, and he felt on the precipice of ruin.
“Surely unless the children are near death or the house is on fire it could have waited until a more decent hour,” said Bertha. “My day ahead is not so busy that I can't make time to speak to you after breakfast.”
George thought again of Turner's offer. No doubt she thought the idea of having a wife who had all the time in the world for him every single day of their married life was appealing to him in a way that a wife with Bertha's busy social calendar was not. How someone could spend so much time with them both in their own home and be so mistaken of their desires was beyond him.
“I believe…” George paused, pressing his lips together. “I believe that to wait to tell you would be to do you a disservice.”
“You're- George, please be a little more plain, or I'm afraid I may start to worry,” said Bertha.
She was trying to comfort him, as always. I'm a big girl, I can take it. A missed land bid, a name not on a list, a bad trade. Information, even when upsetting, led to wealth. That made it more important to her than power, more important even than money.
“First of all, you must understand that it… that I did not encourage it, or expect it,” said George.
Bertha raised her eyebrows. “There is little you do not expect.”
“In trade,” said George, “in social matters it seems I am as much lost in the desert as any man.”
“That is why you have me,” said Bertha.
“And I hope that after I explain myself I still do,” said George.
Bertha huffed a breath, more frustrated than concerned. “George-”
“Turner was in my room tonight,” said George.
Bertha went still. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing happened-”
“If nothing happened then you would not be taking such pains to tell me,” said Bertha. He could hear the anger begin to roll under her words, like a train gaining great speed.
“I was asleep,” said George. “ Sound asleep. I thought it was you, at first, because who else would be- but as soon as I saw it was her, Bertha, I swear-”
“You already took vows,” said Bertha, her voice cold, “or do you think such things are erased by the passage of time?”
“As soon as I saw it wasn't you, I got out of bed, I got her out of the room,” said George. “It was a matter of seconds .”
Bertha's hands were flat on the bed sheets over her lap, only the faintest tremble giving away the depth of her emotions. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“Do you really expect me to settle for anyone less than you ?” said George. He could feel his careful hold of his own temper begin to slip. “Even if I had not been asleep , if I wanted anything like that I would simply walk down the hall to your room.”
“And if I refused you?” said Bertha.
“Then I would deal with the situation as I did before we were wed,” snapped George. “Even the memory of you is better than any other woman I have ever met, you know that.”
Bertha's expression didn't soften, but her hands stilled. Her chest rose and fell with her breath. George waited, barely breathing himself, letting her study his face and praying she could read it as well as she always had.
“What did she want?” said Bertha, at last.
George frowned. “What?”
“I assume she said something,” said Bertha, “or did she mime her intent at you?”
“She…” George sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She claimed that she'd make a better wife. Some nonsense about making herself into a temple to me.”
Bertha's lip curled. George felt a rush of relief at being so understood.
It had been the clearest thing missing from Turner's offer. There was no better sanctuary than the understanding in Bertha's eyes as they met his, there never had been anything that compared. If he wanted to discuss the market, she knew enough not only to keep up but to actually discuss it, when she thought he was wrong she said so and gave her reasons, and trusted him enough to consider them with as much weight as he would give to any man in his employ. When he left the house he didn't wonder at how she filled her empty days without him, she thrived as he did and then they rejoined forces in the evening to pour over the wins and losses.
“My sentiments exactly,” said George. “I threw the bedsheets at her and told her to get dressed and get out.”
There was the flicker of amusement as the edges of her expression before it was replaced again by a frown. “You let her return to her room?”
“I…”
Bertha paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You weren't going to tell me.”
“I admit there was a moment where I thought-”
“Oh you thought !”
“For a moment, ” said George. “You've told me yourself how valuable you find the woman, how useful. Do you really think that I want to take that away from you without good cause?”
“I would say this is about as good of a cause as one could find,” scoffed Bertha.
“Yes, well,” said George, waving a hand. “I came to the conclusion that the decision should be in your hands and not mine. If you want her out, then out she will go.”
Bertha considered this, smoothing her hands along the silk sheets. “And if I wish her to stay?”
“Then I shall consider a lock for my door,” said George.
“And Larry's too, I should think,” said Bertha, her expression turning a little wry.
George raised his eyebrows. “Surely not.”
Bertha mimicked his expression. “It's the next logical course of action. After poisoning me, I suppose-”
“Bertha-”
“But surely she'd know that she'd be on the likely list of suspects after playing her hand with you tonight, so that would be a mission of last resort,” continued Bertha, “if she couldn't seduce her way out of this house via our children and friends.”
“So you do wish to fire her?”
The effect of Bertha’s withering gaze had not grown less with the passing of the years. “ Obviously. I assume given your previous line of thought that you told her you would keep this from me?”
George shifted his feet. “Yes.”
“Fine, I suppose that will give me cover to make enquiries about her replacement without her being too suspicious, or to cause too much of a scandal on her way out,” said Bertha. She sighed. “It is not particularly a task which I would have liked to undertake at such a busy time.”
“Can I help at all?”
Bertha paused, her expression finally softening a little. “No more than you already have. And by not disclosing of this conversation to anyone, of course.”
“Of course,” said George.
He shifted his feet again, the lamp light dancing off the golden frames of the paintings that lined the walls.
“If we're going to continue this discussion I do wish you'd sit down,” said Bertha. “You know I hate when people fidget.”
George blinked, feeling a little stunned as she shifted back a little. The covers were not pulled back, but the invitation was clear enough.
“I… wasn't sure if you would welcome the intrusion,” said George, carefully settling the lamp on her bedside table and taking a delicate seat on the space she'd made for him.
“Afraid I would smash the lamp over your head?” said Bertha.
“I remember well what you did to that Miller boy when he got a little too fresh with you at one too many parties,” said George.
“Miller-” Bertha huffed a laugh. “That was almost thirty years ago George.” She paused. “And I didn't hit him, I pushed him. Really more of a nudge than anything else and it could hardly be considered my fault if he'd had too much champagne to keep his balance.”
“He told everyone that you'd callously pushed him into the lake with the force of an ox,” said George.
“And was that the feat of strength that convinced you to ask for my hand?” said Bertha.
“Oh I knew long before that,” said George.
Bertha looked down, not quite fast enough to hide her smile. It was that more than anything that gave George the confidence at last to reach out, taking her hands in his.
“I suppose you're about to tell me that you knew from the moment our eyes met across a crowded room?” said Bertha.
“No, not quite then,” said George.
“Oh?” said Bertha. “Well then, how long did my charms take to work on you Mr Russell?”
“About two dances I should think, Mrs Russell,” said George.
In truth his memories of that night had been made hazy by time, but some things remained, glowing oil paintings of moments. The crowd of the ballroom, their hands sticky from spilled champagne. The bright purple flowers in his boss's wife's hair. The rush of sudden affection in his chest at hearing Bertha’s laugh at something he'd said. The sweat-damp curl of hair against Bertha’s neck and how he had longed to brush it aside.
Bertha hummed. “It’s a good thing I managed to tie you down then. I must have been losing my edge if it took that long.”
“I think I rather tied you down, if anything,” said George.
“You wouldn't rather have had a temple?” said Bertha, her voice a little quieter than before.
“I already have one,” said George, “made of stone and full of people who I can command at a moment's notice.” He paused. “I think, at home, I prefer a partnership. Our partnership, if I do indeed still have it.”
Bertha swallowed, looking up at him. Tentatively, slowly, she learnt towards him. The press of her lips was soft against his, familiar, gentle. George savoured every moment of it.
“Stay here tonight,” said Bertha. Something flickered across her face. “Or- No. If we're to keep up the pretence that I know nothing, you will have to have slept in your room.”
“I will play at our days of youth and sneak out before she arrives,” said George.
“You must stop talking like that,” said Bertha, “people gossip enough about us being hedonists as it is.”
“Yes,” said George, “I forgot that a fundamental pillar of keeping a good name is never sleeping in the same bed as your own wife.”
“Not every night,” said Bertha.
“Then it's not often enough,” said George. “It's your own fault, my dear, for letting me get too used to the luxury of your presence.”
Bertha huffed a laugh but she leant back, pulling the covers back for him. George shed his dressing gown, only remembering at the last second that he was bare underneath. Bertha paused before extending a hand towards him, pulling him towards the bed.
She fit against his side as perfectly ever and George relished the sensation, as a man saved from the gallows relishes a sudden reprieve.
“George,” said Bertha quietly.
“Yes Bertha?”
“I do have to ask,” said Bertha, “is this how you were dressed when she visited you earlier?”
George paused, perhaps a moment too long. “My dear-”
“I've changed my mind,” said Bertha, curling tighter around him. “Instead of firing her I will simply kill her with my bare hands.”
“And how would you reach the top of New York society from a jail cell?”
“I'll find a way,” said Bertha.
“Yes I suppose you would,” said George. “But perhaps I might persuade you to find solace in our previous plan of action all the same.”
Bertha hummed, the tone the kind that usually preceded a particularly difficult dinner party and promised an uncomfortable exit for his wife's maid when the time came. He couldn't really bring himself to mind. His wife would certainly enjoy herself in the process.
“I suppose,” said Bertha. “Now, lie still. We must be prepared to wake at a moment's notice if you are to effectively secret your way back to your own room.”
George smiled, tilting his head down to find Bertha already looking up at him.
“Far be it from me to ever disturb your plans my dear,” said George.
An odd combination of impulse and habit pushed him to duck his head further to kiss her. Bertha sighed against his lips. His hands began to wander of their own accord, mapping out the familiar planes of her body. To think he could have lost this, bankruptcy of the very worst kind.
“You're not supposed to be here,” said Bertha, leaning back with a sigh. “And any lady's maid worth their salt can tell when a gentleman has visited.”
“I don't think she's worth much of anything, but I suppose I take your meaning,” said George, leaning back against the pillows and letting Bertha lay herself as she wished against him.
Bertha hummed again, a more pleased, settled sound this time. Her hand found his, tangling their fingers together where they rested against his chest. Market forces aligning themselves once again.
George stayed awake until the early hours of the morning, watching the thin light slowly illuminate her features. Bertha awoke slowly, a smile spreading over her features, soft and secret, entirely for the two of them.
Only a fool would think a temple was better than this.