by Michelle Cox
Elsie had spent at least some portion of every day since then crying, though she managed to do it in secret. Ma remarked several times, however, complaining that Elsie seemed an awful mope these days, and what had gotten into her? And then had come the terrible news of Mr. Howard’s death, after which Elsie’s tears could flow openly, masquerading as sorrow for her sister’s father-in-law. Not that she wasn’t sad of course; Mr. Howard had seemed kind and had treated her respectfully at both the engagement party and the wedding itself. But she had not really known him well, and so most of her tears, in truth, fell for herself and her lost love.
As the days wore on, monotonously marching toward the funeral and Henrietta’s return, her tears had finally ebbed until she was left with merely a barren sort of dullness. Where she had once felt so much so tortuously, now she seemed to feel nothing at all, and instead went through the days in the same dreary way.
Elsie dressed slowly and went downstairs for breakfast. Ma was nowhere in sight of course, and the boys were already off to school. Thankfully, Eddie and Herbie had black suits they could wear, and God knew Ma had more than enough black dresses to choose from, but Doris and Donny and Jimmy would have to be fitted with something new. As Odelia bustled in with some coffee for her, Elsie tried to muster up the energy to make a plan. She supposed she should go up to the nursery after breakfast and ask Nanny to accompany her downtown with the twins to shop. She would have to take Jimmy tomorrow, or maybe she should wait for him to get home from school and take him and the twins together? She should have kept him home from school! Oh, why couldn’t she think? This wasn’t that terribly complicated, and yet she found it difficult to concentrate on anything as of late. Absently, she poured herself some coffee from the silver carafe in front of her and rested her forehead on her fist.
What was she to do? Is this what her life was to be now? Stanley was gone; Harrison was gone. Her grandfather, she knew, wished her to make some sort of stupendous match with the son, or the foun-tainhead himself, of some eminently wealthy or powerful family, and that Aunt Agatha and Uncle John had been specially discharged to oversee this mission, she also knew. As Elsie poured some cream in her coffee, her stomach clenched as she wondered how much of the Harrison escapade her grandfather was aware of. She prayed that Mr. Howard had not confided in him before his death. She would be mortified, and no doubt he would be furious. But, she thought then, a realization slowly coming over her as she added some sugar to her cup, that perhaps him finding out that she was “damaged goods,” as Harrison had called her, might not be so bad after all. Perhaps everyone might leave her alone then to her own devices. Elsie had no idea what those might be, at the moment, but at least she would be free from her new relatives’ machinations and scheming attempts to marry her off.
Elsie sighed. To be fair, Aunt Agatha and Uncle John had been very kind to her, and she actually enjoyed their company and the lovely concerts and plays they had taken her to see in the city. And, in truth, the young—or not so young—men of their set whom they made sure to introduce her to weren’t terrible, per se, though she always felt strange and awkward around them. She hadn’t the slightest thing in common with any young man of their acquaintance it seemed, and yet no one seemed to recognize or acknowledge this, at least not out loud. She had once tried to voice her reservations to Aunt Agatha, explaining that she didn’t know what to say to any of them, that she found conversation difficult at times even with the easiest of companions. Aunt Agatha had tut-tutted her, saying whatever did conversation have to do with it? That all that was required of her was to smile demurely and appear in lovely gowns. And, Aunt Agatha had been pleased to say, Elsie was progressing nicely in the learning of bridge, which would be an asset as well.
But did Elsie really want a man who merely sought a rich, well-dressed wife who could play bridge? What about love? She knew that if she raised this question, in all seriousness, she would be given some sort of pat answer, such as “Well, of course love is important, darling, but it doesn’t always happen right at the beginning!” But what, wondered Elsie, if it never came?
But worse than all of these doubts was the guilt, the shame that she now carried around, like a heavy bundle on her back. She could not escape her feelings of self-deprecation regarding her lost purity. All these rich men, looking for a chaste, obedient wife to display in their mansions . . . but she was no longer that, was she? And so she felt doubly inadequate, an imposter on two counts. First, she was not of their class (not really, despite what everyone said about her being an Exley and a Von Harmon), and secondly, she had shamefully and irrevocably tainted herself. She felt so very different now and was amazed that no one else seemed to notice what was so plain to her. She had been praying ever since that fateful night with Harrison that her sin wouldn’t become clearly obvious to the greater world, in the form of, say, being with child. Each day that passed in which her flow did not come had added to her misery, so that when it did finally begin—a week late!—she had flown to St. Sylvester’s and said a rosary in thanksgiving.
She roused herself, again, from her dreary thoughts, and pushed back the plate of toast that Odelia had set before her. She couldn’t eat, and even that made her sad. What an ungrateful girl she was! There had been a time, not so very long ago, when they would have fought over an extra piece of toast—and with real butter on it, to boot! She sighed and looked around the exquisitely appointed room of the house her grandfather had purchased for them. How dare she dwell on her own miseries when she should instead be grateful. But she didn’t feel grateful, and that made her wretched, too.
She stood up resolutely, determined to extract the twins from the nursery and do something useful, simultaneously resolving to stop reading Jane Austen, or at least romance novels, and certainly poetry, anyway, for the foreseeable future, maybe forever. That chapter of her life was decidedly over. She would simply have to allow fate to take its course. But she shouldn’t use the word “fate,” she reprimanded herself; she should say God.
She had worked up her courage just yesterday to go to church and confess her sins to Fr. Finnegan, who was severe in his reaction to them. She hadn’t really felt forgiven, though he had of course absolved her. She had dutifully and prayerfully—and she hoped sincerely—said her penance, but in her heart, she felt it wasn’t enough. Well, she would allow God to inflict whatever punishment He saw fit upon her. And if that meant marrying whomever the Exleys put before her, then she supposed she would and she would try to be happy in the process. After all—a lovely home, pretty clothes, a family—isn’t that what she had always dreamed about as she sat sewing in Mr. Dubala’s dusty shop?
But that was not all she had dreamed of in those days, she knew. Love had been the intertwining thread, but that seemed impossible now. She would just have to school herself to believe that love was a fantasy, an illusion; that was obvious, wasn’t it? A stray thought of Henrietta came to her mind, then, like an errant sprite, but she pushed it away. Henrietta’s situation was different, of course. She had found true love, but that was rare. And if it were such a rare, precious thing, it made sense that it had come to her beautiful sister and not to the likes of her—plain and, well, dirty.
Chapter 2
As welcoming as the sight of Highbury had been, there was a decided pall of gloom about the place now as the Rolls approached. Clive and Henrietta had arrived at Union Station well past six o’clock and were met by Fritz, who arranged for their luggage to be safely deposited in the car while he saw that his new master and wife were well placed within, but not before giving Clive a sorrowful handshake and offering the sincere condolences of not only himself but of the staff as a whole.
Clive had said little on the drive up to Winnetka, but Henrietta had clutched his hand tightly—not because she was nervous about returning to Highbury, as she had been wont to be before their marriage, but because she was worried about him. He had positively brooded on the ship back across the ocean, speaking hardly at all and merely starin
g, for hours it seemed, at the vast expanse of the ocean before him, which did not change from day to day except for the patterning of the clouds and the differing amounts of light that shone through. It was as if something dark had risen up from his past—perhaps memories of the war?—and she could not seem to reach him.
Antonia must have been waiting somewhere near the main hallway because she stepped out onto the stone steps as soon as they drove up, clutching her cardigan tightly around herself as the November wind whipped at her skirt. To Henrietta’s eye, she seemed smaller and more fragile than she remembered, but perhaps it was just the darkness, or maybe it was the massiveness of Highbury looming behind that dwarfed her. At any rate, Henrietta’s heart went out to Antonia, and tears flooded her eyes when she saw Clive hurry up the stairs and embrace her. With no guests in the immediate vicinity, their mutual tears could flow freely and without embarrassment. When Clive released her, Henrietta, who had followed more slowly up the thick stone stairs, embraced Antonia, too, mumbling, “Antonia, I’m so very sorry.” Antonia did not say anything, but held onto her tightly.
After several moments, Antonia released her, saying, “Come in, then, you must be exhausted.” She turned and went in, Clive and Henrietta soberly following. Henrietta was surprised that not only did Clive take her hand as they entered, but that it was slightly trembling.
“Welcome home, sir, madam,” Billings said in his familiar nasally voice from where he stood at attention by the door. Most of the servants were also present in the foyer, offering their greetings and welcoming them back as they bustled about, gathering their coats and carrying luggage. There was an air of muted excitement among them that the newlyweds had returned home safely from their long travels, but it was edged with more than a hint of somberness. Edna was on hand of course, eager to take up her role as lady’s maid for Henrietta. She would begin unpacking immediately, she informed her mistress, and asked in a low voice if there was anything in particular that she needed. Henrietta took Edna’s hand and said no and gave it a grateful squeeze.
In a muted voice, Antonia directed Billings to bring tea through to the drawing room, and the three of them made their way there in silence. As they sat down across from each other, Henrietta looked around and was struck by how much this felt like home now.
Antonia asked disjointed questions about their voyage and about the state of Montague and Margaret, Clive’s uncle and aunt with whom they had stayed at Castle Linley, but once the tea had been dutifully delivered, she immediately veered into the subject of Alcott’s terrible death, wanting to tell the whole story from beginning to end. She began stoically enough, but more than once she required her handkerchief, her voice uncharacteristically catching from time to time.
Henrietta was distressed by Antonia’s rare show of emotion, but she did not know how to respond. She knew that if she were to attempt to comfort her own mother, she would be rebuffed, and so with that in mind, she remained silent and instead quietly sipped her tea, looking now and again at Clive for clues. For his part, he did not appear overly affected by his mother’s tears and instead seemed deeply engrossed in listening to Antonia’s tale, taking in all of the details as if he had never heard the story before, though Antonia, Henrietta knew, had already told Clive all of this on a transatlantic call to him at Linley Castle. Silently he sat through the retelling, his lips pursed and his hands firmly gripping the tea cup he held.
It really had been a most unfortunate accident, Antonia repeated yet again, that Alcott had apparently slipped on the new snow and had fallen in front of the oncoming train. Hadn’t she advised him to wear his new galoshes? Hadn’t she warned him that his old ones were nearly worn through?
“At least he didn’t suffer,” she cried quietly, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes again. “It was over so quickly.”
“Yes, a blessing,” Henrietta added sadly.
“And no one saw him fall?” Clive asked, pulling his eyes from the tea he’d been swirling in his cup and looking up at his mother intently.
“Saw him fall? What an extraordinary question, Clive! How would I know? I . . . I suppose there might have been other people on the platform who saw it happen. How horrible for them,” Antonia sniffed.
“Were there other people on the platform?”
“Really, Clive. How would I know that?”
“Did anyone think to ask?”
Antonia stared at him for a few moments. “No, they did not. What are you getting at, darling? Are you thinking someone could have saved him, perhaps?” She looked at him expectantly.
“Has it not occurred to anyone else that Father’s death seems, well, unusual? I mean . . . he slipped on the snow and fell in front of a train? That seems extraordinary, to use your word.”
“Are you suggesting that his death was not an accident?” she asked slowly, appearing increasingly horrified as this idea sunk in.
Clive shifted uncomfortably. “Well, perhaps . . . it just seems odd, don’t you think?”
Antonia stared at him, bewildered. “Are you suggesting . . . your father would never do such a thing! How dare you even think such a thing, Clive!” she exclaimed.
“No, of course I don’t mean that, Mother,” Clive said hurriedly. “I just mean that, well, that maybe he was pushed—”
“Pushed?” she asked in a high voice. “But who . . . who would want to harm your father? He was a pillar of society. The kindest, most gentle . . . oh, Clive!” She began sobbing in earnest now, her hands covering her face. “What am I to do?”
Clive immediately stood up and went to her, sitting beside her and putting his arms around her. “Shh . . . Mother. Forgive me. This is not the time for this. I’m sorry. It will be all right.” He looked across at Henrietta, his own eyes full of tears as well.
Henrietta noiselessly set her cup down and rose from her place on the sofa. She walked across to where the two sat huddled and stroked Clive’s shoulder. Then she bent down and kissed the crown of his head and retreated. “I’ll give you some time to be alone together. Please don’t hurry.”
Clive blearily smiled his thanks, but Antonia kept her face buried.
Henrietta valiantly tried to stay awake, waiting for Clive to come upstairs. For a long time, she sat in one of the red, plush armchairs by the fire, trying to read Dorothy Sayer’s latest, Gaudy Night, which she had hurriedly picked up at a book stand on their way through New York. She was sitting in Clive’s old suite of rooms, which Antonia had had redone before the wedding, making this upper wing of the house like a little apartment for them. They had not spent any time here, however, having spent their wedding night in the old cottage down by the lake, Clive’s nuptial surprise for her. And while Antonia had graciously asked her opinion on various items of décor, Henrietta, at the time, had not really grasped that these rooms were to be wholly theirs and had let Antonia do as she wished. Now that they were back, however, with the excitement of the wedding and the honeymoon over, Henrietta was able to take stock of the suite and found it to be rather charming. As she wandered through, she noted that there were one or two things she might have done differently, but all in all, she was grateful and was of the opinion that Antonia had done quite a good job. But what did any of this matter at a time like this? she sighed, her mind turning to what lay before them.
She had always known that when they returned to Highbury, they would have to take up a new list of duties, that their new life would have certain challenges, but she could never have foreseen that it would start off with such monumental ones. She pitied Clive not only for losing his father, but also for having to start immediately at the firm, a position he had struggled to accept in the first place and which he had only recently agreed to. He had thought he would have years before having to take over. And, of course, he would have the burden of the grieving Antonia.
Well, thought Henrietta, perhaps she could help with that. She had been surprised upon their arrival that no other guests were in the house and thought to ask Edna about
it when the girl had quietly knocked, eager to begin her duties by helping Henrietta to undress.
Accordingly, while she hung up Henrietta’s dove-gray Piguet traveling suit, Edna explained that John and Agatha Exley had indeed been there almost every day and had in fact just left right before they had driven up. “Likely you might have even seen them on the road, had you a mind to be lookin’ for them,” she said from where she moved now to stand behind the seated Henrietta to unhook her jewelry for her. Edna went on to explain that Mrs. Howard’s relations from New York were due in tomorrow for the funeral and that the house would then be heaving with people. It would be like the wedding all over again, only this time for a sorrowful occasion, she had sadly observed.
“But what about Julia?” Henrietta asked of Edna’s reflection in the mirror of her dressing table. “I’d have thought that she at least would be here.”
As much as Henrietta’s mind was obviously preoccupied with Alcott’s death and the subsequent problems resulting from it, a large part of her was also desperate to speak with Elsie, and she had hoped that Julia might be at Highbury to greet them so that she might have asked her more.
Julia had wired them in New York after they had docked to say that all was well with Elsie and that the crisis had been averted. They had hurried to the Savoy then, where they had planned to wait the several hours until their train to Chicago was scheduled to depart, the Savoy being so much more comfortable, and private, a place to wait than even the first-class lounge at the train station could afford. From there, Clive had been able to place a call to Julia, who had then thankfully been able to relate the little she knew—that she had managed to intercept Elsie before she could carry out her fateful decision to elope with Harrison and that Alcott, through his string of connections, had alerted the major, who in turn had the lieutenant transferred to a remote locale. Henrietta was dying to ask more, but she knew that a long-distance telephone call in a box just off the lobby of the Savoy was not the place for it and that it would have to wait. Instead, she had thanked Julia profusely and taken the opportunity to likewise express her deep sorrow for the loss of Alcott. Julia had gone silent on the line, then, for so many moments in a row that Henrietta was inclined to think they had been disconnected. “Julia?” she had asked. “Are you there?” Julia had come back on then and had replied with what Henrietta could tell was forced cheerfulness, that they would talk when they returned and implored her to give her love to Clive.