by Michelle Cox
“She’s been here every day too, miss . . . I mean, madam,” Edna murmured with a blush. “She wanted Mr. Clive . . . I mean, Mr. Howard . . . sorry, madam . . . to have some time alone with Mrs. Howard . . . with his mother, that is . . .” she fumbled, laying out Henrietta’s robe. “Oh!” she said then, turning back toward her. “I nearly forgot! Mrs. Cunningham wanted me to give you this.” She drew a note out of her dress pocket—no longer required to wear an apron now as a lady’s maid—and handed it to Henrietta. It smelled distinctly of lavender. Henrietta opened and quickly skimmed it, and seeing that it contained nothing disastrous, she folded it and put it on the side of her dressing table to be read more thoroughly later.
“Thank you, Edna. I think that will be all.”
Before her marriage to Clive, when she had been just a guest at Highbury, Henrietta had often surreptitiously enjoyed helping Edna with her household chores behind the backs of the watchful, disapproving Billings and Mrs. Caldwell, the housekeeper, and had indeed fancied the two of them as friends, despite Edna’s protests, stating the obvious difference in their class. Henrietta, however, a working girl herself before Clive had met and fallen in love with her, had been loath to elevate herself above Edna, or any of the servants, much to Mrs. Howard’s despair and repeated scolding. Like errant school children, she and Clive had likewise refused to take a valet and a lady’s maid on their honeymoon, further adding to Mrs. Howard’s annoyance.
As it turned out, they had been assigned, as a matter of course, personal servants from among the staff at Castle Linley, the Howards’ ancestral home, for the duration of their stay there. So it was at Castle Linley that Henrietta had really grown accustomed to servants (and demure ones, at that!), whether she liked it or not, and had dutifully played the part of the lady, if nothing else to avoid embarrassment, if not for herself than for her new husband, whom she was determined not to shame if she could possibly help it.
That experience, plus the resultant weight of Alcott’s death and Clive’s subsequent retreat into himself, forced Henrietta to give up any previous childish notions about being on familiar terms with the servants. She had no time for such silly antics now. Thus she found herself acting accordingly, but not unkindly, toward Edna, who seemed also to sense the change in Henrietta and was trying to feel her way through to whatever their new relationship would be. Henrietta felt a sort of kinship with Edna, however, more than the other servants, not only because she had once tried to befriend her, but because she had sorely misjudged Edna’s romantic attachment to Virgil Higgins, one of the estate’s gardeners, during the whole sordid Jack Fletcher affair. Henrietta was therefore happy that Edna had been assigned to her as a lady’s maid, but she saw this as horribly out of date and had other ideas of how she might use Edna’s services, but those would have to wait.
When Edna finally left her for the evening, assured that Henrietta had positively everything she needed, Henrietta sat in one of the armchairs to read Julia’s note more thoroughly:
Dearest, Henrietta,
I know you will of course be frantically worried about dear Elsie. Rest assured that she is safe. Thanks to Father alerting the major, I am quite convinced that the lieutenant will not be interfering with Elsie again. It was perhaps Father’s last beneficent act before his accident, and I am touched that it was in your sister’s service. That will always be a comfort to me. We can discuss the details of the sordid affair, if you wish it, at a later date, but I will leave that for your contemplation and initiation.
There is one small point of consideration, however, that I feel obliged to relate, though it is only my humble opinion and nothing else, so you may do with it what you will. While I feel quite assured that Elsie is safe from any physical harm or secret trysts by the hand of Lieutenant Barnes-Smith, she may be, dare I say, still in danger of the heart.
It became apparent to me during her short respite with us, that while we see the lieutenant for the wretch that he is, Elsie, though she tries to hide it, is still quite attached to him and indeed fancies herself still in love. Knowing Elsie the way that I’m sure you do, this is probably not any great surprise. Therefore, bearing that in mind, it has occurred to me that poor Elsie would be greatly aided by some sort of occupation to settle her addled spirits beyond merely being the current plaything of John and Agatha Exley. Might she not be encouraged to study, for example? To take up classes at some nearby women’s college? There is a new one, Mundelein College, just by Loyola, near the lake in Roger’s Park. I am told that it is run by the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary, so I am sure it is respectable. I have no idea if this would appeal to Elsie, or if your grandfather would even allow it, but surely you can put your lovely charms to use, should you think it an appropriate proposal. But I will leave this with you for your deliberation.
I only meant this to be a hurried note, so I will close now. I am quite downcast, of course, regarding Father, but mostly, if I am honest, as to how it relates to poor Mother and of course to Clive, whose every fiber, I daresay, rebels against the thought of taking up Father’s position at the firm. Truly I am sorry for him, but I am confident he will find a way, as he always does, especially with so lovely and devoted a helpmate by his side. How Mother will cope, I cannot say.
Know that I am well. Give my love to Clive, and I eagerly look forward to seeing you very soon, despite the very sad circumstances in which we find ourselves.
Your loving sister, Julia
Henrietta set the note aside, touched that Julia had called herself her sister and missing her all the more. She took up the note again and reread it. Elsie go to college? It was an interesting idea, one that had never occurred to her, she thought guiltily, but one which seemed to grow on her as she sat and mulled it over, the premise of Gaudy Night not far from her mind. Why not? she mused. It was a wonderful idea, actually. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She supposed it was because she had been so busy with Clive and Highbury and wedding plans and a myriad of other things, to notice what had been going on in Elsie’s life, blaming herself for the hundredth time.
She assumed that her grandfather, the domineering Oldrich Exley, still intended to execute his plan to send the boys away to Phillips Exeter after Christmas, despite Alcott’s death. After all, what would Mr. Howard’s death matter to her grandfather’s schemes? And if the boys were gone, why should poor Elsie be left to mope around the Palmer Square house? No wonder she had become entangled with Barnes-Smith! Ma would fume, Henrietta expected, but what difference would that make? Ma was determined, it seemed, to be perpetually miserable; so be it, Henrietta thought bitterly. As far as she knew, Ma still did not know of the plan regarding the boys, only Clive (and therefore she) and Alcott having been privy to it. Henrietta wondered when her grandfather intended to unveil it to the family as a whole.
The more Henrietta dwelt on this new possibility for Elsie, the more excited she became. It was a bright spot on an otherwise bleak landscape. She assumed Grandfather would be against the idea, as no doubt he would see no point in educating women, especially when he had other plans for Elsie. He had made it quite clear that Elsie was to make a brilliant match with some eminently suitable young man from the North Shore or possibly New York as a means of elevating the Exleys even higher up the social ladder. But what no one dared to voice aloud in this whole scheme of her grandfather’s was whether or not Elsie was really capable of snagging a rich husband from the North Shore.
Henrietta loved her sister dearly, but Elsie, with her big-boned frame and dull, brown hair was only mildly attractive at best. A new hairstyle and fashionable clothes had gone a long way in enhancing her attractiveness, but Elsie had a way of carrying herself that belied her self-consciousness even still. She seemed never at her ease unless curled up in an armchair somewhere reading. Henrietta had seen her share of unattractive women win handsome, rich men, but usually it was because they had a certain flair to them, as if they knew they had certain physical deficiencies but managed to make it a
ppear as though they didn’t, laughing and flirting and cooing with the best of them. Henrietta had herself learned that a display of confidence was everything, whether as a poor taxi dancer or a society woman of the North Shore, and it was a skill in which poor Elsie was decidedly lacking. However, Henrietta was beginning to see that Oldrich Exley was a very ambitious man and usually got his way in most things.
Well, Henrietta thought, she would see about all of that. She wasn’t afraid of her grandfather, she liked to think, and, anyway, as Mrs. Howard now, she had her own supply of wealth, if it came to that. If nothing else, she determined, she would pay for Elsie’s tuition herself if her grandfather refused!
Henrietta yawned and glanced at the rococo clock on the writing desk, squinting in the dim light to make out the time. Was it really past midnight? She stood up and decided to take up her vigil in bed. She untied her silk dressing gown, and placed it on the end of the bed, and slipped beneath the heavy blankets. Valiantly, she tried to remain awake, but she slipped into a doze every so often, her many thoughts begging for priority in her mind.
After about an hour of fitful rest, she felt Clive slip into the bed beside her. She hadn’t heard him come in.
“How is she?” she whispered to him.
“You’re awake?” he whispered back, sounding grateful and surprised.
“Of course, I am. I’m worried about you.”
She reached out her hand and ran her fingers through the hair on his temple. Though the room was lit only by the light of the fire, she saw his eyes close at her touch and heard him take in a deep breath. They lay facing each other. Under the covers, Clive put his hand on the swell of her hip. “Henrietta . . .” he said hoarsely.
He had not touched her once since he had received the telegram regarding Alcott’s death. Night after night she had lain beside him in their luxury state room on the Queen Mary, but he had not reached for her, and she did not know if she should approach him. Until they had received that fateful telegram at Castle Linley, they had made love every single day of their honeymoon, sometimes more than once in fact, except for the one night they had quarreled. How silly all of that seemed now.
Henrietta could sense his deep need and obvious struggle. Why did he hold himself from her? His hand on her hip here in the dark was the closest he had gotten to her. Her heart beginning to beat a little faster, she resolved to try to make it easy for him. Tentatively, she rubbed the back of her fingers along his cheek, the stubble on it thick after the long day. She leaned forward and kissed his lips, allowing her fingertips to drop hesitantly to his chest. He did not respond to her kiss, but neither did he pull away, so she inched herself closer to him and kissed him again, this time deeply. She felt him tense as he lay there stiffly on his side, allowing her to caress his lips, but still he remained rigid. She put one hand on his back, hesitating there for several moments before allowing it to drop lower until it brushed against his buttocks, causing a swift intake of breath on his part.
Encouraged, Henrietta kissed him on the base of the neck, her tongue exploring, and continued to distribute her kisses, moving to his chest and inching her way down until she heard him groan, the first sign of life she had detected in these many weeks. To her delight, his resurrection continued with him reaching for her breasts, softly stroking them through the cotton of her nightgown, as he gazed into her eyes. He leaned toward her now and kissed her lips. He was tender at first, reluctant, just barely brushing his lips against hers, until his passion seemed to ignite, and he returned her kisses fully. A corresponding flush of excitement coursed through her.
Suddenly, however, he stopped and pulled himself abruptly away.
“No, this is wrong,” he panted. “We shouldn’t be doing this. My father’s funeral is tomorrow!” he said, almost angrily, rolling over onto the pillows and throwing his arm across his forehead.
Henrietta, her own breath coming rapidly, raised up on her elbow to look at him. “Clive, it isn’t wrong. I’m your wife. Let me comfort you,” she said, tentatively running her fingers along his cheek again. “How long do you plan to remain celibate? Surely this is not what your father would have wanted.”
He remained unmoving, however, and after looking at him for several moments, she bent forward and kissed his shoulder nearest her. “Make love to me,” she whispered in his ear. “Please.” She had never been this daring. “I need you,” she said, placing her hands on his chest and allowing her fingertips to wander. Slowly, she let her hand roam lower until she felt him tremble and a deep groan escape.
Swiftly, he rolled over and lay on top of her, the weight of him so welcome. He began kissing her again, tenderly at first but then more fiercely, as if he were beginning to lose control. Roughly, he tugged her nightgown up and fitted himself between her legs as she quickly opened up to him. He had never been this way with her, and though it startled her, she was aroused just the same. She gasped as she felt him enter her. He began to thrust, kissing her neck, her ear, and finally moving back to her lips. She wrapped her arms around him, clenching his back and feeling his muscles ripple. He paused only once to deftly pull her nightgown over her head, releasing her full breasts, which he bent to kiss. She groaned, her breath coming in short bursts.
“Henrietta,” he said huskily after only a few moments. “I . . . I can’t wait . . .”
“No,” she panted. “Don’t stop . . .”
With one last kiss of her breasts, his rhythmic thrusts increased, overwhelming her with pleasure until she felt him shudder violently, filling her completely. Henrietta, her hands still on his scarred back, covered now in a thin sheen of sweat, felt herself climax then, too, an explosion of light erupting in her mind as she cried out from under him, her body taut and pulsing.
When her own shuddering finally stopped, gently and gradually, like a wave slowly rolling back, he softly kissed her lips and her neck and finally her shoulder until he rolled off and collapsed beside her, breathing deeply.
Henrietta lay cradled in his shoulder, basking in her love for him.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, not looking at her.
“You could never hurt me, Clive.”
He turned to her, then, and began to rub his fingers along her shoulder and down her arm. She looked up at him and saw the deep ache in his eyes. On their honeymoon it had been she who had often cried after their lovemaking, but tonight, she saw, it was him.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too, Inspector,” she answered, nestling closer to him, grateful that he had at last come back to her. She had missed him.
Chapter 3
The funeral mass for the honorable Alcott Linley Fitzwilliam Howard was held on November 18, 1935 at Sacred Heart Church in Winnetka, followed by a small reception to be given at Highbury. He had been baptized in the Anglican church of course, but he had taken Antonia’s faith before their marriage; hence he was buried with the full rites of the Catholic Church.
Elsie was amazed at how many people had come to pay their last respects. The Von Harmons had barely found a pew all the way in the back, having arrived several minutes after the mass had begun, which caused Elsie further despair than what she already felt. It had been Ma’s fault, of course, that they were late. She had had another one of her nervous spells and had tried to declare that she wasn’t well enough to go. Elsie had quickly fetched her pills and administered one and said that of course she had to go, there was no time to change her mind now—the cars were already out there, for heaven’s sake! Ironically, the scolding she gave Ma could have easily applied to herself as well, as she had been sorely tempted to claim to be ill, too. But someone, she knew, had to rise to the occasion of organizing them all, and she knew it certainly wouldn’t be Ma. She would just have to try to fill Henrietta’s shoes as best she could.
Eventually Elsie had managed to corral all of them into the Packard, which Karl commandeered, and the additional car that her grandfather had arranged and sent over in order to fit them all
respectably. Elsie dreaded going into public, imagining that the whole of Palmer Square and the North Shore knew of her shameful sins. It was all she could do to walk into the packed church and be escorted—late!—by one of the ushers to one of the few empty pews in the back. Luckily the situation called for a bowed head, as Elsie doubted she would have had the strength to hold it up anyway.
After arranging Donny and Doris on either side of her and unbuttoning their matching black Rothschild coats, she picked up her hymnal. After a few minutes of skimming along, not really focusing on the words before her on the page, Elsie could not help but raise her eyes and eagerly search the crowd for Henrietta. Eventually, she spotted her. If she leaned to the right, she could just barely make her out through the crowd. She was in the first pew, of course, standing erect, next to Clive. She thought she caught a glimpse of Julia and Randolph, as well, but did not see Mrs. Howard until she went up for communion. She was there, kneeling stiffly next to Clive, her face resolute and ashen.
The Exleys were there, of course, including Grandfather, and though she could have been mistaken, she thought for sure that he looked at her with more than his usual severity. Did he somehow know? she wondered, the turmoil in her stomach increasing. No, she told herself; she was letting her fears run away with her, and she tried harder to focus on her prayers. But she no longer knew what to pray for, at least regarding herself, so she instead prayed for Clive and Henrietta, and Julia, and Mrs. Howard, of course. Then she prayed for her own little family assembled around her, especially Ma, that she might be happy someday. She even offered up a little prayer for Stanley and, truth be told, Harrison, wherever he was, and wiped away a tear.