by Michelle Cox
“Anyway, they are all of them there,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the little library at the front of the mansion. “Or at Loyola. They have very big library.”
“I’ll look for them,” she said. Neither of them said anything then, and it suddenly occurred to Elsie that she should go. Her tea was long gone, and though she would have loved to keep talking about books, or anything, really, she worried that she had kept him too long and that he probably still had more shoveling yet to do. She wanted to offer to help him, but she knew it was inappropriate, and that even so, he would probably refuse her help. The scene with Lloyd came back into her mind as she stood up, as if she had somehow been under a sort of spell that was broken now, causing her to once again don her heavy coat of worries.
She walked to the sink to rinse her cup and place it in the waiting enamel tray.
“You . . . you won’t say anything to Sister Bernard, will you?” she asked, looking at the sink.
“Say anything? About what?” he asked.
“You know, about Mr. Aston dropping me off . . . about what he did . . .” she said, still not facing him and feeling her face burn at the memory of his kiss on the doorstep and, worse, at his behavior at the aquarium.
“Are you liking this man?” he asked softly.
“Lloyd?” she asked, turning toward him now. “I mean, Mr. Aston? No, of course I don’t!”
“Then why do you spend time in his company?” he asked.
“I . . . I don’t know, really. My aunt wants me to. So does my grandfather.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s wealthy, I suppose. Powerful. Something like that, anyway.” She attempted a little smile but was unsuccessful.
“And so you are running.”
She looked up at him quickly, shocked by the accuracy of his words.
“There is more than one way of being trapped. This I know of,” he said patiently. “You are pawn in someone else’s game, yes?”
Elsie’s breath caught in her throat. He looked at her expectantly, and all she could do was stare at him before then giving him the slightest of nods.
“You must learn to play this game better than they,” he said gently.
Elsie felt her heart beat a little faster, stunned that Henrietta had said nearly the same thing to her. Perhaps she should tell him about her latest idea to become a nun, she thought, but then changed her mind. No, it was her secret just for now, and she wanted to hold onto it. Besides, being a Lutheran, he probably wouldn’t understand.
“I . . . I should get going I suppose,” she said. “Thank you for the tea . . . and for talking.”
“The way out is that way,” he said nodding toward the front of the mansion.
“Oh, I was hoping to study a bit, if that’s still all right. Or . . . or do you want me to go now?”
“No,” he said, a smile erupting on his face. “I do not wish for you to go. I mean the library. The books. They are your escape.”
She paused, her heart still beating abnormally fast. “What do you mean?”
“They can help you move from one world to another. Even for few hours. This is true, yes?”
Elsie just stared at him, unable to respond, though she desperately wanted to. “I suppose so,” was all she could manage to get out. “Good-night.”
“Good-night, Miss Von Harmon,” he said.
“Can’t you . . . can’t you call me Elsie?”
He looked at her for several long moments before saying, “If you wish, yes. Elsie.”
Elsie hurriedly left the room and made her way into the library, which was dark. She switched on a light, and leaned against a desk, her thoughts swirling. She wondered what Gunther had actually meant by what he had said just now. She had discovered long ago how to use books to escape her reality. And yet, where had that really gotten her, besides giving her a few hours of pleasure? A misguided vision of what love was supposed to be, for one thing. A longing for a Mr. Darcy or a George Knightley, but all she seemed to find in real life were variations of Mr. Wickham and John Willoughby, the worst sort of rogues. And if Gunther had actually been referring to an education as a means of escape, she pondered . . . well, that, too, was limited. Even with an education, she knew she would still be expected to marry—and someone probably not of her own choosing, it was seeming—and to have children, reducing all of her studies to be merely for her own entertainment or perhaps drawing room amusement, not to be put to any real use.
She stood up straight and walked to the wall of books before her, running her finger aimlessly along their spines. No matter which way she looked at it, entering the convent seemed her best option. There was a time when she had envisioned having a family, as she was in truth quite maternal, more so than Henrietta had ever been. Elsie knew that Henrietta had a soft spot for Jimmy, but that was about it. She had always preferred to be out making the money for them, while Elsie had been the one at home with them, caring for them and hearing their little sadnesses and joys. She had always thought that she would make a good mother, but she wasn’t so sure it was worth the current price. Better to not marry at all than to have to settle for second-rate love or “pleasant companionship,” as Aunt Agatha often referred to it, or worse, an abusive husband. As a nun she would be giving up love, yes, and a family, but it would at least be worth something. It was a noble, higher calling, which not even her grandfather would be able to dispute. He wouldn’t dare deny her entrance to Holy Orders, would he? She thought not. And when she became a teacher, her classrooms full of children would be her family, and her lover would be Christ. She would “play the game” for a time, she decided, as both Henrietta and now Gunther were advising her to do, but she only had the courage to do so because she felt she held the trump card, her hand involuntarily moving to the tiny crucifix she had begun to wear around her neck. No, this was the way out; she was certain of it.
Chapter 12
“So I suppose congratulations are in order,” Eugene said, holding up his glass of champagne to the assembled family. “You really did it, eh, Hen? Sorry I wasn’t there for it.”
“Thank you, Eugene,” Henrietta said politely, not failing to notice that though dinner had only just begun, Eugene already appeared a little tipsy. Henrietta had to admit that he cut a very handsome figure in his dress uniform and close-cropped dark hair, weighed down with hair cream and parted severely down the left side of his head. He sported a mustache, or tried to anyway, it being of the rather faint sort, at least so far. He seemed so grown up now, a young man, for all intents and purposes, Henrietta thought. Military school had definitely helped him to mature, to become disciplined. He was able to hold his tongue now. Likewise, he had learned some manners, and his edges had been smoothed out a bit. But though he was so far this evening comporting himself appropriately, Henrietta sensed that an anger still brewed deep within him; he had simply learned to control it better. Or so she hoped.
It was Christmas Eve, and Henrietta and Clive had arrived at the Von Harmon house in Palmer Square not an hour ago, to the great delight of all of the children. Even Ma seemed surprisingly in a happy mood for once. Perhaps it was Eugene being home, or perhaps it was simply the joyousness of the holiday.
Ma had had an argument earlier in the week with the cook—or the chef, rather—in which she insisted that he prepare a simple ham dinner for their Christmas Eve feast and not some “foreign nonsense.” He had balked, of course, saying that he had planned to serve goose, and was so insulted that in the end he had threatened to leave over it. Martha had fired back “good riddance!” and marched out of the kitchen, leaving the chef fuming. He had reportedly kicked the pail in the storage room so hard that it had come unhinged and had stormed out of the house, French expletives flying from his lips. Though it had all the drama of being the end of his tenure there, it proved merely to have been only an interlude, as after several hours, the errant chef returned, wordlessly stepping back into the kitchen and putting his apron back on, smelling o
nly vaguely of alcohol.
In the end, he had agreed to make the offending “ham” dinner, saying that the goose would instead grace the servants’ table, seeing as he had already bought it and had it hanging in the larder. As for the Von Harmons’ feast, he had had the last laugh, as he had retaliated by preparing a whole piglet, rather than just a ham, with his characteristic flair. Martha had been shocked when Karl carried the pig to the table, complete with its head still attached and an apple in its mouth. Martha resolved to fire the chef the very next day, Christmas or no, but when Clive said he was very impressed indeed and that he hadn’t had something this delicious since he had been in Paris several years ago, she was given pause.
At Clive’s mention of Paris, Eugene again perked up. “You wouldn’t believe the talk at Fishburne,” Eugene said, looking around the table eagerly. “My CO says that Hitler passing the Nuremburg Laws is just the first step. He says war is inevitable in Europe.”
Henrietta looked over at him, impressed that he was at all versed in current events. He had never been this way before. They always knew he was clever, but he was usually sullen and withdrawn. This seemed a new creation before her, and she watched him warily.
“Surely that can’t be,” Elsie said, concerned.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Clive?” Eugene asked.
“There have been a lot of grumblings, yes,” Clive said seriously. “I know the English are nervous about Hitler violating the Treaty of Versailles with his new conscription. And it doesn’t look good in Italy and Spain these days. Indeed, Spain seems on the brink of civil war.”
“Well, if there is a war, we won’t be involved again, will we?” Elsie asked.
“I hope so!” Eddie pitched in. “But I hope they hold off until I can go.”
“Edward! Never say that,” Ma reprimanded him, which resulted in him momentarily scowling into his plate.
“Yes, it’s wicked to hope for war, Eddie,” Elsie added.
“Ah, gee,” he said, looking down at his plate now and pushing his food around.
“Don’t be so hard on Eddie,” Eugene said flippantly, leaning back, a wine glass in hand. “I wouldn’t mind giving the Krauts a once-over,” he said, looking at Clive as if for encouragement. “I’ve only a year left at Fishburne, and then I’m joining up. I’ll be a first lieutenant before long.”
“Eugene!” Ma said. “How can you say that? You don’t want to be a soldier, do you?”
“Can’t stop me, Ma,” he said wryly.
“Why can’t I go to Fishburne like Gene?” Eddie interrupted. “I’d rather go there than Phillips Exeter any day.”
“Now you’re talking, Eddie. Phillips is a waste of time. Maybe I should have a word with Gramps,” Eugene offered with a little laugh.
“Never refer to my father as ‘Gramps,’” Ma said stiffly.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate anything, Eugene,” Henrietta put in quietly, noting that Herbie, meanwhile, had said very little. She knew he did not want to go anywhere at all, and her heart went out to him and Jimmy, who was also listening with wide eyes.
“Yes, and don’t be in haste to be in the fray,” Clive advised, shooting Eugene a glance.
“No disrespect, Clive, but it would be different this time. At least that’s what Colonel Ferguson says. No saps stuck in a muddy trench waiting for the whistle to go over the top. New technologies coming out all the time. You should see the planes we’ve got now. Tanks too! Better guns, ships,” he said, his excitement growing. “It would be over before you know it. And we’d show the Krauts a thing or two. Teach them to stay in line. That’s what they need.”
“You’re forgetting, though, Eugene, that the Germans and the Soviets more than likely have the very same technology,” he said steadily. “It wouldn’t be over quickly, I’m sure. Every generation makes that mistake in thinking.”
Eugene let out a little laugh. “I doubt it, Clive! Again, no disrespect, but you’ve been out of it for a while. Things are different. We’d lick ’em quick. And they deserve it!”
Clive felt himself bristle, but he kept it in check. He had seen Eugene’s reaction to war a hundred times before. He had lived it. His generation had been full of cocky pups, too, wanting to taste blood and thinking it was all going to be a lark. As much as he wished Eugene to learn a lesson and come down a peg, he did not wish the gruesome-ness of war on anyone. He hated to think what another world war would mean.
“Perhaps we should change the subject, eh?” Clive said, forcing himself to be congenial. “This is not the topic for Christmas Eve! Doris,” he said looking down the table toward where the twins sat, boosted on a stack of books, “what are you hoping for from Santa Claus?” He gave her a wink, and she smiled shyly. She seemed afraid to answer.
“She wants a dolly,” Donny answered for her. “Don’t you, Dowis?” he asked her, and she nodded to him. “And I want a twain!” Donny said, excitedly.
Clive smiled, and he felt Henrietta grasp his hand under the table. “How about you, Jimmy?” he asked, as he threaded his fingers through Henrietta’s.
Jimmy shrugged with a lopsided grin. “I don’t know,” he said tentatively. “I want to be surprised!”
“Well,” said Henrietta, “I hope you like what we got you!”
“Oh, Ma!” Jimmy whined, looking down the table at her. “Can’t we open presents now? I don’t want any more dinner!”
“Yes, can we? Can we?” exclaimed Doris and Donny, wriggling in their chairs so much that the towers of books upon which they sat threatened to topple.
“Not until after dessert,” she shushed them and signaled Karl to bring it in, which turned out to be what the chef had instructed Karl to announce as “bouche de Noel,” or “a Yule log,” he said deferentially to Mrs. Von Harmon. It looked decidedly unappetizing, causing several shrieks and much giggling from the children before it was cut into and distributed and discovered, to their delight, to be really made of chocolate sponge cake and cream.
Finally, it was time to adjourn to the parlor where presents were orderly passed out but then wildly opened. Even Ma actually laughed, either due to the occasion or to the several glasses of sherry she had already consumed. Henrietta, a bit on edge through the whole of dinner, also began to relax a little. She hadn’t been sure how the evening was going to unfold with Ma and Eugene in the same room and had feared what Clive might have to witness. She adored him for the effort he was putting in to try to be one of the family and felt that it was the best present he could have given her. And to her great relief, everyone seemed to be so far behaving. There was only Elsie’s odd request for a prayer before dinner had begun, which was awkward, as they were not, if truth be told, in the habit of regularly doing so.
Several times Henrietta had caught Elsie’s eye and smiled. She had not had any time alone with her to ask about her studies, not wanting to bring it up at dinner in front of Ma, but Elsie seemed happy, if not a little quiet. Perhaps she was reflecting, Henrietta mused, as she herself was, on how different this Christmas was than all the other sad ones that had come before.
Everyone seemed pleased with the gifts Henrietta and Clive had brought, the wind-up tin racing cars they had given Jimmy being a favorite, even Herbie and Eddie begging to have a turn with them. Ma, too, seemed genuinely happy with the faux-fur lap rug they had given her. Henrietta watched excitedly as Elsie opened her tiny package. Elsie, her face flushed, predictably exclaimed over the contents, though to Henrietta’s ears, her reaction seemed feigned.
“They’re clips, Elsie,” Henrietta explained as Elsie held the pearl earrings in her hand. “Pearls are so versatile; I thought for sure you’d like them . . .”
“Oh, I do, Henrietta! And Clive!” Elsie said eagerly. “Honestly. I . . . I’m just not sure I’ll have the opportunity to really use them in the future . . .”
Henrietta let out a little laugh. “Of course you will!”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Elsie added wit
h what seemed a false smile. “How silly of me.”
Henrietta was surprised by Ma’s gift to her—a tiny book of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poems, written in beautiful calligra-phy—which suggested it had perhaps been purchased with Elsie’s help. Clive, in turn, had been given a very good fountain pen, which also seemed to have Elsie’s touch upon it.
The presents finished now, Eddie proposed a game of charades, and they all joined in, even Clive, to Henrietta’s delight. He claimed to have never played such a game and laughed along with all of them when he had to act out Don Quixote. Eventually this broke up, too, when Herbie unearthed a Christmas record—Gene Autry’s “Here Comes Santa Claus”—and put it on the Victrola, which only served to excite the children all the more. It was played a full three times before chaos inevitably broke out, and they began racing through the house with their new toys. Henrietta felt this was their cue to leave, not wanting Clive to have to endure any more than he already had, though in truth, he seemed amused by it all.
Stiffly, they rose to go, to the sad exclamations of Donny and Doris, who begged for them to stay just a little longer. When Henrietta reminded them that Santa Claus could not come until they were sleeping, their wails ended, and they raced each other to the foyer. Jimmy ran, too, but instead of passing them, he slowed and slipped his hand in Clive’s, the sight of which caused Henrietta’s breath to catch in her throat. She didn’t know which was sadder, the fatherless Jimmy or the childless Clive.
Elsie interrupted her in these thoughts, however, by slipping her arm through hers. Henrietta looked over at her. “We didn’t get any time to talk,” she said to her sister. “Everything all right?”
Elsie squeezed her arm. “Yes. I got the letter yesterday. Sister Bernard has accepted me,” she whispered excitedly.
“Oh, Elsie! I’m so glad for you. Why didn’t you say? We should have celebrated.”
“No!” Elsie whispered urgently. “Not tonight. I don’t want to upset Ma. She’s in such a rare happy mood. But I just had to tell someone.”