A Veil Removed

by Michelle Cox

  Melody and Cynthia having already gone upstairs now, Elsie stepped into Philomena’s foyer and instinctively looked around for Gunther yet again. Why was she always looking for him, expecting him to be close by? she thought, irritated. She supposed it was because she had spent her first weeks here, on and off, with him alone, and it felt odd not to see him about as she had before, running into him occasionally and sharing what they were doing or reading. Though it didn’t make a bit of sense, it had almost felt as if this was their house, that they were the sole occupants and that all of these people coming and going now were merely visitors. And she was of course desperately worried, despite Sr. Bernard’s reassurances, about his injury and how his mother had fared in his absence. Not to mention the cryptic contents of his notebook, which she longed to ask him about. Could he be avoiding her on purpose? she wondered, but she dismissed this as ridiculous. Why would he want to avoid her?

  Sr. Joseph looked up at her and smiled, which prompted an idea to suddenly come into Elsie’s mind. She had resolved not to pester Sr. Bernard anymore with questions about Gunther, but she had made no such resolution regarding the other sisters, she reasoned with herself.

  “Hello, Sister Joseph,” Elsie began. “Have you seen Gunther anywhere?” she asked, in what she hoped was a casual voice.

  “The custodian?” Sr. Joseph asked.

  Elsie nodded.

  “I believe he’s in the kitchen,” Sr. Joseph said, glancing behind her. “Do you need something?”

  “This kitchen?”Elsie asked, not believing that he was so close . . .

  “I believe so. Would you like me to call him?” Sr. Joseph asked kindly.

  “Oh, no, Sister. I’ll just . . . no, that’s all right.”

  Elsie hurried down the hallway toward the kitchen, afraid that she might already have missed him. Quickly, she pushed through the swinging door and felt an oddly warm surge of relief to see him, finally, calmly sitting at the table.

  “Gunther!”

  A small smile crept across his face, but he did not speak.

  “Are you . . . how are you?” she asked, her eyes dropping to his wrist. It was still bandaged, but it looked dirty and frayed, as though it hadn’t been changed in a while. Why hadn’t his mother attended it? Perhaps she was infirm, Elsie suddenly reasoned. That would explain much . . .

  “Better, thank you,” he said, standing up. Slowly he reached for the now familiar notebook that was sitting on the table, Elsie following his movements with her eyes. She wondered what he had written in it since.

  “I haven’t seen you all week! I . . . I wanted to come check on you, but . . . Sister Bernard said you needed rest . . . and I don’t actually know where you live,” she said hurriedly.

  “No, do not concern yourself,” he said earnestly. “You did enough. I . . . I owe you a big debt of thanks, Elsie. Thank you for what you did for me. I am sorry to have been so much trouble. To have spoiled your plans.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I . . . I was happy to . . . I mean, I’m glad I was there to help you. It was actually my fault in a way . . . if I hadn’t insisted on going to the Vigil, then you—”

  “Unsinn! Do not say that. Nothing has been your fault.”

  Elsie didn’t know what to say next. There was much she could ask, but she didn’t know how. Many times since that night in the hospital, she had speculated about who the woman named Anna was. And she had since scoured the library as well, rifling through an old volume of German poets until she had found at least some of the ones Gunther had copied so that she could read them all again. She even knew a few of them by heart now. She wished she could tell him how beautiful she thought they were, but how could she admit she had read his notebook?

  “Thank you for the book,” she said, suddenly inspired. “The Tolstoy book.”

  The strain in his face relaxed. “Ah. Have you read it?” he asked eagerly, as he gripped the back of the chair.

  “Yes, I finished it.”

  “Already?”

  Elsie wasn’t sure what to make of that comment. “Well, it’s not very long. And I’m a fast reader,” she added, a little hurt.

  “No . . . I did not mean. Forgive me. I am still little mixed up on days. Did you . . . did you like it?”

  “I did like it,” she tried to say convincingly.

  In truth, Elsie had liked Family Happiness well enough, but she had been startled by how much of it—the first part, anyway— reminded her of Henrietta’s story, likening Henrietta of course to the fictional young Mashechka who falls in love with the much older Sergei. The two eventually marry, despite Sergei’s misgivings that Masha will soon tire of the quiet, secluded life he desires and will want to explore more of the world, despite her protestations to the contrary. Anxious to keep her happy, Sergei introduces her into society, where Masha indeed shimmers and becomes the darling of the Russian aristocracy.

  After Elsie had returned to Mundelein from her vigil at the hospital with Gunther, she convinced herself that he would not remember much of what she had said to him there in the dark. . . or so she hoped. But at about the halfway point in Family Happiness, she began to uneasily suspect that perhaps he had been cognizant of her words, his choice of story seeming to indicate that he had indeed been aware of all that she had said about her family, though she didn’t remember going this deeply into detail regarding Clive and Henrietta’s relationship. For one thing, she wasn’t privy to it. Thank God she had not mentioned Stanley or Harrison or even Lloyd—though, she uncomfortably remembered, Gunther had already met Lloyd.

  Perhaps it was all merely an odd coincidence, she mused. After all, he had told her that he liked to read the Russians. Well, she had thought, as she had continued turning the pages, if he had chosen this particular story based on her own family, at least it was about Henrietta and not her. And it was odd that it was entitled “family happiness” when her family always seemed anything but happy. Doubtless there was a deeper meaning she hadn’t yet fathomed.

  “Yes? What exactly did you like about it?” he asked her.

  Elsie hesitated. What should she say? “Well, the story reminded me a lot of Henrietta, actually. My sister,” she added when she saw his look of puzzlement.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, rubbing his chin now. “I . . . what else?”

  “I . . . well, I liked the style of writing, I suppose. He reminds me in a way of Dickens.”

  “In what way?” he asked curiously.

  Why was he asking her all these questions? She would rather talk about his poetry or his journal entries. She tried to think of an acceptable answer to his last question. “The way he describes things, I suppose,” she finally answered, hoping to get away with being vague. “But he’s much more poetic, I think, than Dickens, isn’t he? But the . . . the dialogue was sometimes choppy,” she reflected, her brow furrowed as she tried to think back.

  “That is probably the translation. It is not a particularly good one, I am afraid.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Much of what you read depends on how accurate is the translation, Elsie. Remember this,” he said, looking straight into her eyes, as he slowly put the notebook he was still holding into his pocket.

  He knows! she suddenly realized, her heart quickening. He knows that I read it! But how could he? she wondered, allowing herself a moment of hope. No . . . he must know, she quickly countered. Why else would he have said such a thing? She should confess right now and apologize, she knew, but she just couldn’t make herself.

  “I . . .” she began, and though she was looking at the floor, she could feel his eyes on her. She made herself look at him now and was surprised that he did not look angry, exactly, but maybe just sad, or was it fatigue?

  “I . . . I should go,” she muttered, losing courage. “I can see that you’re tired. You should be in bed.”

  “Elsie, I . . .” he began and then stopped, closing his eyes. He had an odd air of defeat about him. “Yes, you must be ti
red too, after your first week,” he said, slowly opening his eyes again. “Are you staying in? Tonight, I mean.”

  “I’m going to study for a bit, and afterwards I promised my mother I would go and see her.”

  Gunther gave a little nod. “I see. Is your—what do you call it?— chauefer? to pick you up?”

  Elsie blushed. “No, I don’t want to bother him. He likes to listen to The Shadow in the evenings. I can’t bear to ask him to come out, especially when it’s so cold. I’m going to take the bus and then walk a little ways. It’s been awhile since I have.”

  “Perhaps I should walk with you,” he suggested. “You should not be out alone at night. We can talk.”

  “About what?” Elsie asked, nervous.

  “About whatever you wish. Family Happiness, maybe. Or you can tell me about your classes, how you find them.” He was looking at her so kindly that she felt an odd desire to embrace him—as a good friend, that is, but she refrained, afraid that it might not be interpreted as such.

  “But what about your hand?”

  “Ach!” he said, holding it up and looking at it as if he had forgotten about his injury. “It is fine. Cold will not hurt it.”

  Elsie hesitated. “Well, maybe for just a little ways,” she said finally. She liked the idea of not walking alone, actually, and maybe she would find the courage somewhere along the way to ask him about Anna and Fraulein Klinkhammer, seeing as he seemed to know she had read his notebook. And then maybe she could ask him about his poems. “I . . . I can’t ask you in, though,” she said quietly, her face feeling exceptionally hot. “When we get there, I mean.”

  “It is fine, yes. I understand. Your mother.”

  So he did remember what she had said, she confirmed, mortified. But why should she feel mortified? she corrected herself. She had said nothing shameful!

  “I will see you later, no?” he asked with a smile. “Go now,” he said, nodding his head toward the stairs.

  Obediently, she made her way up the stairs and reflected on how strange were the methods they had so far employed in revealing a part of themselves to the other—she stealing a glimpse of him from his notebook and he extracting bits of her under the cover of darkness and delirium. She supposed that made them equal somehow and warmed a little at this thought. It made her feel connected to him, as if he were part of her family here now too, along with Melody and Sr. Bernard. He was like . . . a cousin or maybe a brother. Yes, that must be it, she thought contentedly. Like a brother.

  Chapter 19

  “Find anything?” Clive asked, as he opened the drawer of the nightstand next to his father’s bed.

  “Not really,” Henrietta called from the closet, where she listlessly rifled through Alcott’s suits, which still hung neatly in the closet that adjoined the room he had shared with Antonia. “I’m not sure I feel comfortable looking through your father’s things, Clive.”

  “I distinctly remember you saying that you wished to help,” Clive responded, not looking back at her but instead opening up another drawer. “Demanded, I think it was, actually.”

  The swelling in his right eye had finally started to subside, leaving just a deep purplish-yellow smudge beneath it. He had half expected Henrietta to be hysterical when Stan had gone back into the Aragon to fetch her and hurriedly lead her out into the alley where Clive was leaning against a police car, holding a towel against his mouth to stop the blood pouring from his lip. But she hadn’t. He had been impressed that she had kept her head and calmly, albeit shakily, asked Clancy what had happened. And then the next thing he knew, he was being driven to Ravenswood Hospital to be checked over. He attempted to protest, saying he was fine, that he had had worse, but Henrietta took the advice of the officers and insisted. As he suspected, several ribs were cracked. The doctor on call wanted him to be admitted for observation, but Clive refused, so they merely taped his ribs and then reluctantly released him.

  He spent the next day in bed, with Henrietta hovering around him, bringing him ridiculous things like cocoa, when all he really needed was a stiff drink. He was grateful that his mother was not home to see him like this and hoped his eye would heal before she returned.

  With that in mind, he finally dragged himself out of bed on the second day. He needed to act quickly before she returned. As of yet, the only place he had not searched for the missing money—or a hidden account book, a ledger, something!—was in his parents’ room. He had mentioned to Antonia his desire to search through his father’s personal effects on more than one occasion, but she had refused, saying that there was absolutely nothing “hidden” in their room. And just what was he looking for exactly? she had demanded, which prompted Clive to quickly change the subject.

  Still, Clive couldn’t rest until he searched the room, especially in light of what had happened at the Aragon, and now that Antonia was in New York, it was the perfect opportunity. Henrietta tried to keep him in bed, but when he explained the urgency, she reluctantly agreed that they should take advantage of the situation—emphasizing they. Clive did not have the energy to argue, so they both made their way to his mother’s room and slipped inside.

  Much as he hated to admit it, Clive suspected his mother was right. Surely, she would have noticed a large pile of money lying around, an attaché case, a box? He knew how it felt to lose a spouse, endlessly going through all of their things looking for something . . . some last trace of them . . . a note of love perhaps? A treasured token? Some communication written before their death that would magically soothe the raw hurt now felt. He knew his mother had probably been through this room a hundred times by now, and yet he needed to see for himself.

  Unfortunately, he had so far not found anything, and Henrietta was proving to be not so much of a help, not so eager a participant in the snooping as she had first seemed, having spent more time looking at the photographs on his mother’s bureau than actually searching for something.

  “Who’s this?” she asked, holding up one of the photos.

  Clive looked back over his shoulder, squinting to make out the image. He had left the lights switched off, not wanting to attract the servants’ attention, but it made it difficult to see. It was still early afternoon, but the room was dark and gloomy with only a weak January sun to illuminate it.

  “That’s me and Julia and Linley and Wallace outside Linley Castle. Don’t you recognize it?” he asked, turning his attention back to the contents of the drawer he was searching.

  “Linley looks so much like you. You could have been mistaken for brothers,” she mused.

  “Yes, that’s what everyone—”

  “Clive! Did you hear that?” Henrietta interrupted with a whisper, noiselessly setting the photo frame back in place.

  Clive paused where he stood in front of an armoire. It was probably Billings or that idiot Carter, he guessed, who seemed to be perpetually lingering around this wing of the house, like an old dog waiting for his master to return. It was beyond irritating.

  “I think someone’s coming,” Henrietta whispered again.

  Silently, Clive moved to stand in front of her while he swiftly pulled out his revolver, the only sound being the crisp click of the hammer as he cocked it. More than likely, it was one of the servants, but Clive was taking no chances these days. After all, someone in the house had to be communicating with Neptune. Both of them stood, bracing themselves, as they waited for the intruder to come closer.

  Henrietta gasped when the door burst open, and Clive, seeing who it was, let out a deep groan, lowering his gun as he did so.

  “Mother?”

  Antonia indeed stood before them in the doorway. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a shrill voice, looking from one to the other. “Put that silly thing away, Clive.”

  Antonia reached over and switched on the light to observe them more closely. “What are you doing in my room?” she repeated, clearly perturbed.

  Clive sighed. “Mother, I can explain.”

  “Really? Do
try,” she said crisply.

  “Why are you home early? Has something happened?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Clive.”

  “But has something happened?”

  “In New York? No.” Antonia studied Clive. “As it happens, Billings telephoned me to say that you had been in some sort of accident.” Her face looked worried now.

  “It was hardly an accident, Mother. Just a scuffle,” Clive tried to say casually, privately cursing Billings.

  “Is that what you call it? Billings says that the police were involved. Did you not think to telephone me and let me know he was okay?” she asked Henrietta directly now, who had moved from behind Clive.

  “I—” Henrietta began.

  “Mother, there was nothing to tell. I was attacked in an alleyway, but it wasn’t serious. As you can see, I’m fine. I can’t believe you came all the way back from New York for this . . . it’s ludicrous!” he said, his voice rising.

  Antonia stood stiffly observing him before she let out a deep breath, her face crumpling.

  “Oh, Clive,” she said with real anguish. “I couldn’t bear it if I lost you too. I was so very worried. When Billings said it was an accident, I suppose I panicked. He said it wasn’t necessary to come home, but I just couldn’t stay there . . .”

  Clive went to her, then, and embraced her. “Mother, I’m sorry. No real harm has been done. Just some bumps and bruises. Isn’t that so, Henrietta?” he said, glancing over at her for help.

  “Yes, Antonia. Honestly. He was checked over at the hospital. He just needs to rest,” Henrietta said eagerly.

  Antonia allowed Clive to hold her for a few more moments before she gathered herself up and pulled away.