by Michelle Cox
“Ach. Elsie. Do you really believe that?”
“Well, yes. I think so, anyway.”
“You must have been hurt very deep to feel and say these things,” he said quietly. “Yes?”
Elsie felt in real danger of crying then, and her throat felt so tight she could not speak. Instead, she merely gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Both of them jumped when they heard a creak on the stairs and a familiar voice call out, “Elsie?”
Sr. Bernard’s towering figure filled the doorway suddenly, her eyes taking in the scene before her, Gunther pulling back the hand that had somehow been holding Elsie’s arm. She looked at Elsie’s tear-stained face and then back at Gunther.
“Gunther, I asked you to bring Miss Von Harmon downstairs,” she said sternly. “Elsie,” she went on, “you have a visitor below. Shall I tell him you are unwell?”
“No, Sister,” Elsie said, hurriedly taking a handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her face. It was the same handkerchief she had used to try to stop Gunther’s blood from flowing on New Year’s Eve. She had since washed and ironed it and had been carrying it around in her pocket, waiting for a chance to return it to him. No, I’ll come down,” she said quietly. “Here,” she said, placing the handkerchief in Gunther’s hand, “this is yours.”
The sight of Lloyd Aston pacing in the foyer below caused Elsie’s breath to again come rapidly as she timidly walked down the stairs toward him. She gripped the beautifully carved wooden railing as she went and tried to calm herself down, her mind reeling after the interlude with Gunther. She could barely make sense of everything they had said to each other, but she couldn’t think about it now. Her stomach clenched at the thought of confronting Lloyd. In truth, she was a bit afraid of him, but why? It’s not as if he had really done anything to her . . . not like Harrison, anyway, and yet she wondered if she might be confusing the two of them in her mind. It would certainly explain the nightmares she was having lately, all of them seeming to involve Harrison. In them, she was either running from him or she had died and they were burying her, except that she wasn’t really dead. But she could never open her mouth to tell them. In one of them, Stanley had even appeared, asking her why she hadn’t told them she was dead and blaming her for everyone being all confused now, saying that flowers had already been ordered and yet here she was, apparently alive.
“There you are!” Lloyd exclaimed, noticing her now as she came down the stairs. He had a smile on his face for a fraction of an instant before it soured. “Why aren’t you dressed?” he asked, glancing at his wristwatch. “We’re going to be terribly late!”
“I’m sorry, Lloyd,” Elsie said, wringing her hands. Sr. Bernard, having followed her down, slipped behind her and resumed her post, unfortunately not far from where they stood. “I . . . I must have forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” Lloyd asked derisively. “Didn’t your aunt tell you? I tried telephoning you half a dozen times, but no one ever answered,” he said, shooting Sr. Bernard a reproachful glance, which, Elsie was glad to observe, seemed to go unnoticed.
“It’s bad enough you weren’t at the New Year’s Eve ball, but now this? It’s outrageous!”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” Elsie said. “I’ve been busy, you see—”
“Stop blabbering! Go up and get dressed,” he said, waving his hand toward the stairs. “I’ll wait. We’ll miss the first act, but that’s not always such a bad thing. Dreadfully dull. No one of any note shows up before the second act, anyway. I had hoped to go somewhere else beforehand, but no matter; we can go after, I suppose. Go on,” he urged.
Elsie, her heart beating very hard in her chest, was unsure of what to do next and felt herself dangerously waver. She was mortified to be the center of attention in this way, knowing that Sr. Bernard and Gunther, as well—she could sense that he was standing silently, like a statue, at the top of the stairs—were listening to their every word. It would, perhaps, be easiest if she just gave in and went with Lloyd as he wished and not cause any more fuss, especially as she knew the ramifications of not going would be terrible to endure. But not going to see Ma would be terrible, too, she tried to tell herself, though a part of her knew that some of her hesitation also had to do with not wanting to disappoint Gunther. To look weak in his eyes. Oh, how had she gotten herself in the middle yet again!
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Lloyd quipped.
Something inside of Elsie seemed to crack, then—just a tiny fissure—and she knew that she couldn’t make herself go with him, however horrible the consequence would be. It wasn’t just a matter of weighing Ma and Gunther’s disappointment to be greater than Lloyd’s and Aunt Agatha’s, not to mention Grandfather’s, that had forced her decision to be such, but it was down to something deeper still. Something Gunther had said about choosing for herself that lingered in her mind and which she clung to. In truth, she didn’t want to sit alone in a dark opera box with this man—with any man, actu-ally—ever again. She had chosen her path, the path of Holy Orders, and it was ridiculous and cowardly that she continued with this pretense. She should have written to Grandfather long before now, she chastised herself, and resolved to do so first thing in the morning. Until, then, however, she had to find a way out of tonight. She would simply have to tell Lloyd that she would not be accompanying him. She took a deep, slow breath and tried to calm her racing heart.
“Mr. Aston . . . Lloyd . . . I’m awfully sorry,” she began, faltering slightly, “but I don’t think I can go with you tonight, after all. I’ve made other plans, you see,” she went on, haltingly. “I’m very sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.”
“What other plans?” he asked, and his eyes alighted on Gunther, who was slowly descending now.
“I’ve got to go see my mother,” Elsie answered.
“Your mother?” Lloyd scoffed. “That’s rich. So go see her tomorrow.”
“She’s . . . she’s not well,” Elsie stammered.
Lloyd startled her by letting out a little chuckle. “Elsie, my dear, you’ll eventually have to come up with some other excuse besides illness. Usually, it’s you who portends to be ill, but now you’re drawing other people into your circle of contagion. It’s becoming tiresome in the extreme. Not to mention unconvincing.”
“Lloyd, I—”
“Listen, Elsie,” he said, annoyed now, “I’m done playing around. I was hoping to do this later, but I have something very particular I’d like to say to you. To ask, that is. In private,” he said, glancing again toward where Sr. Bernard sat.
“No, Lloyd,” Elsie said, panicking, “that isn’t necessary,” she said, also glancing over at Sr. Bernard, who maddeningly did not look up.
“I positively insist, Miss Von Harmon. You owe me that much,” Lloyd said bitterly.
Elsie stared at him, knowing he wasn’t going to leave until she had heard him out.
“Very well,” Elsie said resolutely, swallowing hard, her stomach clenching again. She could guess what “question” Lloyd meant to ask her. How had things progressed this quickly? She had hoped to avoid this situation by writing several letters in the morning, thereby ending Lloyd’s attentions and those of any others that Aunt Agatha meant to throw at her. But it was too late for that. She would simply have to endure and then refuse what was sure to be his proposal.
“Here,” she said, gesturing toward the parlor. “We can talk in there.”
Lloyd nodded curtly and strode in ahead of her, grasping his lapels as he did so. As she moved to follow, she perceived the slightest movement behind her, accompanied by a small cough, and turned to see Gunther. She hadn’t realized that he had been standing so very near to her during the last part of her exchange with Lloyd. He reached out his hand toward her, but before he could touch her, he pulled it back.
“Elsie,” he whispered. “Please . . .”
Elsie could see the concern on his face and found it touching. She wanted to say something to comfort him, to explain what she was a
bout to do and that she had it in hand, but all she could manage was an unconvincing little smile before she turned and followed Lloyd into the parlor and shut the door.
The room itself was dim. Just a few of the lamps had been lit, and the fire was low. Lloyd was standing in front of the fireplace with his back to her, but when she entered, he turned to her, coolly assessing her as he looked her over. She halted under his scrutiny, unable to go any farther. She knew what was coming, but why? She knew her limitations in terms of physical beauty, and the two of them had never had a conversation deeper than the weather or the scores at Arlington, Lloyd having more than a little interest for horse racing. They were so obviously unsuited that she might be tempted to laugh if it weren’t so depressing and frightening, actually. They were both obviously ruled by powers stronger than themselves. What else would motivate a man like Lloyd Aston to take this sort of step with a girl like her? Why couldn’t she just be left alone?
He gestured for her to come and stand before him. “Come, come. Don’t be shy,” he said with a smirk. Elsie made her legs move until she was awkwardly standing in front of him. He gestured toward the sofa upon which she had, earlier today, sat with Melody. That frivolous episode seemed ages ago, Elsie reflected sadly. She felt a chill, despite the fire, and wished she had brought down her cardigan. She wrapped her arms protectively around herself.
“I . . . I think I’ll stand,” she answered softly, rounding her shoulders and waiting for the blow.
Lloyd, still assessing her, extracted a silver cigarette case from inside his jacket pocket and flipped it open. “Listen, Elsie, let’s be frank, shall we?” he said, tapping a cigarette on the case, his eyebrow arched as he studied her.
“If you wish,” she said quietly, glancing at the fire.
“I expressly asked you to come out with me tonight, as I had something I very much wanted to ask you.”
“Yes, so you said before, but—”
“Hear me out,” he said, lighting his cigarette now and inhaling deeply. His nostrils flared as a resultant thick cloud poured through them. “I’m to ask you to marry me. Father’s wishes. So how about it?” he asked casually through narrowed eyes due to the smoke.
“Oh . . .” Elsie said biting her lip. Though she had guessed that he meant to propose to her, she was nonetheless a bit taken aback by the cavalier nature of its delivery. And yet, what had she been expecting? Roses and poetry? Wild, albeit false, declarations of love? It was better this way, was it not? she tried to tell herself. To approach it for what it was—little more than a business transaction. She supposed she should be grateful to Lloyd for treating it as such, but she found— to her extreme annoyance—that even still, two small tears appeared, unbidden and unexpected, in the corners of her eyes.
Quickly she tried to whisk them away with just her fingertips as she sadly wondered if every marriage proposal that came her way was to be so utterly mean. Was she worth so little? Stan had not really uttered the words to her, but merely hinted that they might be forthcoming, though he had been eager to speak of their future together. And Harrison’s had been in the heat of the moment, during the act of love itself, and while she had at first convinced herself that it revealed his deep feeling and passion, she had recently had to admit that it was merely his attempt to trap her. Well, she tried to console herself, this proposal would be the last she would ever receive. This was the last time she would put herself in this position, she thought bitterly, though, in truth, she countered, she had not put herself in it at all— this had been Aunt Agatha and Grandfather’s doing. After tonight, she resolved, she really would publicly announce her desire to join the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and then maybe she would blessedly be left alone.
“May I take your silence and quaint display of emotion as a yes?” Lloyd said, a slight smirk on his face as he inhaled again.
“I . . . No! Lloyd, I . . . I think there’s been some mistake.”
“Mistake? Not at all.”
“But I don’t—”
“Love me? Of course you don’t. Why should you? Neither do I love you, but that should hardly stop us,” he said casually.
Elsie let a small gasp escape. To say the truth so blatantly . . .
“Consider it a marriage of convenience, if you will,” he went on. “You’d be quite free to do as you wished, as long as you played hostess now and again to the extravagant parties I’ve become so frightfully attached to. Eventually you’d have to produce a brat or two, to please Mama, of course, but it doesn’t have to be right away. There are ways around it. One of them being that we abstain altogether, which would be fine by me. I don’t find you terribly attractive, and from your reactions to my advances, I suspect you don’t find me so either. So you see, it’s perfect, really. We can get the codgers off our backs and go about our business just as we have been. You can continue your . . . efforts here . . . if you really want to,” he said, looking around the room dismally . . . “and I’ll pursue my efforts at the track and with certain lady friends of my acquaintance. What do you say?”
Elsie just stared at him, her mind a speechless blank. Surely he wasn’t serious, was he? She had told herself that it was a business transaction, but his brutal candor was difficult to take in.
“But . . . but why me?”
Lloyd laughed. “Surely you’re not that naïve, are you?”
“But . . . but you said you didn’t need my money,” Elsie said hesitatingly.
“Turns out I do, apparently,” he said, walking about the room now. “Funny how the threat of being cut off from one’s allowance can alter one’s feelings—the deeper sort, anyway.”
“But there must be another girl with money whom you like better than me,” Elsie tried to argue.
Lloyd inhaled again and shrugged. “Quite,” he said, exhaling. “There are several women I like more than you, to be exact, but Father’s being really rather insistent. Your grandfather, you see, is dangling a very large carrot, one my father feels he simply must get hold of, so I am to be the sacrificial lamb,” he said, spreading his hands wide in a flippant manner. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t fall in love with someone else,” he drawled, as his eyes darted ever so briefly toward the foyer and then back to Elsie. “I’d be a terrifically forgiving husband . . . if you returned the favor, that is. But, of course, I’d want my turn now and again,” he said, grinning. “You know, to produce the brats. So, what do you say? Come on, Elsie,” he said, flicking his ash into an ashtray. “This is becoming a bore now.”
Elsie stared at him, repulsed and saddened to her core. How could she ever pledge herself to one such as this? Her old feelings of panic were fighting their way up her chest, but she managed to push them down. She didn’t have to give in, she reminded herself.
“Are these the words of a gentleman?” she asked quietly, borrowing in her distress from Jane Austen. It was all she could think of. “Is this how you would propose to me?” she asked, gaining a shard of confidence from them.
“Really, Elsie. How droll,” he said, a wicked grin still on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re holding out for love or some other such nonsense,” he said with a little laugh.
“I’ll never marry you, Lloyd Aston,” she said, her voice becoming stronger. “You . . . you thoroughly repulse me!” she said and took a hesitant step back, astonished by what had just come out of her mouth.
At her bold words, Lloyd’s previously amused, flippant face grew taut and fierce. He was angry now, she could see, as he took a step closer to her.
“I wouldn’t play the high-and-mighty part with me, my dear,” he snarled. “Beggars can hardly be choosers, you know.”
“I’m not a beggar,” she said firmly, looking him in the eye.
“Very nearly,” he said with a snort. “The nouveau riche are all the same. No one forgets that you’ve only recently been scooped up out of the sludge, Miss Von Harmon. Your poverty clings to you even now, like an odious vapor. Despite Exley’s bribe, you don’t se
e many lined up, do you? God knows I wouldn’t be if I had any say in the matter.”
“And this is how you would choose to win me? By insulting and humiliating me? Why would I ever bind myself to you, to subject myself to your protection and . . . and affection—not love, as you’ve painfully made clear—when this is how you speak to me in this moment? I’m well aware of my limitations, as you’ve so gallantly pointed out, but I am not a beggar. As a matter of fact, I’m not going to marry anyone—I’m going to become a nun!” Elsie spewed out, her filter well and truly gone.
Lloyd’s face went from a look of fury to one of amusement, which was perhaps even worse to witness. “A nun?” he said with a smirk. “A bit too late for that, so I’ve heard,” he chuckled. “Don’t they have certain qualifications—chastity being one?” he said with a raised eyebrow.
The realization of what he was implying took a few moments to sink in, but when it did, she was astonished by the fury she now felt. That her sexual exploits with the lieutenant were obviously not only public knowledge, as her paranoia had led her to believe, but that this man, her intended, had the gross indecency to actually speak of them—nay more than to speak them aloud, but to actually taunt her with them! For the second time in only the space of about twenty minutes, something seemed to crack inside of Elsie, and she swiftly reached out and slapped Lloyd Aston across the face, the sound of her hand cracking his smooth cheek rippling across the parlor.
Stunned at first, he recovered quickly and grabbed her roughly by the arm, causing her to cry out.
“Well, well, well. I knew you had a bit of spunk to you,” he said with a grin.
Elsie stared wildly into his eyes, fearing not only him, but what she had just done. She hadn’t known she was capable of such a thing. Lloyd was breathing heavily and he leaned toward her, pulling her arm to draw her close. Elsie knew he was about to kiss her, so she pulled back, though he held her tightly. Intuitively, she twisted her arm and yanked and managed to free herself, almost stumbling backward as she did.