by Michelle Cox
Melody had promptly stood up, then, and rifled through Elsie’s closet, choosing the dull-green (Didn’t she have anything more colorful? They would have to go shopping!) Patou party dress for her to wear and told her to put it on quick. Not wanting to be alone with her thoughts, Elsie saw no choice but to obey, while Melody reminded her that Charlie and Douglas were to perform a scene from Romeo and Juliet, with Douglas of course forced to play the part of Juliet. It will be a scream! Melody laughed. Quickly she applied some lipstick to Elsie’s full lips and adorned her in her fur, having exclaimed loudly at her discovery of it still in its shell of tissue, and then pulled poor Elsie downstairs with her and across the campus, where they were joined by several other of Melody’s many friends until they formed what seemed a small entourage of sorts.
Elsie was glad of the other girls’ presence, as it distracted Melody’s attention away from her, and she was able to walk along undisturbed. Only once did she look around her as they crossed the campus to Loyola, wondering if she would see Gunther, which she then just as quickly realized was preposterous. Why would he be just standing out in the cold at the mere chance that she might be walking by at any given time? Of course that made no sense, but many of her thoughts did not make sense tonight.
The boys had saved tables for them up front, and as the girls settled themselves on the wobbly, brown metal folding chairs, Elsie looked around at the badly decorated, wood-paneled room without really seeing it. The boys had put up streamers and set each table with a thick candle and strung some Chinese lanterns around the room. Elsie had no idea what the inside of a cabaret looked like, but she felt pretty sure this was not an accurate imitation. Still, she admired even the little bit of effort that had been put forth.
Once the show began, she tried concentrating on the many acts of “talent,” but it was difficult to keep her mind from straying. She did perk up, though, when Charlie and Douglas finally came on, the room erupting in laughter at the sight of Douglas, dressed in a long, pink gown with a matching pointed pink cone of a hat from which a tulle veil hung down and under which flowed a wig of long blond curls. Red rouge had also been smeared on his cheeks—(or was this a natural shade given the poor boy’s current circumstance?) as he stumbled, or perhaps was pushed, out onto a balcony, which appeared to have been constructed hastily, by the look of it, out of some wooden boxes stacked on top of each other and hidden by a thick red curtain, or perhaps it was someone’s bedspread. Cheers were alternately heard when Charlie entered stage left, dressed as Romeo, a wooden sword hanging at his side.
Melody leaned forward and whispered to the girls seated at her table that each year the two lowest-standing freshmen in the Delta Sigs were forced to perform an act of the upperclassmen’s choosing for the annual talent show, and, Melody giggled, guess who had managed to finish last this term? The girls laughed at that, which resulted in many loud exclamations of “Hush!” from the rest of the crowd as the act began.
JULIET (Douglas): Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract tonight.
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say “it lightens.” Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!
ROMEO (Charlie): O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET (Douglas): What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?
ROMEO (Charlie): The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.
JULIET (Douglas): I gave thee mine before thou didst request it. And yet I would it were to give again.
ROMEO (Charlie): Wouldst thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?
Here the touching scene was unfortunately cut short, as Douglas, in his exuberance, leaned a little too far over the edge of his precarious tower, which caused him and the whole stack of boxes to tumble forward in a horrible crash, causing shrieks of laughter and not a few of fear from the crowd. Charlie and Douglas, both laughing, jumped up then, and took a deep bow, Douglas’s veiled cone and wig falling off as he did so, causing another round of shrieks from the crowd.
Later the boys claimed that it had truly been an accident, but Melody did not cease to accuse them of ruining their own set on purpose so that they wouldn’t have to continue with their very badly performed—would it be too far from the truth to say, perhaps even odious? she suggested—love scene. It probably was for the best, really, she had consoled them, as it was a terrible offense to the genius of Shakespeare. “Romeo and Juliet is simply ruined for me forever!” she exclaimed through her coy smile.
Elsie surprised herself by laughing with all the rest of them as they walked back to Philomena Hall, though Charlie and Douglas’s dialogue during the scene had somehow disturbed her, despite the comic performance. Was everything going to be a constant reminder of her woes? she asked herself.
Once back at the hall, Elsie separated from Melody and the girls, leaving them downstairs in the parlor as she climbed the back stairs . . . not without a quick look in the kitchen . . . and sought the sanctuary of her room. She shrugged off her heavy fur and got undressed and slipped into bed, knowing that she could no longer escape the thoughts that she had been running from all day. What was she to do? she wondered fretfully for the hundredth time that day, as she curled up on her side. What was she to make of Gunther?
He had told her that he cared for her very much, having stopped just short of saying that he loved her, but she had only to think of his lips on the palm of her hand and the look of agony in his eyes to know the truth. He didn’t need to say it for Elsie to know it to be true. She finally recognized in someone else, for the first time, really, what had so long been in her own heart, and her stomach clenched at the thought of it.
One by one, she thought back to all the encounters she had had with him, all of the conversations. He was unlike any other man she had ever met, so much so that she had barely thought of him as a man at all . . . more like a friend. That was her first mistake, she decided—not seeing him as a man. She supposed this was because he had not sought to gain anything from her, as all the men in her life—well, except her father—had done, even going all the way back to Mr. Dubala in his dusty shop, breathing heavily and hovering over her as she had sat mending. No, Gunther had never tried to put a claim on her, even as he told her how much he cared for her, she realized, her skin prickling.
And what of love? she thought now, turning restlessly onto her other side. Wasn’t that different too? The way he always spoke about it, as if nothing else on earth, or heaven, for that matter, mattered? Love for him was almost like a living being, she had come to realize, again recounting his many scribblings and the poems copied neatly in his notebook. Having met her, I cannot cease to think of her, she remembered distractedly. Something new in my heart is awakening, he had written. With a deep blush, she wondered, daringly, if those lines could have possibly been about . . .
But were they about her? Or were they about this Anna? The Anna he had tried to tell her about before she stupidly ran away from him. Why hadn’t she been strong enough to stay and hear the answer? Well, she had told him she was weak—didn’t this prove it?
She couldn’t believe it of him that he was not honorable, that he could love two women at once. But how else could she explain this Anna? she thought, trying to find a more comfortable position on her pillow. Almost against her will, her mind strayed back now, for the hundredth time, despite her self-imposed confinement with Melody all day and evening, to how he had kissed her finger and then her hand, so . . . so tenderly. It had been intoxicating. She was weak there too, she knew. She swallowed hard and wondered what it might feel like to have his lips on hers . . .
Agitated, she kicked off the covers and walked to the li
ttle window. Melody had long since come up to bed, and Elsie listened now to her light snoring as she stood, absently fingering the small lace curtain and looking out at the dark, murky lake. The moon was small and on the horizon; it was almost dawn.
Who was this woman, Anna? she asked herself again. Keenly, she tried to remember what he had written about her in his journal. Anna cries night and day he had written, hadn’t he? What did that mean? Was she some refugee from the war? Mother wants me to the authorities go . . . But maybe she was remembering it wrong or confusing it. Someone I am trying to help, he had told her. Surely there must be some rational explanation . . .
She found it hard to believe he had willfully deceived her, though she supposed that he had lied in a way, by omission, regarding his mother, if nothing else. It explained much, though—the unchanged bandages, his dirty clothes. Vexingly, it made her heart go out to him even more. But why should he have told her about his mother or Anna? she reasoned when she felt herself growing angry. What had Elsie been to him, at least initially? Just another student. He didn’t owe her anything, so what reason would he have had to tell her about this woman before now? I am not asking you to marry me, he had said, and her face burned, again, at the memory. Was that because he wasn’t free? as she had first supposed, or was it really because of the “confusion” he saw in her?
The truth was that she was confused, as much as she hated to admit it. A certain part of her thrilled, however, that someone seemed to know her so well, almost more than she knew herself, really. All afternoon, sitting with Melody, and all through the droll play that Charlie and Douglas had performed, she realized, shamefully . . . no, not shamefully, but wonderfully, terrifyingly . . . that she cared for Gunther more than she ever had another. In short, she was in love. Not in the flighty, girlish way she had thought herself in love with Harrison or Stanley, but in a deeper, more mature way. And though it was just the beginning, the initial, tender unfolding of these feelings, she could already see that it was something else altogether than anything that had come before. An image of Marianne Dashwood and Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility came into her mind then, and she smiled, thinking of how they were similar in some ways to Gunther’s Masha and Sergei Mikhailych. But she wanted more than that for them, if there was even to be a them.
Who was this man? Who was he really? she wondered, and she ached to know. And that was another problem, she sighed. What would she say to Grandfather and Aunt Agatha? She suspected—no, knew—they would say he was after her money, but something deep inside of Elsie did not believe this of him. I am not asking you to marry me. Elsie bit her lip. What would she say to them? Hiding behind the veil of the church had been her plan of escape from them, but now she would have to face them with nothing but her own courage, which was meager enough, and it terrified her.
And what about her desire to become a nun? she thought miserably, letting the lace of the curtain slip through her fingers. Is that what Gunther had meant by confused? Again, he had been able to see what she had not, and she blushed to think that Sr. Bernard had probably seen it too. That her desire to become a nun was fueled by fear, as most things in her life had always been. But her desire to study and become a teacher had not been; this she knew for a certainty. In fact, it had caused much fear in her, but she had desired it even still. And what . . . what if she did choose to make a life with Gunther—not that he was offering, she reminded herself—what would become of this desire? Why can you not be teacher and wife? he had asked. But did he really mean it? she wondered. Could she trust him?
Calling trust into question yet again brought Anna back to her mind, and she knew, as she watched the sky begin to fill with light before the sun even appeared on the scene, that the only way to resolve any of this was to go and talk to him. To let him talk, to let him explain and not to interrupt or judge him, no matter what his words would reveal, just as he had listened and not judged her. And she felt ashamed, again, of how she had acted, but she would try to make it right.
She dressed hurriedly, careful not to wake Melody, and tiptoed down the back stairs. She wrapped herself in her wool coat and slipped out the back door, knowing it would make less noise than going out the front, which would still be locked for the night.
She didn’t know how she would find him, but she thought starting at Piper Hall would be the best bet. It was Sunday, so he wouldn’t be expected to be working, and it was still very early morning. As she tramped across the crisp snow, her boots breaking the thin layer of ice to sink down into the powder beneath, she was filled with the determined excitement that accompanies any quest. It felt good to be doing something, to be acting and not merely reacting. The sun had crested the horizon, and she was blinded by its reflection off the pure, white snow in front of her. She shielded her eyes with her hand as she peered up at Piper Hall, looming before her.
She recalled, then, that he had told her he lived behind Piper. Blinking rapidly against the glare, she shifted her eyes to search the vicinity between the back of Piper and the actual lake, but all she saw was a small structure not far removed from the mansion that looked little bigger than a potting shed. Perhaps it had been a sort of shed, or caretaker’s dwelling, back when some wealthy family had occupied the mansion, and Elsie could not believe that this was actually where Gunther might live. She saw smoke coming from a small pipe that crudely thrust through the roof and indeed a pair of boots sitting outside the door, both of which suggested, however, that this was somehow the case. Could this really be his home? she wondered, as she looked from it to Piper and back again. It must be, she finally reasoned. It seemed rather cruel of Sr. Bernard to house him here, but she supposed it would be unacceptable for him to be living inside a women’s dormitory. Still, it seemed rather meager, and she wondered how he managed.
She diverted her path from the mansion, then, and strode toward the shed. As she approached, however, she disturbingly remembered that he had said that Anna sometimes lived with him. She wasn’t sure what that meant, and she wondered if Anna was in there with him now. She hadn’t thought of that when she set off on this morning mission, and she paused just outside the door, wondering now if this was a good idea after all.
Well, perhaps it would be good for her to meet this Anna and speak with her, Elsie rationalized, and was momentarily proud of her sudden bravery. She rapped lightly on the door before she could talk herself out of it. She waited, stamping her feet slightly and blowing on her hands—she had dashed out without her gloves. No one answered, and she wondered if she should come back a little later. She was just about to rap one more time when the door suddenly opened, then, and Elsie was shocked to see a little girl standing in the doorway, looking dirty and disheveled, with ratty blonde hair. She couldn’t have been more than four years old.
Elsie stared at her, a thousand thoughts exploding in her mind.
The little girl looked up at her warily, her finger in her mouth, her large, blue eyes fearful.
“Anna?” Elsie whispered.
The girl gave her a tiny smile and slowly nodded her head.
Acknowledgments:
This book was extremely fun to write because it took me back to my alma mater, Mundelein College in Chicago, Illinois. Through the story I got to imagine the college as it might have been back when it was a brand new school in 1929. Even when I was a student there in the late 1980s, Mundelein was still an all-women’s school run and taught by the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary and was still wonderfully old fashioned—with a chaperoned sign-in book for male guests and wooden phone boxes in our dormitory; a “secret” greenhouse on the seventh floor of the art-deco Skyscraper, as well as original elevators, complete with sliding grates and elevator girls to operate them; and a converted stone mansion with Tiffany stained glass and stunning views of Lake Michigan beyond. Sigh.
Mundelein, as such, is unfortunately no more, though it remains a separate entity within Loyola University, into which it was folded shortly after I graduated. And while
I was saddened by its closing, as I am with all things that come to an end, I could not wish for a better steward of our little campus than Loyola. I was amazed when I recently returned for a visit to see what careful attention they have given to their former sister school. I very much enjoyed pouring through Loyola’s extensive online archives and reading more about Mundelein’s history than I ever knew when I was a student. I spent many fascinating afternoons reading through old school newspapers from the 1930s and perusing a wonderful collection of photographs of the students and teachers from that era. It was extremely enlightening, not to mention entertaining, and I hope I did a good job of weaving some of those rich details into A Veil Removed.
So besides being indebted to the Loyola University archives, there are a number of actual people I’d like to thank for helping me to bring this next adventure of Henrietta and Clive into the world.
First and foremost, I like to thank my publisher, Brooke Warner, of She Writes Press for championing women everywhere and giving a voice to those of us who would otherwise not be heard. Thank you for guiding and mentoring me. You continue to inspire with all that you put your hand and heart to; you are truly changing the world with your hard work and vision.
Secondly, I’d like to thank my brilliant project manager, Lauren Wise, who also took on the role of editor for me this time around, and it is through her astute guidance that the book comes to you in as fine a shape as it does—any mistakes found therein are entirely my own. Thank you, Lauren, for your superior editing skills, for being so organized, and for your sense of humor. You never cease to amaze me!
I’d also like to thank Crystal Patriarche and her team at Booksparks, many of whom work behind the scenes, tirelessly, to help so many authors succeed. In particular I’d like to thank my publicist, Liane Worthington, for so generously sharing your vast knowledge of the industry with me and for your insightful, intelligent advice and wise direction. Thank you, Liane, for all of your help in getting my series out to the bigger world. It means more than you know to have you in my corner.