A Promise Given

by Michelle Cox

  “Very good, sir,” he said with a bow and disappeared.

  Clive slipped noiselessly into the drawing room with its deep red walls, along which hung a patchwork of portraits and landscapes, half-hidden in shadow in the dim lighting. He quickly looked about the room in an effort to find Henrietta. She was sitting next to Lady Winifred on one of the plump, paisley-patterned divans, apparently in deep discussion. Clive had hoped to catch her eye, but she did not look up, even when Lord Linley called to him.

  “Clive, my boy! There you are!” he said, walking over to him and clapping him on the back. “We’d quite given you up for the evening.”

  “Forgive me, Lord Linley. I was detained,” he said formally. “My apologies,” he muttered, noting, after another quick perusal of the room, that all were present, except, of course, Captain Russell, as well as the Honorable and Mrs. Sedgewick. In the corner at the baby grand piano sat Bertram Foley, smoothly playing show tunes while Jane and Sara Fairfax looked on. Foley did not pause in his playing but merely gave Clive a deferential nod of the head, a maddening smirk residing on his face. Damn the man! Shouldn’t he show some sort of humility given the trouble he was in? Clive was in half a mind to refuse him the money merely for his impudence, but he knew he was being unreasonable.

  “Any news on Wallace?” Lord Linley asked eagerly.

  “Yes,” Clive said, leaning toward him, his attention redirected. “It’s rather delicate, though, I’m afraid. Perhaps we could speak somewhere?”

  Lady Linley joined them now from her perch by the fireplace, where she had been in what had seemed a very rapt conversation with Lady Fairfax. “What is it, my dear?” she said, looking at Lord Linley’s worried face. “Ah, Clive! You poor boy! Shall I ring for Stevens to run you a bath? Perhaps something to eat? You must be positively famished!”

  “No, Lady Linley, thank you. Later perhaps,” he said to her, though his eyes couldn’t help but again stray to Henrietta. Shouldn’t it be her by his side, inquiring after his well-being? he thought, his irritation flaring again.

  “You’ll excuse us, my dear,” Lord Linley said in a low voice. “Clive has some news to relate to me in my study.”

  “Is it regarding Wallace?” she asked in an anxious voice.

  “Shh!” Lord Linley hushed her and looked around to see who might have heard. The earl and Lord Fairfax were near enough to have heard, Clive observed, though they made a pretense of having not. Clive took the opportunity to again look at Henrietta. Lady Fairfax, robbed of her companion by the fire, had moved now to stand behind Henrietta and Lady Winifred and was asking them to make up a hand of cards. Clive expected Henrietta to decline in favor of talking to him, so he was stunned when he heard her respond that she should very much like to.

  “Be quiet, woman!” Lord Linley was hissing to Margaret. “I’ll tell you later!” He looked at Clive and gestured with his hand that he should proceed him from the room. With one last look at Henrietta, Clive, seriously perturbed now, followed Lord Linley to his study to relate the news.

  It was very late when Henrietta finally came into their bedroom.

  Clive had bathed and eaten and had sat in his dressing gown in one of the chairs by the fire attempting to read the letters from home that Stevens had delivered to him, but he grew more and more incensed as each hour passed. He had hoped that the letters would appease his disquiet, but they had instead added to it.

  The first one had been from his mother, the first part of which, predictably, was devoted to a recapitulation of the wedding, including a list of additional gifts that even now were still arriving and a clipping from the Tribune’s society pages, which had devoted a full half page to the write-up of the lavish Howard wedding and which Clive had tossed to the side, not even bothering to read it. She had then, also predictably, inquired about their crossing and whom had they been seated with at the captain’s table. She of course asked after Montague’s and Margaret’s health, and dear Wallace’s as well, of course, and asked how many functions they had so far attended in Derbyshire and whom they had seen. She knew, she had written, how very tiresome he probably found her questions, but she implored him to make an effort. (Yes, so she can tell everyone at the club, Clive thought to himself as he poured another cognac.) Antonia had then gone on to ask after Henrietta—how she was holding up, whether she found Castle Linley agreeable, how her health was? This last question, Clive realized grimly, was no doubt a not-so-subtle way of asking if she were perhaps yet with child. Only briefly did Antonia mention Alcott, saying that he had enjoyed himself immensely at the wedding, perhaps a little too much it seemed, because now he was frequently out of sorts and locked up in his study for hours at a time. “It’s almost as if he’s pining for you,” Antonia wrote, “which is absurd, considering you were never much around anyway.” This last remark regarding his father troubled Clive, and he thought about what it might mean as he absently put down his mother’s letter, barely finishing reading her salutations and greetings to be passed on to various family members, most especially, of course, to Henrietta, their own daughter now, she had written.

  Concerned, Clive picked up his father’s letter and opened it eagerly, quickly skimming it for anything obviously foreboding, but found nothing, at first glance, anyway, too amiss. It mostly contained details about various transactions at Linley Standard and listed a few contacts he hoped Clive might call on when he was in London, saying that having a body and a firm handshake on behalf of the Howard name would go far to calm certain investors. He would have his right-hand man, Bennett, telegram Clive with the details should he indeed be able to arrange a meeting for him with some of his London associates. It would be seemly as well, he said, for Clive to introduce himself and to get to know the men he would spend the rest of his career negotiating with. His father then abruptly turned his attention to familial concerns, saying that Antonia was moping about of late, both the excitement of the wedding being over as well as Julia having to consequently retreat back to her own abode, having a decidedly negative effect on Antonia’s mood. “She tries to disguise it, of course,” Alcott wrote, “but she will be very glad to have you back.” He then went on to ask about Castle Linley and Montague and hoped that Clive was enjoying the ancestral home, wishing he could have come along, though he knew it, of course, to be quite out of order. Still, he had written, it reminded him that he had been away too long, and it prompted him to contemplate a trip there perhaps next summer. Clive was to tell Montague as much. He longed to see the old place again, he had added with what seemed to Clive to be a deep melancholy, and that it had been too many years. The letter took yet another turn then. Alcott went on to say that he was immensely proud of Clive, that he had done well, that he knew the sacrifice he had made and that he felt it very deeply. He had much to discuss with him upon his return but that, he said, could wait. Almost as an afterthought he had then gone on to ask if Clive remembered the night in the study at Highbury when Clive had asked him if he were making a mistake with Henrietta. His answer then, he reminded him, and which he would now repeat, was a most emphatic no. She was perfect for Clive, Alcott wrote, perfect for Highbury, and he hoped they would find much happiness in each other just as he and his mother had had. He had closed the letter then with all the other usual valedictions, and asked Clive to pass along his love to his brother, Montague, and most especially to Henrietta.

  Clive had absently set the letters on the side table and had sat looking at the fire as it crackled in front of him, so many thoughts going through his mind. His father’s letter upset him, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the request to meet with his business associates that was wearing on him, the mixing of business with pleasure? But was that really too much to ask, considering he was here in Europe and especially in light of him joining the firm soon? He conceded that it was actually a rather wise move. And as far as mixing business and pleasure, wasn’t their participation in the events at Castle Linley and beyond a form of business transaction for his mother?
And what about his involvement in this murder case? Wasn’t that a form of business for himself? Or was it pleasure?

  He sighed, wondering how Henrietta fit into all of this. Why couldn’t they just be alone? None of this tension would exist between them if they weren’t perpetually caught up in something or someone else’s troubles. But wasn’t that the way of life? How could they possibly escape it? He thought he understood then, finally, why Henrietta had wanted to live in the cottage.

  Or was there a different reason his father’s letter had disturbed him? There was such a feeling of finality to it. Was it because Alcott acknowledged the fact that he knew that taking up the reins of Highbury was a sacrifice to Clive, not the vaulted privilege that he should be looking forward to? Or was it his reference to and approval of Henrietta? He had glanced at the clock again, angrily wondering where she was and debating whether or not to call a servant, when Henrietta herself finally appeared.

  He studied her face as she entered now, and he could tell that she was surprised to find him still awake, but she ignored him. She went at once into her dressing room to change and seemed to take an extraordinarily long time to emerge. As she walked to the bed in her long white nightgown, brushing her long auburn hair as she went, Clive felt a jolt of excitement despite his anger. Finally she acknowledged his presence as he sat, still in the armchair by the fire, with a single sulky glance before she looked away again.

  “Henrietta,” he said sternly. “It’s very late.”

  “So it is,” she said without looking at him.

  “What on earth has come over you? I thought you might have been a bit concerned that I was late getting back. That you would have wanted to at least find out what happened. Whether or not I found Wallace …” he said with a trace of bitterness.

  She turned to him, then, from her perch on the side of the bed, her eyes flashing, though she kept her voice controlled. “I’m sure that’s none of my business. It’s a much too dangerous affair for me to even discuss!”

  “Are you still upset about … about before?” he asked, incredulously, standing up now.

  “Can it be that you would imagine me not to be? That makes it infinitely worse!” she said, her voice rising.

  She was still very hurt that he thought so little of her, that he treated her almost like a child, not a wife, and certainly not like an equal friend. It was obvious that despite all of his flowery language, he really just wanted a submissive, dutiful wife, and she had fought back tears all evening at the realization of it. Her mother had been right. Clive did not command her in bed at night, but he certainly expected her to lie back as concerned their day-to-day life. He was staring at her, and she found it disconcerting. She knew he was angry, but so was she!

  “You didn’t really expect to go along with me to Matlock, did you? You yourself said that the Merry Bells was a rough place!” He ran his hand through his hair. “Information, I might add, that you found out while having tea with Captain Russell, a notorious flirt if I ever saw one, and some stranger who claims to be his cousin! I quite take exception to that, as a matter of fact!” His face was growing increasingly red.

  “Are you accusing me of impropriety? How dare you, Clive!” she exclaimed, completely taken aback by the insult of it. “I was forced to act as chaperone, if you must know, which should have been an obvious deduction, especially for someone who claims to be a detective!”

  The force of her comment stunned him, and he was surprised by the hurt he felt, that she had taken something she knew he felt was a weakness and turned it against him. At the same time, he was amazed at her ability to fight back.

  “Not impropriety, necessarily, but perhaps ill judgment!”

  “Ill judgment! What else was I to do in that situation?” she threw back. “Besides, it garnered valuable information, which you seemed barely thankful of!”

  “Are you such a child that you need to be praised constantly, Henrietta? I find your behavior disconcertingly similar to your mother’s, and it is not attractive,” he said with a bitter relish.

  Now it was her turn to be stunned by his hurtful blow. How could he dare to compare her to her mother! She fought back the tears that were forming in the corners of her eyes now. She refused to cry in front of him! But how could he be that insensitive?

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way!” she shot back. “It’s obvious that you’ve made a mistake. You don’t want a partner, you want a … a pretty pet! In that case you should have stuck with Sophia; she would have made you a perfect wife!”

  Clive took a step toward her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Henrietta! You’re overreacting! Is all of this really about me not taking you to Matlock? It’s absurd! I cannot take you on police business merely because you want to go.”

  “But it wasn’t police business! You went to look for your cousin! Surely I could have accompanied you on such a task,” she retorted.

  “You are willfully misunderstanding the situation, and you know it!” he shot back.

  “You’re going back on your word!”

  “What word?” he asked, incredulously.

  “That I am an equal … a … a partner!”

  “That has nothing to do with this,” he said dismissively.

  “Of course it does!” she shouted. “It has everything to do with it!”

  “We’ve been through all of this before, Henrietta,” he said tiredly. “It wasn’t safe tonight. I thought you understood. I can see now that I was wrong,” he said disgustedly.

  “Yes, you were! About a lot of things.” She stared at him. “I’m not a china doll, Clive. I’m not so easily broken. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face your fears!”

  “I did face my fears—for an eternity—at the front, looking at the face of hell day in and day out!” he shouted. “A man is changed after that. Irrevocably,” he said bitterly and roughly took hold of her upper arms as he searched her eyes. Why did she have this damned power over him? And as proof of it, his desperate anger turned suddenly to desire as he gazed at her beautiful face. Something in him crumpled, and he contemplated kissing her. But before he could, he saw tears forming in her eyes, now, and, worse, an unmistakable trace of fear.

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Slowly he released her, then, stunned that she could fear him, and it cut him to the quick. In an instant he was ashamed of all that he had said to her, whether it was true or not.

  “What did you think I was going to do?” he asked, his eyes anxiously searching hers.

  “I’m tired, Clive.” Her voice was trembling now. “I wish to go to bed,” she said, taking a step back.

  “Answer me!” he commanded.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  They stared at each other for what seemed a long time, the moments ticking away, each one filled with pregnant hurt, before Clive turned and slowly walked out of the room. Never had he felt more like a failure than at this moment.

  Chapter 20

  Elsie could not help observe the irony of the situation. She had been pining for Stan to come and visit her these many weeks, but now that he was seated, nervously it seemed, in the front parlor across from her, she wished with all her heart that he wasn’t. Had she known that it was him at the front door, she would have been tempted to have Karl say that she was out, but she hadn’t known, and so, without warning, Karl had naturally shown Stan to the parlor and had dutifully, if a bit uneasily, went to fetch her from the back garden, where she herself had been listlessly wandering among the last of the flowers, long dead now from the first frost.

  She wondered, as she offered Stan some tea, or maybe coffee?— both of which he declined—if this was to be the long-awaited proposal she had been expecting for months and which the two of them had all but outright discussed several times in the past. He seemed very fidgety as she glanced at him again, convincing her that this must be his intention. She longed to put him at his ease, but she couldn’t speak first, of course. She would have to wait for
him to initiate what was sure to be a painful conversation, and her stomach clenched as she sat wondering how she was going to break it to him that she could not marry him, that she had already, in truth, engaged herself to Lieutenant Harrison Barnes-Smith.

  She hardly knew how it had happened, but it had, and for better or worse, she couldn’t change it now. Not that she wanted to, of course, but it had all come about in a manner very unlike how she had always imagined it would, and, had she begun her study of Jane Austen with Pride and Prejudice instead of Sense and Sensibility, she might have been able to better predict the eventual outcome of the romantic dilemma she now found herself in.

  She hardly knew how to explain her engagement to Harrison, even to herself. As of yet no one knew about it, and the “lovers” had promised to keep it that way. Their courtship had evolved quickly since Henrietta’s wedding, with what had begun simply with Harrison calling in every other day or so to ascertain that her ankle was indeed mending. These little visits had then progressed to short walks in the park until he had begun calling in earnest every day. From there, he had persuaded her to begin going to see various attractions in the city, though the lieutenant’s choices of destination had at times a slight flavor of perhaps not perfect respectability, places that perhaps Mrs. Hutchings might raise an eyebrow at, for example. Often they went to Riverview, the amusement park on Belmont, where Elsie had thrilled to ride the new wooden roller coaster and the Ferris wheel. Harrison had urged her into the fun house as well, which was dark and terrifying, causing her to frequently bump into him and embarrassingly cling to his arm. He had persuaded her, too, to see the freak show, which she felt afterward had been decidedly inappropriate, as one of the “exhibits” was a scantily clad woman with four arms, but she had to admit she had been curious. When it was over, however, she felt more than a tinge of guilt that she had looked, though she didn’t know why. Wasn’t that the point of a freak show? To look at the freaks? Still, she could not help feeling that it had somehow been wrong, and when Ma had asked her later that night where she had gotten herself to that afternoon, she had lied and said the library, making the whole thing infinitely worse.