A Promise Given

by Michelle Cox

  “Wallace!” Lord Linley burst out. “Where the devil have you been? What is the meaning of this, sir? I will have an explanation, and I’ll have it now!” he sputtered.

  “You are right, Father, forgive me. I owe you an explanation …”

  “Indeed! God knows we’ve been worried sick! That blast inspector was back here again this morning. We will know the meaning of these disappearances. And we will know them now!”

  “Yes, Father, we can talk about that later,” he said, moving toward Amelie, and only now did Lord and Lady Linley seem to notice her presence, so intent had they been on addressing Wallace.

  “Who is this, Wallace?” Lady Linley asked querulously.

  “Might we not attend each other in the drawing room?” Wallace asked.

  “Certainly not!” Lord Linley boomed. “Explain yourself, sir!”

  “Very well,” Wallace grimaced. “Have it your way.” He moved to stand very close to Amelie, then, and drew himself up as if at attention. “Father, Mother …” he paused, bracing himself, “this is my wife, Amelie. And this is my son, Linley Wallace Gustave Howard,” he said clearly, though Clive detected a slight tremor in his voice.

  No one said anything for what seemed like several minutes, and Henrietta, standing with Clive near the grand staircase, took his hand.

  Lord Linley’s face was one of extreme consternation as he finally blustered out, “Your what?” Not waiting for a response, he went on, “This cannot be true! Give me your word, as a gentleman,” he hissed. “Are you truly married, sir?”

  “I give you my word, Father. She is my wife. We met during the war. She’s French; she was my nurse. I …”

  “Confound it, man! You’re married?” Lord Linley boomed, causing Henrietta and Amelie both to jump. Linley began to cry.

  “For shame, Montague!” Lady Linley said, having finally found her voice. “Now look what you’ve done!” She took a step toward the child that Amelie was shushing, and Henrietta could see that the older woman had tears in her eyes. She reached out a hand that was beginning to be gnarled with arthritis. “Did you say that his name is Linley?” she asked Amelie, almost timidly. Amelie, a tentative smile creeping up, nodded and turned so that Lady Linley might have a better view of him.

  “Oh, Montague! He looks just exactly like Wallace, though there’s a touch of … Oh, my dear!” she said, resting her arm on Amelie. “You must have had a very long journey. Have you come all the way from France? Come in, come in. We must get you out of this wet. Stevens!”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Stevens from where he stood at attention in the corner.

  “Bring some tea immediately! And some milk for Master Linley!” At the sound of those words on her lips, however, those which she perhaps never thought to utter ever again, Lady Linley suddenly lost her composure and began to cry. Wallace immediately went to her and awkwardly embraced her.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I should have told you before now. I …”

  Lady Linley allowed herself to be held by him for just a moment before pulling back, a forced smile on her face as she wiped her eyes and patted his hand, which was resting on her arm. “Forgive me. I’m quite recovered now. I’m sure you had your reasons for … for not telling us …” she said as she shot Lord Linley a dagger.

  Lord Linley’s face was still flushed red despite the touching outburst that they had all just witnessed, having not been affected in the least by its sentiment. “Wallace,” he said in a defeated tone now, “how could you do this? We are undone,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing more for it. We are utterly ruined.” He let out a long, anguished groan. “I suppose this is my fault, though, in more ways than one; I see that now. Come along; let’s go into the drawing room. You might as well come too, Clive. I asked you to find out what was going on, and so you have,” he said with a sigh.

  “No, your lordship,” Clive said with a tilt of his head as he gave Wallace and Amelie a look of encouragement. “I think it best if you are alone just at present. And at any rate, I have an important telephone call of my own to make, if I might use your study.”

  “Yes, yes,” Lord Linley waved absently. “Of course you may,” he said wearily, and, giving Amelie and the child one more disparaging glance, he turned and walked dejectedly off toward the drawing room, clearly a man defeated.

  Clive whispered something to Henrietta, then, who smiled and patted his hand before she turned to go upstairs.

  Eagerly, Clive made his way to Lord Linley’s study to telephone Inspector Hartle at the station, wanting to quickly explain Wallace’s secret and provide his alibi. When Hartle did come on the line, however, Clive’s information proved a bit too late, the inspector himself explaining that his sergeant had finally gotten his hands on Rory Fielding’s brother-in-law—Briggs, the bookie—who confirmed that Joe O’Brien had not won in a long, long time. Lost, in fact, and heavily. Confirmed that he had paid off a substantial debt but wouldn’t say how he’d come by the money. The woman he was living with also confirmed that he had gone to London, said on business, not much else. Hartle himself had then gone to question Mrs. O’Brien, Terrance O’Brien’s mother, to check his alibi. Again, Hartle and his constables were put off, the housekeeper saying that Mrs. O’Brien was indisposed at the moment, but Hartle persisted and found Mrs. O’Brien unable to speak at all. The housekeeper confessed that her mistress had been this way for weeks, just as Rory Fielding had said. The housekeeper recalled that Terry came home late the night in question, around midnight. Told her to go home, she reported, which was unusual.

  “Did she notice if he had a black case on him?” Clive couldn’t help but ask, though it was the obvious question.

  “Spot on. She did indeed remember. Thought it peculiar, she said, as she’d never seen him with something ‘half so nice,’ I think is how she put it.”

  “But it’s gone now, right? Nowhere to be found?”

  “Indeed. Oddly enough, O’Brien has made his way to London as well. The housekeeper said that he paid her a tidy sum in advance to stay with his mother until he returned.”

  “Now what?”

  “We’ve informed the Yard. All we can do, really. Might send my sergeant back to Joe O’Brien’s woman to see if she remembers anything about where he said he was going. Besides that, it’s a waiting game. You’d know all about that, I would imagine.”

  “Too much, as a matter of fact,” Clive answered.

  There was an awkward silence on the line.

  “Thanks for your help, Howard,” the inspector finally said.

  “Would you keep me informed of any developments?” Clive asked.

  Hartle assured him that he would, as a courtesy, mind, and rang off then. Clive could not help feeling deflated, though he wasn’t sure why. The case was all but solved; it was really just a matter of apprehending O’Brien. Slowly he switched off the desk lamp and left the now darkened room.

  Several lines of thought occupied Clive’s mind as he slowly made his way up the stairs to his and Henrietta’s room. As he entered, he looked for Henrietta so that he could relate the news of the case and he was surprised to see her sitting on the edge of the chaise lounge at the foot of the bed, looking very ashen indeed. She was holding a letter, which she looked up from now as he came in.

  “Oh, Clive!” she said, her voice tremulous.

  “What is it?” he asked, suddenly alarmed.

  “It’s a letter from Elsie … she … here, I’ll read it.”

  Dearest Henrietta,

  By the time you read this, dear sister, I will be married to Lieutenant Barnes-Smith. He proposed to me after an incident that I will perhaps share with you when we are alone together, and, after careful thought, I accepted him. Please don’t think ill of me, Henrietta. It is for the best; believe me. You might think I have cruelly used Stanley, but don’t worry, I have spoken to him, and I believe we quite understand each other. It seems he is quite attached to your friend, Rose, and may be even on the brink of his own engagem
ent there. So you see, it isn’t exactly as though I was throwing him over, is it? In fact, I rather think it was the other way around, or perhaps it was at least mutual. I will always remember him and our times together with fondness, but that is all over now, as it should be. (Goodness! How odd that so much of this letter is so far filled with Stanley, when it ought to be mostly of Harrison!)

  Regarding the lieutenant, he fears what Grandfather Exley will say when he finds out we have engaged ourselves to each other and that he will not allow us to marry, and I daresay Harrison is probably right in this. We have decided, then, that the best course would be to elope, and I leave in a couple of hours to go with him. Ma does not know, of course, nor does anyone, really. It must be very secret, Harrison says, and then everyone will surely come round eventually, and we will then go to Grandfather to see what can be done for us. I am not at all convinced of this scheme, but Harrison says Grandfather will no doubt soften over time. So you see, if you are reading this now, I will have already been Mrs. Barnes-Smith for well over a week at least.

  Please write and tell me you will be happy for me and wish me joy. I only wish I could have had a real wedding so that you could stand beside me as my bridesmaid as I once did for you. Still, we can’t have everything, can we? I hope Ma will not be too angry, but she usually is anyway, so it doesn’t much matter. She will not notice my absence for a very long time, I daresay. I have told the servants I am to be at Uncle John and Aunt Agatha’s for an extended visit, so I will not be discovered for some time, I expect.

  Once we are married (does that not seem odd, Hen?), we are to live for a time with the major. You can write to me there, if you wish. Oh, please don’t be angry, Hen! You’ll understand when I tell you the whole story, I hope. I pray you are keeping well. Give my love to Clive.

  Your loving sister,

  Elsie

  “Oh, Clive,” Henrietta said as Clive, sitting beside her now on the chaise lounge, put his arm around her. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know, darling. It doesn’t sound like there’s much we can do,” he sighed. “Is this what Elsie’s other letter was about? I forgot to ask you about it. I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.

  “It’s all right,” Henrietta said absently. “There’s nothing you could have done, anyway. I … I just didn’t expect this. That she would do something so drastic.”

  “Yes, this is a fine mess,” Clive muttered, letting out a deep breath. “I always did think Harry was an ass. He’s obviously a mercenary out for what he hopes will be a big Exley dowry. And yet he doesn’t seem to realize how ruthless Exley is, so he’s a fool as well. If old Exley had no qualms about cutting your mother off, I shouldn’t imagine he’d think twice about cutting off his granddaughter. I always knew Harrison was bad news; I should have said so from the beginning when I first suspected his motives at the engagement party,” he said, annoyed. “I thought he perhaps sought a dalliance, but I never suspected he would try to marry her. Although, I’m not sure which is worse …”

  Henrietta thought back to how the lieutenant had been very attentive to Elsie and how thrilled Elsie had been. It seemed so long ago. “No, it’s my fault,” Henrietta insisted. “I’ve been so stupidly selfish! So utterly blind!”

  “That’s not true, darling. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I never should have had the major in the wedding at all,” Clive went on. “None of this would have happened then,” he said, running his hand through his hair, disturbed. “I should have lowered my pride or stood up to mother and had the Chief or Jones … even Clancy.”

  “Oh, Clive, what does it matter? How could she do this?” Henrietta said, distraught. “I’m sure she doesn’t love him … I wrote to Julia asking for her help …”

  “You did?” he asked, clearly moved that she had implored his sister’s help.

  “Yes,” Henrietta mused, looking back at the letter without really reading the words. “I guess she didn’t get it in time, or perhaps she tried and failed.”

  “Perhaps I should have written Father …” Clive suggested.

  “She mentions an incident …” Henrietta said anxiously, her eyes focusing on the words again. “You don’t think …”

  Clive didn’t answer, but his eyes were very troubled when she looked back at him. “I wouldn’t put it past him,” he said quietly.

  Henrietta’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Bastard,” Clive muttered as he took her hand.

  They were both startled then by a sharp knock at the door. “Come in,” Clive said loudly, clearing his throat and standing up now.

  The door opened to reveal the immovable Stevens standing in the threshold, holding the silver mail salver. “Excuse me, sir,” he said emotionlessly, “But a telegram has just arrived.”

  “Oh, Elsie!” Henrietta whispered, wondering what worse news it could possibly be.

  “Thank you, Stevens,” Clive said grimly, reaching for it. He did not open it immediately but waited for Stevens to leave.

  “May I get you anything else, sir?” Stevens said, an uncharacteristic trace of hope in his voice.

  “No, Stevens, that will be all,” Clive said, trying to keep the irritation from his voice as he patiently waited for him to withdraw.

  “Very good, sir,” Stevens said evenly, bowing with what seemed exaggerated slowness and then finally closing the door behind him.

  Clive was in the process of handing the envelope to Henrietta when he noticed that it was actually addressed to him. “It’s for me,” Clive said, puzzled, as he reread the front of it.

  Henrietta accordingly lowered her outstretched arm and watched as Clive ripped open the envelope and allowed his eyes to quickly travel over the words. Immediately upon doing so, his face contorted as if in pain.

  “Clive, darling, what is it?” Henrietta said, rising.

  “It’s father,” he said thickly. “He’s … he’s dead.”

  “Oh, Clive!” Henrietta cried and went to him, dropping Elsie’s letter on the floor as she raced to wrap her arms around him. “Oh, darling, let me see,” she said, peering at the telegram in his hand, and she read for herself the fateful words.

  “My God! How could this have happened?” Clive asked, staring wildly at her as if in shock. “He wasn’t even ill … I … we’ll have to leave immediately, I’m afraid.”

  “Of course. Yes, of course we will …”

  “I’d better go tell them below … No, I should first see if I can make a transatlantic call. Oh, God … Henrietta …” he said, gripping her now a bit unsteadily. “My poor mother … What am I going to do?” he said, distraught.

  “You mean, what are we going to do,” she said, holding him tight.

  —

  Days later, back on the Queen Mary, Clive again related to Henrietta what he had managed to extract from his mother on the telephone before they had hurriedly departed Castle Linley. He seemed to want to tell the pitifully short tale over and over. It had been difficult to understand Antonia through her tears and the bad connection, but Clive had ascertained that it had been a sort of freak accident. Alcott had apparently slipped and fallen in front of a morning train and had been killed instantly. It was a terrible shock for everyone, and Antonia begged Clive to return immediately, the wheels of which he had of course already put into motion. They had frantically packed, with the help of the servants, of course, Lord Linley being especially distressed at the news of his brother’s death coming so inconveniently on the heels of his introduction to his grandson and heir. He could barely stand upright for days and had to say his goodbyes from his bed. He had at first insisted on accompanying them for Alcott’s funeral, which everyone else around him saw as ludicrous, given his current state, and only when the doctor had been procured and had likewise advised against a sea journey at this time did he sadly concede. Wallace had wanted to come as well, but Clive insisted he stay with Amelie and the new baby that was due any moment. Wallace had clasped him tight before he left, promising to writ
e and wishing him God speed, and thanking him, oddly, for bringing him back to his own father, at which point Clive had very nearly broken down.

  Clive and Henrietta stood now, bracing themselves against the icy wind off the North Sea, which buffeted them fiercely and caused them to grasp the rails tightly. It was hardly a day to stroll on deck, but Clive had wanted some air and Henrietta had worriedly followed him. She had no idea how long they had been standing there, but her cheeks and her fingers were beginning to grow numb despite the leather gloves she had managed to grab on her way out of the cabin. Clive was staring absently out at the huge whitecaps, and, as she followed his gaze, her mind drifted between a multitude of sad themes. She was mostly preoccupied with thoughts of the upcoming funeral and Clive’s utter loss, of course, but she likewise privately despaired about Elsie and her hasty, ill-advised marriage to one whom Henrietta felt sure was a scoundrel. She vacillated between blaming herself and then blaming Elsie for being so terribly foolish. What on earth had prompted her to take such a step? She prayed he was not brutal to her, at least, her mind straying to Julia’s sad woes as well as her mother’s, which brought to mind a new thought about what Elsie’s elopement would mean for Ma and the kids. And she could not help at times wonder what would happen to Stan, unwittingly infatuated (surely not in love with?) with a lesbian.

  With a heavy sigh, Henrietta realized that they were returning to all of her same old problems. None of them had gone away in their absence, but, rather, they had seemed to have gotten decidedly worse. And now Alcott’s death presented a whole new, more devastating set of issues. But then again, Henrietta mused, was death worse than a hasty, unfortunate marriage? Wasn’t that merely a different sort of death? And as she saw Elsie’s sweet face in her mind’s eye now, Henrietta felt in danger of crying again. Forcing herself not to give in to her emotions, she attempted to console herself by reasoning that haste in marriage did not necessarily spell disaster, thinking of her own hasty but happy marriage to Clive. Surely it was a lack of love that made a marriage unfortunate? Her mind went to Captain Foley, then, who had proclaimed a mere fondness for his affianced, though he seemed happy enough to proceed. Oh! she exclaimed to herself, if only she could stop thinking about it all!