by Michelle Cox
At the sound of her hesitation, Clive instinctively understood its source and came to his senses, pulling himself away as if in pain, breathing heavily. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “You’re quite right. Not like this.”
He sat back heavily and cleared his throat as Henrietta, still quivering, sat up and hurriedly began buttoning her blouse.
“I’m sorry, Henrietta. I shouldn’t have done that; I . . . I got carried away,” he said shamefully. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Henrietta, still shaking a bit, leaned toward him. “I thought you said you wouldn’t take a woman to your bed that wasn’t your wife,” she smiled in an awkward attempt to be playful.
Painfully realizing what she was trying to do, he took her hand. “True enough,” he said, smiling apologetically, “though soon you will be my wife, and for that I am very grateful.”
Henrietta took the hand that now held hers and brought it up to her lips and kissed it. The seconds passed as he looked at her and she at him.
“Whom should I ask for you hand?” he asked solemnly, finally breaking the silence that felt like it could go on forever, so happy were they both in just the other’s presence.
“Mr. Hennessey, I suppose,” she said, without really thinking about it, and was actually surprised by how quickly the answer had come out.
“The barkeep?” Clive asked, puzzled.
“Yes, he’s . . . he’s been very good to me. Kind of like a father,” she said, embarrassed.
“Then I shall have a word with this Mr. Hennessey first thing in the morning,” he said, adjusting his tie and running a hand through his hair. He stood up then, pulling her with him, wincing still from the beating he had gotten at the Marlowe.
As he slipped his arm through hers and led her across the park toward the entrance, Henrietta’s heart was very full. Furtively, she glanced at him from time to time, unable to suppress her smile of joy. So much had happened. She couldn’t believe that she was his, a girl like her, that she would soon be Mrs. Clive Howard! She was still shaking a bit from their abbreviated attempt at lovemaking, still tingling from his touch. She hoped she hadn’t offended him and that he understood why she had wanted to stop what they both so obviously wanted. She wanted to explain, but she couldn’t find the right words.
“You . . . you aren’t angry, are you?” Henrietta asked unsteadily. “About before?”
“Of course not,” he said softly, looking over at her out of the corner of his eye. “Except with myself,” he added. “I . . . there’s no excuse, really. Just that it’s been so very long, and I’m quite mad for you. I find you intoxicating . . . irresistible. But it’s more than that, of course. It’s . . . well, forgive me,” he said simply. “It won’t happen again.”
Henrietta blushed. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
“And I’m sorry, while we’re at it, that you had to go through all of this . . . ”
Henrietta shuddered again at the thought of what she had endured under Neptune, but she made a valiant effort to shrug it off, though she suspected that might take time yet. “Well, it brought me to you,” she said thoughtfully, looking up at him, “so it was all worth it, I suppose.” She leaned into him, then, and gratefully he bent and kissed the top of her head.
When they finally reached the north gate, a lone policeman stood waiting to lock it. He tiredly saluted Clive as he and Henrietta walked past and pushed the creaking gate closed. As they walked along the littered street toward her apartment building, Henrietta couldn’t help but wonder if it had all been real. It was as if they had been in an enchanted garden and now they were back in the real world, where nothing was quite perfect. She sighed as she wondered how she was going to make this work; how could she be this man’s wife and Ma’s daughter as well? She tried to push those questions from her mind, not wishing to mar the happy moment.
“Happy?” Clive asked her, hearing her sigh.
“Very,” she said, smiling up at him. They had reached her front door.
“You don’t sound convinced,” he said, glancing up toward her apartment as if he understood the source of her new anxiety.
“How could I not be happy with you?” she said, squeezing his hand, not knowing what to do next. She didn’t want him to leave, didn’t ever want him to leave her again, but . . .
“Don’t you think I should meet your mother?” he suggested gently.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she sighed. “They’ll be terribly worried. I’m sure Texaco Town’s over by now, and they wanted me to play rummy.”
“Well, you’re in luck, there. I’m an expert at rummy, actually.”
“Something tells me I’m not sure I should believe you,” she laughed.
“Well, you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?”
Henrietta smiled warily. “I . . . I should warn you, Clive, it might not be pleasant. She . . . ”
“I understand,” he said, running his hand tenderly through her hair. “And I’m not afraid.”
Henrietta willed her legs to not melt at his touch.
“I’ve faced far worse, believe me. You of all people should know,” he grinned. “I think if the two of us can take on the likes of Neptune, we can take on your mother. Besides, you haven’t met mine yet,” he said with a wry grin.
Henrietta hadn’t considered this and quailed at the thought. So much was happening so fast. As usual, though, Clive seemed to be able to read her mind. “We’ll work it out,” he promised calmly, his head tilted to the side.
Henrietta took a deep breath and put her hand on the doorknob, but then suddenly turned to him, remembering something. “Oh, yes, and Stan’s up there, too,” she said, not being able to suppress a mischievous smile.
“Pipsqueak?” he said, frowning. “Now that is a cause for concern,” he said, his brow knitted.
Henrietta laughed. “Ready?” she said holding out her hand to him. “Ready,” he said taking it, and together they went in.
Acknowledgments
I have always been a reader. My earliest memory of reading was at age four when I reported to my mother that the writing on the stove said “Magic Chef ”—which quickly prompted her, of course, to ask who had told me that. In truth, no one had. The random, individual letters had somehow formed themselves into words for me one day, as if indeed by magic, and that was the start of it. From that point on, I began a long journey of voracious reading. Always I could be found with a book in my hand, and I am grateful to the adults who noticed and pointed me toward some of the better ones.
Never did I think of myself as a writer, however—though I had often felt an odd twinge—until very recently, when several stars seemed to align and it dawned on me that now might be the time to try my hand at something more than a witty email or a clever birthday card. I am grateful for all those who listened to the preposterous idea of writing something bigger—a novel, let’s say—and who encouraged me to begin and, more importantly, to keep going. Thank you for your persistence.
It turns out that the writing of the book is the easy part of the dream and that the harder, scarier part follows. It is difficult to find anyone remotely interested in reading the fruit of one’s labors, and to that end, I am immensely grateful to Brooke Warner and all at She Writes Press for taking a chance on me. Your vision and courage in the strange vista of publishing is remarkable, and I am proud to be a part of your team. Thanks, too, to my publicist, Crystal Patriarche, and all at BookSparks who have helped to gather some attention to this first foray, especially Megan Conner, who, among other things, ever so patiently helped me understand the difference between a literary essay and a blog post.
And how could I not thank my many, many test readers—most especially my parents, Walter and Susan Bonnet; Jason and Carmi Bonnet; Kari Bonnet; Liz Canary; Barbara Cox; Margaret Bajon; and Amy Wheeler, who, it should be noted, gave up many precious Sundays to meet with me for lunch, during which she generously allowed me to monopolize the conversation. Thanks, too, to Otto Cornejo
, to whose careful reading of the text and the million discussions that followed I am forever indebted, no matter how heated they sometimes became. This book would not be but for the long, long history we’ve had. Lastly, thanks to my sister, Marcy Martino, who not only read the manuscript and offered thoughtful, encouraging comments every step of the way, but who endured, with perfect grace, many frantic phone calls even whilst in a meeting, working out, or driving someone to volleyball practice. And, of course, I must give a special thanks to my husband, Phil, who read more raw text and chapters than all of the above combined, so much so that he barely made it to the finished product. Thank you for your unconditional support and for believing in me. It has made all the difference.
About the Author
Michelle Cox has a B.A. in English literature from Mundelein College, Chicago. She is a writer of historical women’s fiction but has also been known to dash off a mystery or two. While her heart might lie in the eighteenth century with Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy or in the crooked streets of Little Dorrit’s London, she tends to write of a slightly more recent age, a time closer to the World Wars, when all was not yet lost and the last roses of summer were first coming into bloom. Ms. Cox lives with her husband and three children in the Chicago suburbs. This is her first novel.
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