by Michelle Cox
“Ma!” Henrietta’s voice quivered as if she were either angry or trying not to cry. “What would you have me do? We needed the money . . . Poor Pete’s wasn’t paying me nearly enough, especially after Herbert and Eddie got the flu and the charge bill at Schneider’s got so high. I heard of the taxi dancer job at the Promenade, and I . . . well, I went for it . . .”
“A taxi dancer!” Ma cried.
“See? I knew you’d never approve! That’s why I had to . . .”
“Lie?” Ma put in angrily.
“Yes, if you want to put it that way. Sometimes lying is necessary, Ma!” Henrietta said loudly, bitterly reflecting as she said it that she was ironically lying now simply to spare Ma’s feelings. All of them were in a sense guilty of lying, of continuing the falsehood that all of their woes had to do with their father’s actions and that Ma’s depressed mental state was not at least in part equally responsible for their current sad existence. They had all become very good at pretending. Henrietta longed to accuse her of wallowing in her own apathetic state and making all their lives harder than they had to be. The truth, as far as she saw it, was that if Ma hadn’t become so insular, so retreating from the world since her father’s suicide, she would be able to work to help support them as well. Instead, she took in a bit of washing here and there, but otherwise she remained at home, relying on Henrietta and Elsie to bring in money, while her bitterness and anger continued to cloud her mind. Henrietta knew, however, that she could never say these things—the truth—especially now, that it would make things infinitely worse, so, with extreme effort, she forced herself to remain silent.
“That’s not the whole story, though, is it, Henrietta?” Eugene asked slyly from the corner.
Henrietta wanted to slap the smug smile from his face. Sometimes she just didn’t know about Eugene. He was her younger brother, and though they had been close as children, she found it hard to trust him now. He had always been a quiet child, but he had changed somehow after their father’s death. It was as if he had derailed and couldn’t quite get back on the tracks again. Henrietta shot him a hateful look, secretly wondering how he had found out.
“No, Eugene, it’s not,” Henrietta said in a measured voice, knowing it was useless at this point to try to hide her past activities. “If you must know,” she said to Ma, with a toss of her hair, “I went from there to being an usherette at the Marlowe.”
“What’s the Marlowe?” asked Ma in a scared, mystified voice, clearly unsettled that she didn’t understand the weight of Henrietta’s revelation.
“It’s a burlesque theater downtown, Ma,” Eugene answered coolly, enjoying Henrietta’s angry glare.
“God in heaven!” Ma wailed. “Oh, Henrietta! Not another scandal! I always knew this was bound to happen with you! This is all your father’s fault, you know!”
“Scandal? There’s been no scandal, Ma!” Henrietta retorted, trembling now. How dare she continually blame everything, including this, on her father. It was taking every ounce of her self-control not to blurt out her belief that her father’s death was in part caused by Ma’s relentless nagging! Elsie was noiselessly crying now, and Stan had moved to her side and put his arm protectively around her.
“This has gone far enough now,” Clive finally put in, firmly but not unkindly. “Mrs. Von Harmon, please. Let me explain. Henrietta only took the position at the Marlowe as a favor to me. It was quite wrong of me, and I regret it now, except, of course, that it brought me closer to her. I asked Henrietta to go undercover for me, as an usherette, to get information on a case. I . . . I misjudged her age . . . and her experience,” he said tacitly. “If anyone is to blame, it would be me.” He paused to clear his throat. “It should likewise be stated here, though it is by no means necessary, that Henrietta behaved quite admirably. More than that, really.” He glanced at her briefly. “She was everything you might be proud of, Mrs. Von Harmon, a model of decency and virtue. She stands before you quite without reason for reproach. On any account,” he said evenly, looking pointedly at Eugene as he did so. “So much so that I have quite fallen in love with her and have asked her just this evening to be my wife.”
He turned his attention now back to Henrietta and continued as if they were alone in the room, looking directly into her eyes. “I’m very much in her debt, not just for her help on the case, which was extraordinary”—he smiled—“but for teaching me to love again. And she has quite unexpectedly accepted me, for which I shall ever be grateful.”
Henrietta thought she heard a scoff come from the corner where Eugene was still perched, but she ignored it. Clive did as well and instead addressed Ma and the little group before him. “I earnestly hope that we have your blessing and that you will wish us well. If not for me, then certainly for your daughter’s sake,” he said, looking at Ma before turning his attention to Eugene specifically. “And your sister’s,” he added with a certain finality.
There was silence in the room for several seconds before Elsie finally broke it. “Well, I’ll say it,” she said, grasping hold of Henrietta’s hands and then releasing them to embrace her tightly. “Congratulations!” Shyly, then, she moved to embrace Clive as well.
Stan, too, approached and held out his hand to Clive.
“No hard feelings?” Clive asked him with a wink.
“Nah!” Stan answered, though no one noticed, except perhaps Henrietta, that he trembled a bit as he bent to briefly kiss her cheek in congratulations and that he did not exactly meet her eyes.
All of the smaller Von Harmons, who had up to this point been standing in the back of the room along the wall, silently watching the drama unfold, now looked to Ma to see what her reaction would be. Slowly she stood up from the chair by the table, a look of sad resignation on her face. Clive took a step toward her, and Henrietta held her breath.
“Mrs. Von Harmon,” he asked forthrightly. “Do we have your blessing?”
“I suppose so,” Ma said stiffly with an absent wave of her hand. “I don’t see what it matters, anyway.” Clive’s quiet, commanding presence seemed to have oddly calmed her, or perhaps it had merely deflated her. “You lot,” she said, turning toward the little ones. “Get over there and congratulate Henrietta and then get off to bed.” At this signal of encouragement, the five of them ran to Henrietta and hugged her, causing her to laugh and kiss each of them affectionately on the head.
“Does this mean you’re going to be my uncle?” Jimmy asked Clive with a wispy sweetness, his blanket to his nose.
Clive laughed. “Something like that.”
Henrietta glanced at the corner where Eugene, the only one to have not offered his congratulations, had been sitting, but he was already gone, having presumably slunk off to the bedroom. She looked at Clive, whom she saw had noticed as well, and shrugged. In response, he gave her the quickest of winks and smiled at her, causing her heart to explode with love for him all over again. He had been wonderful with them.
Ma shuffled toward the kitchen. “I suppose I should offer you some coffee. I don’t think we have any tea.”
“Coffee would be lovely, actually. Thank you,” Clive answered.
Ma turned back toward him. “You don’t exactly sound like a policeman,” she said suspiciously. “What did you say your surname is?”
“Howard. Clive Howard,” he answered respectfully.
“Howard?” Her face took on a blanched tone and her eyes narrowed. “Where did you say you’re from?”
Clive cleared his throat slightly. “I live downtown just now, but as it happens I grew up in Winnetka.”
“The Howards of Winnetka?” Ma asked faintly.
Clive did not hide his surprise. “Why, yes! Do you know them?”
Ma looked horribly shaken, almost limp, as she turned slowly back toward the kitchen. “Now how would I know them?” she asked as she went with what sounded like a tremor of worry, or was it outright fear in her voice? “Must of read it somewhere is all,” she mumbled.
“I’ll help you,
Ma” Elsie had volunteered, following her mother to the kitchen.
As soon as the swinging door had shut behind them, Elsie went straight for the cupboard to gather some mugs, saying as she did so, “I can’t believe it, Ma! Can you? Henrietta engaged! It’s a shame we don’t have anything else to celebrate with!”
“Well, we don’t!” Ma said bitterly, leaning tiredly against the deep sink after the unexpected turn of events of the evening. “Coffee will have to do, though I’m sure that one out there’s been used to much finer. Oh, Elsie!” Ma cried suddenly, holding her hand up to her mouth, as a mystified Elsie looked on. “What are we going to do?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Henrietta said, trying to push away the memories of that embarrassing evening when her family had eventually toasted her and Clive’s engagement with mugs of coffee, though Ma remained subdued through it all until Clive had taken his leave shortly after.
Clive had the good manners not to refer again to that evening’s events, more specifically to her family’s reaction to him, as a topic of discussion, but Henrietta had longed to try to explain it all to him. She didn’t know where to even begin, though, how to describe Ma or even how to bring it up again, so it had remained untouched between them. Now, as she stood in this grandiose house with chandeliers and paintings and servants, of all things, she couldn’t help but blush all over again at the mean surroundings she had introduced him to that night.
“I love you, remember?” Clive whispered to her as she gripped his arm tightly. He led her, then, across the massive foyer to a set of closed pocket doors made of thick walnut. Henrietta smiled up at him gratefully and took a deep breath as he rapped a couple of times with his knuckles before sliding one of the doors open just wide enough for them to pass through side by side.
Henrietta tried not to gasp as they entered the large, bright room. Everywhere she looked was luxury and beauty like she had never seen before. The walls themselves were covered with gold damask wallpaper, and everywhere sat neat little groupings of white painted furniture with royal blue upholstery. She imagined that this was what a room in a palace might look like, as her eyes darted from a large urn overflowing with roses on a blue silk-covered table in front of a huge bay window, itself draped with thick blue curtains with gold trim, to the intricately patterned Oriental rug underfoot. Above them hung more paintings in thick gold frames, and along one wall was a large fireplace with low bookshelves on either side that held what looked like small curiosities and trinkets along with various books. A small fire was burning in the grate despite the fact that it was late June, but it somehow did not seem out of place, nor was it too warm.
On one chair in front of the fire sat a woman, presumably Clive’s mother, with ramrod-straight posture. She was wearing a fitted silk dress of navy blue, belted at the waist with flared sleeves, matching heels, and, of course, a small pert silk hat perched on the side of her head, her hair perfectly pulled up in the latest style. Near her, next to the fire, stood a man whom Henrietta naturally assumed was Clive’s father, wearing a jacket and tie and holding a small pipe in his right hand. Except for a slight paunch to him, he still cut a dignified, elegant figure. There was no doubt he had been very handsome in his day, and still was, Henrietta thought generously.
She could feel both pairs of eyes on her as they made their way into the room.
“Hello, Mother,” Clive said, dutifully bending to kiss the woman seated before them. “Good morning, Father,” Clive then said deferentially.
“Hello, Clive, darling,” his mother responded with muted emotion.
Clive took a deep breath and turned to Henrietta, smiling. “Mother, Father, I’d like you to finally meet my fiancée, Henrietta.”
Henrietta’s face burned as she felt Clive’s mother carefully assess her and saw the slight frown that resulted when her eyes lingered on her dress. Henrietta forced herself, however, to meet her gaze before turning to look at Clive’s father.
Mr. Howard gave a little cough, then, and stepped forward briskly. “Hello, my dear,” he said with a distinct English accent, taking her hand and grasping it delicately. “Alcott Howard. Very pleased to meet you.” He looked up briefly at Clive, though Henrietta couldn’t read what was in his face. Clive’s mother then rose and embraced her in the very loosest definition of the word. “You’re very lovely, my dear. I can see why Clive is so taken with you.” She produced the briefest of smiles, which seemed to Henrietta to be decidedly false.
“Thank you,” Henrietta said quietly, not sure what else to say.
“Shall we sit down?” Mrs. Howard motioned stiffly toward a small settee opposite her chair. “Tea is on its way.”
“Wonderful. Just what’s needed after a long drive,” Clive said, clapping his hands together enthusiastically as he sat down next to Henrietta, casually crossing his legs while Mr. Howard made his way to the armchair next to his wife. “I hope Mary’s prepared some of her strawberry scones,” Clive said cheerfully. Henrietta thought him not nervous exactly, but he did seem a little on edge. But perhaps she was only imagining it.
“Yes, I made sure of it,” Mrs. Howard said with what Henrietta thought was her first genuine smile. “I know they’re your favorite.”
“I say, how was the drive, anyway?” Mr. Howard said, leaning back in his chair as he took a deep puff of his pipe, startling Henrietta in his sudden resemblance to Clive. Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Howard went on. “You took Sheridan, I presume? Did you happen to observe what they’re doing outside the club? A disgrace, that’s what it is!”
“I can’t say that I did, Father.” Clive turned to Henrietta and smiled. “My mind was rather on other things, you see.” He seemed to be relaxing now, and Henrietta only wished she could.
“Putting up a sign, that’s what they’re doing,” his father continued, seemingly unaware of Clive’s comment. “A bloody big sign, as if all the world need know the whereabouts of the entrance. It’s members-only, anyway, so I don’t quite see the point. Damned regrettable. Whatever was wrong with the little stone sign we had previously? Served its purpose. Gaudy as hell this one is.”
“Alcott,” Mrs. Howard put in warningly. She was a thin woman with a long oval face and high cheekbones. She had a relatively small tight mouth, and when she smiled, Henrietta did not fail to notice her perfect teeth. Her hair was still very dark and thick despite her age, and she had small dark eyes. She was not what one would call beautiful, but she was not unattractive either. In her stylish dress, adorned only with a single strand of pearls and a matching pearl brooch, she exuded a discreet, classic sense of beauty and elegance. Her face was very serious, but it held what Henrietta hoped was at least a hint of kindness.
“Sorry, my dear,” he said respectfully. “I get carried away, you know.”
“Yes, but I’m sure we have other things to discuss with Clive and his . . . fiancée,” Mrs. Howard said the word almost with difficulty, “than the club’s new signage.”
“Quite right,” he said agreeably. “Quite right.”
There was a faint knock on the door, then, and another servant, a younger one this time, came in carrying an enormous silver tea tray. He set it expertly on the low table between them and stood back.
“Will there be anything else, Madam?” he said stiffly, not looking at anyone in particular but instead straight out the window.
“No, James. Thank you. That will be all for now.”
Before he could depart, however, Henrietta spoke to him. “That’s funny, I have a brother James, though we call him Jimmy,” she said, looking first at Mrs. Howard and then over at Mr. Howard. She was mortified when neither of them, nor the footman either, for that matter, reacted except for perhaps a small attempt of a smile from Mr. Howard, though it really resembled more of a polite grimace. The footman bowed slightly and retreated from the room.
“Yes, you must tell us all about your family,” Mrs. Howard said almost with a frown as she leaned forward and began to pour out steaming cu
ps of tea. “Sugar?” she asked Henrietta.
“A little, I suppose,” she answered meekly.
“One, then?”
“One?”
“One cube? Or two?”
“Oh. Just one, thank you.” Henrietta felt her face flush again. She rarely had tea and certainly never had a sugar cube. The stuff they got from the Armory was always loose in a two-pound brown bag.
“Milk?”
Henrietta wasn’t sure whether she liked milk in her tea or not, so she answered, “No, thank you,” to appear less a nuisance and in case it would require answering more questions. Mrs. Howard handed her the delicate china cup and saucer, then, and went on to arrange the rest of the cups, obviously already knowing how everyone else preferred theirs. Clive reached down and handed her a china plate and a pale blue cloth napkin, for which she was grateful, as it provided a sort of makeshift shield. He seemed to sense her unease, though it probably wasn’t too difficult to deduce.
“You must try one of Mary’s scones,” he said to her. “They’re simply delightful. Here, allow me.” He reached across and put one on her plate for her with a pair of silver tongs. Henrietta smiled her thanks, but she didn’t try it right away. She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she just pick it up with her fingers? Or should she use a fork? She looked at the tray and saw four forks stacked neatly to the side, but no one was reaching for them. Surely if she were supposed to use a fork, Clive would have handed her one, wouldn’t he have?
In truth, Henrietta was amazed at the amount as well as the beauty of the food displayed on the tray. Not only was there the basket of scones wrapped up in a crisp, linen cloth, but there was a three-tiered tray holding tiny sandwiches cut into triangles, pastries, and even fresh strawberries. Beside the teapot was a large pot of jam and a huge block of what looked like real butter. It was all too lovely to eat, and Henrietta wished Elsie could see it. Mr. and Mrs. Howard were busily arranging things on their plates, though Henrietta observed that they only took a few items. She must exercise restraint, she wistfully noted, though she could have easily polished off the whole of the tray’s contents herself.