by Michelle Cox
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?” Clive asked.
There was no way around it. She would have to just pick it up and hope it was the correct way of doing it. She shot him a look of despair and then tentatively lifted the scone to her mouth with her fingers and took a small bite. It was quite good, she thought, but dry.
Clive laughed a little. “Don’t you want any butter or jam on it?”
Henrietta shook her head, not wanting to admit her faux pas. “No, I like it plain,” she fibbed and took a sip of her hot tea.
“So, Henrietta,” Mrs. Howard said, peering over her cup, “as I was saying. You must tell us about your family. Clive’s been positively silent on the matter. Saying we must meet you first. And so, here we are,” she said, sitting up very straight. “What did you say your surname is?” she asked.
“Von Harmon.”
Clive retained his relaxed air, Henrietta noted, his arm now stretched out casually on the settee behind her. He seemed unaffected by his mother’s line of questioning, almost as if he didn’t hear it, but instead sat looking at Henrietta, a slightly amused, slightly disbelieving look to his face, as if he couldn’t get enough of her, as if he couldn’t believe she was his.
“Von Harmon?” Mrs. Howard seemed puzzled. “That rings a bell, does it not, Alcott?”
“Can’t say that it does, my dear,” Mr. Howard said lazily, stirring his tea as he reached for another pastry.
“I’m sure it does,” Mrs. Howard mused. “I’m sure you’re related, Alcott, to the Von Harmons somehow. Cousins, I believe, on your mother’s side. You know, the ones in France? Or is it Germany these days?”
“Perhaps, my dear. I’m not really sure.” He looked up and gave a general smile to the company assembled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Are you French?” Mrs. Howard asked Henrietta.
“I don’t know,” Henrietta said nervously. “My father used to tell us stories about how the family was originally from somewhere called Alsace-Lorraine, I think.”
“There! I was right! She must be a Von Harmon!” Mrs. Howard said approvingly. “How extraordinary! It’s a wonder I didn’t make the connection before,” she said, looking at Clive. “What does your father do, dear?” she asked in a decidedly more friendly tone.
“He . . . he’s gone. Passed away several years ago.” Henrietta glanced up anxiously at Clive, who smiled at her reassuringly.
“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Howard said sincerely. “So much tragedy these days, is there not?” She paused for a moment as if out of sympathy and then continued. “But what did he do, when he was alive, that is?”
“He worked at the Schwinn motorcycle factory. On Courtland?” Henrietta explained eagerly, glad to be able to share something about her father, whom she still missed terribly.
“Ah, in business,” Mrs. Howard said understandingly. “A vice president, perhaps?” she asked, not being able to keep the hope from her voice and meanwhile chancing a glance at Alcott, who did not appear to reciprocate any interest beyond that of the pastries laid before him.
“Oh, no!” Henrietta smiled. “He was on the line! He was an assembler, I think he used to call it.”
“A laborer?” Mrs. Howard said incredulously.
“Well, yes, I suppose you could call him that,” Henrietta answered, realizing now that she had said something wrong again.
“Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work, is there, Father?” Clive chimed in, coming to her rescue.
“Not at all, my boy. Not at all. But not always nice to get one’s hands dirty, though, eh? Not nice at all!”
Clive merely sat back, giving Henrietta a wink as he did so.
Mrs. Howard cleared her throat. “And your mother? What of her family?” she asked weakly.
Henrietta sighed. “Well, I’m not sure, really. She never speaks of them. Her maiden name was Exley, I believe. Martha Exley.”
Mrs. Howard stopped stirring her tea and remained motionless now as she stared at Henrietta. Even Mr. Howard paused in his efforts. The silence in the room was deafening until Clive broke it with a noise that oddly resembled a chuckle.
“That can’t be,” Mrs. Howard said finally, ignoring Clive and setting down her teacup with deliberation. “It simply can’t!” she added, still mystified.
“Exley, did you say?” Mr. Howard butted in, finally interested, it would seem, in the conversation.
“Yes, I think so,” Henrietta said nervously again, wondering what horrors the Exleys must have committed in the past, judging from the Howards’ initial reaction. She looked at Clive for an explanation.
“The Exleys are part of their set,” he explained languidly, with a noticeable lack of the drama that had just come before. “They go way back. John Exley and Father are quite good friends. Both at Cambridge together and all that.”
“Well, surely it must be a different Exley,” said Henrietta delicately. Her mother never spoke about her family, always saying it didn’t matter, and Henrietta had assumed they were either dead or far away. On more than one occasion, however, she now remembered disconcertedly, she had sometimes suspected that her mother had come from a well-to-do family simply by the way she often spoke or how she sometimes held herself.
“Exley is not a very common name,” Mrs. Howard pointed out slowly. “Where is she from?”
“I’m . . . I’m not really sure. She never speaks about them.”
“I’m sure John’s sister was named Martha,” Mrs. Howard continued, turning to her husband after musing a few moments. “Think, Alcott! You must have met her at some point.”
“Hmmm . . . Martha . . . Could have been her name. I think I may have met her at a dinner or a Christmas party, some such thing. Very quiet. If I did meet her, didn’t say two words to her. Ran off and got married, I think John said once. Not very forthcoming about the whole thing was John. Bit of a hush-hush, you know. Not really the thing one asks about now, is it?”
Mrs. Howard allowed herself to absorb this information before she took up her teacup again. “Well, really!” she said almost to herself, managing a smile before turning back to Clive and Henrietta. “What a morning this has turned out to be!” she continued cheerfully. “To think we may have a Von Harmon and an Exley sitting before us! Who would have known you would be so clever, Clive? We thoroughly approve, don’t we, Alcott?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course, dear. Course we do, old boy. Any more tea in the pot?”
“I think there’s been some mistake, Mrs. Howard,” Henrietta offered feebly, unable to accept the past they so clearly wanted her to claim. “I really don’t think I’m who you suppose I am. I’m sure my mother isn’t this John Exley’s sister.” Henrietta couldn’t imagine her mother growing up in a place similar to this and leaving it all for her father. But then again, could this perhaps have been the reason for her bitterness all these years? she wondered. Had she regretted her decision? And what about all of her father’s stories about how their family back in Alsace were part of the “ruling class,” as he had called them? She had assumed as she had gotten older that they were just stories he had made up for their entertainment, something to help their meager dinners to go down easier and hopefully last a bit longer, but suppose they had been true? They couldn’t be, though, could they?
“Nonsense! I’m sure of it, my dear,” Mrs. Howard countered. “Your mother must have had her reasons for keeping quiet on the subject. At any rate, perhaps we’ll find out.” She paused, but only for a moment. “I know! We must have a party! An engagement party! It’s the only sensible thing to do; get the families together again. I’m sure your mother would be happy to be reunited with her long-lost family, would she not? How perfectly splendid!”
“Oh, no!” Henrietta exclaimed before she could catch herself. “Oh, please! I don’t think that’s a good idea! Do you, Clive?” She looked at him desperately.
“But why ever not, my dear?” Mrs. Howard asked, puzzled. “Surely you want to meet
Clive’s friends and relatives? They’ll be positively thrilled to meet you; they’ve quite given up hope for Clive, you see, poor thing. And such a beautiful choice he’s made.”
Henrietta blushed and looked at Clive again. He was absently tracing the fabric on the knee of his trousers. For once she wished he would read her mind. Finally she detected what she thought was the smallest smile on his face as he looked up at Mrs. Howard.
“Mother, we don’t want a fuss. Surely we can avoid all this?”
“Well, the families do have to meet each other eventually, Clive. Don’t worry; it will be modest. Just a few friends.”
“I’ve seen your ‘modest’ before, Mother,” Clive grinned. “All right, then,” he sighed. “Very small. We don’t want to frighten Henrietta away, you know.”
“But . . . she’s . . . she’s not been well!” Henrietta sputtered. “I don’t know if she could make it!” Henrietta felt panicked. Why had Clive so readily given in?
“Why, it won’t be right away, dear,” she smiled sweetly. “We’ll need some time to plan it, and of course, the wedding itself. Have you set a date?”
“Not yet, no,” Clive answered. “We haven’t gotten that far, have we, darling?” he asked, lightly touching her hand.
Darling? He had never called her that before, and she wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.
“I’ve got it! I’ve a simply marvelous idea!” Mrs. Howard looked excitedly from one to the other. “You must come and stay with us for a time, my dear, if your mother can spare you, that is. That way we can get to know each other better and plan it all out! It will be splendid. Just the thing, I’m sure. Don’t you agree, Alcott?”
“What, what? Oh, yes! Yes, of course, my dear. Enchanted to have you.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly . . . I’ve . . . I’m very needed at home, you see.”
“Clive! Surely you can convince her . . .” Mrs. Howard pleaded.
Clive put his hand on top of Henrietta’s. “It might not be such a bad idea, you know,” he said, looking at her now.
“Clive!”
Clive sighed and stood up. “Perhaps I should show Henrietta the rose garden. It’s quite lovely this time of year.”
Mrs. Howard peered at him in confusion before a look of understanding then crossed her face. “Yes, dear. Of course. Splendid,” Mrs. Howard agreed, leaning back in her armchair now.
Clive reached out his hand to Henrietta. “Shall we?”
Henrietta’s suspicions were aroused by this abrupt suggestion, but she desperately wanted to get out of the room, and fresh air sounded heavenly. “Yes, let’s,” she said eagerly and took his hand, Mr. Howard politely standing as she rose.
Henrietta followed behind Clive to a set of French doors which, when opened, led out onto a wide terrace. Clive led her across the huge slate slabs and down two stone steps to the formal rose gardens that lay beyond. Any other time, Henrietta would have been enthralled by the sight of the maze of shrubbery and roses before her, but she felt too peevish now and a bit nauseous, if truth be told.
Expertly, Clive led her into the maze, and as soon as they were far enough into the garden to be out of sight of the morning room windows, he stopped and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply, entwining his fingers gently with hers. She was shocked at first, completely taken off guard, but after a few moments she felt herself giving in to him, felt herself melting at his touch as his hands traveled down her back. She could not help responding in kind, breathing in the scent of him and wanting it to last forever. After what seemed only a few minutes, however, he pulled away, breathing hard.
“Oh, Clive! What are we going to do?” Henrietta moaned, her heart still racing from his kisses.
“Go through with the party, I suppose,” he grinned, still holding one of her hands.
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” she said and wondered what she had meant. “I can’t stay here!” she went on, choosing to address the most obvious problem first. “Surely you can see why?”
“Well, when Mother’s got an idea fixed in her head, it’s very difficult to unfix it,” he sighed.
“Clive!” she said evenly, “you know I can’t possibly leave them all.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it as he looked into her eyes. “But you’re going to have to sooner or later, dearest . . . when we marry. Is that not so? You weren’t still planning on living with them afterward, were you?” he said, his accompanying smile kind.
Henrietta closed her eyes in defeat. He was right, of course, but she hadn’t had much time to think about it all. “Clive . . . I . . . they need my wages,” she said as she stared at the ground, her face burning.
“I know,” he said tenderly. “I’ll take care of that.” He lifted her chin with his finger so that he could look into her eyes. “Say you’ll come and stay. Just for a little while? Get to know Mother and Father and all of this,” he said, glancing around the huge property. “Please? It would make them so happy. And me.”
Henrietta felt herself weaken before the warmth of his gaze upon her. She wanted to please him, to be near him. “I suppose,” she sighed. “But not for very long. And I don’t know what I’m going to tell Ma.”
“Just tell her the truth. Always the best policy, don’t you think?”
“I’ll try,” she said, though she still felt unsure about this whole idea.
“Thank you, darling,” he said, bending to kiss her again, and Henrietta, the “darling” still ringing unnaturally in her ears, fervently hoped she wasn’t making a dreadful mistake.
Chapter 2
“How are you settling in, my dear?” Mrs. Howard asked Henrietta from across the breakfast table where she sat with Mr. Howard, who was absently munching toast and reading the paper.
“Fine, thank you, Mrs. Howard,” said Henrietta, nervously stirring her coffee.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked in a clipped tone.
Henrietta merely nodded, wishing, again, that Clive were there and tried not to feel so horribly out of place, but so much was happening so quickly.
It wasn’t long after their stroll in the garden that Clive had proposed to drive Henrietta back to the city to collect her things. Mrs. Howard was visibly upset by this abrupt change of plans, saying that she had assumed they would be staying for dinner, as they saw so little of Clive these days as it was. Clive had responded by kissing his mother on the cheek, which, Henrietta observed, caused that venerable woman’s shoulders to sag just a bit, a clear signal of defeat. Mrs. Howard could not seem to refrain, however, from making several—at least three—disparaging comments about how Mary was going to be put out after all the preparations that she had gone through in anticipation of Mister Clive coming home. Clive had responded by saying that he would have a word with Mary in the morning to make it up to her.
Unusually buoyant, as if the some inner sanctum had been breached and thereby conquered, Clive peppered the drive back to the highway with amusing stories of his boyhood at Highbury and the antics he had gotten up to with his sister, Julia, until their voices were drowned out by the roar of the engine straining on the highway, intent on doing its job of returning them to the city from which they had come.
Henrietta instead took to looking out the window at the silhouettes of the trees as they whipped by, though Clive held her hand tight. Here in the farthest reaches of Chicago’s shadow, she had become privy to a side of Clive that she hadn’t known existed, and she was, frankly, confused. When she fell in love with him, she had known him as the aloof, cool Inspector whom, as she herself had witnessed, could be as hard-edged and violent as the next cop. She had assumed that he was one like herself, living in the grit of the city, trying to struggle through. Now, however, he had revealed what was almost a secret identity, and his was a very different existence altogether. Why hadn’t he told her about this other life of his? Maybe he hadn’t had a chance? she wondered, trying to be fair, though, if she were honest, she wasn’t convinced.
When they finally arrived in front of her apartment building, she was awash with a mounting sense of dread at having to face Ma and tell her the truth about Clive and what it would mean for them all, though, admittedly, she didn’t really know herself. Clive gallantly offered to come up with her, but Henrietta knew that that would make things worse, so he agreed to leave her for an hour or so while he stopped off at the station to confer with the chief on certain matters before he would return to collect her. As he walked her to the door, though, Clive carefully placed an envelope in her handbag, the contents of which, to her great embarrassment, she was pretty sure she knew. He instantly dispelled her discomfort, however, by quietly telling her that what was his was hers, or soon would be.
Once inside the dark entryway of the building, Henrietta paused to collect herself before mounting the dirty, worn stairs, silently rehearsing what she would say to Ma and feeling a spark of irritation growing in her chest. Why should she be so hesitant to tell Ma that her husband-to-be was rich beyond their wildest imaginings? Shouldn’t she be rushing up the stairs to tell them all that their fortunes had changed? But no, thought Henrietta, disgusted. Ma would find a way to sour even this, and Henrietta could predict that it was going to have something to do with her having to leave them and go so far away—and sooner rather than later it seemed, if Mrs. Howard had her way. And, Henrietta sighed, reluctantly beginning to climb the steps now, there was obviously some dark secret to unearth regarding Ma’s connection to that world, and Henrietta did not think it a good one, or wouldn’t Ma have mentioned it before now?