by Michelle Cox
With her stomach clenched in a knot, Henrietta entered the dingy apartment, shutting the door behind her with a bit of a shove, as was required these days because it sometimes stuck, and was surprised to find Ma sitting in the ratty armchair by the fire as if she had never left.
As there was nothing else for it, she bravely proceeded to relate to Ma the whole of the truth about Clive, still in a bit of a state of disbelief herself. She was completely thrown off, however, when Ma’s first reaction was one of, of all things, tears, as she buried her face in her hands, mumbling, “So it’s true, then.”
When Henrietta then tried carefully to explain about going to stay with them for an undetermined time, Ma’s tears and odd silence turned predictably to irritation.
“But why?” Ma demanded, more than once. “Have you stopped to think what we’re supposed to do here without you?”
“This is really just about the money, isn’t it, Ma?” Henrietta had retorted.
“Yes, Henrietta, it’s always about the money. You’d know that if you had any brains in that head,” Ma hissed.
Henrietta felt her fingers grip the envelope filled with Clive’s money in her handbag. Part of her was tempted not to give it to Ma at all—she didn’t deserve it—but part of her wanted to use it to shame her with the Howards’ obvious generosity. To prove Clive’s integrity and that something good could come of this strange situation, that she hadn’t done so badly after all. Before she could change her mind, she quickly drew out the envelope and handed it to Ma, not being able to hold back a bit of flourish as she did so.
“What’s that?” Ma asked, her eyes narrowed.
“Just take it!” Henrietta exclaimed, thrusting it closer to Ma until she finally reached out and grasped it. Ma let her eyes travel briefly over the contents before she tossed it with disgust onto the table, a look of weariness crossing her face now.
“We can’t take that money, Henrietta, and you know it.”
Henrietta exhaled deeply. “Why not, Ma?”
“Can’t you see what he’s trying to do?”
“Help us?” Henrietta offered.
“He’s paying us off. Buying you, you might say.”
“Ma! Don’t be ridiculous! He’s merely trying to help us. He knows you need my wages, and I . . . I can’t work just now.”
“Why not? That’s what I don’t understand. Why can’t you be working?”
“Because I . . . I told you . . . I have to stay with them for a while. Clive wants me to . . . well . . . to get to know them and plan the wedding and everything. There’s a lot to do . . .” she trailed off here, unsure herself of what was actually going to be required of her to plan what she feared was in danger of becoming a rather elaborate event. “And besides, Ma, I’m going to have to leave soon, anyway . . .” she said, echoing Clive’s words to her, “you know . . . when I am married to him. I can’t keep living here, giving you my paycheck.”
“We can’t take charity, Henrietta,” Ma said through gritted teeth. “I can’t take money from that family.”
“Why? It’s not charity!” Henrietta insisted, though she rather thought it very nearly was. “Anyway, don’t you think you’re being a hypocrite? We take charity food from the Armory all the time!”
“That’s different! That’s government food. Everyone does that!” Ma countered savagely, but Henrietta knew she had hit a sore point.
“Then why don’t you ever go down and get it? Why do you always have to send me or Elsie?”
“Oh, why did you have to get mixed up with them, Henrietta!” Ma moaned, ignoring her question. “Why couldn’t you have just met some average man from the neighborhood and settled down? But, no! You always did aim too high!” Ma said angrily, her voice rising.
“I am not aiming too high!” Henrietta exclaimed. “How was I to know he’s from a wealthy family? It’s not exactly his fault, you know, any more than . . .” she let her voice trail off.
“Any more than what?” Ma asked angrily. When Henrietta didn’t respond, Ma went on. “Oh, Henrietta, how can you be so stupid?” she groaned. “Doesn’t it worry you in the slightest? He wasn’t exactly honest with you, you know. You don’t even really know him, and now he wants you to stay in his parents’ home while he’s gallivanting around the city? Doesn’t sound right to me,” she grunted, regaining some composure. “You’ll be nothing more than a kept woman from what I can see!”
“Asking me to be his wife and introducing me to his parents does not sound like a ‘kept woman’ to me, Ma!” Henrietta retorted, trying to ignore the fact that Ma’s words had a distressing ring of truth to them, at least regarding Clive’s honesty.
“Well, you do what you like, Henrietta. You always do. Anything I say isn’t going to make a blind bit of difference,” Ma said bitterly as she heavily got to her feet. “Still sounds like they’re buying you to me, though” she added under her breath.
“Why can’t you ever be happy for me?” Henrietta asked in a steely voice.
“Why can’t you ever see things the way they really are?” Ma said bitingly.
Henrietta stood quivering with anger, wanting to say more but not daring to. Finally, she muttered, “Well, the money’s there. Do what you like.”
She stormed off to the bedroom, then, to pack her belongings. She despaired that she didn’t have a decent case to put everything in and, for a brief second, considered running over to Stanley’s to ask if he had one she could borrow, but she had no desire to face what would surely be his disapproval as well. In the end, she finally settled on the old carpetbag she had once taken from the Promenade, dragging it out from under the bed, and carefully placed a pitifully few items in it. She had been hoping that she would be able to ask Ma about her possible connection to the Howards, but she didn’t have the strength for it at the moment; and, anyway, Ma was certainly not in the mood. It was a question that would just have to wait.
The sun was just starting to set with soft pinks and oranges staining the sky when Clive had reappeared to collect her. Ma had not even said goodbye to her, just shuffled past her to the bedroom where she shut herself up, claiming a headache, before Clive reached the top of the stairs, so that the large bouquet of flowers he had brought for her were laid to the side on the kitchen table with the envelope of money placed under it.
Both Henrietta and Clive were silent as they started out on the way back to Winnetka, Clive’s cheerful demeanor from before having shifted to one of pensiveness and Henrietta still being upset by the heated exchange with Ma. Henrietta chanced a glance at him now and worried that perhaps his more somber attitude had something to do with her, or was it because of Ma’s rudeness? Or maybe it was something entirely different, like perhaps an unsolved case. Annoyingly, her mind kept wandering back to what Ma had said about him, about him buying her and not being honest, but she angrily pushed it aside, determined to rekindle their earlier mood. She tried to draw him into conversation by asking him questions about his car, or about what the chief had said, or, as a last resort, about the neighborhoods they were passing through. Clive responded appropriately, but not enthusiastically, she noted, her heart sinking a little bit more with each of his laconic answers. Finally she took to looking out the window again, though there was nothing much to see in the darkness, and was surprised when he turned off the highway at a place she was pretty sure was not Winnetka. In fact it seemed like they had only gone half the distance.
“Is this Winnetka?” she asked, puzzled.
“No, it’s Evanston,” Clive said, pulling the car abruptly over to the side of the road and stopping it.
“Why have we stopped?” she asked, concerned. “Do you need gasoline?”
“This is no good, Henrietta,” he said, looking at her steadily now. Immediately, her stomach clenched. She should have expected this. She knew it was too good to be true. She had been right all along—and so had Ma. What would a man like Clive possibly want with a girl like her?
“Let’s not go back just yet
,” Clive said slowly. “Let’s stop and have dinner first.” He looked at her hopefully. “I know a place here. It’s very good. Nothing fancy, but decent. And anyway, it seems I owe you a dinner. Remember?” he said with a smile.
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember Polly’s apartment? I promised you a dinner?”
“That’s what this is about?”
“What did you think this was about?” he asked, concerned, his head tilted to the side. When she didn’t answer, the lump in her throat preventing it, he leaned closer to her and tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “I simply want to get to know my bride-to-be better. I want to know everything about you, Henrietta. To cherish you in the way that you should be. Doesn’t that make sense?”
All Henrietta could do was nod, desperately fighting a sudden urge to cry.
“And God knows we won’t be left alone for a minute once we get back to Highbury,” he said wryly. “So, what do you say? Phillipe’s Italian restaurant, just about a mile ahead? Or Mary’s cold cuts and cheese in the drawing room?”
Henrietta could not help but smile. “Won’t your mother be worried?” she managed to ask.
“I’ll telephone them from the restaurant. They’ll just have to get over it,” he said, putting the car into gear again.
The next couple of hours passed uneventfully as the two of them sat in a dimly lit alcove in the back of the restaurant, though a new intimacy was perhaps born by their honest conversation. Henrietta, at Clive’s’ prompting, told him more about the death of her father, her mother’s subsequent despair, and the true state of their poverty. Clive listened attentively as she told him how she still missed her father terribly but that she was forbidden to speak of him at home, and she read, not for the first time, the deep compassion in his eyes as he took her hand across the table. And while she was grateful for his attentiveness, she grew self-conscious, then, feeling that perhaps she had talked too much about herself. Slowly she pulled her hand from his and took a drink of her wine. She wanted to ask him about Catherine, his first wife who had died in childbirth, or why he lived and worked as a detective when he so obviously didn’t need to. Was he trying to escape as well? His parents seemed pleasant enough—his mother a bit designing, maybe, but weren’t most mothers? What could he be trying to run from? She was so confused. She could feel Clive’s eyes on her, so she finally looked up and met his gaze.
“What were you thinking just now?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know!” Henrietta answered. “A lot of things, I suppose.”
“Such as?”
Henrietta caught his eye. “Something like why you . . . why you didn’t tell me everything about yourself.”
Clive sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“But shouldn’t I know it?”
“Yes, of course. You’re quite right. But maybe we should continue this conversation at home. Would you mind?”
Calling a place like Highbury “home” sounded strange to Henrietta’s ears, but she let it pass without comment and merely nodded. Clive signaled the waiter for the bill, and while they waited, Henrietta rested her chin in the palm of one hand and looked at him.
“Do you really have to go back to the city tomorrow?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I do, darling,” he answered grimly. “Duty calls. The chief gave me today off, but I need to get back.”
She watched as he signed the bill, his signature enough of a promise of payment. “Is this some sort of test?” she asked, suddenly feeling a little woozy.
“A test? Of what sort?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“You know. Me staying with your family,” she suggested.
“Of course it’s not a test!” he laughed. “As it happens, Mother very much wants to know you and discover what charms you’ve managed to work on me, seeing as I’ve cleverly evaded her matrimonial attempts for years now.”
Henrietta could not help but laugh, too. “But what am I supposed to do all day? I’m used to working!”
“I don’t know. Explore,” Clive said, standing up now and coming around to hold her chair for her. “There’s a row boat down by the lake. And I’m sure Mother will keep you busy with plans and all of that.”
As Clive led her back through the restaurant, then, squeezing their way through the groupings of red-and-white-checked tables lit only by candles, Henrietta tried to take it all in and commit it to memory. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant by any stretch; in fact it was rather plain, and Henrietta suspected that if all of the lights were switched on, some of the corners may have revealed a bit more dust and grime than they should have. Clive’s face held a puzzled look as he held the door for her, as she had not immediately gone through but had instead turned to look behind her one more time.
“Coming?” he asked, confused.
She faced him, then, and placed a hand on his arm.
“Thank you for dinner, Clive. It was my first time in a restaurant. A real restaurant, that is. The counter at Woolworths doesn’t count.” She smiled and looked around one last time. “Everything was so lovely. I want to remember it.”
Clive looked at her at first as if she were in jest, but when he saw that she was in earnest, his bemused face changed to one of unmitigated love and almost worship. Despite them being in a public place, he quickly bent to kiss her and then whispered in her ear, “I’m the one to thank you, my darling. Come, let’s go.”
In contrast to the drive up thus far, Henrietta had sat very close to Clive as they continued on to Winnetka, content to just be near him without need of conversation. It was only when Clive turned the car into the lane and Highbury came into view that she began to feel nervous all over again. To Henrietta’s eye, it resembled a castle of sorts, complete with a turret and buttresses and thick stonework entwined with ivy. To calm her nerves, she began to count the chimneys rising up from the heavy slate roof and stopped at seven before she gave up and took a deep breath for courage.
Having deposited their wraps with the austere Billings, Clive had led Henrietta to the drawing room in search of some cognac, Henrietta hoping to continue the conversation they had started at the restaurant. Instead, they were surprised to discover the Howards, still very much awake and waiting for them. Mrs. Howard had greeted them warmly, but did not then refrain from mentioning, several times, her disappointment in their getting back so late, as she had hoped they might at least have had a game of bridge before retiring.
Seeing as cards were happily, for his part, now out of the question, Mr. Howard declared instead that champagne was in order, despite the lateness of the hour, as they had not yet toasted the happy couple, and the bell was forthwith rung.
Billings eventually appeared with the requested bottle, and the toast was dutifully and unceremoniously made, after which they all sat down politely and small talk had ensued. And though Mr. Howard had been the one to suggest the bottle be opened in the first place, he was regrettably the first to begin nodding in his armchair, perched dangerously near the fire. In the end, Mrs. Howard was forced to come to his rescue before he either burned himself or embarrassingly began to snore and accordingly urged him upstairs with her.
Before leaving the room, Mrs. Howard gave Henrietta a somewhat restrained embrace, saying as she did so, “We’re so very glad you’re here, my dear. I hope you’ll be quite comfortable. Billings will get you anything you need.” Henrietta mumbled a thank-you, and, with that, Mr. and Mrs. Howard finally made their way upstairs.
Henrietta watched them go and, feeling tired herself, had expected to follow them. Stifling a yawn, she was surprised, then, when Clive had suggested that they have a quick nightcap on the terrace as they had originally planned. Realizing that it might be a whole week or more before she saw him again, Henrietta willingly accepted, despite the fact that she felt she had already drank a bit too much.
The air was warm as they stepped out, Clive carrying two cognacs. Though most of the property was bathed in darknes
s, Henrietta could hear the lap of the water off Lake Michigan, which the back of the property gradually sloped down toward. In the distance, she could see the flicker of heat lightning occasionally lighting up the sky under the false pretense of heralding a genuine storm. Henrietta traced the low stone fence with her finger and glanced up at the house, still lit up in places, and was overcome by its sheer magnitude.
“Here you are, darling,” Clive said, coming over and handing her a crystal glass.
Hesitantly she took a drink and gasped at the burn as the liquid traveled down her throat.
Clive smiled. “Just sip it.”
Henrietta nodded, staring at the cognac and then back up at the house. Neither of them spoke for some minutes until Henrietta, unable to hold it in any longer, burst out morosely, “Oh, Clive, I’m not sure about all of this. . . . I’m not sure I belong here,” she added, gesturing widely. “You’ve seen where I’m from. You have always been kind enough not to comment, but . . .”
“Henrietta,” he said calmly. “I don’t care about any of that. Frankly, I don’t care about any of this,” he said, nodding up at the house.
“Does it matter to you that I’m an Exley or a Von Harmon cousin, or some such thing? That I apparently have two disgraced parents now?”
Clive laughed. “Believe me, being an Exley and a Von Harmon is hardly disgraceful. Mother’s quite over the moon. I haven’t seen her this happy in some time, probably since Julia got married.”
Henrietta looked doubtful. “How can you tell?”
Clive smiled.
“Did you make the Von Harmon connection when you met me?” Henrietta asked suspiciously.
Clive arched an eyebrow. “Do you think I did?”
Henrietta thought back to their dance and the Promenade and then later how he had cornered her in the back room after Mama Leone had been killed. She smiled to think how she had been afraid of him then.
“Given the circumstances, I suppose not.”
“No, I did not. I don’t really think about things like that.” He paused and took a long, thoughtful drink of his cognac. “It’s me that is the disgrace, really. The black sheep, as it were,” he confided, smiling wryly.