by Michelle Cox
Henrietta smiled. “I’m . . . I’m Clive Howard’s fiancée, actually.”
“Mister Clive? Never!” she said, incredulous, pausing to stare at her in a new way. “We’d all but given up ’ope, we did. Took it ’ard when Miss Cathy died. We all fell sa sorry fer ’im up at the hoose. ’Im na long ’ome from the war. Everyone thought in time ’e’d get over it, but, well, nothin’ stuck. Ran off ta the city ta become a bobby, ’e did. Nearly killed Mr. ’oward wit the shock of it. I blame the war, I do. Nothin’s been righ’ since then.” She grew oddly silent, now, lost in her own thoughts, staring into her mug of tea.
Henrietta wasn’t sure what to say. She longed to ask so many questions, but she wasn’t sure how sane this woman really was. She shifted uncomfortably and finally managed, “So, Miss Catherine . . . she was liked, was she?” Henrietta took a tentative sip of tea.
“Miss Cathy?! Course she were liked! But then again, we all knowed ’er from a little lass. She were always running about ’ere wit Miss Julia and Mister Clive when they were wee ones. Everyone were over the moon, they were, when they decided ta marry. It were like a fairy tale, it were. Jis’ a quiet ceremony, Mister Clive insistin’ on going off ta war, ya see, an, well, tha’ were tha’,” she mused sadly.
Henrietta felt an odd jolt of jealousy, then, though she immediately chastised herself for envying a dead person. Shouldn’t she be happy that Clive had been happy once upon a time?
“Still! Tha’ were a long time ago,” the old woman smiled. “I’m glad ’e’s found another one. Yer wery pretty; I’ll give ya tha,” she said, peering at her closely as if examining an antique for its authenticity. “An ya seem a nice lass, ya do. Na like tha’ other one ’e took up wit fer a time. She were a nasty piece a work. None of us could fathom wha’ ’e saw in ’er. We were all afeared ’e would marry ’er. Mrs. ’oward woulda been ’appy enough, though, Miss Sophia’s da being sich a big un in politics, like, but it fizzled out in the end. I think tha’s why young Mister Clive stays away sa mooch, ya see. Too many bad memories now. ’Appy enough ’e is livin’ in filth in the city. Blessed shame, tha’ is. But wha’ am I sayin?” she suddenly stopped herself and smiled at Henrietta. “Don’ matter, does it? Seems ’e’s come ta ’is senses now, an tha’s all tha’ matters.” She reached out and patted Henrietta’s hand. “They’re desperate up dare, like, fer a grandson. Need ta carry on the name, ya see. Terrible rows dare were in the past. You’ll ’ave yer work cut out fer ya, tha’s fer sure, ta ’and Mister Clive a boy bairn,” she said with a mischievous cackle.
Henrietta wasn’t sure what to think of all of this. Who was “the other one,” this “Sophia,” and why hadn’t Clive ever mentioned her? And what was all this about carrying on the name, producing an heir? She felt an urgent need to speak to Clive just now, but, in truth, what would she say? How could she bring up such subjects? Though her mind was whirling now with this new information, she realized that the old woman was looking at her curiously, presumably waiting for some sort of response. “Thank you,” Henrietta said finally, for lack of anything else to say, and with a weak smile, took another sip of tea.
The woman continued to study her. “Ya look a wee bit young, though, ta keep Mister Clive in ’and.”
“I’ll try my best.” Henrietta smiled unconvincingly. She had no desire to hear any more at the moment of the lovely Catherine or this other love interest of Clive’s and wanted desperately to change the subject. “Did you . . . did you used to work at the house?” she eventually managed to ask.
“At the hoose?” The woman seemed flabbergasted by the question. “Aye. Course I did! I were the cook, I were! Then me eyes got bad an I had ta step down. Aboot ten years gone now. Mary’s the cook now. I still ’elp from time ta time, like. Big parties an sich, then I goes up an lends a ’and.” She reached for the teapot to top up their mugs. “Didna start out tha’ way, mind ya. Started out as a pot scrubber.”
“Really? How old were you?” Henrietta asked, delighted the conversation was taking a turn away from herself and Clive and nursed it along accordingly.
“Jis’ fourteen I were. Coom over from Scotland, ya see. ’Ad a friend who worked fer a big family in New York, the Hewitt’s. Tha’ were Mrs. ’oward’s family afore she married. She were a Hewitt, like. Me friend wrote me a letter saying tha Mrs. Hewitt, tha’s Mrs. ’oward’s mother, said I could coom an work in the kitchens. Meant everythin’ ta me, tha’ letter did, though I ’ad ta ’ave someone read it ta me, like. I packed me bags tha’ nigh’ an left.”
“Just like that? Weren’t you sad to leave everyone behind?” Henrietta asked.
“Ach, noo! It were terrible dare fer me. Me da were a sailor. ’Amish Boyd were ’is name. But ’e died at sea when I were jis’ a bairn, sa me ma took up wit another man, an they married. ’E had noo use fer me, though. Said I ‘minded ’im too much a me da, an ’e couldn’ stand it, like. Took ta beatin’ me whenever ’e got the chance. Me ma tried defendin’ me at first, but then more and more bairns started coomin’, an it went easier fer ’er if she didna say anythin’ when ’e took ’is belt ta me. I ran away once, but ’e found me jis’ the same. I won’ say wha’ ’e did, but it were terrible fer me after tha’. I didn’ go ta school, like; they kept me at ’ome ta do the work. I ’ad this friend, though, tha went ta America. She promised ta try an find a place fer me as well. So when I got ’er letter, I decided straigh’ away I were leavin’. Got a place on a ship coomin’ over as a cook’s ’elper, an, well, ’eres I am.”
“Didn’t you ever tell them at home where you went?” Henrietta asked pointedly. “Even your mother?”
“Aye. I did. Weren’ goin’ ta, like, but she ’eard me gets up in the night ta sneak oout. She knew I were goin’. Didna ask me ta stay; she knew it were noo use. She told me ta go far this time. Na ta get caugh’ again. Then she poot the ring in me ’and. Said ta sell it if I needed it. Tha’ it were me father’s ring an tha’ it ’ad once belonged ta ’is mother.” The woman stopped abruptly, now, having somehow brought herself back around to the ring. She put her hand feebly up to her forehead. “Ach! Wha’ am I gonna do? ’Ow my gonna get it back?” she said, looking back up at Henrietta.
“That’s the ring you lost?” Henrietta asked.
“Aye. Course it is! Oo, wha’ am I gonna do? Tha’ belongs ta Daphne now.”
Henrietta had been thoroughly enjoying their talk, but the woman was back to being distracted and cloudy. Henrietta reached out and patted her on the hand. “Don’t worry, Mrs. . . .” Henrietta faltered. “Forgive me, I don’t even know your name.”
“Schuyler. Helen Schuyler,” she answered sadly.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Schuyler. I promise I’ll help you to find it. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”
Mrs. Schuyler seemed to take no comfort in her words but sat looking distraught.
“Why don’t you tell me the rest of the story?” Henrietta urged, hoping to take her mind from her distress.
“The res’ a the story?” Mrs. Schuyler seemed baffled. “Dare ain’ noo more!”
“Well, you obviously got married . . .” Henrietta tried to lead her.
“Oo, aye. Neils. ’E were me ’usband. ’E died a long time ago, though.”
“How did you meet?” Henrietta asked, though she surreptitiously glanced up at the mantel clock. She would have to be leaving soon.
“’E were a gardener at the Hewitt’s. ’E coom from ’olland. Studied at a big school dare ta learn ta be a master gardener, ya see. Then ’e coom ’ere ta work. ’E worked first fer the Hewitt’s, and then when young Antonia married into the ’oward’s, they moved ’ere an built ’ighbury—wanted it to look like all the ole estates in New York, see? An me an Neils came wit ’em. ’E were wery gentle were Neils. Then we ’ad Daphne.”
“Where does Daphne live now?” Henrietta asked.
“Oo, she’s near enough, she is,” Mrs. Schuyler answered absently, wringing her hands again.
Henrietta too
k this as her cue to leave. It was getting late, and she didn’t want to keep Mrs. Howard waiting. “Well, Mrs. Schuyler, I should be going. Thank you for the tea and cake,” she said, standing up and carrying her mug and plate to the sink. “They were delicious.”
“Please, don’ call me tha’. Please call me ’elen,” she pleaded. “I don’ like ta be called Mrs. Schuyler.”
Henrietta hesitated. “Well . . . if you’re sure . . .” she said, walking toward the little door. “Did you want me to take those raspberries?”
“Raspberries? Oo, aye . . . well, I don’ ’ave ’em picked yet, ya see.”
“Well, maybe I can stop by another time and help.”
“Oo, would ya? I’d be ever sa glad.”
Henrietta pushed open the door and stepped out into the bright sunshine, shielding her eyes with her hand again. She hadn’t realized how dim it had been in there. Helen followed her out.
“Well, goodbye, then,” Henrietta tried to say cheerfully.
Helen put her hand on Henrietta’s arm. “Na quite one a ’em, though, are ya?” she said, squinting up at her. “Noo, indeed. Tha’ I kin tell, but tha’s na sich a bad thing, is it? Migh’ be good an all.” She paused to look around and added in a quieter voice, “Ya seem a nice lass, ya do. Jis’ be careful up at the big hoose.”
“Careful?” Henrietta tried not to smile. “Of what?” she asked and wondered if she were going to say of Mrs. Howard.
“Of ’im, a course!”
“Who’s him?” she asked, thoroughly surprised by Helen’s cryptic answer.
“The tall one. In the garden. ’E’s the one who took the ring!” Helen whispered furtively.
“Why do you think that?” Henrietta asked, thinking immediately of the greasy gardener she had met by the back gate. This was the third time Helen had referred to someone stealing the ring, and Henrietta didn’t think she could ignore it any longer.
“Cause I seen ’im, I did. Creepin’ round me hoose. Coom evenin’ time, dare ’e is, creepin’ round. I see ’im oot the window, I did. Terrified I am some nigh’s. Those are the nigh’s I wish ta God Daphne were wit me!”
Henrietta’s mind tried to make sense of what the old woman was saying. Could there be any truth to what Helen was telling her? Admittedly the gardener had not impressed Henrietta with his charm, but a thief? And how could Helen with her bad eyesight be so sure she had really seen him, if anyone? But what about the missing ring? It was nowhere to be found, so maybe it had been stolen . . .
“Have you told anyone? Anyone at the house, that is? About the gardener?”
“Ach, noo, na as yet. I’m afeared ta, ya see, case they’re in league.”
Henrietta didn’t know what to say to this, but she was becoming anxious that time was ticking ever closer to her lunch with Mrs. Howard. “Well, I’ll certainly keep my eyes open, Helen,” Henrietta said patronizingly. “But I really must be going now.”
“Do ya ’ave ta, like?” Helen said morosely, and Henrietta’s heart went out to this poor, lonely soul.
“I’ll come again soon,” she said apologetically. “I promise. Really I do. But I really must go now,” she said eagerly, backing away and giving what she hoped was a cheerful wave.
Helen didn’t wave back, but merely stood near the cottage, wringing her hands and watching her go.
With Helen and the cottage behind her now, Henrietta hurried back down the path as fast as she could, but it was difficult the closer she got to the beach and the more the soil gave way to sand. She was perspiring a bit from hurrying as well as from anxiety, desperate to get back in time and confused about all that Helen had told her. She wondered if the old woman was possibly a bit paranoid—the whole business of the ring seemed strange and unreal—and yet when she had spoke about her own life and that of the Howards, she seemed clear as a bell. Perhaps she should take her story about the ring more seriously, she determined, and wondered who she could ask about it as she raced up the terraces, hoping she wouldn’t come upon the tall gardener and, more importantly, that Mrs. Howard wouldn’t see her running up the lawn in what was obviously a very unladylike manner.
Chapter 4
Antonia Howard looked up expectantly at the breakfast room door, having recognized Billings’s footsteps and what must be those of Henrietta following closely behind. Billings prided himself on being as quiet as a mouse, but Antonia always knew when he was close by. She had the good sense not to mention this, however, as it would have hurt his pride immeasurably, and, as she had learned over the years, it was good not to reveal too much of what one knew, or at least of what one suspected.
Take this Henrietta Von Harmon, for example. There was quite a bit she suspected there, but she had had the foresight not to completely give her hand away, though she had hinted, if only to Alcott. Mr. Howard, however, had not been interested in her theories and had warned her about what had happened the last time she had interfered too much. Antonia had dismissed him as she sat at her dressing table brushing her hair the night they had met Henrietta, but she had to admit that his words had to them. She would have to tread lightly this time. Clive was getting older and even more stubborn, if that were possible, and time was running out on their chances for a grandson. But was this really his choice of a wife? Was this impoverished slip of a girl to be the next Mrs. Howard sitting on the board of the Women’s League next to the Cunninghams, the Pullmans, the Fields and the Armours? Was this girl really to inherit Highbury? It seemed unthinkable, and yet, Alcott did have a point. They would have to accept whomever Clive brought home, within reason, of course, or he might not bother altogether. When he had refused to take up with her own chosen replacement for Catherine, the fashionable and extremely eligible Sophia Lewis, daughter of the respected senator, they had out-and-out pleaded with him to settle down and produce children before the whole of the Howard fortune fell into the hands of the Cunninghams through Julia. His reply had been one of shocking disinterest. He had merely said bitterly that there were worse things in life.
Since then they had tried to be hands-off, accepting his “job” on the police force and his miserable lodgings in the city, both of which he stubbornly clung to. The war had indeed changed him. He could still don tails and sip cognac and converse intelligently at a dinner party if called upon to do so, but he seemed to have lost the passion for it. Antonia put it down to a phase, the aftereffects of the war, and was patiently waiting for it to be over, but so far there was no sign of that. He had some silly notion about truth and justice and would go on about it endlessly if encouraged, but couldn’t justice be served just as easily on the board of Alcott’s firm, Linley Standard? she had often argued. Clive had merely laughed at her, and she had bit her tongue in response.
Alcott, to her great annoyance, took a different approach. He believed Clive would come around in the end, that he merely needed time to see what was really important in life. “Give him some time without the finer things in life, and he’ll soon change his tune,” had been Alcott’s prediction, but so far there was no sign of it coming true. In the meantime it was embarrassing to have a son working in so common a profession. The police force, of all things! In Antonia’s mind it was little better than a street sweeper. Perhaps if he were the chief . . . now that would be a bit of a different story. At least he had risen to the rank of detective inspector, she had consoled herself with often enough, but it still rankled, and she tried to exaggerate his role if it ever came up in polite conversation at the club.
And now he had somehow met this woman, this girl! Yes, that’s what Antonia saw her as, barely old enough to marry! And it revealed a side of Clive she wasn’t particularly proud of and didn’t wish to dwell on for too long. Surely in his base life in the city he had plenty of opportunity to fulfill any lustful urges. What else could he possibly be interested in this girl for? What on earth did they have in common? She admitted to herself that she and Alcott had never really had much in common to talk about, but that hadn’t mattered so much i
n the end. They had at least come from the same social strata, and that was commonality enough. Clive had been purposely vague in describing exactly how he had come to know this girl, Antonia mused, bringing her thoughts back around to the current crisis. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to know how he had found her. Surely it must have had something to do with his sordid role as an inspector; he had almost said as much. She would have liked to believe that he had chosen Henrietta because of her possible connections to the Exleys, but he had seemed as surprised as they were when the girl had inadvertently revealed this.
Before he had left for the city this morning, Clive had implored her to get to know Henrietta. He had admitted to her that Henrietta’s family was extremely poor. He would explain all that later, he had said, but he insisted that Henrietta was something rather extraordinary. Someone quite wonderful.
She had chastised him for being sentimental, and his face had grown serious then.
“Mother,” he had said steadily, “I’m far from being sentimental in this. I love Henrietta. She’s utterly unselfish and good. Honest, pure. All the qualities that seem remarkably scarce in these parts,” he had said bitterly.
“What about Augusta Fields, maybe? She’s back from Dartmouth, if you like them that young.”
“I take exception to that, Mother,” Clive said in a measured voice.
Antonia knew she had overstepped the mark. “All right, forgive me. But you can’t really believe there aren’t any good, honest women on the North Shore. What about Catherine?”
Clive sighed. “Catherine was different. She was more like a chum. Anyway,” he said, drawing his hand through the waves of his hair. “Yes, I’m sure there are some very nice girls . . . women . . . but it doesn’t matter. I’ve found the one I want.”
Antonia paused briefly to collect her thoughts. She would have to be careful. “I’m sure Henrietta is a very nice girl,” she began. “And she’s very beautiful, I’ll at least give you that. But, Clive, dearest, think for a moment. Whether or not you want to face it, Highbury will be yours someday. And you need to think very seriously about who’s going to share the role of running the estate. Do you honestly think Henrietta is the right person for that? Dealing with the servants? Entertaining? The club committees?” She saw his face twist up. “Just listen!” she said hastily. “I’m not saying she’s not . . . something very special . . . I’m just saying, you need to think. Very carefully.”