by Michelle Cox
Clive sighed again and looked out the window of the morning room where their conversation was unfolding. He was silent for a few moments and then, without turning around, he spoke lowly, “I know she’s young and perhaps a bit awkward, Mother, and unsuited for Highbury in some ways. But I love her,” he said quietly. “I can’t explain it, but I haven’t felt this way in so very long. Perhaps ever,” he said, turning slowly now to face her. “Please don’t take that away from me.”
His face had looked so drawn, so sad, then, and she was reminded of how he had looked when he had come back from the war, how his face had held a permanently pained expression.
“She can learn. If you’d help her. Please,” he pleaded. “Don’t make a judgment quite yet.”
Antonia sighed and knew she was beaten, at least for now. “Oh, all right, Clive. I’ll try to help her, even like her, but you must promise you’ll think about what I’ve said.”
“Yes, of course I will,” he promised, and his face had brightened, reminding her suddenly of when he was a boy, and her heart went out to him. He gave her his thanks with a quick kiss on the cheek and had left shortly thereafter, saying that he would try to be back at the weekend if not next week sometime.
Antonia sighed and braced herself now as Henrietta came bursting into the room on Billings’s heels. What was she to do with her? Where should she start? She was absolutely beautiful, she admitted, and she seemed deferential, so that was good, but she was still dressed in the simple blue paisley dress (blue paisley, for heaven’s sake! It was horribly out of fashion!) that she had appeared in for breakfast, and her hair was all askew, hanging about her shoulders in a mad fashion. Not only that, but she looked flushed and perspiring, as though she had been exerting herself out in the sun.
“Thank you, Billings,” she said, as Henrietta sat down gingerly across from her. “Tell Mary that we’re ready now.”
“Very good, madam.”
“I hope I’m not late, Mrs. Howard, I . . .” Henrietta began.
“Not to worry, my dear. And you must call me Antonia.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t do that.”
“But you must, my dear. I mean for us to get to know each other better. You don’t mind if I call you Henrietta, do you?”
“No, of course not,” Henrietta said haltingly and then gave her a reluctant smile.
Antonia admitted that the girl was lovely, charming even. Yes, she could see what Clive saw in her. She could forgive him a dalliance with her, but marriage? What was he thinking? Surely even he could see her utter unsuitability. She sighed, not sure where to begin.
“Might I ask how old you are, my dear?” Antonia asked politely as she poured some coffee.
“Nineteen,” Henrietta answered, barely above a whisper, which, in and of itself, told Antonia much. So young! What could Clive possibly have in common with her? It was infuriating, considering how many respectable war widows could be easily had these days. “Why, you’ve not recently finished school then, haven’t you?” she said, setting her cup down carefully.
“Well, actually,” Henrietta said, shifting uneasily, “I left school a long time ago, Mrs. Howard. Antonia,” she put in quickly.
“I see,” she said crisply.
My god! It was going to take a lot of spinning to come up with a presentable package before they officially announced the engagement to the glittering, powerful society in which they dwelt. She was going to have to rely heavily on Henrietta’s supposed connections, however far back they went. She considered Henrietta closely. Could she really be John Exley’s niece? It seemed unlikely; she looked nothing like the Exleys, but how could it be otherwise? It was too remarkable to be a coincidence.
As soon as Henrietta and Clive had departed yesterday to collect her things from the city, Antonia had lost no time in telephoning Victoria Braithewaite from the Club to inquire if she remembered the name of the man young Martha Exley had run off with. After a few minutes musing, Victoria had very satisfactorily (or was it unsatisfactorily?) replied that she believed it was a Leslie Von Harmon, if she wasn’t mistaken, why? Antonia had pooh-poohed it, putting it down to a rambling thought that had just that moment popped into her head and that there was nothing in it. Victoria had commented then that it was funny she didn’t simply ask John and Agatha herself since she was so intimate with them, but when Antonia had replied that it wasn’t quite the thing, you know, Victoria had solemnly responded, in her querulous voice, “Quite so, my dear. Quite so.” Antonia had hung up the telephone and felt rather convinced, but still . . .
“May I be frank, my dear?” Antonia asked Henrietta now, in an even tone.
“Yes, I suppose that would be the best,” Henrietta answered thinly.
“I realize that you’re used to your old ways, but as Clive’s wife . . . as the next Mrs. Howard . . . there are certain, shall we say, responsibilities, certain standards which you must uphold and live under . . .”
“And you find me lacking in these?”
Antonia was surprised by the girl’s directness.
Before she could respond, however, Henrietta continued. “I’m well aware of my deficiencies, Mrs. . . . Antonia. I’ve tried to tell this to Clive, but he won’t listen. I . . . I know I’m unsuited to be his wife, no one can feel that more than me, but I do love him. Surely that counts for something?” she said earnestly.
Mrs. Howard felt herself wavering a bit. She was pleased with Henrietta’s humility and honesty, but still, she must not let sentiment come into it, as it so obviously had between the two of them.
“Of course it does, my dear! I only meant that I mean to help you, if you’ll let me.”
“You mean instructing me in how to be a lady of society?”
Antonia noticed the blush on Henrietta’s cheek. “That’s one way of putting it, yes,” she said. “I must say,” she continued. “I’m rather surprised that Clive didn’t explain these things to you. He’s been tremendously remiss if he hasn’t been forthcoming with what’s required of you . . .”
She was interrupted then by James, who came in carrying a large platter that he noiselessly set on the sideboard. Efficiently, he lifted off the heavy silver-domed lid covering it and removed the two waiting plates.
“Thank you, James,” Mrs. Howard said as he placed a plate in front of each of them, both of which contained a chicken quarter with mushroom gravy and sprigs of thyme adorning it and very thinly sliced carrots and beans arranged neatly on the side. Antonia looked across to Henrietta, who seemed to be staring at it in an unnatural manner. “Is anything amiss, my dear?” Antonia asked her, genuinely concerned.
“Just that it’s too beautiful to eat!” Henrietta said with real feeling. “And so much! Please tell Mary that it looks divine,” she said eagerly to James, who uncomfortably bowed but not before giving Mrs. Howard a sort of hesitant look, which she dually noted and approved of. At least James understood his place.
“That will be all, James,” Mrs. Howard said.
James disappeared, and Henrietta eagerly took up her knife and fork.
“A few things, my dear,” Antonia said, taking a deep breath. “One should never begin eating until the hostess has started.”
“Oh,” Henrietta responded and clumsily put her fork down, though it had already speared a piece of chicken. “Sorry,” she mumbled softly.
“Quite all right,” Mrs. Howard said, picking up her own fork, stiffly signaling Henrietta to begin again. “Also, as long as we are talking about luncheon etiquette, one should never appear to luncheon in what one wore to breakfast or what one wore on an outdoor excursion, especially if we were dining out, which, luckily today we are not. A cotton dress for luncheon is just marginally acceptable. Preferable would be an afternoon dress or a knit suit, and usually a hat. Gloves, of course, if we were out.” She watched Henrietta carefully. She had slowed eating considerably as she absorbed this advice, looking down at her clothes as she did so. “Likewise, not to be completely beastly, but a lady never p
erspires and always keeps her hair tidy for an engagement.”
Antonia satisfyingly observed Henrietta stiffen, but there seemed to be a glint in her eye now. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Howard,” the girl said steadily, “but my wardrobe is not very extensive. I don’t have much with me, but then again, I don’t really own very much. If I’m being frank, that is.”
Henrietta’s icy tone was not lost on Mrs. Howard. “Yes, I rather gathered as much based on the smallness of your . . . case,” she said, referring to the abysmal carpetbag Henrietta had arrived with.
There was an unmistakable flicker of defiance in Henrietta’s eyes as she took a sip of water and said, “I’ve just the few cheap dresses I bought when I was a taxi dancer, you see, at the Promenade.”
Mrs. Howard drew in a sharp breath, though she immediately then tried to disguise it as something else, perhaps an unfortunate burp, and held her napkin to her lips. Was this girl trying to shock her? She wasn’t exactly sure what a taxi dancer was, but she could guess. Oh, Clive! Is this how they had met? The shame of it! If Henrietta’s aim had indeed been to ruffle her, Antonia was determined that she wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Carefully she wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin, thinking quickly.
“Well, then we must go shopping, my dear!” she exclaimed and forced a smile. “Just the thing!”
“But I . . .”
“Now, now. No buts! My treat. No, really, I insist. Indulge me, darling. You’ll be doing me such a favor; I haven’t had the pleasure of buying a lovely girl some things since before Julia got married. No! I won’t hear of it. I insist!” she said whenever Henrietta opened her mouth to protest. “We’ll surprise Clive with some pretty new things,” she said suggestively. “Won’t he be pleased?” At the mention of Clive, she thought she saw a softening in Henrietta’s previously defiant eyes, which were dissolving now into reluctant defeat.
“That’s very kind, Mrs. Howard. Antonia,” she added hastily. “But didn’t you hear what I said? I was a taxi dancer,” she said guiltily. “Don’t you want to know about my past? I . . . I feel like I’m here under false pretenses. I’m not sure how much Clive told you.”
Again, Antonia was impressed with what one might call her honesty, but it wasn’t enough to squash the rising agitation she was now experiencing at the prospect of Henrietta confiding to her what might be some dark secret. She couldn’t bear to hear any revelations just now; she would talk to Clive later, as there was obviously much he had left out. “Nonsense, darling! No need to go into all that just now. We must look forward rather than back. Shall we say tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock? Fletcher can take us into town.” She knew that the shops would be virtually empty so early in the day, and she was hoping to avoid running into anyone she knew, especially anyone from the club.
“All right, then. Thank you,” Henrietta said submissively. “If you really think it will please Clive,” she added. “And you, of course.”
“Of course it will,” she replied smoothly, noting that her eagerness to please Clive could prove useful at some point.
James entered then and began removing the plates, but not before Henrietta turned to him, saying, “Oh, James! That was marvelous! Please tell Mary that it was so very delicious!” Again, Antonia noted with approval James’s obvious discomfort as he tried to bow.
“Very good, Miss,” he replied stoically and noiselessly disappeared.
Antonia cleared her throat. “A lady does not generally converse with the staff, Henrietta,” she said reprovingly once James had left. “And while we’re on the subject, verbal exuberance of any sort is not looked upon favorably in polite society. One contains one’s feelings and opinions, you see, unless specifically asked to share them, and even then, a lady is not thought to possess strong opinions either way, as her proper place is to always find herself in support of her husband’s opinions.”
“Oh,” Henrietta said plainly, and Antonia once more noticed the flush in her cheek and the spark in her very blue eyes. “I’m rather a disappointment, I suppose,” she added, her voice holding the smallest breath of a challenge.
“Nonsense. You will learn. It’s only a matter of time,” Antonia said lightly, hoping that it was actually true. “And, anyway, Clive seems rather taken with you,” she added, James conveniently interrupting them, again, now with two small dishes of lemon sherbet and sprigs of mint, which he placed perfectly before each of them. Antonia noted that Henrietta did not say anything at all this time to James, but still annoyingly tried to imbue her thanks to him with raised eyebrows and a smile. Antonia studied her. She seemed pliable enough, but there was a certain strength to this girl as well, which Antonia could not at the moment decide whether it was a good thing or not.
“Perhaps we should move on to the party, shall we?” Antonia suggested, feeling that now would be a good time to change subjects. “We really should start putting together a guest list.”
Henrietta’s previously mutinous face sank now, and she gave a little cough as she listlessly picked up her spoon and shaved off a little of the sherbet. Finally she spoke. “It’s no use pretending, Mrs. Howard,” she said sadly, still looking at the dish in front of her. “There aren’t many people for me to invite, and I’m almost positive my mother won’t come.”
“But she must, my dear! This is one of the reasons we’re having the party, to get to know each other’s families better,” she said, “that and to introduce you into society.”
“She’s . . . she’s quite ill these days. It’s difficult for her to get out.”
This didn’t shock Antonia as much as it perhaps should have. Still, however, she played the part. “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps if Fletcher would go to collect her? Or if you think the journey might be too much for her, she could simply stay with us for a time,” she attempted to say kindly and thought about what it would be like to have John Exley’s long-lost sister—if she was his sister—as a guest in her home. It was almost too delicious to imagine.
It was curious that the wayward Martha had apparently kept silent all these years about her true identity, living in some hovel, no doubt, with what must be an errant branch of the Von Harmons, if indeed there was any real link at all to the French or Prussian aristocracy. That one still needed more inquiry, but Antonia had not been idle in that department, either, and had written just this morning to Alcott’s family in Derbyshire, England, inquiring more deeply than she ever had previously about the family line.
“Oh, no!” Henrietta responded. “That would be . . . quite out of the question . . . for her to stay here, I mean. She couldn’t possibly leave the twins . . .”
“I see,” Antonia said. “Well of course you would all be invited. How many of you are there, did you say?”
“There are eight of us,” Henrietta answered as if ashamed. “The twins are almost five now. So do you see how it would be awkward?” Henrietta almost begged.
Eight children! What would John and Agatha make of that? she wondered. Or, better yet, what would old Mr. Exley say when he learned that he had eight additional grandchildren? John’s mother had died years ago, but his father was still alive and living with another of his sons in Lake Forest. Antonia would have been almost gleeful at the prospect of unearthing the missing Martha if it didn’t so disgracefully involved Clive, and thus themselves, in so intimate a fashion. Still, it would have to be dealt with. “Surely you asked your mother about her past when you went back to collect your things? I don’t mean to be indelicate, but this really should be resolved, Henrietta.”
“I . . .” she faltered. “I meant to, but I . . . other subjects came up.”
“Happy, was she? About your engagement?” Mrs. Howard asked skillfully over her cup of coffee.
“Not particularly, no,” Henrietta answered with that trace of defiance which was becoming all too familiar already. “She says that Clive is beyond my reach, is how she generally put it, I think. That I’ve aimed too high, was what she said exactly.” Henrietta’s gaze
did not falter now.
Quite so, Antonia thought in agreement, but she kept silent. Though, surely if Henrietta’s mother really was Martha Exley, she would have recognized the Howard name, wouldn’t she have? Why, then, would Clive be out of reach? Had it merely been a ruse to further avoid telling Henrietta the truth? But why? It was obviously going to come out sooner than later.
“I hope you don’t mind, my dear, but I’ve made a few inquiries . . . discreet, I can assure you . . . and it seems that the Exleys did have a younger sister named Martha and that she ran off with a young man by the name of Leslie Von Harmon, whom you have already said was your father. So you see, there really is very little room for doubt.” She watched Henrietta’s face as she absorbed this.
“But why?” she finally asked.
“Why what?” Antonia asked, confused.
“Why would she have run off? And why did her family, these Exleys, never come to find her, to find us?”
Antonia sighed. “You must understand, my dear. Things have always been done a certain way, and having the only daughter of the family run off with a penniless boy was even more scandalous then than it would be now,” she said, narrowing her eyes and hating the fact that she was now practically faced with the same dilemma, only in reverse. “Who knows why she did it; perhaps he told her he was a Von Harmon and lured her away under false pretenses?”
She paused here to take a sip of coffee before continuing.