by Michelle Cox
“The Exleys are a very old family, very rich, very proud. I’m sure they had great hopes for your mother to marry into another equally splendid family, so when she ran off, the shame of it was just too great, I suppose. Perhaps there is more to the story. John has been Alcott’s closest friend these many years, and though I see a great deal of Agatha, the subject has never come up. Quite an inappropriate topic of conversation. Maybe they never meant there to be such a severe separation; perhaps they tried to find their daughter after a time. But perhaps she didn’t want to be reconciled; perhaps she didn’t want to be found,” Mrs. Howard suggested. “Has she really never spoken of her family?”
Henrietta sadly shook her head. Antonia could have been mistaken, but she thought her eyes looked glassy, as if she were holding back tears, and strangely felt a surge of compassion for this young girl sitting in front of her, who, despite all of the obstacles stacked against her, so obviously wanted to please them. None of this, after all, was her fault, and yet . . . she had somehow beguiled Clive. But Clive should have known better! She was tempted to begin blaming Clive all over again when Henrietta finally spoke.
“I . . . I thought they were all dead, or perhaps far away, I suppose. She’s very proud,” Henrietta said looking up at her, “very stubborn. She won’t come.”
Antonia sat thinking. Surely Henrietta was wrong here. If her mother was indeed Martha Exley, wouldn’t this be the perfect revenge of all, to have her daughter be brought back into the glittering society that she herself had either fled or been expelled from? Why would she not revel in the chance to right the wrongs of the past?
“Perhaps if you wrote to her,” Antonia suggested. “Sometimes things are easier to ask in writing than aloud. It seems to me that the answers you seek might be found with her. You might be surprised, you know; events such as an engagement sometimes prove to be excellent opportunities for old wounds to be mended. We can only hope, can’t we?” she said, trying to lift Henrietta’s now-depressed spirits. Henrietta did not respond, so Antonia rang the bell. James appeared within moments.
“I think we’ll retire to the study, James,” she said crisply. “We’ll have our sherry there while we begin our task.
“Very good, madam,” he said, coming over to her chair and holding it for her as she rose. He then went around the table to where Henrietta still sat as if dazed.
“Coming, my dear?” Antonia finally asked her.
Henrietta started. “Actually . . . Antonia . . . I . . . I have a slight headache,” she said, looking up at her. “Might I be excused? I think I should lie down for a bit.”
“Certainly, my dear. I’ll carry on without you. Perhaps after a rest, you could compile your own list and we could compare notes. I must say, this is what comes from walking out of doors without a hat,” she could not resist saying as she studied her. She did look rather pale just now, she noticed. It must all be too much, she concluded, and wondered with not a little shameful hope if perhaps Henrietta was having second thoughts.
Chapter 5
Henrietta flung herself on her enormous bed and tried to fight back tears. She did not have a headache as she had told Mrs. Howard, or rather Antonia, as she was supposed to call her now, but she did feel distraught nonetheless. Oh, how had all of this happened? It was extraordinary that a little over two months ago she was working as an usherette in a burlesque theater downtown, and now she was being lectured on her upcoming duties as the future mistress of an estate on the North Shore, not the least being to uphold her future husband’s wishes and opinions, neither of which she really had a firm grasp of, actually. Could all of this really be happening? She felt as though she were in some sort of dream world, surrounded by shocking stories of her mother belonging to a wealthy family; her father’s possible connections with some aristocratic, European cousins; not to mention the strange, fairytale-esque adventure she had had with Helen Schuyler, which she had completely forgotten to ask Mrs. Howard about, so stunned had she been by that formidable woman’s criticisms, or, rather, instructions, to her on how to be a lady of society. If only she could talk to Clive—or someone who seemed real—Elsie, perhaps, or even Stan, she thought with a sad smile. She was overcome with a feeling that she didn’t belong here in this large house with its many exquisite, fragile treasures, and yet . . . what choice did she have if she really wanted to be with Clive? Is that how her mother had felt once upon a time? Trapped? But by whom or what? Her wealthy family’s expectations or the poverty she had descended into?
She contemplated telephoning Clive—he had left his number both at the station and at his place—but in the end she thought better of it. She was loath to involve Billings, which she would surely have to in order to place a call, and, anyway, supposing she could secure Clive on the telephone without too much incident, what was she to say? That an old woman on the estate had told her she was meant to produce a grandson, that his mother had chastised her for having her hair down or for talking too much to the servants, or, more disturbingly, that she had discovered that he had had another love, maybe lover, besides Catherine? No, she would not bother him, and yet her mind drifted to what his apartment might look like, what he did alone there in the evenings, and what he had once told her about taking a woman to his bed who was not his wife. Was that true?
So lost in thought was she that she didn’t hear the small figure as it silently entered the room. It was only when the figure noiselessly approached the bed that she noticed and bolted upright in alarm.
“Oh, Miss, I didn’t see you there!” said Edna in response to Henrietta’s exclamation of surprise. “I’ve gone and scared you again. I’m ever so sorry!” she said, backing away toward the door, carrying a large stack of what looked like bedding, behind which she had been, up until this point, partially obscured.
“Don’t go!” Henrietta said, a slight vestige of desperation in her voice. “Please, don’t go on my account. I shouldn’t be up here, really. I’m sure you assumed I would be below.”
“I did, Miss. Sorry,” Edna said. “But not to worry; I’ve got lots of other rooms to tend to, so you lie yourself back down,” she said, deftly managing to open the door despite her heavy load.
“Nonsense!” Henrietta said, sliding off the bed and coming over to where Edna stood. “Here, let me help you with those,” she said, taking some of the sheets from the top of the stack. Edna carefully placed the rest on the thick pink-cushioned bench that ran along the foot of the bed.
“What are you doing with those, anyway?” Henrietta asked, glancing at her already-made bed with its exquisite rose damask spread and plump pillows, just one of which was thicker than all of the ones at home put together.
“Changing the sheets, of course, Miss!” she answered, slightly confused.
“But the bed’s already made up!”
“Mistress’s orders, Miss,” she explained with a quick shrug. “Every Monday all the beds in this wing gets changed. We make ’em up quick in the morning while people is washing up so that it’s not untidy while anyone’s dressing. Then when everyone’s off for the day, we come back and change them all, proper like, right down to the mattress.”
Henrietta could not help but laugh, startling Edna by doing so. “I’m sorry . . . it’s Edna, right? . . . I . . . I guess I’m not used to this,” she said, thinking of how back at home they sometimes piled their coats on top of their thin blankets in the frigid depths of winter in a desperate attempt to keep warm.
“Well, I’m sure each house does it their own way, Miss,” Edna said somewhat defensively.
“Here, I’ll give you a hand,” Henrietta said, carefully pulling back the beautiful bedspread.
“Oh, no, Miss!” Edna exclaimed, horrified, and rushed over to try to take claim to the current bedding. “Mrs. Caldwell would be awfully angry at me, and then I’d really get it. Please!”
“Don’t be silly. She won’t find out!” Henrietta tried to smile reassuringly. “And anyway, it’s not a crime to help change a
bed, is it?”
Edna gave a shy smile, and Henrietta could see she was wavering.
“Come on, we’ll be done in a jiffy!” Henrietta said as she began peeling off the layers of soft, woolen blankets, thinking about how much the boys at home would love even one of these.
“You’re sure, Miss?” Edna said reluctantly, joining in now.
“Course I’m sure! I’m not so high and mighty, you know. I used to be a waitress not so very long ago,” she said confidingly, deciding on the spur of the moment to reveal one of her less risqué jobs.
“Never!” Edna said, almost in awe. “But you’re Mister Clive’s fiancée, Miss.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Henrietta answered, a smile erupting across her face—an involuntary reaction whenever she was called Clive’s fiancée; it was still so new. “But I’ll tell you a secret . . . I’m really quite poor.”
“You don’t say!” Edna said, fluffing the pillows now.
“It’s true. I live back in the city with my mother and seven brothers and sisters. And we all share two beds between us!” Henrietta felt oddly flushed and excited to be dangerously telling someone the truth, to not play the role assigned to her if even for a few minutes.
“Well, I’d never have believed it, Miss! You sure do look like a lady, and most times you sound like one, too.”
Henrietta laughed as she considered this, feeling that it was a fair assessment. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Edna,” she said cheerily. “But I’m having a harder time fooling the Howards, I think.”
“Oh, Miss! You shouldn’t say such thing,” Edna urged. “You’re a regular Cinderella, that’s what you are.”
Henrietta gave an obligatory smile, then, and the two went back to making the bed, tucking the heavy spread neatly into place. As if on cue, they both stood back for a moment, admiring their work, before Edna then moved to pick up the remaining stack of bedding from the bench. “Thank you, Miss, but I’ve got to be getting on now, and so should you, I suspect.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll help you. I need something to do, and I need someone to talk to! I’m not used to being on my own so much.”
“Well, if you’re sure, though if Mrs. Caldwell spots you, we’ll both get it. Me worse than you, I’d say . . .”
The two of them spent the next hour making up the beds, and then Edna asked her shyly if she fancied a cup of tea before she had to move on to her next task, which involved scrubbing the scullery and the butler’s pantry. When Henrietta accepted, Edna offered to bring her a cup in the morning room or the study, the proposal of which had caused Henrietta to laugh. “No, of course not!” she said and then insisted that she accompany Edna to the kitchen, that is, if she wouldn’t get into trouble. Edna replied that she wasn’t sure Mary would allow it, but Henrietta followed her down the narrow dull servant stairs at the back of the house just the same. As they entered the big bright kitchen, Mary had her back to them as she stood stirring something on the stove, and Fletcher, the chauffer, was just stepping in through the back door at the same time.
Henrietta felt his eyes travel over her body as he tipped his hat back and said with a smile, “Who’s this, then? New maid?” He continued to look her over appreciatively. “Some people have all the luck,” he said to no one in particular. “Pretty soon there’ll be so many house lackeys, there’ll be nothing left for you all to do.” He took up a chair at the rough table where a basket of biscuits sat, still basking from the heat of the oven from which they had just come. “Better get a uniform on before the old duffer sees you,” he went on, addressing Henrietta directly now. “Might confuse you with one of the swells if you’re not careful!”
“Jack!” Edna said, looking nervously at Henrietta for her reaction. Mary, likewise, turned to see who Fletcher was speaking to and upon seeing Henrietta let out a little squeal.
“Lord! Miss!” she said, giving a little curtsey and wiping her hands on her apron. “Can I help you, Miss?” she said deferentially, scowling at Jack, who also hastily stood up now, his hat in hand.
Henrietta suppressed a smile as her eyes alighted first on the now-unsettled Jack and then on Mary. “I was hoping to have a cup of tea with Edna, if that’s allowed,” she said hopefully. “If I’m not in the way, that is,” she added quickly.
“You should have rung, Miss! We’d have brought it to you. Edna! Have you no sense, girl?”
Henrietta’s breath caught as she heard Edna being called girl; it had been Mr. Hennessey’s name for her, and she suddenly wished with all her heart that she could talk to him. “Might I sit down?” Henrietta asked, a bit overcome suddenly by the strain of it all, as she gripped the back of one of the chairs. “Just for a moment?”
“Of course, Miss!” Mary said, bustling over.
“Allow me,” Jack said, getting there first and pulling out the chair for her.
“Thank you,” Henrietta smiled, “but there’s no need for a fuss. Honestly. I . . .” she looked at Edna confidentially, “I happened upon Edna upstairs, and I asked her if I might have some tea. Down here, with all of you, that is. I wanted some company, you see.”
“Course you can!” Mary said, carrying over a steaming cup. “Don’t think Mrs. Caldwell or Mrs. Howard would approve, though,” she added. “Would you like a biscuit?” she said, picking up the basket and handing it toward her.
“No! Thank you,” Henrietta said, taking a sip of the tea. “I’m still quite full from lunch, which was simply delic . . .” she was interrupted then by the sound of heels clicking along the hallway.
“Mrs. Howard!” Edna whispered frantically. “You’d best go, Miss!”
Henrietta jumped up accordingly and hurried across the big kitchen to the back door. “Thanks for the tea!” she whispered with a quick smile.
“I should go, too,” she heard Jack say. “I’m not supposed to be in here this time of day.”
The two of them escaped out the back, which Henrietta saw was very near the kitchen gardens she had just walked through this morning. The bright morning sun had been replaced by clouds now, and a slight breeze had picked up. Henrietta looked around, trying to get her bearings. Off to the left, where the pea gravel drive swept past the house, stood a long low building, which Henrietta guessed was perhaps the garage, or maybe the former stables.
“I’m sorry I mistook you for a servant,” said Jack, catching up to her.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Henrietta smiled. “Until very recently I was a sort of servant, so I can understand the confusion.”
“No, it’s not that . . . not like you look like a servant. Just that, well, I didn’t expect a lady of the house to be coming down the back stairs with Edna is all.”
“Sounds like something I heard just this morning,” Henrietta said ruefully.
“But I can see my mistake,” he said, looking her up and down. “No, sir. You’re definitely not a servant.”
Henrietta arched her eyebrow at what sounded awfully like flirtation and held her hand out to him. “I’m Henrietta Von Harmon, Clive Howard’s fiancée.”
Jack let out a low whistle as he took her hand. “Now I am confused,” he said, a smile crossing the rough skin of his face.
“Why’s that?” Henrietta asked, genuinely curious. “Is it my clothes?” she said, brushing the skirt of her dress with her free hand.
“No,” Jack laughed. “It’s because a lady doesn’t offer her hand to a lowly servant.”
Henrietta released his hand, an awkwardness overcoming her then suddenly, and began walking slowly toward the kitchen gardens, Jack following closely behind. She could see the tall thin gardener, raking now, and she could just make out the scratch, scratch, scratch as he worked, seemingly oblivious to all around him.
“Who’s that?” Henrietta asked, pointing to him.
“Him?” Jack said, looking in the direction of the scratching. “That would be Virgil. Why? Has he bothered you?” he asked, concerned.
“No . . . he . . . I’m just . . . tryin
g to learn everyone’s name,” she fibbed.
“Virgil’s one of the gardeners under the head, Mr. McCreanney. They all live above the old stables. I’m there, too,” he said, nodding toward the long low building. “Bit of an odd duck is Virgil,” he continued. “He’s sweet on Edna. But, then, I’m sweet on Edna, too,” he smiled.
Henrietta felt a strange pang at this information, though she wasn’t sure why. It couldn’t possibly be jealousy, she knew, though there was something about Jack that was instantly likeable. He was a good height with thick blond hair and very blue eyes. His smile, she admitted, was very charming, but nothing could alter how she felt about Clive. That was something else altogether.
Perhaps it was more a restlessness than a pang. A feeling of being on the outside, adrift, wishing that she still had the simple intrigues of the servants’ world much like those she had been a part of at the Promenade or the Marlowe. She was no longer a part of those lowly worlds, but she didn’t seem a part of Highbury, either. But that was silly, Henrietta countered with herself. Of course she was. And this new world had drama and intrigues of its own to unravel, like Ma’s secret past or Clive’s supposed old flame, Sophia, she reminded herself miserably. Somehow, though, those were different, more serious and weighty than the innocent love triangle Jack hinted at now. Perhaps it was just Jack’s openness that was throwing her off. After all, what type of man after talking with him for five minutes reveals who his secret love is?
Henrietta smiled at the thought. “You’re quite forthcoming,” she commented.
“’Spose I am,” he grinned, casually lighting a cigarette now. “But what’s the harm there?” he said, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
Henrietta supposed he had a point and thought of Clive, trying to weigh up whether she thought he was forthcoming. He was at times, she decided, but she sensed there were still secrets there, old wounds he was perhaps hiding.
“Well, I’ll put in a good word for you,” Henrietta smiled at him, “with Edna, that is.”