A Ring of Truth

by Michelle Cox

  “A birthday party? Fletcher’s?”

  “No! It’s Edna’s birthday, one of the junior maids. Just a little gathering . . .” she said, looking back wistfully at the stables. “No harm done, really,” she tried to say cheerfully, hoping this was true.

  His eyes lingered on her. “What was it you were discussing with Fletcher so animatedly as you came up the drive? Might I know?”

  “Well, it was all about the stolen ring that Edna got,” she said, confused by the point of his question.

  “Stolen ring?” he asked, tipping his hat back, as if surprised by her answer.

  “Yes, I’ve been wanting to tell you all about it!” she said eagerly. “I . . . I think I’ve stumbled onto something. A case, that is. It was Helen’s ring, but now Virgil’s gone and given it to Edna . . . just tonight . . .”

  The words were tumbling out haphazardly, and Henrietta broke off abruptly now, feeling like it was coming out all wrong. This isn’t how she had imagined telling Clive about the “strange case of the missing ring,” as she had begun to call it in her mind. She had envisioned herself telling Clive about it while they sat side by side on a sofa with a cognac and a fire blazing in front of them as rain pelted the windows. She had likewise naively (she saw that now with a hot flush of realization) imagined his praise at her new-found sleuthing abilities as they tried to solve the case together and him saying that by all means she should join him in cracking some of the city’s more interesting cases once they were married. No, telling Clive in this awkward way as they stood in the dark on the gravel drive, immediately after her humiliation at being caught with the servants, was not what she had in mind, and somehow it wasn’t coming out as neat and logically as it had just minutes ago with Jack.

  “Who’s Helen? Not Helen Schuyler?” he asked, rubbing his brow, his other hand on his hip.

  “Yes, her! She’s lost a very valuable ring. Well, not lost. It’s been stolen. But tonight it turned up with Virgil. I’m sure it’s the same one!”

  “Who’s Virgil?”

  “One of the gardeners! Tall? Blond hair? Scowl?”

  Clive’s face did not register any recognition.

  “Really, Clive, don’t you even know your own staff? Well, anyway . . . he gave it to Edna tonight! The very same ring that Helen described to me as having lost!”

  Clive looked doubtful.

  “I asked him where he got it,” she went on hurriedly, “and he rudely said it was his own business. There! That’s suspicious, isn’t it?”

  Clive rubbed his hand through his hair. “Henrietta, theft is a very serious accusation, and Helen Schuyler is not a reliable person.”

  “Yes, so everyone says, but she seems all right enough to me. She really did lose the ring somehow. She showed me the empty box. And Clive . . . she said she’s heard scratching noises at night, and she’s seen Virgil with her own eyes sneaking around the cottage!” Henrietta hissed.

  “Helen Schuyler is as blind as a bat,” Clive sighed.

  Henrietta paused for a moment to think. “Well, if Virgil did come by it legitimately, where did he get the money?” she asked triumphantly.

  “Maybe he saved up; maybe he found it; maybe it’s a cheap copy,” Clive reeled off.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” she asked quietly, searching his face for the truth.

  Clive stared at her for what seemed an eternity before he unexpectedly reached out and stroked the side of her face. “Henrietta, this issue aside, do you really think it wise to spend your evenings with the servants?” he asked gently. “Especially the male servants?”

  The touch of his hand was so very welcome, and yet his question cut her to the quick. Not only was he obviously of the same opinion as his mother, but, she slowly realized as she took a step back, there was a deeper accusation here, a more serious one.

  “Don’t you trust me?” she asked steadily.

  Clive looked away, irritated, and then back at her. “Of course I trust you.”

  “Is this about cavorting with the servants or about Jack Fletcher?” she asked, the truth dawning on her.

  “Henrietta, you’re being ridiculous now.”

  “Am I? Well, what did you expect me to do, night after night here?” she asked, diverting the real issue. “Play bridge with your parents and go to bed at nine? Not one call from you. Not one note! I know I’m supposed to be planning an engagement party with your mother, which I don’t even want, but I’ve done precious little of that, believe me! She doesn’t really want or need my help.” Her voice was elevated now, but she couldn’t help it.

  “What am I supposed to think when I return and find you outside in the dark, arm in arm with a young servant?”

  Henrietta’s indignation was on fire now. She knew she was guilty of fraternizing with the servants, but to be even mildly accused of giving her affections to Jack Fletcher incensed her, even though the memory of her dance with him and the look in his eyes distressfully nagged her now as she tried to defend herself. Deep down she knew she was not completely innocent.

  “Forgive me,” Clive said thinly. “I thought you might enjoy Highbury. I can see now that I was wrong.”

  “Oh, it’s a beautiful place,” Henrietta answered, her voice still elevated. “And yes, I’m grateful, if that’s what you want me to say. I’m grateful your mother has taken me shopping and lavished me with new outfits and beautiful things,” she said, gesturing at her skirt, “but was it really for me or was it so that I wouldn’t be an embarrassment to her?”

  “Henrietta . . .”

  “When you asked me to marry you,” she said, interrupting him, “I said yes to Inspector Clive Howard of the Chicago police, not Mr. Clive Howard, esquire, of the Highbury estate. And when you asked me to be your wife, I thought you asked Henrietta Von Harmon—26 girl, taxi dancer, usherette—not Miss Von Harmon of the society pages. This isn’t who I am,” she said, gesturing at the house, “and just asking me to marry you doesn’t make me one of you, does it?” she whispered angrily. “I don’t think I belong here, and I’m not sure you do either. You say that Highbury and this life doesn’t matter to you, that you don’t want a society woman, and yet you leave me here to become part of it while you run off to the city to be the inspector. If you despise Highbury so very much, why do you want me to be a part of it?”

  “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you who I really was,” he said bitterly. “For the same reason you didn’t want me to meet your family,” he argued, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  “That’s not true,” she countered. “I didn’t want you to meet them because of how rude Ma can be, that and I didn’t want to have to explain to her what my job really was. You knew from the beginning that I was poor.”

  “And it obviously didn’t matter to me in the slightest, did it? Not the way my situation seems to ruffle you.”

  “It doesn’t ‘ruffle’ me! The difference is that I didn’t hide anything from you.”

  He stared at her intensely as if he wanted to say more, but didn’t. Finally he looked away from her. “Perhaps we should call it a night,” he said grimly, gesturing toward the house.

  “Yes, I rather think we should.”

  They walked in silence toward the house, Henrietta burning with indignation but sickened as well by how the evening had gone. When they finally reached the East Doors after what seemed an eternity, Henrietta paused before going in and turned to him. “What are you going to do about Helen’s ring?” she asked, her lips pulled tight.

  “I don’t intend to do anything.”

  “I see,” she said evenly.

  Silently and perfectly erect, she climbed the main staircase, overcome by an awful ache in her throat as she forced her tears to remain inside of her. Not until she had shut the door of her room did they burst from her as she curled up on the bed, fearing as she sobbed that she had lost him after all.

  Chapter 8

  Clive sighed as he made his way into the billiard room and headed fo
r the sideboard where the whiskey was kept. He poured himself a large tumbler full and took a deep drink, topping it up again immediately and rubbing his eyes with his free hand. What had he done?

  “So you’re back then, old boy?” came a voice in the direction of the fireplace. The coals were dying down, but Clive could discern his father’s outline sitting in his worn leather chair and felt an unusual gladness at finding him still up.

  Clive went over and slumped into the chair opposite. “Yes, I’m back, Father, for any good it’s done.” He took another large drink of whiskey.

  “Oh?”

  Clive rubbed his forehead. “I’ve just seen Henrietta, and I rather think I’ve made a mess of it.”

  “Found her down at the stables, eh?”

  Clive looked up, his brow furrowed. “You knew?”

  “Billings keeps me informed,” he said with a wry smile. “Is it that bad?” he asked, taking a sip of his own cognac.

  “I suppose not, but I stupidly overreacted and now I’ve bungled it.” He was silent for a few moments before continuing. “Do you think I’ve made a mistake?” he asked quietly, still looking at the fire.

  His father took his time in answering. “About overreacting or about asking Henrietta to be your wife?”

  “About Henrietta,” Clive replied noncommittally.

  “Do you love her?”

  “Very much,” he said hoarsely.

  “Then, no. You haven’t made a mistake. For all the flibber-flabber your mother goes on about regarding society and who’s who, I’ve learned one thing, my boy, and that is that it’s only love that matters in the end. That might sound like the musings of an old man, but there it is. Time’s damned short; no use wasting it on things that don’t matter.”

  Clive groaned. “Oh, Father, I really have made a mess of it.”

  “No doubt, old boy, no doubt. But not so much that it can’t be fixed, I suspect.” He paused for a few moments, looking into the fire. “Give her time, Clive,” he said gently. “She’s not Catherine, and she can’t just slip into this role on a sixpence. What’s more, she’s very young. You should take her in hand more and not leave her so much alone. It isn’t good for her. Or for you.”

  There was a silence between them, then, as Clive mulled over his words, feeling that his father had the right of it. After a time, Alcott stood up and patted Clive on the shoulder as he passed him. “Good night, old boy,” he said in a low tone. Clive, still staring into the fire, patted his father’s hand in reciprocal fashion and nodded his thanks before his father pulled away and made his way slowly across the room.

  “One more thing, Father,” Clive asked without turning around. “Who hired Fletcher?”

  “The chauffer? Why, Billings takes care of all that, my boy. Runs it by me, of course, but he dirties his hands with all that,” he said as he continued on his way out. “Good night.”

  Clive sat gazing into the fire, wanting another drink but too tired to stand up and get one. He had been foolish, that he knew. He had let his emotions get the better of him. The problem was that he wasn’t used to these types of feelings anymore, especially jealousy. It was new to him, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He hadn’t had enough time with Catherine to ever be jealous, really, and truth be told, hers was a more quiet demeanor that did not lend itself to attention, not the type of vivaciousness that Henrietta possessed. Henrietta’s beauty was uncommon, perfect actually, though she seemed at times not to realize its full potential. She was always the object of men’s eyes—he himself had witnessed it on several occasions—and she instantly lit up any room she entered without saying a word, even the smoky, dim interior of the Promenade where he had first set eyes on her. He realized with a sigh that he was going to have to come to terms with the fact that men would forever be ogling her, that there was an endless stream of Fletchers on the horizon for him to navigate. On Henrietta’s part, he had seen her flirtations in the past as well. She knew at least partially how to use her charms—he himself had been the object of them—but she had retained an innocence of sorts even so. If he were honest, he believed entirely in her trustworthiness, her utter faithfulness to him, and he cringed with shame at how he had looked at her tonight. Though he believed he had accurately read the desire in Fletcher’s eyes, he knew there had been only innocence in Henrietta’s as she had walked up the drive with Fletcher, and it stung him now to remember the hurt in her face when he had all but accused her of unfaithfulness. Damn it! Why had he been so stupid?

  He stood up restlessly now and walked to the sideboard to pour himself another whiskey. He picked up the heavy crystal decanter, gazing at it absently as he poured. He set it down carelessly and forced himself to think about Henrietta’s parting words. That she didn’t belong here. Was it true? The better question, as Henrietta had so astutely asked, was, did he? He walked back to the fireplace and stoked it, causing the flames to rise up, a fleeting brightness momentarily filling the dark space around him.

  He had grown up in luxury, educated at Cambridge, taught to sail and to ride, and had indeed been groomed in every way to take over his father’s dynasty when he came of age. His summers had been divided between time at his father’s family estate in England and his mother’s relatives on Long Island and in Newport, his father having thus provided a whisper of aristocracy, his mother the dripping wealth. The war had blasted that world for him, however, and though he had risen to the rank of captain in the army, he had had a difficult time embracing the old order of things once he had returned, wounded and crippled with grief over the death of Catherine and the baby he had never seen, not to mention the atrocities of the war. He had accordingly taken up a life in the refuse of the city, solving crimes—often brutal ones—which he had claimed, at least initially, was his way of making the world a better place. But now, as he stared at the fire, he asked himself if that had been entirely true. Had he just been running from the shards of his former life? His parents had gone on bravely with the facade, but he (he had prided himself often enough) had chosen a more truthful life. Or was it really a more cowardly way? he now mused. When he had come back from the war he had found it impossible to go on where he had left off as if nothing had happened, and, yet, now . . . now that he had met Henrietta, he wasn’t sure how he felt anymore. Could he really just abandon Highbury and the work of generations of his family before him, simply because he felt it to be wrong somehow? He wasn’t sure he had the courage for it, for whichever path he might choose, actually, though Henrietta’s presence in his life did fill him with renewed vigor and, more importantly, hope.

  One thing was for sure: he had been stunned by Henrietta’s insight earlier this evening. She was right. How could he expect her to accept and adapt to this world when he had himself so deliberately fled from it and even at times ridiculed it? This, he realized, turning it over and over in his mind, was the crux of the problem. If he were really planning to reject Highbury and everything it stood for, why abandon Henrietta here with his parents for his mother to mold into an acceptable socialite? Why even have a wedding; why not just elope? Did Highbury mean more to him than he was willing to admit? Clearly he was going to have to figure it out. When he had asked Henrietta to marry him, he had been sincere, and he still was, but he hadn’t wanted to think of the practicalities at that moment, nor did he now, really, but he saw, with a deep sigh, that he must. Where did he intend to bring his new bride to live? His small apartment in the city near the police station, No. 124? If there had ever been a vision of this in his mind, it had been fleeting and romantic but not very realistic, he saw that now. Would he feel safe having Henrietta and, hopefully, his children alone there at all hours of the night and day while he was out tracking criminals? And yet, neither could he quite see them taking the helm at Highbury once his parents passed away, or sooner, if they no doubt had their way. His father had mentioned more than once his desire to return to England for a protracted stay. Clive was loath to sit in an office all day listening to stock r
eports and accounts payable, and yet he wasn’t sure how he was going to escape it, for wasn’t one linked to the other? Even if he wanted to be master of Highbury, he knew it was impossible without taking the reins of the firm as well.

  He flopped back into the leather armchair, sighing deeply. Unfortunately, he was running out of time. He would have to make a decision by tomorrow. That was the real reason he had come back this weekend, though he could barely afford the time. Seeing Henrietta had been an added bonus to the plan. The board of Linley Standard had called a special session for tomorrow afternoon. His father was apparently thinking of stepping down as chairman sometime in the near future. “Not to worry about a date, old boy,” he had told Clive. “Just an idea.” The board was eager to name a successor for when that time came, though, hopefully, they had all uttered respectfully, that would not be for quite some time. Naturally, Clive was the forerunner for the position, and they wanted him there for the vote, as a surety of his commitment, or something like that, they had said. He had not told Henrietta yet; he had been hoping to discuss it with her before he made a decision, but the evening had instead taken a very different turn.

  He had been hoping to ask her about their future life together, how she liked Highbury, if she could see herself as its mistress someday. Instead he had stupidly quarreled with her over a servant and a missing ring! Idiot! She had said she didn’t feel she belonged here, so wasn’t that his answer? But had she really had enough time to know for sure? His father was right; it had been unwise to leave her here alone with just the two of them as company, especially his mother. Clive knew how she could be, and yet he had left Henrietta anyway. But what choice had he had? The chief had been insistent, and so had his mother. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and, perhaps if only sub-consciously, he had wanted to keep her safe here from Neptune’s clutches. He was bothered that while Neptune was in jail, his lieutenants were still at large, and who knew what their instructions were? Clive rubbed his brow at the thought of Neptune’s insane obsession with Henrietta and took another drink of whiskey. He supposed he had been hoping that his parents would fall in love with Henrietta just as he had, but he saw now that it would take more time.