by Michelle Cox
He had laughed when his mother had telephoned him at his apartment early on during the first week of Henrietta’s stay, furiously whispering how she was quite at her wit’s end with Henrietta in her insistence on helping the maids make the beds, trading recipes regularly with the cook (and writing them down to send to her sister!), and staying up to all hours playing rummy and drinking cocoa in the kitchen with the junior staff, causing them to be found constantly yawning the next day and in need of reprimanding! Clive had bit back a smile as she continued her whispered report, no doubt locked in the study away from Father’s and Billings’s ears. “She has a defiant streak to her, Clive,” Mrs. Howard had warned with exasperation, “which will need some handling, and she has no idea how to dress for dinner!” Ah, yes, thought Clive, the ultimate sin.
“Well, happily that won’t be a problem here, as she’ll have no use for gowns and such, seeing as there’s only the policeman’s ball, and that’s just once a year,” he had answered flippantly.
“Stop being ridiculous, Clive! You can’t seriously be considering living in that hovel with her! We’ve indulged your whims long enough, but sooner or later you’re going to have to face your responsibilities,” she had hissed. “It’s your duty to take over Highbury, and, as much as I do not wish to cause you pain, darling, you’re going to have to do it and you just might regret having Henrietta as its mistress!”
“You surprise me, mother,” he said with affected disinterest. “And all along I thought you merely wanted a grandchild. You’re becoming an awful snob in your later years.”
“Don’t be glib, Clive; it doesn’t become you.”
“Just be patient, Mother,” he had said wearily. “She’ll learn; I’m sure of it. I have every faith in you. And in her.”
Despite his mother’s (and Henrietta’s, for that matter) reservations as to her suitability, Clive, on his part, had none. In fact, he loved her because she was so . . . on the surface, anyway . . . so utterly unsuitable. He loved the fact that she had been willing to sacrifice her whole life to support all of those brothers and sisters of hers, how she stood in line for government-issued food, how she had not been too proud to scrub toilets at the corner tavern at thirteen. And, yes, he loved the image of her helping Edna with the bedding as they perhaps laughed and shared secrets, completely inappropriate as it was, something he could never imagine his mother doing in a hundred years. Yes, there was a defiance of sorts to Henrietta, a fiery pluck, but there was a sweet willingness to please as well, a combination he found irresistible. And though he was embarrassed to admit it, he loved that she made him feel desperately young again. She brought out a part of him that had existed long before the war, a part of himself that he had assumed had died. She had chosen him to bestow her love upon out of all the men he knew she could have easily had. She had helped him in countless ways, and she trusted and felt safe with him, the thought of which caused a nagging guilt to well up, though he tried valiantly to repress it. No, she was more than suitable—she was perfect. He longed to rescue her from her miserable poverty, to share all that he had of himself, whatever that might be, if she would only let him. He had found his Cinderella and had the ability to give her anything she desired—a beautiful wedding, beautiful clothes, money for her family, a place in society—but to his surprise, she appeared to be uninterested in all that, if tonight’s quarrel was any indication. She merely wanted her prince; she wanted him. And while his heart swelled at the thought, he wretchedly recalled that it was the inspector she wanted, not the esquire, and wondered grimly which one he really was.
If only she knew, he thought, his mind wandering back over the cases of the past year, many of them vicious and terrible, what his life as an inspector was really like. Though they had been through a horrible ordeal together with Neptune, no harm had miraculously come to them in the end, and he could see by the way she talked about old Helen Schuyler and her silly missing ring that she saw detective work merely as exciting, jolly good fun. He admitted that her young eyes had seen a lot of this world already, but nothing compared to the evils he had witnessed in the city’s darkened streets.
The case he was on at the moment, for example, was particularly grisly, and some part of it haunted him even now as he tried endlessly to work it out. A young girl, just seventeen, savagely assaulted by what appeared to be more than one man. At first it had looked like a random crime, but there were things about this case that made Clive wonder if it was somehow linked to a bigger conspiracy. He had a strange feeling about this one; something wasn’t adding up. He was missing something. He and Charlie and Kelly, recovered now from the last case and out of the hospital, had planned a stakeout for tonight at an abandoned warehouse on Goose Island, which is why he had telephoned Highbury to say he wouldn’t be coming until tomorrow morning. At the last minute, though, the gang was tipped off and fled before Clive and his men could get there.
The case was weighing heavily on his mind as it had all the markings of being a repeat crime, a string of murdered women having been found recently in the city’s alleyways. Worse yet, he was realizing slowly, he was having a hard time maintaining an emotional distance. His feelings for Henrietta were interfering with his perception of the case, he could tell. It had happened last time with Neptune. He had missed certain clues, and Henrietta had almost been killed as a result. This time, she wasn’t anywhere near the case, he had made sure of that, but he still wondered if his judgment was off. Was he losing his touch? One thing was for sure: he was becoming too vulnerable, and he couldn’t seem to stop it.
He held up his glass to the fire and peered through it, watching the soft glow of the embers illuminate the caramel-colored whiskey. Was escape to Highbury the answer? If they took up a life here, Henrietta would be shielded and protected from the brutality and grime of the city, but would she love the esquire as much as the inspector? Would it make him less of a man, not only in her eyes but in his own?
The old grandfather clock in the corner dully chimed out the hour of two, and Clive, tired of being alone with his swirling thoughts, achingly stood up, finally, and went to bed, having come to no particular conclusion of note, except perhaps the certainty of his own foolishness.
Chapter 9
When Henrietta awoke it was later than usual. She had been awake most of the night and had only fallen into an irregular sort of sleep in the last few hours. The intruding sun, shimmering hopefully through the lace curtains at her windows, unfortunately did not have the power to dispel her dark mood. Last night had been all her fault, she decided, as she pushed aside the heavy coverlet and pulled herself out of bed. Clive had every right to be upset. She was always too flirtatious; hadn’t Ma been telling her that forever? And why hadn’t she listened to Mrs. Howard? She should never have danced with Jack, she fumed, and worse, all the servants had seen! What if it got back to Clive? she worried. She hadn’t meant anything by it; she had only done it to blend in, to not spoil the party, but a nagging voice kept reminding her that she had rather liked it. Not Jack necessarily, but the music and the dancing, the drinking of cheap cherry wine rather than fine cognac or brandy. There were aspects of her old life, she confessed, that she missed, and the party had shown her that.
And yet, if she were honest, she conceded, staring at herself in the mirror of her dressing table as she brushed her long auburn hair, being in a place as beautiful as Highbury had astonished her. She had not known that places like this even existed. She felt it was unreal, somehow, as if she would wake up soon from this dream to find herself back in the dingy apartment, the charge bill at Schneider’s staring her in the face.
But why hadn’t Clive told her about his life? She could not help continually circling back to this. She supposed he hadn’t had a chance, not really, but, still, she felt more than a little bit—if not betrayed, exactly—then certainly misled. He had said that night on the terrace after the Italian restaurant that none of this mattered to him and that he didn’t want a “society” woman, but sh
e wasn’t so sure that that was true. His mother was clearly of the opinion that they were to someday take over Highbury (however laughable that seemed to Henrietta) and was constantly instructing her regarding what would be required of her when she was head of the house here. Surely Clive must have an inkling of his mother’s expectations; did he share them? She couldn’t tell exactly; he seemed full of contradiction. And what if he did? Is this what she wanted?
Part of her imagined how heavenly it would be to live at a place like Highbury, but at the same time she saw how impossible it would be for any number of reasons. For one thing, what would she do about her family? She couldn’t see abandoning them to make their own way in the city, but neither could she see bringing them here. She cringed when she fleetingly imagined Ma and her dirty apron shuffling bitterly through the halls of Highbury, making disparaging comments whenever one happened to occur to her, which undoubtedly would be every few minutes or so. On the other hand, was Clive just going to send them money every month to make up for her lost wages? Given Ma’s less-than-grateful reaction already, Henrietta was pretty sure that that arrangement wouldn’t work, either.
The problem of what to do with her family aside, the more important issue, it seemed to Henrietta, was whether she was actually worthy of this role, whether she was even up to the task. Originally, whenever she had thought about being with Clive, being married to him, her mind always drifted back to the short evening they had spent at Polly’s apartment when she had sat mending the usherette costume while he had contentedly looked on, smoking his pipe, presumably musing about his cases. That had been her quaint idea of marital bliss, not hosting dinner parties with the Howard “set”—whatever that meant—or playing rounds of golf or attending gala balls, however momentarily exciting that might sound. She had told him once that she didn’t want to be a disappointment to him, and she couldn’t see how, especially after last night, that she wasn’t. He deserved someone equal to . . . well, to him, someone better than her.
The inescapable truth, however, was that she loved Clive, more than she thought possible. She ached to be held by him, loved by him. He possessed the ability to make her feel safe and protected, all the while causing her pulse to quicken whenever he was near. There had been an emptiness in her, one that she was barely even aware of, since her father died, and there existed from that point onward a low, persistent urgency to fill it. Flirting, she had found, sometimes made it disappear for a little while, but it always came back, restless and painful. Clive was the only man, the only person, really, who abated and calmed it. She wanted, no needed, desperately to be with him, to make him happy . . . to give him a child, she blushed to herself. She thought she might know how to do that, how to be all those things for him in the city, with its straight, gridded streets, but here, in this strange dream landscape with its multitude of undulating, unwritten rules hidden just beneath the glittering surface, she doubted her ability. Though she had been making obvious progress in the short time Clive had been away and was even gaining confidence under Mrs. Howard’s tutelage, albeit begrudgingly at times, this morning it seemed as if it had all been undone by one evening’s antics, leaving her doubtful as to her capacity to ever successfully navigate this labyrinth.
But she wanted to be with Clive, she groaned, to please him . . . make him happy, and if this was what he wanted, she would have to try. She saw no choice, as she sat staring at the mirror in front of her, but to have to sacrifice her family, her life in the city. She would endeavor to play the hand she had been dealt and only prayed she wouldn’t shame him in the process. She would try to fill the role he obviously wanted her to fill, and she would have to figure out what to do about her family later.
But perhaps it was already too late, she worried. She had made a bad start of it, hadn’t she? Angrily she put down her brush and rested her forehead against one hand. Going to a servant’s birthday party and dancing with the chauffer—what had she been thinking? Maybe Clive would never find out, she grasped. But did she really want to keep a secret from him? Already he didn’t trust her, and she could see why. Perhaps it was time to go home. Helping Mrs. Howard with the engagement party plans had obviously been a sham; she wasn’t really needed here at all. Maybe it really had been a test all along, and she had clearly failed. Yes, she would go home, she decided, convinced suddenly of the wisdom of this new idea. But what about Helen? she remembered abruptly. She couldn’t just abandon her, especially now that the ring had surfaced. But what could she do, really? No one seemed to take her seriously, except Jack, of course. Maybe she could see Helen before she left?
Henrietta shook herself. There was nothing for it now but to go downstairs and face them all. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath and a last look in the mirror before slipping out of her room and descending the grand staircase.
She was surprised, then, when she found the breakfast room deserted, except for Clive, who sat languidly at the table. He of course rose when she entered, and their eyes met, Henrietta searching his for any indication of his mood. His face broke into a wary smile, then, and he strode across the room to her. He did not embrace her, but merely took one of her hands and held it for a moment before speaking.
“Henrietta, can you forgive me?” he asked earnestly.
This was hardly the greeting she had expected, and an embarrassing little gasp escaped her lips as a rush of feeling came over her. Two hot tears formed in the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision a little as she looked up eagerly now at him.
“Oh, Clive, there’s nothing to forgive,” she said in a low tone and was about to launch into her own apology when he went on speaking.
“I’ve been a fool,” he went on hurriedly. “I know you’ve been faithful to me, and I had no right to call your virtue into question.”
She looked down at the floor in shame at the memory of her dance with Jack, but he mistook it for sadness. With just one finger, he lifted her chin and kissed her softly, tenderly, sending shivers rippling through her, but she made herself pull away.
“No, Clive. It’s me. I . . . it was my fault. I’m the fool. I knew it was wrong to go and spend time . . . fraternize, as your mother calls it . . . with the servants, but I went anyway. She has warned me repeatedly that it might cause complications later, when . . . if . . . ,” she added hastily, “we live here, but I didn’t want to listen.” She let go of his hand and walked over to the windows. She knew she should tell him now about the dance, but she couldn’t muster up the courage. “I know it’s no excuse,” she said instead, “but I suppose I thought it would be a bit of fun. Nothing else.”
Clive followed her and gently turned her to him again. “Henrietta, listen. I’ve been remiss; I see that now. I didn’t mean for your stay here to be so long; it’s just that the case is getting more complicated now, and we are so close. But I was wrong. You’re absolutely right; I should have telephoned or written. I guess I’m not used to having someone wait for me.”
A small, tingling sliver of hope began traveling through her at the prospect of their rather serious quarrel being smoothed over so easily. “I forgive you,” she said quietly. “And I’m sorry, too,” she added, then, hoping that this would be enough to alleviate the strand of guilt that still nagged.
“Don’t be,” he said, smiling at her so benevolently she thought her heart would break.
“But why did you come back last night?” she asked distractedly. “I thought you were tied up with the case.”
“We were planning a stakeout,” Clive sighed, “but the guy we are tracking was tipped off somehow. The chief told me to go home for a while. At least for a night, anyway. Turns out he has a heart after all,” he grinned. “That, and I have some business with Father . . .”
“I wish you’d let me help you!” she interrupted. “Like I did with Neptune,” she said brightly, laying a hand on his arm.
A shadow passed across Clive’s face. “It’s not a nice one, Henrietta. Very dark.”
“And the last
one wasn’t?” she murmured, removing her hand. She turned back toward the windows and gazed out at the lake. In the distance she could see the smoke rising from what must be Helen’s chimney. An idea occurred to her, then, and she slowly turned back around. “Then help me with mine, Clive,” she suggested tentatively.
“Yours?”
“My case,” she smiled. “‘The case of the missing ring.’”
“Oh, Henrietta, I’m sure that’s just a simple misunderstanding,” he moaned.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Of course I believe you, darling, it’s just that Helen . . . Oh, all right,” he agreed, remembering his father’s words of advice to him. He was eager to erase the events of last evening and to make up for his absence these past two weeks. Actually, he found her fascination with Helen a bit amusing. “Come on, let’s have breakfast, and then we’ll go investigate.”
“Do you mean it?” she said, her face lighting up in delight. “Oh, Clive, Helen will be so grateful. You’ve no idea how troubled she is.”
“Oh, I think I do. You do realize she’s a bit touched in the head, don’t you? That’s why Father allows her live out the rest of her days in the cottage.”
“Isn’t that all the more reason to check on her? Don’t we owe it to her to put her fears at ease?” Henrietta reasoned.
Clive sighed. “You’re right, of course,” he said, smiling patiently, the thought inconveniently dawning on him that she sounded very much like what the mistress of Highbury should sound like. “We’ll go directly, but then we need to talk.”
“That sounds awfully serious.”