by Michelle Cox
“Yes, I’m aware of your indiscretion,” he said quietly.
Henrietta bristled. Any repentance she had been feeling was immediately replaced my indignation. “You know? But how? Are you spying on me?” She flashed her blue eyes at him. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Don’t be tiresome, Henrietta. Of course I’m not spying on you. Father told me, actually.”
“Your father?” She was stupefied.
“Billings apparently reported it to him this morning,” he said, grimly.
This was intolerable! Billings, too! “Where are your parents, anyway?” she said, looking around now and realizing that she hadn’t seen them all morning. She had assumed that they had finished breakfast before she came down, having slept in, but surely they should be about by now.
“Father’s at the firm, presumably lunching there, waiting for me. And Mother’s decided to spend the day at the club.”
“Whatever for?”
“I think she wanted to give us some time alone. ‘To discuss matters’ is how I think she put it.”
“You told them we quarreled last night, didn’t you?”
“I may have mentioned something to that effect to Father when I came in. He was still up, you see, and I was upset, truth be told.”
“I’d rather you didn’t discuss our quarrels with your parents,” Henrietta retorted. “It paints me in a very bad light, and I don’t need any additional help in that department!”
“Actually, I painted myself in a very bad light, if you must know!” he said, annoyed now.
They were interrupted then when Billings entered the room holding a small silver salver in one hand, upon which were two envelopes.
“Pardon the interruption, sir,” Billings said staidly, “but there are two letters for Miss Von Harmon. They arrived this morning, while you were . . . out,” he emphasized, as if they had committed a crime, or at least a serious misdemeanor. Did he already know about Clive’s rough handling of Virgil? “They were set aside by young Arthur and only now brought to my attention. I’m very sorry, sir.”
Before Clive could answer, Henrietta took the two letters from the tray and examined them. “Thank you, Billings,” she said absently, ignoring his accusatory tone. “They’re from home,” she said to Clive, turning them over. One letter would have been unusual, but two gave her a very definite feeling of foreboding.
“Luncheon will be served soon, sir,” Billings said, hovering nearby.
“We’ll be in directly, Billings,” Clive said, dismissing him.
“Very good, sir,” he said, with only a hint of disappointment, as if he had wanted, perhaps, to hear the contents of the missives Henrietta now held.
Henrietta set her snifter down on one of the gleaming tables and carefully opened the first letter, fear filling her heart. It was from Elsie, and she knew she wouldn’t write unless something was wrong. Was it one of the twins? she wondered desperately. But if something were seriously wrong, wouldn’t Elsie have run down to Kreske’s Drug Store to use the telephone?
Nervously, Henrietta pulled out the single sheet of plain white paper in Elsie’s delicate hand. It read:
Dearest Henrietta,
Thank you for your nice letter this week past telling us that you arrived safely. Mr. Howard’s home sounds heavenly, and I am sure you will have many interesting stories for us when you come home.
I hope you are well and that you are having a lovely time with Mr. Howard and what I hope are his kind family. I’m sure they were as surprised as we were by the happy news of your engagement. All the neighbors were quite surprised and happy for you when we told them all about it, even Ludmilla, who says she figured a wedding would be sooner than later with you, referring I’m sure to your beauty and your sweet temper and nothing mean, though Ludmilla always has a way of making everything seem sour, even things that are meant to be nice, doesn’t she? Mr. Hennessey, by the way, has stopped in several times at Dubala’s to ask after you, bless his heart. He sends his love.
We are all well at home, except, of course, Herbert, who had the beginnings of a cold in his ear not but a few days ago, but who has bravely fought it off it seems. There is not much other news, except perhaps that Ma seems a bit out of sorts, more so than usual. I thought she would be happy that you were settling down, as she is always going on about you (you know how she does), but your engagement to Mr. Howard has seemed to have brought her a bit low. I have tried in my own quiet way to ask her about it, but she does not want to talk about it.
Her mood was brought even lower, however, by some trouble that Eugene has found himself in, and though I would not for the world interrupt your happy time, it is for this reason, really, that I am writing, to ask when you might be thinking of coming home. I wouldn’t dream of asking you, except that we were rather expecting you back before now and were wondering if perhaps your plans had changed in any way. I feel terrible for interrupting your time with Mr. Howard, but I do wonder when you might return to offer us your advice and any comfort you might be able to give Ma. Please let us know as soon as possible, for which I am very sorry.
Your loving sister,
Elsie
Henrietta let out a deep breath and glanced over at Clive, who was patiently watching her.
“Everything all right?” he asked quietly.
“It’s from Elsie. She wants to know when I’m coming home. Eugene’s done something, apparently, and Ma’s upset.”
“Such as?”
“She doesn’t say, which is a bit worrying.”
“And the other?”
Henrietta looked down at the other letter and frowned when she saw that the return address was from Stan, of all people. “It’s from Stan, I think,” she said, opening it slowly.
“Pipsqueak?” Clive asked, intrigued, taking a sip of his brandy.
Dear Hen,
Sorry to bother you and all. Elsie says the inspector ’s house is very grand, which I’m sure is quite a boon to you, though it ’s a bit deceptive if you ask me, which you’re not, so. Elsie, by the way, doesn’t know I’m writing, but I know from her sweet nature that she won’t have told you the whole story with Eugene . I myself cannot divulge it, even to you, as I promised Elsie I wouldn’t. But I will say that you’re quite needed back at home somewhat urgently. No doubt the inspector is dazzling you with delights, but if you can at all cease to be mesmerized by his flashy charm, you might just get back here .
Sorry to be the cause of disappointment, but, in truth, all your old chums round here miss you, not just me, and it would be good to see you. Who knows, maybe this inspector is not all he’s cracked up to be . You could be murdered up there, and we would never know! That is not a pleasant thought, I know, and probably not one that should be included in a correspondence, but it is a rather sobering consideration . Still, Elsie says you are old enough to make your own decisions, so I suppose she is right.
Anyway, if you could see fit to come home quick, your ma and Elsie, not to mention me, would be greatly relieved.
Your friend,
Stanley Dubowski
Henrietta folded the letter back up and put her hand to her forehead. “I’ve got to go home, Clive.”
“Anything serious? Is someone ill?”
“Something to do with Eugene, but they won’t say what. The fact that Stan wrote as well must mean it’s something serious.”
“Wouldn’t your mother have telephoned?”
“I’m sure she’d rather die than ask for my help. That’s why Elsie had to do it. I’m going up to pack.”
“Now?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yes, now.”
“But I can’t possibly drive you this afternoon, not with this meeting.”
“Yes, I realize that!” Henrietta was growing irritated now, impatient to get back to her family, waves of guilt washing over her. Wasn’t this proof that she was going down the wrong path? God was punishing her for being selfish; it was obvious. Or at least, He was trying to tell her some
thing. What could have possibly happened to Eugene? she thought desperately. Perhaps he had run away? Perhaps he was in the hospital? Panic was filling her heart, and it was obvious that Clive did not share her anxiety. His silly board meeting, which might not produce anything concrete anyway, was clearly more important than her family’s problems. “I have to go home, Clive,” she said firmly. “Today. Now.”
Clive sighed. “Henrietta, see reason. You don’t even know what this is about. You’re acting like a child! You confess that you’ve spent the evening dancing with another man just as I’m asking you to decide about our future—your future—and now you want to run off because of some mischief Eugene’s found himself in! That’s rich! You must have some opinion, Henrietta. This is your life, too!”
She looked at him coldly. “I’ve already explained about Jack, and if you choose to make an issue of it, then so be it. As to the future, if we have one, I don’t think it matters very much what I think,” Henrietta said coolly. “I think you’ve already made up your mind, regardless. And, anyway, what was it you said to me just now? Distance doesn’t have to mean unkindness. Perhaps there’s some truth to that.” She knew that a part of her was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t help it.
“What do you mean by ‘if we have one’?” he asked, confused.
“Just that perhaps we need time to reconsider.”
“Reconsider what?”
“Whether we’re really suited for each other.”
Clive looked at her, stunned.
“Clive,” she went on, “we made a promise in the heat of the moment. We weren’t really thinking, either of us. Let’s both think more carefully about this marriage before you give your father and the board a decision. Take me out of the equation and then decide based on what your heart tells you. And if necessary, I release you,” she said quietly, “freely.”
“Henrietta, don’t . . .” he whispered.
“I have to go, Clive.”
“Don’t . . .” It seemed hard for him to get the words out. “Don’t do this.” He looked at her steadily. “Don’t be my undoing,” he pleaded, just above a whisper.
She did not say anything, but she could feel the tears coming.
Furtively, he searched her face and finding her resolute, altered his expression then to one of sad resignation. “If you really won’t wait, I’ll have Fletcher take you,” he said emotionlessly.
Her brow furrowed. “Jack? You trust me to be alone with Jack in a car all that way?”
“Yes,” he said, not taking his eyes off hers, “I do trust you.”
Suddenly, then, she felt a flood of emotion, a flood of love for him, such that she couldn’t speak.
“Have a safe journey,” he said, almost inaudibly, his face hard now.
Henrietta did not know what else to say, stunned by her own stupid volley of words. She had gone too far this time, and she knew it. She longed for him to put his arms around her, but he did not. In fact, he retreated now to his previous place by the fireplace. There was nothing left for her to do but to go upstairs and pack as she had said she would. She had perhaps meant only to test him, but he was taking her at her word, and it pained her more than she had thought possible, and she found it difficult, actually, to breathe. But now she didn’t know how to undo it.
“Goodbye, then,” she managed to say sadly and slipped out the door. Clive, his outstretched arms braced against the cold fireplace, did not say anything more but continued to stare at the empty grate, his jaw clenched hard.
Chapter 10
Quiet tears spilled down her cheeks as Fletcher pulled away from Highbury not an hour later. Henrietta sat dejectedly in the backseat of the Bentley, her many sorrows blending together into an indiscriminate fog. Not only did she feel that she was possibly losing Clive, but, if she admitted it, she felt the loss of Highbury as well as they drove down the lovely shaded lane flanked with huge oak trees, the enchanted beauty of which increased her present state of misery.
She had managed to hold back her tears as Clive, assuming the role of Billings and donning an umbrella against the steady rain that continued to fall, had rather coldly escorted her to the car and had solemnly wished her luck, offering no further words of endearment. With a face of granite, he gave Jack a nod and a little salute with his forefinger, signally him to pull away. Henrietta had bravely kept her eyes on the road ahead, but at the bottom of the lane, her resolve crumbled, and she gave one last look back. Clive, however, had already gone back in.
She turned back around, then, her throat aching as she fought to hold back her tears. Her distress over Clive mingled with worry about her family to form a hard knot of wretchedness in the pit of her stomach. Guilt in many variations washed over her. She felt guilty for leaving her family in the first place, guilty for being so stupidly involved with the servants, and even guilty now at leaving poor Helen, who seemed to have no one to take her part. Her mind naturally drifted then and lingered on a kindred sorrow, that being Helen’s poor lost, dead daughter, and she found she could no longer hold back the tears and cried silently as Jack pulled the car onto the highway now.
In her despair, Henrietta gazed forlornly at the rivulets of water that ran down the window and was determined, if nothing else, not to speak to Jack at all. He had made little comments here and there about the weather or the traffic, all of which she had ignored. She would prove that he meant nothing to her, and, yet, she wondered as the minutes ticked on, who was she trying to prove it to? Herself? Clive would never know of her sacrifice here in the car. It was too late for that. Jack had eventually grown quiet, but when they were finally nearing the city, he ventured to speak again.
“I’m sorry if I got you into trouble last night,” he said hesitantly.
Henrietta glanced up at the rearview mirror to look at him for the first time since the journey had begun. He seemed so genuinely concerned and had such a look of contriteness on his face, however, that Henrietta, her tears dried up now and despite her previous, private resolution, gave in and spoke to him.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said with a sigh. “I . . . we worked it out.”
“Didn’t look like it to me,” he said, looking at her in the rearview mirror. “Begging your pardon, Miss.”
Henrietta avoided his eyes and looked out the window. “You might as well call me Henrietta,” she said. What did it matter that the servants were familiar in their address of her now? She was leaving Highbury and going back to her old life; she might as well give up the fatiguing role of distance and superiority that she was supposed to be maintaining. Still, she found she had nothing in particular to say to Jack.
“At least you found out more about poor Helen’s ring,” he said hopefully into the rearview mirror.
Despite her lethargy, Henrietta looked up at him now, her interest piqued. “How do you know about that?”
“Edna told me.”
“Oh,” Henrietta said, sinking back down into the seat.
“Wish I could have seen it!” he added.
Henrietta caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. She could tell he was trying to please her, to win her over.
“It wasn’t very pleasant, actually,” she said dismissively.
“Glad Mister Clive’s still got the ole one-two. Serves Virgil right, the twit.”
Henrietta looked out the window again, remembering how Clive had so roughly dealt with Virgil. Fresh images of Clive throwing him up against the wall flooded her mind and made her shift uneasily. “Well, he deserved it,” Henrietta found herself saying.
“No doubt!” Jack said, fully encouraged now. “Edna says he managed to produce a receipt from a pawnshop,” he ventured, looking in the mirror again. “Probably a fake,” he scoffed.
“I saw it, though. It seemed real enough to me. Some shop in Winnetka called Selzers, I think.”
“Well, what if he did buy it legit? How’d it get there?”
“That’s exactly what I thought!” Henrietta said, enticed into
the conversation almost against her will. “And what about the strange scratches at Helen’s cottage?”
Jack let out a low whistle. “Edna told me about that. Definitely strange, that is. Creepy, actually.”
“Do you think whoever took the ring did that as well?”
“Hard to say, but why?”
“I’m not sure. To scare Helen? Make her more confused?”
“Could be.”
Henrietta looked out the window again. “Clive thinks it’s an animal.”
“Naw! I went down and had a look. Ain’t no animal did that.”
“No, I didn’t think so, either,” she said, looking back at him through the mirror.
“All I’m sayin’ is that our friend Virgil has got himself a wicked-looking knife. Long and thin, it is, almost like a letter-opener.”
Henrietta drew in a breath, picturing Virgil slinking about Helen’s cottage at night with such a knife. “He . . . he says he’s never been down by the cottage.”
“Bull! I’ve heard him sneak out at night, plenty of times. That’s the God’s honest truth.”
Henrietta felt goose bumps again. She was surprised that Jack shared her exact suspicions and theories, and it was so gratifying to be taken seriously. But then again, was Helen, as Clive had insinuated, really to be believed? “Have you ever heard Helen mention Daphne?” she ventured.
“No, but Mary told me. How she goes around talkin’ about her like she’s gonna walk in the room any minute.”
“Yes! Bizarre, isn’t it? Do you think she’s crazy?”
“Hard to tell, really. My own grandfather still talks to my grandmother every day, though she’s been dead these past fifteen years. And he don’t seem crazy to me, but what do I know?”
“That’s what I thought! Just because she gets confused about Daphne doesn’t mean she’s completely insane. She still helps cook at big parties, doesn’t she?”
“True enough,” he said, turning onto Fullerton now.