A Ring of Truth

by Michelle Cox

  “My God! I can’t believe it!” Henrietta said, disgusted. “I always knew there was something about Fr. Finnegan I didn’t like,” she muttered, as she turned to stare out the side window. Clive wished he could study her face, but it was impossible while driving in the dark. He was afraid he had upset her and was about to speak when she spoke first, still looking out at the darkness as she did so.

  “Well, at least we know Eugene is innocent. Of the crime, at least,” she said practically and turned to face Clive now. “But what are we going to do? No one will believe Eugene over Fr. Finnegan.”

  “Leave it to me,” Clive said, grimly, though a certain relief came over him. He was once again impressed with her fortitude. “I intend to get the charges dropped. I have a few friends in high places, I should say. Meanwhile, I’ll get Eugene out on bail in the morning.”

  “But what about this Inspector O’Connor that I saw going into the room? He looks like a brute!”

  “I had a word. Told him I was a friend of the family, so he’ll go easy. Just routine, no rough stuff.”

  “Oh, Clive, how can I ever thank you?”

  “There’s no need, Henrietta,” he said genuinely. He stole another glance at her and was overcome, as he always was. Whenever he looked at her, his pulse maddeningly quickened. What was he to do with her?

  When his mother had returned home to find Henrietta abruptly gone due to “troubles at home,” as Clive had described it, he had perceived that she could not help but reveal her secret pleasure at the news. It was one thing he was not particularly fond of in his mother, her delight in the downfall of others. Fortunately, he was leaving soon to meet up with his father at the firm, so he was spared from having to listen to any lengthy speculations regarding Henrietta’s troubles or to any derogatory comments about Henrietta herself. While his mother’s whispered reports on the telephone seemed to have lessened somewhat this past week, he hadn’t been sure whether this was due to a lack of examples and incidences of impropriety on Henrietta’s part or if it was just that his mother had become more guarded in imparting them. His dreaded attendance at the board meeting today had at least saved him from having to listen to it all yet again from her this afternoon.

  He sighed. That was another thing—the result of the meeting. He gave Henrietta another fleeting look.

  As if she could read his mind now, she spoke just then. “Do you want to talk about the meeting?” she asked hesitantly. “Perhaps we could go somewhere and talk . . . the Lodge maybe? For old times’ sake?”

  It pained him to see her nervousness, and though he hated to dismiss her, he knew this was not the time or place. “It’s late, Henrietta. Let me take you home. I’m sure your mother and Elsie are still up, quite concerned about tonight’s events.”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course,” she said, though he saw the disappointment in her face. “But we need to talk about it, Clive,” she said, looking up at him tentatively.

  “Yes. Agreed. I’m going to work on Eugene’s case tomorrow. Then why don’t I take you out? Properly.” An idea had been forming in his mind since he had gotten her call this afternoon. “How about dinner at the Burgess Club?”

  “Oh, Clive! Truly?”

  His heart swelled at her sudden excitement.

  “Oh,” she said, suddenly deflated. “I didn’t bring anything to wear.”

  “Yes, you did. I brought a case for you, remember? I made sure Andrews packed whatever you might need.”

  “Oh, Clive!” she beamed. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” he said as they pulled up in front of the apartment.

  A light drizzle had begun. Her excitement from just a moment ago evaporated. “I . . . I think I should go up alone, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” He would have liked to have spent more time with her, but in truth it was rather late, and he could sense he was not completely welcome up there, anyway. Slowly he came around to open the door for her. Gracefully she got out and hesitated in front of him. He was acutely aware that she wanted him to kiss her. Her obvious need was painful to him, and it took every ounce of strength not to take her in his arms and kiss her . . . hold her . . . please her in whatever way she desired, but he knew it would cloud the conversation he needed to have with her tomorrow night. He had made his decision.

  “Why did you leave your things behind?” he asked, his eyes lingering on her.

  She met his gaze. “I suppose because I didn’t think they belonged to me.”

  He nodded slightly, taking this in. “Is that because you don’t think you belong to Highbury? Or to me?” he asked quietly.

  “There’s always going to be a part of me that belongs to you,” she said, before she could catch it. “I . . . I thought you would have known that.” She paused, as if to say something more, and reached out a hand as if she were going to caress his cheek. But before she could do so, she pulled it slowly back. “Good night, Inspector,” she said sadly and turned away.

  “Good night, Miss Von Harmon,” he said softly, hoping she could not see him trembling. The sight of her before him, so low and uncertain, almost crushed him. “Seven o’clock.”

  “Yes, I’ll be ready,” she said and, giving a faltering wave, disappeared into the building.

  Chapter 12

  When Clive arrived at seven o’clock the next evening, Henrietta was indeed ready for him. She had been delighted to find that Andrews had packed several beautiful things for her. Much too beautiful for the sparse apartment on Armitage, however, which had been another reason that Henrietta had left them behind. She hadn’t wanted her family to see the evidence of her luxurious stay at Highbury. She had told them stories, granted, especially the boys, who marveled at her description of Mr. Howard’s beautiful cars and the many rooms of the house, but she had purposefully left out much, especially if Ma was within earshot. In whispered moments, she had shared a bit more with Elsie—descriptions of the food, the flowers in every room, the library filled with books, even the gorgeous rose gardens, and Elsie had loved hearing it all, as if it were a story from a book. Naturally, then, when it was finally time for Henrietta to retreat to the bedroom to dress for her date with Clive, Elsie had followed closely behind and sat fingering the leather straps of the expensive case after Henrietta had unceremoniously heaved it onto the bed.

  Henrietta had left most of the contents packed inside the case for a number of reasons. Firstly, she had wanted to keep it out of sight; secondly, there wasn’t much room in the old armoire in the corner, the only repository for the whole family’s clothes put together; and lastly, she supposed that there was some part of her that didn’t want her stay here to seem permanent. Now, however, as she dressed for the night ahead, she had no choice but to finally, carefully, remove some of the beautiful things. Elsie watched, nearly spellbound, as Henrietta had pulled out one after another, truly happy for her sister and her obvious good fortune, oblivious to the fact that it could very well be in jeopardy, a feeling Henrietta had not been able to shake all day.

  “Oh, Hen, that one’s lovely,” Elsie said almost worshipfully as she fingered the sleeve of a deep gold Schiaparelli gown. “Have you decided which one you’re going to wear tonight with Mister . . . I mean, Clive?”

  Henrietta laughed a little. “You sound like one of the maids when you say ‘Mister Clive.’”

  “What’s it like having maids, Hen?” Elsie asked, as if she were asking about some exotic custom in a foreign country.

  “Peculiar,” Henrietta said as she unpacked several pairs of shoes, all different colors. “I didn’t like it, actually. I was always trying to help them work, and I got in loads of trouble.”

  “Oh, Hen, that sounds like you!” Elsie laughed. “You never do quite fit in, do you?” Henrietta was struck by the truth of those words. She didn’t fit in, here or there, now, it seemed.

  “You can borrow any of them if you like,” Henrietta said, gesturing toward the various skirts and gowns. Exactly how long did Clive expe
ct her to stay away? Or was this a more permanent arrangement? she sadly wondered again. Well, if it was, she had only herself to blame.

  “Oh, no, Hen! They wouldn’t fit me, I don’t think.” Elsie was bigger boned than Henrietta, definitely taking more after their mother, while Henrietta had their father’s looks. Still, Henrietta noticed since she had come home, Elsie seemed to be taking more of an interest in her appearance these days and guessed it had something to do with her relationship with Stan, which seemed to be intensifying. In the past, Henrietta had offered many times to help Elsie beautify herself, but to no avail. Elsie had never been interested, and, indeed, it was often a cause of strife between them. Now, however, Henrietta observed that Elsie had begun to try to style her hair a bit and had even taken to wearing clips to bed.

  “How’s it going with Stan, then?” Henrietta asked coyly.

  “Oh, Hen!” Elsie blushed, though she couldn’t help smiling. “Fine, I suppose.”

  “Seems more than fine to me,” Henrietta teased.

  “Well . . . can you keep a secret?”

  Henrietta nodded encouragingly.

  “Stan says he wants to marry me!” Elsie whispered excitedly.

  “Marry you?” Henrietta exclaimed. “That’s quite fast!” she said, though as soon as she said it, she realized how hypocritical it was, considering her own situation and her hasty acceptance of Clive. But hadn’t their own alacrity perhaps resulted in a certain level of regret that they were currently mired in?

  “Yes! Isn’t it?” Elsie whispered gleefully, unaware of Henrietta’s obvious meaning.

  “Does Ma know?”

  “No! No one does. It’s not official, see. He hasn’t actually asked me, just said that he’s going to ask me—probably—at the proper time, he says.”

  “Oh! . . . Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it?” Henrietta said, thinking about how typical of Stan this particular approach was—slow and sure, covering all the bases.

  “Hen? Can I ask you something?” Elsie said hesitantly after a moment’s pause.

  “Course you can,” Henrietta said, slipping out of her cotton dress and stepping gingerly into a long black gown, which she had finally decided upon for this evening’s rendezvous. She had already done her hair earlier in the day.

  “Have you ever . . . have you ever kissed Clive?” Elsie asked, only looking briefly up at Henrietta before furtively looking away, her face a brilliant shade of red now.

  Henrietta tried hard not to smile. “As a matter of fact, I have,” she said confidingly.

  “Do . . . do you think it’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? No,” Henrietta said after a pause. “Not really. If it doesn’t get carried away, that is,” she said. She turned from Elsie under the guise of looking for the correct shoes so that Elsie wouldn’t see her face. “Have you?” she asked finally, turning back toward her now.

  Elsie nodded, still a bright shade of red. “Just the once, though.”

  “Did you like it?” Henrietta asked, her eyebrow arched. The thought of Stan in an amorous position only made her want to laugh.

  “I did, Hen,” she whispered. “Is that bad?” she asked, giving her a pleading sort of look as she tightly fingered the case’s leather strap.

  “No,” Henrietta said gently. “It isn’t bad. It’s supposed to be that way. Just tell ole Stan to be careful.”

  “Careful?”

  “You know, you don’t want to end up in the family way.”

  “Oh, Hen! We would never do that!” Elsie said, genuinely shocked.

  Henrietta smiled. “Somehow I believe you. Now, button me up, would you?”

  Elsie got up off the creaky bed and helped her. “Oh, Hen! You look gorgeous!” she said when Henrietta turned back toward her. “Wait till Ma sees you!”

  “That’s what I’m worried about. Come on, better get it over with,” she said, lifting the still partially-filled suitcase off the permanently sagging bed and shoving it back into the dusty space underneath.

  Henrietta thought she detected at least a hint of admiration in Ma’s eyes as she walked out into the front room. She was dressed in a Jeanne Lanvin black linen organdy dress, cut in the current mermaid style so that it hugged her curves beautifully. It was elegantly simple, adorned only with a plaid pattern of paillette embroidery giving way to an underdress of crepe de Chine. At her throat hung a gold-and-diamond pendant given to her by Mrs. Howard during her stay with them and which Andrews had packed securely in a separate pouch in the case. With it, of course, Henrietta wore black heels and black evening gloves. In short, she looked absolutely stunning. “Oh, Hen!” Elsie said, following her out and unable to stop her worshipful praise. “You look like a movie star! Doesn’t she, Ma?”

  “I suppose so,” Ma said begrudgingly, sitting down heavily into the ratty armchair by the fire. “Don’t think it’s right, though, you going out and your brother just out of jail this morning.” Eugene was currently asleep in the other room, having indeed been released just before noon, thanks to Clive’s machinations. He had arrived home, sullen, of course, and after brusquely answering a few of Ma’s questions, took himself off to bed and hadn’t woken up yet.

  “I don’t see what that matters, Ma! He’s in bed.”

  “All I know is that you’re never here, and now that you are, you’re off with him again. Don’t you see enough of him already at Highbury?”

  There it was again, Ma’s use of the word Highbury, strengthening Mrs. Howard’s theory that she really was perhaps the long-lost Martha Exley. Since that first luncheon together, Henrietta had wretchedly gone over and over Mrs. Howard’s attempt at unraveling the mystery of Ma’s past and had tried to come up with her own alternate explanation of things, but her theories had continued to come up empty and inadequate. Instead, what was surfacing was a whole new batch of wounded feelings, demanding her attention at the most inopportune moments, though her exploits with Helen and the missing ring over the last week or so, not to mention her troubles with Clive, had done their best to distract her. In truth, however, it hurt her immensely that not only had Ma kept her true identity hidden from them all these years, but that she had had to discover it through strangers—through the detached and condescending Mrs. Howard rather than from her own mother!

  Now it made sense, though, why Ma had always rolled her eyes when Pa had told his stories of their aristocratic roots, which were surely an exaggeration, she still believed, even now. His grand story of their lost wealth was surely no more than a fanciful invention on his part, while Ma’s had actually been real! But why had she never shared her story with them? Why not tell how she had given it all up for love? There was at least a romantic element there to be admired, if nothing else.

  “Why did you do it, Ma?” Henrietta asked, sinking down onto the small divan opposite her mother. Elsie, intrigued, silently followed and stood behind the divan, watching Ma all the while. “Why did you run away from it all?” Henrietta continued.

  “Run away from what?” Elsie asked, curious, but no one answered her.

  For just a moment, Ma held Henrietta’s gaze before she furtively looked over at Elsie, after which Henrietta perceived Ma’s hesitation give way to defeat. It was impossible for her to keep up the pretense any longer. Her faced now revealed a strange mix of guilt and sadness as she looked away from Henrietta toward the window.

  “I was very young,” Ma said gradually. “When we ran away, I don’t think I really understood what I was getting into,” she added cryptically. “Not that it makes it any better.”

  “But why? Why did you run away from that life, from your family? Were you so much in love with Pa? Or was there something horrible there, something you couldn’t face?” Henrietta asked, bracing herself for the answer, hoping it wasn’t somehow what she herself was running directly into.

  “I was pregnant,” Ma said, looking back at Henrietta again. “With you.”

  Henrietta heard Elsie gasp behind her and whisper, “Oh, Ma!”

 
No one said anything for a few moments as the reality of this revelation sank in. Somehow some part of Henrietta’s mind had guessed the truth before now, but she hadn’t consciously understood it or believed it. Now that it was out in the open, however, any shock, any surprise or even pity that she might have felt gave way unexpectedly to the beginnings of anger as if the two of them had somehow switched roles and she were now the mother chastising the daughter, her mind flitting back over the years to all the arguments they had had. How dare Ma accuse her all these years about being too flirtatious, too affectionate, constantly doubting Henrietta’s virtue, when all the while she had gotten herself pregnant! She simply couldn’t tolerate the injustice of it, her hurt, angry feelings welling up inside of her like hot pokers.

  “Oh, Ma!” she finally blurted out. “How could you? How could you blame me all these years of being loose, when you . . . you . . .”

  “Oh, Hen!” Elsie exclaimed, timorously sitting down beside Henrietta as if she would any moment need to arbitrate.

  “I’m sorry, Henrietta!” Ma said in a rare moment of apology, her usual angry facade beginning to crumble away. “I don’t know why I am the way I am with you. Why I said all those things. I guess I was afraid the same thing might happen to you. You being so much more beautiful, so much more confident than I ever was . . .” her voice trailed off as she held her head in her hands.

  “What happened, Ma?” Elsie asked faintly.

  Ma remained silent, her hands covering her face, the two girls just looking at her until she finally looked up at no one in particular, her shoulders hunched. “It’s true that I am an Exley, as I’m sure you’ve heard by now,” she said quietly. “As the only daughter, I was supposed to marry well, but no one ever seemed that interested, despite the money they would have received as a dowry. I hated those parties that my parents held to try to foist me off onto some contemptible man who would have me for the money. It just made me feel big and awkward, and I soon began to despise myself and everyone else, too.” She glanced up at Elsie, as if it were too painful to look at Henrietta. “The only one that was ever nice to me was Les.”