by Michelle Cox
Hot tears welled up in Henrietta’s eyes again. She did not have to deliberate. She already knew that she wanted this man sitting across from her no matter what she had to endure to be with him, that she wanted to share—no, give her life to him. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come out. She tightened her grasp on his hand and nodded.
“Is that a yes, then?” he almost laughed.
“Yes, I will marry you, Clive Howard of Highbury,” she said finally and couldn’t help but give a little laugh, too. “Oh, Clive, I love you so. You’ve no idea how happy you make me,” she said, gazing at him, her heart near to bursting. Ma had told her to be sure, and she was. She had never been so sure.
Beaming now, Clive released her hand and removed a small velvet box from the pocket of his dinner jacket. He opened it slowly and took out a ring with a diamond bigger than any she had ever seen, set amongst a nest of emeralds. He held out his hand to her, palm up, and timidly she laid her hand in his. Slowly and with extreme gentleness, he pulled off her glove and grasped her small, naked hand in his. “This is a very old ring that has been passed down through the generations of the Howard family,” he explained. “I asked my mother for it yesterday to give to you properly as behooves the future mistress of Highbury. She gave it to me freely, with no hesitation,” he said, his eyebrow arched and a knowing look on his face, as if to indicate that there would be no obstacle on that front. “Henrietta Von Harmon,” he said now, gently putting pressure on the ring and slowly sliding it down her finger, “with this ring, I ask you to be my wife. I promise to be a faithful husband to you, forsaking all others, and cherishing you with my life.”
Two tears escaped Henrietta’s eyes despite her best efforts to corral them. “Oh, Clive,” she managed to say. “It’s simply beautiful,” was all she could get out, afraid that if she continued she would begin to openly cry.
“I love you, Henrietta. Make no mistake,” Clive said softly, his head tilted to the side in a manner Henrietta had come to love.
Henrietta could find no words to say, but instead sat gazing at him, her mind whirling. So it was true, she thought. He did love her! Loved her enough to marry her despite her obvious unsuitability and her poverty, despite even the shameful actions of her father and now her brother.
“Next week is the engagement party,” he went on. “And that’s for my mother. But tonight is our night. That’s why I’ve brought you here in particular, hoping of course that you would say yes.”
“It’s very lovely,” Henrietta said, wiping her tears and smiling at him gratefully.
“And on that note, a dance is in order. A real dance,” he added, answering an uncertainty between them that stretched all the way back to the Promenade. “Shall we?” he asked, ignoring the waiter, who had just now brought the first course.
“But what about the food?” Henrietta asked, smiling through her tears.
“It will keep. We won’t have this moment again; let’s take it,” he said, pulling her up and leading her to the dance floor. “Tales from the Vienna Woods” by Strauss was being played, and Clive masterfully led her amidst the few other couples on the floor. He held her very close, his fingers on the small of her back, and she felt she could barely breathe, such was her intoxication for him.
They held each other for the first part of the dance, not needing to speak, happy merely in each other’s arms. But at one point, Clive did pull back to look at her. “You do realize what you’re getting yourself into, don’t you?”
“I have a fair idea,” she smiled.
“I need you to stand at my side and be the woman that I know you really are. No more sulking, no more tears. Your role as the petulant child must end,” he said, giving her a serious look.
“Am I being scolded?” she asked demurely, running a finger along the side of his face.
“Indeed, you are,” he tried to say gravely, but he couldn’t help but smile. “No more discussions about whether you’re good enough or some such silly notion. I’m the future master of Highbury, and I’m telling you that you are.”
“And am I to be ruled by you?”
“In matters such as these, yes, you are to be ruled by me,” he said sternly. Before she could react, though, he went on in a much softer tone. “As my wife, however, you are my equal, nay, my superior,” he whispered, “in all the ways that matter, that is.”
He bent, then, and kissed her despite their public forum, Henrietta’s heart beating fast. She was overcome with happiness, much more than when she had hesitantly said yes to his proposal that night in Humboldt Park. She had been attracted to him then, even loved him perhaps, but not so deeply as she did now. She knew now so much more about him, knew his struggles and his burdens, his tenderness and his love for her. And, more importantly, he had perceived that there was more to her than the young girl hiding bravely behind a risqué costume and an accompanying wink and a smile. She knew that he wanted the truest part of her, the part that no man had yet discovered, and she loved him utterly for it. And she had accepted him, accepted his hand and Highbury, and now she must be equal to it, she resolved, as they glided to the last strains of the waltz. There was no more reason to second-guess herself anymore. It fleetingly occurred to her, however, as the dance ended and Clive led her back to their table where their food sat cold, that just as Ma had run from the North Shore for love, she was running to it for the very same reason . . . but she managed to push this thought away.
From there the evening evolved readily, possessing as it did so its own peculiar rhythm of time, moments of it slowing down to the point of solidification to be caught forever in the amber of memory, even as minutes and then hours unnaturally rushed by, expiring before they could catch and hold them all. They were both of them almost giddy in their happiness, barely touching any of the food put before them, preferring to spend most of the night in each other’s arms, dancing, or talking in whispers about what the future might hold, feeling perhaps for the first time that they were finally on the same path.
Henrietta never wanted this night to end, so beautiful, so perfect was it, knowing instinctively, despite her young age, that very few such nights come along in a lifetime. Eventually, however, they both sensed it was time to leave, they being one of only three couples left in the whole of the dining room, the staff yawning in the background and the orchestra winding down now. Reluctantly, then, they finally made their way down to the quaint lobby, lit only by candlelight, and waited for the Alfa Romeo to be brought round. Henrietta sighed.
“Thank you, Inspector, for such a lovely evening,” she said, slipping her arm through his.
“Still Inspector, is it?” he grinned.
“You’ll always be the inspector to me,” she said. “It will be my special name for you,” she smiled up at him, and he held her hand up to his lips to kiss it. “Are you at least a little happy about taking over your father’s firm?” she asked wistfully. “I couldn’t bear it if you’re not as supremely happy as I am at this moment.”
“I’ll be happy no matter what I’m doing as long as I have you,” he said, his eyes heavy with happiness.
“But won’t you miss being a detective, even just a little?” she asked.
“Perhaps a bit . . . but, in truth, I—”
“Your car, sir,” said one of the doormen, approaching, and whatever Clive was about to say was dropped as they stepped out into the warm July night. One of the valets then opened the car door for Henrietta, and she slid in as Clive came around to the driver’s side, lightly slipping the valet some cash as he did so.
“Thank you, my good man,” he said.
“Not at all, sir. Have a good evening.”
There was barely any traffic on the abandoned streets as Clive slowly pulled away from the Burgess Club. As they picked up speed, they were content in the warm silence that lay between them now, each abandoning themselves to their own thoughts. For the moment, all of Henrietta’s problems were comfortably pushed to the side by the largess
of happiness that had come upon her, though a part of her ached at the thought of having to separate now. She longed for the night to continue on, not wanting the spell to be broken, and an idea suddenly occurred to her, then.
“Did Catherine live at Highbury?” Henrietta asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.
Clive let out a deep breath as if not expecting this subject. “Yes, she did,” he answered dutifully. “It made the most sense, since I was going away to the war,” he said, glancing over at her.
“So you didn’t have your apartment, then?”
“No, that wasn’t until I returned.”
“May I see it?”
“What, now?” he asked, surprised, his eyebrow arched with a smile. “Isn’t it a bit late?”
“I might not ever have another chance. And anyway, don’t you think you should introduce me to Katie?” she asked, referring to his dog.
“Clancy’s got her for the night.”
“I see.”
“Well, perhaps for just a nightcap,” he offered. “I can’t keep you out too late or your mother’s low opinion of me will drop even further,” he said with a wry smile and steered the car in the direction of his apartment rather than back north to Logan Square.
Henrietta was surprised at both the sparseness of the place as well as its relative tidiness. It was merely a small apartment above a tobacco shop with just a few rooms, the smell of cedar and tobacco lingering heavily in the air. She had tried to imagine Clive’s place many times in her mind, but it was nothing like what she had expected, as she stood just inside the door, looking around as she removed her gloves, one of them catching a bit on the heavy diamond ring now on her finger. As Clive took her stole to hang it, she looked around for any intimation of personality, but there was sadly not much to lend itself to an interior view of Clive’s mind or soul. There was a bookcase on one wall with some books, mostly military history, she noted, and a radio nearby. Still, it was clean, but it made her sad to think of him coming back here each night; it seemed a lonely place.
“Champagne or cognac?” Clive called from the kitchen now.
“Do you always have champagne on hand?” she asked, amused.
“I’ve found it best to be prepared,” he called back. “You never know when Clancy might stop over for a nip.”
Henrietta laughed.
“Which one?” Clive called again.
“Champagne, please,” she answered. “Need any help?”
“I’ve got it,” he said and appeared a few moments later with a bottle in one hand and two glasses held precariously in the other. “Excuse the informality,” he said, holding them up slightly with a shrug.
“What, no butler?”
He laughed. “I have an old Irish lady that comes in and cleans, but that’s about it, I’m afraid.” He handed her a glass and began to pour. “So, what do you think? Not as exciting as you thought, is it?”
“I must admit, no,” she smiled, taking a sip. “Have your parents been here?”
“Only once,” Clive said, pouring himself a glass. “Mother was appalled, of course. But let’s not talk about them; it’s frightfully tiresome.”
“If you insist,” she smiled.
“Please,” he said, gesturing toward the worn leather-buttoned divan. “Sit down.” He set down his glass on a small side table and went to switch on the radio, Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians coming through on Your Hit Parade.
Clive loosened his tie and looked over at Henrietta now as he perched himself carefully at the edge of the divan, his heart fluttering. He had done what he had set out to do, and she had accepted him, accepted Highbury. He felt his heart swell in his chest with love for her and was determined to keep her safe. He would never let what happened to Catherine happen to her. He didn’t mean to go through that heartache ever again unless he was old and doddering and both of them were ready to leave this world for a different one. He sat back now, praying he could control himself. It was dangerous, he knew, to have brought her here with no chaperone, no servants to inadvertently interrupt them. He would have to be strong.
Henrietta had leaned back as well, letting her eyes delightfully close as she listened to the next song that had come on, “Two Sleepy People” by Hoagy Carmichael. It was one of her favorites. When she opened them again, Clive was staring at her, his head leaning against his fist, his elbow propped against the back of the couch. Her heart began to beat fast just looking at him watch her, though she was conscious of feeling a bit tipsy. Why did Clive not seem to be? she wondered. He was so awfully handsome, she thought. Had she been a fool all these years to keep her virtue intact when her own mother had gotten herself pregnant with a butcher’s delivery boy? Had she been wrong not to give in to Clive? He had said just tonight that he needed her to be a woman, not a petulant child; isn’t that what he had said? She wanted so very much to show him that she could be the woman she knew he desired. She could see it in his eyes. And there was something about giving herself to him here, in this place that belonged only to him.
Her breath was coming fast now as she timidly reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand, surprised by the stiff stubble that was there now. His eyes closed briefly at her touch, and tenderly, he covered her hand with his. Slowly he leaned forward to kiss her then, the scent of him as he neared driving her mad. He was gentle at first, barely caressing her lips with his own, but then he grew more passionate, almost desperate, as if he were abandoning all caution as he kissed her lips, her cheek, the tender place behind her ear.
Henrietta’s heart raced as his kisses traveled down her neck now, lingering briefly where the gold-and-diamond pendent nestled in the hollow of her throat, and she trembled when his fingers deftly reached inside the top of her bodice and began to trace the curve of her breast. She murmured faintly as he shifted his weight, pressing her back as he kissed her until she was lying flat. He was on top of her now, and she felt on fire as he continued to cover her neck and bare shoulders with kisses, moving slowly downward until he came to the soft swell between her breasts. He kissed the tops of them, inching lower with each kiss and sending shivers through her. Urgently he fumbled with the folds of her dress, pulling them up and reaching beneath. She felt his hand travel up her leg, and she arched toward him.
Suddenly he stopped, however, breathing hard. “Henrietta, we shouldn’t . . .”
“I . . . I want you to . . .” she whispered, though deep down she was terrified.
“Do you trust me?” he said hoarsely, his eyes searching hers deeply.
“Yes,” she answered softly.
“Completely?”
Her breath was so rapid now from either fear or desire that she could no longer speak; she could only give a tiny nod.
He searched her eyes again desperately, wildly, and then finally looked away, shuddering painfully. With a heavy groan he slowly sat back, running his hand through his wavy hair. Gently he pulled her up to sit beside him. “I can’t take advantage of you, of the trust you’ve placed in me,” he sighed. “Good God,” he almost shouted, “but I want you so much, so very badly, Henrietta. I’m afraid of how much I need you,” he said, almost in agony, his voice wavering.
“But . . . we’re to be married,” Henrietta said modestly, adjusting the top of her dress slightly and feeling deeply humiliated.
“All the more reason I should honor you as would be fitting of my wife.”
Henrietta wasn’t sure what to say and sat despondently looking down at her hands. Clive reached out and took one of them. “It isn’t you; you know that, don’t you, darling? My God, it isn’t you. Just looking at you makes me tremble; the thought of touching you,” he whispered, “of being intimate with you is almost too much for me to bear. And yet I must bear it for your sake. I am honor-bound to bring you to the altar unsullied, even by me.”
Henrietta was still looking at her lap when he put his fingers lightly to her chin and drew her gaze to him. “But I feel very deeply what you were willing to give,” h
e said and kissed her then. She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest.
“I love you, Clive Howard.”
“I love you, too, Henrietta.”
Chapter 14
The next week found Henrietta back at Highbury, the big day for the engagement party almost at hand.
At Clive’s insistence, though, she had spent a few days at home before returning to Highbury. He hoped, he had said, that it would give the Von Harmons a chance to be together after Eugene’s release and time for Henrietta to spend with her mother, whom, he assumed, must feel her absence rather acutely. Perhaps this was so, Henrietta had thought wryly, but she no longer cared that much.
Ma’s revelation about her past was having a strange effect on her. Her first reaction, of course, had been a deep sense of pity for this woman and how fate had cruelly used her, but as time went on, Henrietta found that instead of eliciting more sympathy or compassion in her heart, Ma’s story was becoming more a source of anger to Henrietta than anything else. She found herself blaming Ma now for almost everything . . . their father’s death . . . their miserable poverty . . . even the shame she had felt over the years for her beauty and her attractiveness to men. Ma had made her feel this way, she reasoned, and she had had no right to! And naturally she blamed Ma for losing her virtue with her father; the fact that she herself had attempted to do the very same with Clive in his apartment just a few nights ago made her indignation burn doubly bright with embarrassed guilt.
Her anger took her by surprise, however, and she wasn’t particularly proud of it, but try as she might, she just couldn’t bring herself to forgive Ma. Not after everything that had happened. It was obvious that all of their problems went back to Ma, and Henrietta found Ma’s stupid stubbornness now regarding her engagement to one of the Howards and the subsequent party that was nearly upon them almost too much to bear.