A Ring of Truth

by Michelle Cox

  Henrietta didn’t answer right away. Her pent-up emotions were hovering very near the surface, and she could feel the tears welling up at his tender expression of concern for her, but she was still so very hurt and was determined to stay angry with him. He had dared to forbid her . . . after he had told her at the Burgess Club that she was his superior! Obviously he had been disingenuous—again.

  Clearly she was a bad judge of character all round, or too trusting at any rate, she had thought bitterly that afternoon as she lay on the big empty bed in her room. She always seemed to believe in the wrong man, first Larry and then Jack. Perhaps she was wrong about Clive as well . . . After all, hadn’t their life together, their initial acquaintance, started out with a deception? He had tricked her at the Promenade, dancing with her, not revealing that he was a policeman sniffing out clues. And then again by not telling her about his privileged life on the North Shore. Ma was right, he had not exactly been honest, and she was more the fool. But hadn’t she herself once told Ma that sometimes lying is necessary? Oh, she didn’t know what to believe anymore! Certainly, she couldn’t trust her own powers of judgment. She wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye, which dangerously threatened to spill over and slide down her cheek. After the Burgess Club, she had been determined to put all of her misgivings behind her, but the episode with Jack had unsettled her profoundly.

  “Henrietta,” Clive said, suddenly drawing her close. “Look at me,” he said, gently placing two fingers under her chin and lifting her face to him. “You can trust me,” he said slowly, shockingly reading her mind, her fears. The fact that he could so accurately sense what was in her heart, that he knew her so well, left her feeling exposed and raw and caused a well of emotion to erupt within, the sobs coming now without check.

  “Oh, Clive,” she cried, her shoulders shaking as he wrapped his strong arms around her.

  “I’m not the villain. Honest,” he whispered. “And yet I’m hardly the hero either,” he said, softly rubbing her back. “All I know is that we need to trust each other, completely . . . always. Never hold anything back.”

  “But you don’t trust me! You wouldn’t let me be a part of Virgil’s questioning, you wouldn’t tell me about your case in the city, about Sophia, anything . . .” It was all tumbling out now. “You said that as your wife I’m your superior . . . but I’m not, am I? I knew it sounded too good to be true.” She began crying again.

  “Henrietta,” he said urgently. “I did mean it. As the person, the first person, I’m utterly giving all of myself to—my whole heart, my very soul—you are my superior. You absolutely must be in order for me to do this, and yet,” he said, quietly, but firmly, “I am bound to protect you in all things and so must therefore sometimes act as yours. Surely you must see that? I would be remiss if I did not.”

  He was staring at her with such a fierce intensity now, and she felt weak gazing up at him. All of her confusion and doubt seemed to melt away. She felt almost sick with love for him, and she longed for him to kiss her in this moment. He sensed it, too, and breathing very hard, his face so very close to hers, he softly caressed her lips with his. It excited her beyond words, and she leaned into him, pressing her body against his and kissing him hard in return, an electric shock running through her as she did so.

  Clive drew back, trying to steady himself, and rested his forehead against hers. “I never want any Fletchers or Sophias or . . . memories . . . to come between us,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll never doubt you again, about anything.”

  “No, don’t say that,” she said, putting her hand hesitantly on his chest. “This has been all my fault. I was so stupid as to trust someone like Jack.”

  Clive sighed, still holding her. “I should have believed you from the very beginning that there was something amiss here. And I should have trusted my instinct with Fletcher. I suppressed my suspicions, however, because I thought it was merely jealousy, and I didn’t want to appear so uncouth as to give in to such feelings.”

  “It’s ridiculous that you would be jealous of Jack,” she murmured.

  “I know that now,” he said regretfully. He slid his arms from around her, and he walked aimlessly toward the fence surrounding the terrace, leaning his hands against the uneven stones as he looked out over the property. “I was wrong. And I didn’t want you in the room when I was questioning Virgil because . . . because . . . oh, I don’t know. I was afraid that if he was somehow involved in the larger case, he would know you knew and it would put you in even greater danger.”

  “But Fletcher already knows I know. So . . .”

  “Yes, I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m losing my touch, I think, Henrietta,” he continued tacitly, not looking at her. “I put myself up as your protector, and twice now I’ve put you in harm’s way . . .”

  “Clive . . .” she said, seeking to stop him.

  “No, let me finish. I did the same to a man I enlisted to go undercover in a gang I suspected of murdering young girls. He was a bit on the shady side—most of them have to be to take that sort of job—and I didn’t completely trust him. I gave him some information on the leader, Moretti, and sent him in, but it wasn’t enough information and he was double-crossed. He ended up dead. His name was Frank Kuhle. If I had told him who we suspected the squealer was ahead of time, he might still be alive. I’m responsible for that man’s death,” he said, his voice cracking a bit. “I couldn’t keep Catherine safe, or my child, or even most of the men in my platoon.” Here his increasingly elevated voice caught a bit. “Slaughtered like helpless animals, they were,” he said bitterly, slamming his hand down now on the rocks of the fence.

  “Ow!” he said, wincing in pain. He had torn the skin, and he reactively drew his fist up to his mouth to catch the blood that was beginning to ooze now from the wound.

  Seeing his injury, Henrietta went to him, instinctively slipping back into the role that she had learned to play at home, that of the mother “hen” to all of her siblings when Ma, worn-down and weary, was unable to rise so many times from her prison by the fire. She took his injured fist in her hand and wrapped it with her handkerchief, gingerly tying it into place. Clive watched her, his eyes fraught with anguish.

  “Clive,” she said soothingly. “You weren’t to know. You did what you thought was right in each situation. Catherine’s death was not your fault. You know that. There was nothing you could have done. And you couldn’t have saved your men. You were following orders, I’m sure. You did your duty.”

  He looked at her now with such longing, almost despair, and she was shocked to see his eyes filling with tears. He turned his head away, ashamed, but she drew him close and held him. “Oh, Clive. It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly, fully understanding now as she hadn’t been able to quite before that with this man, and this man only, she was becoming the woman she was always meant to be. The days of self-doubt and petulance were truly over now. This man loved her, needed her, wanted her, and she wanted nothing more than to be with him. She saw now that they were equal, if only in their need for each other, a perfect compliment despite age or class.

  “I’m sorry,” Clive said as he pulled back, clearing his throat and looking away again, clearly embarrassed.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said gently, squeezing his arm slightly. “Please.”

  He attempted a smile. “Perhaps it’s best that I’m leaving the force.”

  “Don’t say that!” she answered quickly. “It will be a while until your father retires, and you’re a fine detective, and you know it. You can’t let what’s happened affect you. Think of all the cases you have solved. And you did catch Neptune—it’s not your fault that he escaped.”

  “I hate the fact that Neptune’s still out there!” he said fiercely. “I hate that you’re still in danger as long as he walks free!”

  “I admit, I don’t understand his obsession with me, his relentless pursuit . . .” she said with a shudder.

  “I’ve seen si
milar cases. He’s mad, crazed in the head. But I will catch him, for good this time. I swear to you, Henrietta, I will catch him.”

  She offered him a smile. “I know you will. Nothing will happen as long as I’m with you. I’m quite safe, I’m sure.”

  “Do you really feel that way? Truly?” he asked her fervently.

  “Of course, I do,” she answered. “More than I have with anyone, even my own father. You’ll protect me; I know you will. And I’ll take care of you,” she said, brushing his hair back off his forehead, her soft touch causing his eyes to close briefly in the comfort of it.

  “God damn it, Henrietta,” he said, pulling her to himself suddenly and holding her so tight she could feel his hard chest next to hers. “I love you so very much. I need you,” he groaned. “I couldn’t bear it if I lost you now.”

  “I love you, too, Clive,” she whispered in his ear. “I want to be your wife . . . your lover.” She hesitated and then went on. “I want you to show me how to please you,” she whispered.

  Clive momentarily stiffened at her words, trembling as she tentatively kissed his neck. A perfect flood of feeling then erupted from him. Madly he kissed her as a man starving—her neck, her lips, her cheeks, and back to her lips again. His hands traveled across her back and then lower as he almost roughly pressed her to him so that she felt his hardened state just as the tip of his tongue parted her lips.

  Henrietta thought she would explode with passion. She so badly wanted to be with him. She returned his kisses as she had never before and felt in danger of crossing some sort of line beyond which there was no return.

  “When can we be married, Clive?” she asked desperately as he kissed her neck. “Please say soon.”

  “Whenever you wish,” he said hoarsely.

  “Fall? October, maybe?”

  Clive paused in his lovemaking, breathing heavily, to consider. “That soon? Mother would be beside herself,” he said, releasing his grip on her just a fraction.

  Henrietta let out a small laugh.

  Clive pulled back a little more. “Do you really wish to wed in the fall when everything’s dead and dying? Don’t you want to be a spring bride?” Clive asked, intrigued. “Most women seem to, anyway.”

  “Well, you should know by now that I’m not most women,” she grinned.

  “True enough.”

  “And besides, I don’t see the fall that way, as a time of dying, I mean,” Henrietta responded thoughtfully. “Just a retreat. And I’ve always found the fall so beautiful. It’s always been my favorite time of year. And we’re not dying—not just yet, anyway, I don’t believe.”

  “Then October it shall be,” he said with a smile and looked at her tenderly. “We’ll go to Europe for our honeymoon. Leave this place; leave everything behind,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her fingers. “No villains, no mothers, no pipsqueaks. Just you and me.”

  “Oh, Clive! I don’t know! That’s so far away!”

  “Exactly,” he grinned. “Say yes,” he said, seeing her hesitation. “Please. It will be lovely. Haven’t you ever wanted to see London? Paris?”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Do you really mean it, Clive?”

  “Of course I do,” he said.

  “Well, it does sound rather wonderful,” she said, her eyes glowing with excitement.

  “Then it’s settled,” he said happily. He looked back toward the house and sighed. “I suppose we should go in and tell them.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” He smiled and held out his hand to her. “Thank you, Henrietta,” he said, his heart full of love for her, as he lifted her hand to his lips again. She returned his smile and let him lead her inside.

  As expected, Mrs. Howard had not been overly excited by their announcement that they were significantly advancing the date of the nuptials. She had naturally assumed that she had at least ten or twelve months to plan the extravaganza and was nearly irate, to say the least, that she now had barely three! Relentlessly, she tried to make them see reason, but in the end she finally accepted that they were resolute in their decision, though, in truth, Henrietta found herself on more than one occasion almost giving in to Mrs. Howard’s pleas, only to be shored up in her resolve by Clive’s firm adamancy regarding the decision. Mrs. Howard sadly accepted defeat, knowing from experience when it was useless to go up against Clive’s stubbornness, but did not, all the same, give up honorably and continued throughout the evening to punish them by throwing out barbs of guilt, loud sighs, and fretful pacing. Julia would have to be called in to help, she had finally said with exasperation, to which Clive had calmly responded that Julia would be thrilled to be asked. In the end, Mrs. Howard had excused herself with a headache and had retired to her room, and Henrietta couldn’t help feel guilty for the distress they were causing her.

  “Nonsense,” Clive had said to her. “She loves it, really. She’ll rise to the task in the morning with full vigor; watch and see.”

  As it turned out, Clive had been right in his prediction that his mother would soon set herself to her new task with speed and alacrity. Within days, she did indeed telephone Julia, as well as several other people, and began scheduling appointments with caterers, musicians, stationers, and her seamstress. Henrietta took all of it in stride, knowing that it all had to be born in order to be with Clive in the end as his wife, and actually began to enjoy the preparations despite herself, particularly because it brought her in closer contact with Julia, whom she was liking more and more. Julia was scheduled to arrive this afternoon for tea, as a matter of fact, and Henrietta was rather looking forward to it.

  She had risen late, however, and was just coming down the stairs when she saw Billings, who informed her that a letter had come for her. He held it out to her on the little silver salver, and when she took it, he bowed and made his way down the hallway without further comment or disparaging facial expressions. He seemed to have finally, albeit begrudgingly, accepted her as one of the family.

  Carefully, Henrietta examined the letter in her hands as she made her way into the breakfast room, which was already deserted by now, everyone else having risen much earlier. The letter was from Elsie again, and she braced herself accordingly. She hoped it was merely a thank-you, but Henrietta was almost certain that if Elsie were to have written a thank-you at all, it would have been most probably addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Howard, not to her. Likewise, Henrietta supposed that Elsie would not write to her unless she had something urgent or disastrous to relate. With a timorous fluttering of her hands, then, she quickly opened it and proceeded to read.

  Dearest Hen,

  I hope you are recovering from our strange night at Highbury and that you suffered no lasting injuries. I trust that Clive is helping you just as Stanley is helping me. He is most attentive, for which I am grateful, though he does find the need to speak about the ordeal over and over in a somewhat obsessive manner. Ma was surprisingly willing to hear about the evening, though she had several choice things to say when I tried to tell her how Mr. Exley and co. were really very kind to us. She has not said much about it since, but seems to be in one of her sulks now. I wish you were here to talk with her, as you could tell it all so much better, but I know you are dreadfully busy. I was careful, by the way, not to mention to Ma any of the unpleasant business about what went on in the cottage and by the boathouse, as I don’t wish her to worry or form a bad opinion about you, though, I must admit, I sometimes do myself worry and pray that you are quite safe. Let us hope that Eugene does not relate any of it, but, thus far, that seems unlikely.

  In fact, the real purpose of this letter is regrettably regarding Eugene once again. I will try to explain it as best I can. The truth is that I felt terribly guilty when I returned home after enjoying such luxury while Ma was here alone. I don’t begrudge going, and I am, by the way, ever so grateful, if I haven’t mentioned it already, for a lovely evening. The party part anyway. It was the best night of my life. Anyway, I did feel gu
ilty, and to make it up to poor Ma, I decided to give the whole place a good clean. It turns out that just as I was stripping the boys’ bed, a sock fell out from under the mattress. While, as you know, this would normally not be anything unusual, the fact that it made a loud clunk as it fell to the ground made me wonder. Obviously there was something in it, so I put my hand in, thinking it might be rocks that Herbie collected again, though I’ve told him time and again not to ruin his socks that way. But it wasn’t any rocks, Hen. Instead it was what looks like two golden eggs, painted beautiful colors with jewels fastened all over. They are so exceedingly beautiful, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, except perhaps at the Howards’ house, and that’s when I began to wonder if perhaps . . .

  So you see my dilemma, dearest Hen. For now, I stuffed them back under the mattress so that Eugene wouldn’t know that I had discovered his theft, as surely it must be. He has no money that I know of to have purchased such things of beauty, which leads me to the obvious conclusion. I am horrified that they may have come from Highbury. Please advise as soon as possible what I should do, if anything.

  Your beloved sister,

  Elsie

  Henrietta’s shoulders drooped as she held her head in her hands, her stomach knotting. How could he? After all that Clive had done for him, for her? It was too much! What was she to do with this boy? How could she face Clive and bring up the whole miserable story once again, after they had put it all behind them out on the terrace? How could she tell him that she had been wrong after all, that it was not Virgil or Fletcher or Kitty who had pilfered the Fabergée eggs, but her own brother? Slowly she paced the room, wondering what to do. Clive assumed that it had been the work of Jack. Would it matter so very much if the truth did not come out? she thought, twisting her hands together nervously. What difference would it make now? Is that what Eugene had been up to during his long absence the night of the engagement party? Virgil must not know the truth either, or he surely would have squealed. His dislike for both her and Clive was obvious.