by Michelle Cox
Mercifully, just when he really thought he couldn’t stand it any longer, he felt her begin to shudder under him, her fingers simultaneously digging into his back. With a couple of final thrusts, he exploded into her, groaning, not holding anything back, a blinding light piercing his senses as he did so.
He let the waves of his orgasm pass over him, fiercely kissing her, but as it ebbed, his kisses turned more tender, and he softly brushed her ear, her cheek, her shoulder with his lips. “Oh, Henrietta,” he said as he continued covering her with soft kisses. “God in heaven, I love you,” he said hoarsely.
“I love you, too, Clive. I love you, too,” she said, rubbing her fingers along the taut muscles of his back. He collapsed beside her, holding her, and wished he could just lie there with her forever, to never have to leave the room ever again.
But duty called, he knew, as he rolled over onto his back with a sigh. It was only two in the afternoon, after all, and he smiled to himself at the scandal of making love to his wife midday, feeling fairly certain his father would never have engaged in such a thing. Even if it might have occurred to him, Clive guessed, his father more than likely would never have been allowed the opportunity, not with the irritating Carter constantly hovering around . . . But he didn’t want to think of Carter right now! he scolded himself and instead turned back to Henrietta and brushed his finger down her pure white shoulder. Lazily, she opened her eyes to look up at him, so trusting, the love in them palpable. How could she be so innocent and trusting and naïve and yet so seductive and intoxicating all at the same time? “You’re wonderful, you know,” he said, propping his head up with his fist.
“So are you,” she whispered and wrapped a finger in the hair of his chest.
“So now that you’ve had your wicked way and I’m utterly in your power, what would you have me do?” he said, brushing her cheek with the knuckles of his other hand.
“Clive! Don’t say it like that!”
“Let me rephrase, then. Let’s see. The last thing I remember is something about going to the Hennessey’s party. But surely that can’t be it,” he said with a grin, though his brow was furrowed.
“Very well, Clive,” she responded curtly. “If you insist on being a snob, I’ll just go on my own. Fritz can drive me.” He hoped it was only pretend hurt in her voice as she reached down to grab the sheet and pull it up around her.
“A snob? That’s quite severe,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Darling . . . don’t be ridiculous. Of course, we’ll go if you wish it. But, forgive me, I don’t see the appeal. I predict it to be dreadfully dull, unless one is a novelist in search of new and only passably believable eccentric characters . . .”
“Clive!” I can’t believe you! I’ve gone to more dinners and teas and luncheons and operas and theatre and balls than I can count. I’ve gone to every occasion that was ever presented by you—or your mother, for that matter. But not once, except Christmas Eve, have you attended something of my family’s. Well, there was New Year’s Eve, too, but that doesn’t count because it was only Eugene. That’s two things!” Clive could tell that what had begun as something playful was quickly descending into something more serious. He had been about to protest that there weren’t ever any occasions to attend on the Von Harmon side of things and also that the Hennesseys hardly counted as her family, but he thought better of it, remembering that they sort of were, in a way.
“Darling, you’re quite right,” he said instead, kissing her forehead. “I’ve been remiss. Of course, we should go and celebrate with the Hennesseys. I just thought it might be difficult for you considering the reason for the celebration . . .” he offered, his voice trailing off
“Clive,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I know you mean well in wanting to shield and protect me, but I can’t avoid babies for the rest of my life until I . . . if I do ever . . .”
“Not if,” he said, taking her hand and lacing her fingers with his. “It will happen when it’s supposed to happen.”
She lay silent for a moment and looked over at him with what seemed to be a forced smile. “So we’ll go then?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” he said, raising her hand and kissing it. “You know I will deny you nothing.”
“I know it might be hard to see their new baby,” she said, thankfully breaking into his thoughts and delightfully mimicking his gesture and kissing his hand now. “But I feel I need to be there for them after all they’ve done for me. And I’m terribly curious to finally meet the sour Winifred after hearing about her all these years,” she added with a small smile. “Aren’t you?” She cleared her throat and shifted a bit. “But I must confess, darling, that there’s another reason for me wanting to go.”
“Oh?” he said, lying his head back on the pillow next to her.
“As a matter of fact, I’m hoping to speak to Mrs. Hennessey’s niece.”
“Mrs. Hennessey’s niece?”
“You know, the one who used to work at Dunning?” she asked him eagerly.
Clive rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Not again. Henrietta had briefly told him about her conversation with Mrs. Hennessey and Rose, mostly in regard to what was happening with Rose and Stan, which was unfortunate, he had mused at the time, but also in regard to a niece of Mrs. Hennessey’s and her former connection to Dunning, which Clive felt to be odd. What were the chances of that coming up in casual conversation? Well, however it had come about, Henrietta had taken whatever strands of gossip that Mrs. Hennessey had related (not to mention the ravings of Madame Pavlovsky) and had unfortunately twisted them together with the circumstances surrounding Liesel’s death. Enough, anyway, to suggest to him over breakfast just this morning that there was perhaps still a reason to further investigate.
Again, he bemoaned the fact that what he had hoped would be simple distractions for Henrietta were possibly making her worse. She was even now more inclined to believe any old nonsense than she was before, if that were possible. He admitted that there were probably some shady things happening at Dunning, and had already said as much, actually, but nothing he wished to pursue. Why should they? It would solve nothing, and there was no real proof of wrongdoing in the case of Liesel Klinkhammer’s death. But there was still another reason, he knew, if he were being honest, for adamantly declaring the Liesel Klinkhammer case closed, or better yet, not a case at all, a reason for which he was, frankly, more than a little ashamed. It was simply that he had no desire to return to Dunning. It had completely unnerved him once, and he didn’t mean for that to ever happen again. He meant to give Dunning a wide berth from here on out. He knew he should simply tell Henrietta this, but it was a subject he did not wish to revisit, even with her, nor did he want her to do something rash like dash off there on her own under the guise of helping him. But unfortunately, she remained fixated on Dunning, and though he had already dismissed Liesel’s death in his mind, he knew he would have to tread lightly if he did not wish to further upset his wife.
“Well,” he said, turning to face Henrietta again, “we can certainly ask Mrs. Hennessey’s niece—if she even actually attends the party—about her experiences there.” He hesitated. “But dearest, remember, we can’t read things into a case simply because we want to.”
“Why do you always assume I’m doing that?” she asked, absently pulling a strand of her long auburn hair under her nose in a deliciously innocent way.
“Well, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know, Clive,” she said, tossing her hair behind her. “I just have this funny feeling is all.”
“Darling,” he said, not being able to resist kissing her forehead. “It’s tempting to read things into a case because it makes us feel better. We all want justice and for the case to be neatly closed. But sometimes it’s not, and we have to live with it. Life isn’t usually so cut and dried. You know that even from your own experiences, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know,” she sighed.
Clive, fearing he had said too much, put h
is arms around her then, and drew her to him, holding her until they both inadvertently fell asleep, only to be woken by Edna, timidly knocking at the door to inform them the dinner would soon be served.
Dinner proved to be somewhat strained, as Clive and Henrietta had not much been in attendance at Highbury these last few days, and Antonia had just this morning expressed to Clive that she was worried that perhaps Henrietta was overdoing it. Also, she noted, her brow furrowed, Sidney had mentioned to her that Clive had not been to the office in quite some time, the other day being the rare exception.
“Well, it happens I’ve been busy,” Clive responded tartly as he helped himself to the stuffed trout which Albert now held before him, the fact that his mother had just referred to Bennett by his Christian name only registering for a few seconds. He was in no mood for any harassment from his mother. Having been woken from a blissful, naked slumber with his wife to hurriedly dress for dinner had irritated him. He had quickly donned his black tuxedo and white tie, but, in his haste, had in the end called for the blasted Carter to fix his cufflinks for him. He had tried on several occasions to argue with Antonia about doing away with “dressing for dinner” now that Alcott had passed. What did it matter if they did not don white tie night after night for just the three of them? It was ludicrous. But Antonia wouldn’t hear of such a thing and accused him of insensitivity, not to mention low manners—the worse of the two, in her mind, anyway, probably being the latter.
“Doing what, might I ask?” Antonia sniffed, waving Albert away. She ate very little these days, Clive noticed and, assuming it was still due to grief, accordingly bit back his angry retort.
“We’ve been helping my sister, actually,” Henrietta answered for him and briefly explained the sad tale of Gunther and Liesel and Anna. Clive watched Henrietta as she spoke, and as much as it was becoming an old-fashioned chore to dress for dinner each night, he did enjoy seeing Henrietta regaled in her various gowns and jewels. Tonight, she was wearing a long, shimmering blue dress that hugged her curves, the diamond necklace his parents had given her for their engagement glistening at her throat. And yet, he also loved the casualness they had together in their wing. The way she would kick off her shoes in the evening and tuck her legs up under her as they sat before the fire and talked or read. And as of late, she had even convinced him to listen to Master of Mystery on the radio some nights, and he was surprised by how much he actually enjoyed it. Listening to radio programs was not a form of entertainment he had ever indulged in before. They shared an intimacy he was nearly convinced his parents had never enjoyed. Not that his parents’ marriage hadn’t been happy; just that it was of a different era altogether.
“Well, I’m not sure what concern it is of Elsie’s,” Antonia said now, after Henrietta had finally told the whole story. “Isn’t she supposed to be attending classes and studying at this nuns’ school? How did she get mixed up in all of this?”
“Yes, it’s unfortunate,” Henrietta responded, taking a sip of her wine. “Elsie’s the type, though, that wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s always collected strays. Not that Ma . . . Mother . . . ever let her keep them, that is.”
“Well, I don’t see how she’s going to keep these two, either,” Antonia said wryly.
“No, I suppose not,” Henrietta said, her mind wandering, oddly, to Rose.
“Seems to me this girl is in need of proper medical attention. That’s the first thing that should be done.”
“Yes, that’s just what I said, Antonia,” Henrietta said eagerly. “Perhaps we could get Dr. Ferrington to examine her—”
“Dr. Ferrington! Don’t be absurd. Surely there are qualified medical men in the city. Why ever would we involve Ferrington?”
“Yes, I’m sure there are qualified doctors in the city, but how do we find a good one?” Henrietta asked, looking from Antonia to Clive. “If Dr. Ferrington examines her, then we know for sure she’s in good hands. Who knows what kind of doctors they employ at that orphanage—if any, for that matter. Or who knows if the German doctor who diagnosed her knew what he was talking about. We could be looking at this all wrong!” Henrietta exclaimed.
“We?” Antonia said, looking down her nose at Henrietta.
“We are helping Elsie and Gunther with this,” Clive put in stiffly, signaling Albert to bring over more wine.
“Well, you’d best hurry, then, because Agatha informs me that she and John are taking Elsie to Miami with them for spring break,” Antonia said glibly.
“Miami?” Henrietta asked, confused.
“The Braithwaites will be there, staying at the same resort apparently,” she added, looking at them as if they should be impressed by this tidbit of information.
“Poor Elsie,” Henrietta murmured, wiping her mouth with her napkin.
“Why ‘poor’?” Antonia interjected. “To be a young woman, going to such a fashionable scene for two weeks? Dancing? Champagne? And John and Agatha have a charming yacht moored there. Did you know?” she asked Clive. “Not as big as my father’s in Newport, of course, but charming just the same. It’ll be lovely for Elsie. Maybe she’ll finally find a husband.”
“I don’t believe she wants a husband,” Henrietta said sharply.
“Of course, she does. Every woman wants a husband, even if they say they don’t. And when they will go on and on about not wanting one, it does become tiresome, doesn’t it? I don’t mind saying that I’ve never understood Oldrich Exley’s methods or even been particularly fond of him, but I do think he’s right in calling Elsie’s attempts at education foolish.”
Clive saw Henrietta’s face flush and knew it was time to interject. Why was his mother so contrary tonight?
“I think we’ll call it a night, Mother,” he said, tossing his napkin on the table.
“Call it a night?” Antonia asked, looking bewildered. “Don’t you want your glass of port? You poor thing, you remind me of your father, having to have his port alone. We should begin inviting people over again. It’s too bad Sidney isn’t here.”
“I’ll give it a miss tonight, Mother. Henrietta and I are going out, actually.”
“Going out? Whatever for? I assumed we would have a game of rummy. We haven’t played in ages, not since before Henrietta’s . . . illness.”
Clive took a deep breath. His mother’s reference to the miscarriage at this moment was insensitive in the extreme, as if blaming Henrietta for their lack of socializing and thus, inadvertently, Antonia’s apparent loneliness, though if anyone or anything were to be blamed, it would be his father’s death. He felt sorry for his mother, of course, but she could be less than kind at times, but now was not the time to address it.
“Perhaps tomorrow, Mother. Tonight, Henrietta and I are helping Sergeant Davis with . . . well, with a case.”
“Sergeant Davis? Who’s that?”
“He’s part of the Winnetka police. He was here the night of the Jack Fletcher affair, but you probably didn’t meet him. And he was . . . instrumental in helping us to find Father’s killer, remember?”
“I remember Chief Callahan . . .” Antonia ruminated. “But what are you doing, Clive?” She looked at him sternly. “You said you gave up detective work. And why would you involve poor Henrietta? It’s admirable that you . . . that you discovered the true cause of Alcott’s death, but it’s over now. That’s what you told me.”
“Well, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Changed your mind?” she repeated, looking at Henrietta as if she were to blame.
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you this,” he said with a sigh. “Now’s as good as any, I suppose.” He paused before continuing. “Henrietta and I have decided to go into private detective work. Just here and there, you know, as the need arises. So, if you hear of any cat burglars or art fraud, let us know,” he said with a grin, not being able to mask his amusement at the look of horror his mother’s face currently held. “We need to get our name out with the gilded set, you see,” he went on mercilessly. “You can
mention to the ladies at the club that we’re very discreet. Illicit love affairs, that sort of thing.” He shrugged as he swirled the wine in his glass and sent Henrietta a quick wink. He could see her trying to disguise her smile behind her napkin.
“Oh, Clive, you can’t really be serious!” Antonia moaned. “What about the firm? What about your father?”
“My father would wish me to be happy,” Clive said evenly.
“Your father would wish you to do your duty,” Antonia retorted.
“As it turns out, I am doing my duty, Mother,” he said, draining his glass. “Oh, don’t worry; I haven’t abandoned the firm. Bennett and I have it well in hand.”
“Well, Sidney certainly does. I’ll say that,” she replied tersely, then moaned again. “Oh, Clive, must you? I’ve indulged you long enough in this sordid detective work. It’s time you looked to the future now, to your place in society.”
“Mother, might I remind you that it’s 1936,” he said, surprised by how similar it sounded to something his cousin Wallace might have said.
“What does that have to do with it?” Antonia snapped. “Are you so self-indulgent that you can’t take up honest work? It’s really rather childish on your part, Clive. I mean, running around the county looking for crimes when there simply aren’t any? You heard Chief Callahan. Winnetka has no crime to speak of.”
Clive felt himself bristle at the mention that his actions were self-indulgent and childish, but he forced himself to not respond. He had tangled often enough in the past with his mother to know that she usually threw out a personal jab when beginning to feel desperate. Clenching his jaw, he strove to keep his answer light. “No doubt you and Chief Callahan are right, of course. Except that Highbury itself has had several instances of theft in just this past year, hasn’t it? And then there was my father’s murder. That’s two crimes, anyway,” he said, looking at her with a tilt of his head and one eye squinted shut. “But who’s counting?”
“You know very well that that was a different situation altogether.”