A Child Lost

by Michelle Cox

  Madame Pavlovsky closed her eyes as if concentrating. “Your father says that he is sorry. Sorry for doing the . . . unforgivable,” Madame Pavlovsky said haltingly, as she opened her eyes again.

  “Oh, my!” Henrietta cried out, assuming that he (or was it she?) was referring to his suicide. How could she have known about that? Her heart was beating uncontrollably in her chest.

  “He says that he was sent for long, long time to place of healing. But he sends his love to you. Yes, there is much love coming from him, like sun . . . radiate?” Madame Pavlovsky said, her eyes partially closed. “He has very strong presence.” She paused before going on. “There is more,” she said cryptically, still squinting, and Henrietta suddenly felt a warning bell go off in her mind, as if she somehow knew that what Madame Pavlovsky was about to say would be too much. She wanted to tell Madame Pavlovsky to stop, to implore her not to tell her any more, but no words would come out. Madame Pavlovsky spoke again, this time gently. “He holds child. Your lost baby, it is. A little boy.”

  No! screamed Henrietta inside her head and suddenly felt as if there wasn’t enough air in the room.

  “Your father holds your son and wishes you to know he is safe. That he will always be safe with him and that they will wait for you. Also, that they are never far from you.”

  Henrietta felt all the blood rush from her face, and the room began to spin. Everything went black before her eyes, blacker than the night air outside, and she felt herself falling, falling, falling, as if she had been on a high mountaintop, and it was taking a very long time to hit the bottom. She was aware that she would eventually feel pain, but miraculously, before she hit the ground, she felt someone catch her before she lost consciousness completely.

  Chapter 17

  “There’s a telephone call for you, madame. In the study,” Edna said in a low voice, after knocking softly and poking her head into Henrietta and Clive’s bedroom. Having already delivered Henrietta a breakfast tray—still untouched—not an hour before and receiving an early morning set of instructions from Mr. Howard himself in the study, Edna had no fear of disturbing her master and mistress at their rest—or interrupting anything else, for that matter—and therefore crept in.

  “Who is it?” Henrietta asked, sitting up sleepily.

  “It’s your sister, miss. I asked to take a message, but she said she would stay on the line and wait for you, if I wouldn’t mind fetching you. I tried to tell her that you were indisposed,” Edna said, wringing her hands, “but she was insistent, saying it was urgent, like. I didn’t know what to do, as Mr. Howard said you weren’t to be disturbed.”

  “My sister?” Henrietta asked and looked around, still confused. She saw the breakfast tray resting prettily in Clive’s spot and had a vague recollection of Edna bringing it in earlier. Surely whatever it held was cold now, she thought regretfully, as she was suddenly aware that she was famished. “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Almost eleven, miss,” Edna said nervously.

  “Eleven!” Henrietta exclaimed and tossed aside her covers. “Where is Clive?” she asked Edna, as she slipped her feet into the slippers by her bedside.

  “I believe he’s in the morning room with Mrs. Howard,” Edna answered. “He’s very worried about you, miss. He’s in one of his moods, and Mrs. Howard isn’t all that much better. I’m not supposed to let you get up,” Edna fretted apologetically. “I think I should have told him about the call instead of you. It’s only that your sister sounded so distraught; I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Don’t be silly, Edna. You were perfectly right to come tell me. I’m fine.”

  “But the doctor was called out and everything,” Edna wavered.

  “Dr. Ferrington was here?” she asked, as she picked up her pink silk robe that was laid out on the chaise lounge. Actually, she had no memory of going home, much less having been examined at all, but she remembered the séance now, as she leaned on the back of the chaise lounge. And then she remembered in a rush what Madame Pavlovsky had said about her father holding her baby, that it would have been a little boy . . .

  Henrietta’s stomach clenched, but she forced the image out of her mind. She would have to think about it all later. Right now, she needed to help Elsie. Elsie would never telephone her unless there was something really wrong. She prayed it wasn’t Ma.

  “He was, miss. He examined you and everything. Said you were to have only plain foods and no excitement.”

  “Well, be that as it may,” she said, standing up, “I have to talk to Elsie. Something must have happened. I’ll just slip out quickly and then come right back. Promise,” she said determinedly as she moved past Edna.

  “Well, if you’re sure, miss, but—”

  Henrietta walked down the long hallway, trying to concentrate on walking without wobbling, lest Edna, who was trailing behind her now, report it to Clive. She fumed at his overprotectiveness. All of it was so unnecessary! She paused for a moment at the top of the grand staircase, wondering if it would instead be better to slip down the servants’ stairs in order to avoid being seen by Clive or Antonia. She decided against it, however, as she did not wish to appear this way—dressed only in her robe—in front of whatever staff members might be mingling in the kitchen at this hour.

  Thus, she tightened the belt of her robe again—the silk was so maddeningly slippery!—and tried her best to tiptoe down the stairs. She was grateful for the thick carpet runner, and also for the fact that the morning room was on the other side of the house from the study.

  Clive could be so unreasonable at times! As if fainting meant anything at all, she told herself. She thought about all the women she had known in her working days who had fainted on the job and had to get up and keep going or lose their job. But here in this world, which still had the flavor of a fairy tale to it at times, it was treated as a state of emergency. She knew it was only because he was worried because of her miscarriage (she forced herself to use the word, tired of people calling it a mishap, a misfortune, an illness, or any other euphemism), and was therefore attempting to exercise extra precaution. But, she countered with herself, working women lost babies all the time and had to carry on. Madame Pavlovsky’s words from last night again attempted to resurrect in her mind, but she pushed them away.

  She had reached the study and looked around, as if she were a criminal or a prisoner, and tried to quietly push open the pocket door. Edna appeared beside her.

  “You stay and keep watch,” Henrietta said to her quietly, “since you’re here.” Henrietta looked at her sternly, an eyebrow raised, and Edna nodded her acquiescence, wringing her hands worriedly as she did so.

  Henrietta slipped inside and hurried over to the desk where the heavy receiver of the telephone lay waiting. Picking it up, she prayed that Elsie hadn’t already rung off.

  “Hello? Elsie?” she asked quietly.

  “Oh, Hen! Thank God!” said Elsie in a quivering voice. “Are you all right? Your maid said you were ill. I wouldn’t bother you except I didn’t know what else to do . . .” she said frantically.

  “Elsie, what is it? What’s wrong? Is it Ma?”

  “Oh, Hen! They’ve taken her to Dunning!” Elsie sobbed, apparently having kept herself together just long enough for Henrietta to get to the telephone before allowing herself to break down.

  “Ma?” Henrietta asked in disbelief.

  “No, not Ma! Anna!” Elsie said, sniffling. “They’ve taken Anna to Dunning!”

  Henrietta felt as though she had been punched in the gut, and again found it difficult to breathe. She leaned one hand against the desk for support. “Oh my God, Elsie. Are you sure? Why would they have taken Anna to Dunning? And who is they, anyway?” Henrietta fired off.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Elsie cried. “We thought that maybe . . . Gunther is beside himself,” she whined miserably. “The Lasiks said it wasn’t their fault, but I . . . I don’t know. There might be a bus, but then Sister said that—”

  “Elsi
e!” Henrietta interrupted. Nothing she was saying was making sense. “Calm down. Start from the beginning. What happened?”

  Henrietta could hear her sister attempt to take deep breaths, though it sounded more like panting.

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” Elsie said more calmly. “We don’t know everything. Just that apparently Anna had a fit—a bad one—and the Lasiks—that’s the couple that runs the home—had no choice but to take her to the hospital. They feared . . . feared she might die. The hospital kept her for a few days and then sent her on to Dunning. The Lasiks are terribly sorry. They said they had no idea.”

  “Dear Lord,” Henrietta moaned and felt sick at the thought of that poor little girl in such a horrid place. “Where is Gunther in all of this?” she thought to ask.

  “Gunther only just found out himself. He knew nothing about it. The Lasiks got word to him that they took her to the hospital, but by the time he got there, Anna was already gone. He demanded to know by what authority and why he had not been told, but apparently the Lasiks listed Anna’s mother as deceased and the father as unknown. They say Gunther was listed as a friend of the family, but somehow he wasn’t contacted, nor is he in the records at all, apparently. The Lasiks have been telling Gunther for a while now that the Bohemian Home isn’t really a place for Anna, suggesting she be placed in some sort of institution—but they never intended for this to happen. They’re as confused by what happened as we are.”

  “Oh, Elsie!” Henrietta moaned, twisting her silk belt. “What a mess!”

  “Henrietta, please. I hate to ask, especially if you’re ill, but we . . . we don’t know what else to do,” she said, her voice sounding dangerously close again to tears. “Do you think you and Clive could help us? Help us get her out?”

  Henrietta bit her lip, knowing what Clive would say. She wasn’t even supposed to be out of bed! “Yes, of course we’ll help, dearest,” she said, trying to muffle her voice. “I just . . . just have to arrange a few things. Where are you calling from so I can telephone you back?”

  “From the desk at Philomena. Sister Bernard is letting me use the telephone. But we must hurry!”

  “Yes, I understand. I’ll—” she stopped midsentence, having suddenly heard what she feared was Clive’s voice outside the room. Oh God, it was!

  “Edna, why are you hovering here?” she heard him say. She did not hear a corresponding response from Edna and assumed perhaps she was offering what was surely an unconvincing shrug. “Is Mrs. Howard in there?” she could hear Clive ask incredulously. “What did I tell you!”

  “Listen, Elsie, I must go,” Henrietta said quietly into the receiver. “I’ll ring you back,” she said and hung up just as Clive pushed open the pocket door and stood there, his hands on his hips.

  “What are you doing?” Clive demanded. “You should be in bed! I gave strict orders to Edna—and all the servants—that you weren’t to be disturbed! Must I tie you to the bed to get you to rest?”

  “That’s already been done once before, remember?” Henrietta said, trying her best to keep her voice light, referring, of course, to their encounter with their nemesis, Neptune, at the Marlowe. “Am I a prisoner now in my own home? If it is my home?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

  “Henrietta, I refuse to be led into that old argument,” he said with exasperation.

  “And you’ve no right to scold Edna,” she went on. “She was acting under my orders, and she’s my maid, so don’t be cross with her. You can go, Edna,” she said to the trembling girl still standing outside the door. “Set out my navy blue skirt,” she added.

  “Yes, madame,” Edna said hurriedly and scurried away.

  “Your navy skirt? You’re not getting dressed today!” he said sternly. “You’re to stay in bed all day. Doctor’s orders, and mine, too,” he said.

  “Clive, listen to me. Something terrible has happened. I’ve just had a call from Elsie. We’ve got to go help her!”

  “No, we don’t,” Clive said matter-of-factly. “You’re very ill, and it’s time you accepted that.”

  “No, I’m not, Clive. I’m perfectly fit!”

  “Darling,” he said, a sigh escaping, “you must be reasonable. Mother’s right. You’ve been doing too much. I’ve just had to listen to it all again this past half hour, and as dreary as that was, for once I think she has a point. Please,” he said earnestly. “You’ve not been well. Last night is proof of that. You’re . . . you’re overly excited, the doctor said.”

  “What does that mean?” Henrietta asked, crossing her arms in front of her.

  “Just that, if you’re . . . we’re . . . not careful, you could, well, you could have some sort of breakdown. He said he’s seen it often enough after such cases of miscarriage or even after a baby is born. A type of hysteria or even depression sets in. It’s not uncommon. I blame myself, of course, for putting you in such trying situations. First exposing you to Dunning and then this charlatan, Madame Pavlovsky. It was so thoroughly irresponsible on my part. Reprehensible, really. Let me make it up to you, darling. We’ll go away. Just the two of us. Anywhere you wish,” he said, attempting to put his arms around her.

  Gently, she pushed him away, incredulous. Did he really think she was on the brink of hysteria or depression? Madness, even? How could he not understand and know her better than that? Suddenly she felt tears well up that he could so grossly misunderstand the situation. She blinked them back, determined not to cry in front of him. How dare he make such accusations! And how could he still call Madame Pavlovsky a charlatan? After all she had revealed last night about their dead baby! Had he not been moved by that at all?

  “Henrietta, don’t be angry,” he said calmly.

  “Don’t tell me if I can be angry or not!” she said vehemently. She took a deep breath and steadied her voice. “I can assure you, Clive Howard, that I am perfectly fit. In every way.” She emphasized each word. “And to treat me like a sick child is pretentious and patronizing. I am your wife—not to mention the future mistress of Highbury, and I’m made of stronger stuff than what you apparently imagine. You’ve been to war and seen horrible things, things that still haunt you,” she said, looking into his surprised eyes. “Well, my life has been its own battlefield. Things I’ve seen or have lived through, some of which you are not even aware. What right have you, or your mother, for that matter, to dictate the state of my own emotions or my . . . my mind or to say what’s best for me? That is surely not the role of one who claims to hold my heart.” She paused. “How dare you!” she whispered then, her voice wavering, not being able to stop the angry tears from spilling forth.

  Clive’s previous stoic face crumpled then, and he gently gathered her to him. “Oh, Henrietta. What am I to do with you? Please don’t go on. I can’t bear it. You’re right, of course. But I only want what’s best for you. Surely you can see that?” he said, holding her against his chest so tightly that she could feel his heart beating.

  She allowed him to hold her, wanting to say more, but she didn’t know what to say—so many different emotions were flooding through her. How could she explain what she wanted from him when she didn’t really even know herself? She felt guilty and morose and sad and angry, all at once.

  “Well, I can tell you that locking me away isn’t it,” she said finally.

  “Telling you to stay in bed for a day is hardly locking you up,” Clive said softly as he pulled back to look into her eyes. “And you did actually faint, remember?”

  Henrietta sighed. “Women faint all the time, Clive. I wouldn’t think much of it.”

  “But I do,” he said, kissing her forehead. “You’re all I’ve got. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you, Henrietta.”

  “Well, you’d still have your mother,” she said wryly.

  “That was unkind.” He looked down at her remonstratively.

  She sighed again. “You’re not going to lose me, Clive,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “But you must trust me. I’m perfectly fine. And we can’t stand here
any longer discussing it. We’ve got to go help Elsie and Gunther. Please!” she urged.

  “No, we don’t. Whatever trouble Elsie has found herself in this time, she’s going to have to figure her own way out.”

  “But, Clive—it’s Anna! They’ve taken Anna to Dunning, and we’ve got to help get her out! You know Elsie and Gunther would be useless at that.”

  “Dunning?” he asked sharply, his face turning pale. “Why? Because of her fits?”

  “Apparently. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way. Obviously, there’s been some kind of mistake. Clive, please. I can’t stand the thought of that little girl there, alone and frightened and . . . and barely even able to speak the language! Elsie and Gunther are asking for our—your—help. Surely there’s something you can do. Please, Clive,” she said, putting her hand on his chest.

  She could feel him inhale a deep breath and then let it out, closing his eyes as he did so. “Oh, all right,” he said, his face looking decidedly paler. “I’ll see what I can do. But, Henrietta, let me go alone. There’s no need for you to come, too. Please, for your own good.”

  He was insufferable! Wasn’t it he who had been mentally disturbed, unnerved, by Dunning?

  “Clive, remember what happened last time?” she tried to ask gently. “And you have no right to keep me here. And it’s my sister.”

  Clive stared at her for several moments and brushed a lock of her hair back behind her ear. “But the girl is not really Elsie’s concern, is she?” he asked. “And as your husband, I absolutely do have that right, if I would claim it,” he said softly.

  They stood locked in each other’s gaze, Henrietta feeling her own heart beating wildly, before Clive dropped his hand from her cheek and took her hand in his instead. “But I suppose we should hurry,” he said with a slow smile.