by Michelle Cox
But even if she could muster the courage needed, convincing Clive would likewise be difficult, she knew. As far as he was concerned, this was a closed case, and one she sensed he additionally did not like talking about—not only because it reminded him of his breakdown, or “mental weakness,” as he referred to it, when they had been there, but because it invariably led to a discussion about what to do with Anna, which he also seemed keen to avoid.
Henrietta was beginning to understand him more now as the first year of their marriage slipped past. There were certain subjects he did not wish to speak of unless she really prodded and insisted, sometimes having to resort to that tender time right after they made love, but even then, he was occasionally more reticent than she would have wished. One such subject, she had discovered early on, was his experience in the war and another was closely related to this—the subject of his first wife, Catherine, who had passed away in childbirth while he was off fighting. Also, he did not like to linger on the subject of his father’s blackmail or any of the grisly crimes he had been involved in investigating as an inspector with the Chicago police. And recently, he was likewise reticent about the case of Madame Pavlovsky. Ever since she had fainted at the séance, he refused to talk about it, even becoming harsh with her at times when she persisted.
“But, Clive,” she had said softly one night. “Don’t you wish to talk about our baby? Do you . . . do you not feel some sort of comfort from knowing that he is safe and cared for?” she asked in a wavering voice.
Clive had put his hand over his eyes and sighed and seemed to be considering his words carefully. “Henrietta, my dearest darling,” he said gently, looking up at her now, “please put this from your mind. I was . . . I was quite remiss in involving you with that . . . that . . . woman,” he said archly.
“Why are you so afraid of what she tells us, darling?” she asked. “Does it pain you to . . . to talk about our son?”
Henrietta saw his right jaw clench, a sure sign that he was feeling emotion. But was it sadness or anger?
“Henrietta, we do not know if it was a boy or a girl,” he said firmly.
“Is it that you don’t believe he is in heaven because he wasn’t baptized?” she asked in a low voice. “I asked Father Michaels about that when he came to see me as I recovered.”
Clive did not say anything but just looked at her.
“He said that God has a special place for those children who die before they are born,” she went on eagerly. “That we needn’t worry and he himself would say a special mass with that intention,” she said, putting her hand on his. “So you see? What Madame Pavlovsky says could very well be true!”
She looked into his eyes, and he returned her look with such sadness, or was it pity?
“Henrietta,” he said, “let us not, for both our sakes, discuss Madame Pavlovsky any further. It cannot be good. For either of us. Do you understand?”
Reluctantly, she promised him then that she would no longer speak of Madame Pavlovsky or ever return to her on her own, but she could not stop herself from thinking about it every so often. Clive could not control that, and neither could she, it seemed.
It was only recently, actually, in the last couple of days that an altogether new idea—a quite daring one—came to her, which was that perhaps, knowing Clive as she did, she should make a quick trip to Dunning on her own and save him the mental anguish! It could be under the guise of visiting Mrs. Goodman, for example, nearly convincing herself for one brief moment that this was indeed the real purpose of her proposed venture. Yes, she thought, growing more excited at the prospect. Perhaps it would be good to go alone, especially as Clive seemed preoccupied of late with some goings-on at the firm which were requiring him to be more frequently downtown, and for Bennett to likewise be more present at Highbury. She needn’t bother him with this . . . well, this nonsense, as he would call it.
It would be easy enough to sign in as a visitor, speak to Nurse Collins, perhaps have a few words with Mrs. Goodman while she was there, and then leave again, hopefully with the needed information. Perhaps she would discover that Liesel really had died naturally and that would be the end of the story, she reasoned. But maybe she would find something else . . . something more sinister.
While it was exciting to think about uncovering some sort of foul play and being able to return to Clive with real evidence in hand, there was a part of her, in truth, that hoped it was all just a fantasy and that she could put the case to rest. She was tired of thinking about it and tired of it being a sore subject between her and Clive. Well, she resolved, she would be ruled by whatever Nurse Collins had to say on the matter. And that would be that.
Having decided upon a plan of action, finally, it was harder to decide what to tell Clive. She knew he would never approve of her going to a place like Dunning on her own, even if she framed it as merely an innocent visit to Mrs. Goodman. She did not wish to deceive him, but then again, he could be so maddeningly old-fashioned, so worried and overly protective of her, despite his attempts lately to disguise it. If she told him, he would only worry—so in the end, she decided that she would say she was going to visit Elsie or Julia, or that she was going shopping downtown, thereby requiring a car in the morning.
Surprisingly, Clive had agreed to her plan without question, barely looking up from the documents he read as they sat together in his study. Bennett had been announced, then, and she had risen from the sofa to let them discuss business matters. She politely greeted Bennett and said her good-nights and gone upstairs to bed. However, as she lay waiting for Clive to come up, she regretted her fib. After all, they had made a promise to each other that there would be no secrets between them, and she knew, even in this, that she had to be honest. She would tell him the truth when he came up and hoped that, instead of forbidding her to go, he might still be persuaded to come along. Or maybe he would send someone to escort her? But who? And would he really expect one of the servants to escort her to an insane asylum; surely that was above and beyond their call of duty. She almost laughed at the idea of Billings in such a place and wondered what Joe the orderly would make of him. She could see Clive assigning the role to Carter, just to punish him, but Carter, in his advanced years, didn’t seem able to fight off a flea. Oh, why was she worrying about this?
The rococo clock on the mantel struck midnight, and still Clive did not return. Henrietta could feel herself getting sleepier. Perhaps she should rise and write him a note? She was so dreadfully tired, however, and as she lay there trying to convince herself to get up and do it, she fell asleep. At one point in the night, she discovered that he had slipped into bed beside her. It was too late, she knew, to discuss such a thing and curled up beside him instead. She would speak to him in the morning.
But when she awoke, to her dismay she found that he was already gone. She sat up groggily and looked around the room. Almost as if on cue, she heard a quiet rap at the door followed by Edna coming in, again carrying a large breakfast tray.
“What’s this, Edna?” Henrietta said, sitting up. “I’m not ill.”
“Mr. Howard’s orders, miss . . . I mean, madame,” she said, setting the tray down now on the end of the bed.
“Where is Mr. Howard?” Henrietta asked. “Is he downstairs already?”
“Already gone, madame,” Edna said, attempting to reach behind Henrietta to fluff her pillows.
“Gone?”
“Yes, gone into the city. Some sort of business, he said. Didn’t wish to wake you, so he had Mary prepare this for you.” Edna reached for the tray and carefully balanced it over Henrietta’s lap. “There’s a note there from him, too,” she said, nodding at the missive wedged between a teacup and a vase, which held a single white rose.
Henrietta picked up the note and smelled it, enjoying the scent of Clive that still lingered there. He did not often write to her. Eagerly, she slipped her finger along the edge of the envelope and opened it.
“Thank you, Edna.” She glanced at the waiting maid,
who apparently, by her remaining position beside the bed, was likewise eager to know the contents.
At this dismissal, Edna gave a sad little curtsey, and then occupied herself with arranging Henrietta’s robe on the chaise lounge. From there, she moved to the vanity and began studiously rearranging Henrietta’s hairbrushes.
Giving Edna a last look, Henrietta pulled out the note and began reading.
My dearest,
You were sleeping so peacefully that I had not the heart to disturb you. Unfortunately, I must attend several meetings in the city today in regard to the firm. Forgive my not telling you before, but it was decided late last night. I know you were planning on visiting Elsie or Julia today, so I have left the car and Fritz at your disposal. I look forward to seeing you tonight, darling, when I hope to make it up to you. I miss you already.
Your own, Clive
With a sigh, she set the missive aside. Now what was she to do? she thought with a small groan. She supposed she would have to put off the visit until another day, but it was terribly disappointing. She had been so sure that today would be the end of it all. She wondered then if intending to tell him might count just as much as actually telling him. She knew this to be a gross stretch of their promise to each other, but it was so tempting. They wouldn’t be able to go tomorrow, Saturday, Henrietta mused, thinking it through, as they were expected at dinner with the Exleys, and Sunday, Henrietta remembered Nurse Harding telling her, was Nurse Collins’s only night off. They couldn’t possibly wait until Monday! Oh, what was she to do?
She reached for a piece of toast and took a small bite.
“Any instructions, miss?” Edna said, coming back over to her now.
“No, thank you,” Henrietta said absently. “You didn’t have to bring me a tray, though,” she said. “I could have come downstairs on my own.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, miss,” Edna said, moving to lift the silver dome covering Henrietta’s main plate for her. “Don’t usually get to fuss over you as much as I used to, except when you were ill, of course—”
“Oh my!” Henrietta exclaimed, interrupting her. “What is that?” she said, pointing to a grayish piece of what looked to be meat on the plate.
“Oh, that’s liver, madame,” Edna said, looking at her in a puzzled way. “Ain’t you never had liver?”
“Well, yes, but not like that!” Henrietta said, making a face. “Please take it away, Edna,” she said with a gesture. “Mary’s never served that for breakfast before! What’s gotten into her?”
Edna’s face looked as though she was personally slighted by Henrietta’s rejection of the special breakfast. “It was Mr. Clive’s—I mean, Mr. Howard’s—orders, actually,” she said as she removed the offending plate from the tray.
“What do you mean?” Henrietta asked.
“Well, I don’t know exactly, but I overheard him talking on the telephone not but a few days ago with Dr. Ferrington, I believe.”
“Go on,” Henrietta said stiffly, setting down her cup. Clive hadn’t mentioned a telephone call from the doctor.
Edna began to look uncomfortable. “I think it had something to do with you fainting the other night, remember?” she asked, shifting her weight.
“What did he say?”
“Well, I’m not for certain, but from what Mary told me, he thinks you are an-mean-ick…ana-me-ick . . . oh! I don’t know! An- something—”
“Anemic?”
“Yes, I think that was it! Mr. Howard told Mary all sorts of food she’s to make for you from now on.”
“Like liver?” Henrietta asked incredulously. How could Clive have not included her in this discussion? As if she were no more than a child! Would he ever learn? she wondered, pressing her fingertips to her forehead.
“Yes, miss,” Edna said, seeming relieved that her mistress understood now.
“What else was on this list?” Henrietta asked irritably, which significantly diminished Edna’s momentary enthusiasm.
Edna gave a sad little shrug. “Don’t know all of it, madame. But let me see,” she said in response to Henrietta’s disappointed face. “Liver,” she said, ticking off one of her fingers, “dark beer, bloody beef—I remember that one because Mary had a proper harrumph and said ‘whoever heard of serving bloody beef?’—something called black pudding, dock root tea, juice of beet root. . .” She had switched to ticking on the other hand now and cocked her head toward the ceiling, thinking. Finally, she let her hands drop. “I don’t remember any more,” she said with another shrug, then picked up the plate again. “Are you sure you don’t want to try a bite of this? Mr. Howard is sure to be angry . . .”
“No, Edna, take it away,” she said, plugging her nose and almost gagging at the sight of it, lying in a pool of blood. “Or better yet, do you want it?”
“Oh, no, miss! I couldn’t do that!”
“Well, I certainly don’t want it!” she fumed.
How dare Clive interfere this way? He had probably discussed it with his mother. In fact, she was sure of it. When would he stop treating her like a child, or worse, an invalid! Well, that decided it, she said, moving the tray and throwing off the covers, much to Edna’s dismay. She would proceed with her plan to visit Dunning today. She would show him that she didn’t need protecting and would not be confined to this house or to their bed!
As it turned out, only a modicum of stealth was required to slip out of the house unnoticed. It being Friday, it was Antonia’s afternoon for bridge, and the usuals, namely Agatha Exley, Victoria Brathwaite, and Hortensia Amour, had already arrived. Hortensia was not always faithful in her attendance of the Bridge Club, however, and therefore on some occasions of her absence, poor Henrietta was required to make up the fourth.
Luckily, Hortensia had indeed turned up today, and Henrietta’s reluctant participation was therefore not needed. Quickly she donned the little disguise she had concocted and hurried down the servants’ staircase in order to avoid a second potential obstacle in the form of Agatha Exley. If Agatha caught sight of her slipping down the main staircase, Henrietta knew she would detain her in a not very subtle attempt at collusion against Elsie. With a continued bizarre lack of perception as to anyone else’s state of mind or opinion, Agatha was ever attempting to persuade Henrietta to be a co-conspirator in her endeavors to bring Elsie more deeply into the inner bosom of the Chicago aristocracy, not realizing, apparently—or perhaps simply choosing to overlook the fact—that it was Henrietta herself who was not only responsible for introducing the idea of higher education to Elsie, but who was the one actually funding it, or rather Clive was. It was maddening!
“Surely now that you are ensconced at Highbury,” Agatha had more than once twittered to Henrietta, “you can perceive the advantages. You must dissuade her from these ridiculous notions she stubbornly, I might add, insists on pursuing. I’m convinced this is nothing more than a silly phase,” she would whisper nervously. “We must persuade her of this, you and I.”
Aunt Agatha was absolutely relentless in her pursuit of Elsie, just as Clive was, Henrietta considered, in his bothersome protectiveness of her. Well, she determined, she could be relentless, too.
Having now arrived in the kitchen, it was easy to slip out the back door, where she had arranged for Fritz to wait with the car, the long black skirt of her disguise billowing around her. It wasn’t really a disguise, per se, but was rather an old black dress procured, with Edna’s help, from one of the junior maids along with some old black oxfords. The finishing touch was a vintage black hat she had persuaded Andrews, Antonia’s maid, to dig out of the back of her mistress’s closest. It was a Victorian affair, one which Antonia’s grandmother, according to Andrews, had apparently worn to the funeral of her husband, the esteemed Theodore J. Hewitt, Sr. It was fitted with a black veil that completely covered her face, and when pinned in place on Henrietta’s head, gave her the look of a perfect specter, clad all in black.
Perhaps such lengths at disguise were not really necessary, but
she didn’t want to take any chances of her plan failing. She had decided it might not be wise to appear again at Dunning as Mrs. Howard, fearing that their probing questions and troublesome removal of Anna might have resulted in some sort of ban on her reentry—though a part of her doubted such instructions would have been written down, much less observed, in the disarray that she witnessed at the front desk during their previous two visits. Even if no formal steps had been taken at barring them entrance, she would still have to get past Joe the orderly and wondered, irritably, if he didn’t ever take a day off! If he were indeed on duty, she knew he was sure to recognize her. She had first tried on a plain, black scarf and tucked her auburn hair up under it, thinking that if she bent her head, it might be enough of a disguise. In the end, however, she had determined that it was too risky and instead chosen the hat with the veil.
Also, in keeping with the ruse, she had likewise instructed Fritz to drop her off a block south of Dunning, concluding that walking up the long drive would be preferable to being ostentatiously dropped off in front in a Daimler. Before she left, Edna had nervously offered to accompany her, but Henrietta declined her company. Edna begged her then to at least reveal her intended destination, as it was obvious that she couldn’t possibly be going shopping downtown with Julia, seeing as she was practically dressed for a funeral! Was she going to a funeral? Edna had asked anxiously.