by Michelle Cox
Henrietta waited for her to continue, but she did not. “Did you like him right away, or … did you …”
“You’re trying to ask, I think, how I ended up marrying a man such as Randolph, am I right?” she asked, her smile sadder now. “No doubt you’ve observed our less-than-loving ways.”
“Well … yes,” Henrietta faltered.
“It was Mother’s idea that he call for tea shortly after my coming-out ball,” Julia explained rather matter-of-factly, as if she had been over this, maybe even just to herself, a thousand times before. “He seemed polite, elegant even, more refined somehow than all the other young men I’d met in the past. I was in danger of becoming a loose woman, you see,” Julia laughed. “I was a flapper, you see, and given to drinking and smoking with a rather fast set.”
Henrietta’s eyes widened. Julia seemed to be the model of decorum now.
“Mother and Father panicked, of course, and wanted me married as soon as possible. So when Randolph presented himself, they were beside themselves with joy. Eminent family, very old, solid. He is older than me, which they thought would be good to keep me in tow.” Julia’s face became very grave then. “Which he certainly has done.” She tried giving Henrietta a little smile. “But why talk of such things just now? This is supposed to be a happy luncheon filled with talk of silks and rosebuds and lovely wedding champagne.”
But Henrietta was not to be put off so easily. “Did you love him?” she asked plainly.
Julia smiled tiredly. “I suppose I thought I did. He was very handsome. I thought his quiet demeanor was simply shyness, but it turns out it’s not that at all. He’s … let’s just say he is quite strict. He has very old-fashioned ideas about correct behavior and decorum.”
Henrietta nodded, trying to understand.
“I’ve been rather a disappointment to him, I’m sure, despite the fact that I’m a Howard.”
“Is he … good to you?”
Julia paused as if trying to decide what to say. “He’s been known to be rather rough,” she said finally.
“He’s not … not violent, is he?”
Julia did not respond but merely looked at Henrietta sadly.
“Oh, Julia!” Henrietta whispered, shocked. “Does your mother know?”
“If she does, she wouldn’t care. I’m a woman now and married, rather well, I might add. If my husband chooses to beat me, well, I must deserve it, my dear. At least it’s never in a place that shows,” she said quietly, gesturing toward her face.
“Oh, Julia!” was all Henrietta could think to say. “How awful for you! I … I had no idea. You always seem so …”
“Happy?” Julia finished for her. “Yes, that’s me. Happy-go-lucky Julia! Well, darling, sometimes things aren’t always as they seem.” It was a fact Henrietta knew all too well.
“But … but what about a divorce? Or a separation?”
“Impossible, darling,” she said. “I must think of the boys. That’s all that matters now.”
Henrietta looked down at her plate, her mind reeling. “Does Clive know?” she asked tacitly.
“I think he suspects. He’s always very short with Randolph—who feels the slight, by the way. Clive’s asked me outright, but I’ve always lied, which you must do now, too,” she said slowly, looking at her trustingly.
“But why? Surely he could help?” Henrietta asked, a nagging twinge reminding her that she and Clive had pledged only honesty from now on.
“How could Clive possibly help?” Julia asked despondently. “By giving Randolph a beating as he likes to do when he’s playing policeman? Or killing him?”
“Surely he wouldn’t kill him!” Henrietta scoffed.
“I’m not so sure,” Julia said uncertainly. “I’m rather convinced Clive has it in him to kill a man. Surely it was part of his job as an inspector in the city—or at least in the war, anyway.”
“Yes, but that’s different,” Henrietta argued, though she knew that Clive definitely had a violent streak. She had seen him throw Virgil up against a wall and thrash him, not to mention beating Neptune until his nose was broken. “Maybe he could perhaps … well … rough him up a bit …” Henrietta suggested tentatively.
“To what end? Randolph would turn around and take it out on me. Besides, that’s not very civilized behavior, now, is it, for the lord of Highbury?”
“Well, it’s not very civilized to beat your wife … or other things,” she added, thinking of her mother’s accusations about her father.
“No, don’t fret, dearest. I’ve found ways to deal with him. It’s not so bad as it used to be. Now, come. I insist we change the subject. This has been horribly irresponsible of me! Here you are, practically on the eve of your wedding, and I’m frightening you with my horrible tales of wedded bliss gone awry.”
Henrietta barely managed a smile in response.
Julia reached out and gripped Henrietta’s arm. “You’ve nothing to worry about with Clive,” she said reassuringly.
“No, I wasn’t thinking that … but I …” she broke off, fibbing a bit and not knowing what else to say.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you; he’s quite smitten. And Clive, at heart, anyway, is a very good man.”
Henrietta couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” she murmured.
“He was always very gentle with Catherine; I’m sure of it.”
This isn’t the way Henrietta had expected the conversation to go, but now that the subject of Catherine had been broached, she couldn’t help her curiosity. “What was she like? Catherine, I mean.”
“Oh, Catherine was very shy. Pretty,” she grinned mischievously at Henrietta, “but not as beautiful as you are.”
Henrietta felt herself blush.
“She was a sweet person. I think she always had a particular attachment to Clive, ever since we were children, really. I don’t think Clive ever thought of her in that way, but when he joined up, I think it was her older brother, Charles, that put it in Clive’s ear. Clive had always looked up to him, and Charles must have known how his sister felt about Clive.”
“Oh,” was all Henrietta could think to say.
“I know Clive loved Catherine in a certain way, and I suppose he thought it was the honorable thing to do. Maybe he was just caught up like everyone else was at the time, marrying like crazy. As if that made sense. All it did was create a glut of war widows barely twenty-five years old.”
A waiter appeared now with a fresh pot of tea, which Julia poured out as she continued. “They didn’t have long before he shipped out. Catherine pined for him while he was gone; I remember her moping about the house all the time. She was so happy when she realized that she was pregnant. We all were, really. You should have seen Mother. But at the end, she wanted to go home to her parents to have the baby. We could understand that, that she wanted her mother.” Henrietta shifted uncomfortably. “But something went wrong, and, well, you know the story. Neither of them made it. It was devastating. Mother wouldn’t come out of her room for days. We tried writing to Clive; Father tried to wire his commanding officer, but there was a miscommunication. Clive himself had been wounded somewhere in France and was en route back to the States, so the letter missed him. Well, you know what happened after that, I suppose,” she sighed.
Henrietta wasn’t sure she really did, but she remained silent, trying to take it all in. It was so very sad that it was impossible to be jealous. “What about Charles?” she asked, thinking he might have been able to offer Clive some comfort upon his sad return.
“He was killed, too,” Julia answered. “Too bad, actually, because I was terribly fond of him,” she laughed. “So I ended up with Randolph, and Clive ended up running away to the city, poor thing.” She looked up at Henrietta. “But here I am again! Telling tales of woe!” She took Henrietta’s hand. “He adores you, you know. You’re so wonderful, so good for him,” she said seriously. “You’re an answer to prayers, Henrietta. I’m so happy for him, and for you. We all are, re
ally, even Mother, despite her snobbishness. Clive’s her favorite, and though she goes on about Clive marrying well and carrying on the name and all that, she really just wants him to be happy. And you’re the first person to light up his eyes in many long years. We’ve all noticed.” She gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it again. “I know he’ll make you happy, too.”
Henrietta felt herself blushing again. “Thank you, Julia,” she murmured. “I hope so.”
Julia’s comment about making Clive happy, however, as well as the honeymoon gift she had just been given, introduced another area of concern in her mind that had been nagging her for the last months. She had toyed all afternoon with the idea of asking Julia for her advice about the wedding night specifically; she so wanted to please Clive, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. And after hearing about Randolph’s brutality, she decided that perhaps Julia was not the best person after all to ask for tender suggestions for the honeymoon bed.
Girls mostly learned about what to expect, Henrietta knew, from their mothers, but Henrietta had already heard her mother’s version of marital unions and still felt sickened when she allowed herself to think of it for any length of time. Her father did not seem that type, but then again, she had been only thirteen when he died. Perhaps she hadn’t realized what he was really like. And hadn’t she herself witnessed several examples now of men she had thought harmless who had turned out to be brutal? Neptune and Jack being prime examples. But that was different, she argued with herself. She could never put her father in the same league as them. But had her father really forced himself upon her mother? Perhaps Ma’s warped mind had simply imagined it. Or did she give in to “it” so rarely that it felt like being forced? And what about all of the ogling, grasping men Henrietta had met over the years as a 26 girl or during her stint as a taxi dancer and then an usherette? Yes, she had seen her fair share of “bad” men over the years.
A good person to ask for advice might have been Polly, her friend from the Promenade, but she was still in Missouri. Henrietta had invited her to the wedding, but Polly had declined, saying that her grandmother was in poor health and that she couldn’t possibly leave her. She had sent some handkerchiefs, though, as a small wedding gift and hoped that she and the inspector would be happy after all. Polly, she remembered, had never really trusted Clive, but, then again, she had never gotten to know him.
Antonia, of course, had taken great care in instructing her on how to behave in society, but not necessarily on how to be a good wife, especially in that way, and Henrietta was loath to ask her. The unsaid subtext that seemed to permeate both of the horizontal worlds, rich and poor, that Henrietta balanced between was one of submission, at least according to both Ma and Julia, and even Mrs. Howard, to a certain extent. Likewise it permeated both of the vertical worlds of sin and grace, Henrietta had realized, though in perhaps not those exact words, remembering that submission had been the key not only to getting beyond the sordid green door at the Marlowe and the acts performed there, but to what the Church expected of women as well. Hadn’t Father Michaels, albeit in a kind, patient way, instructed that Henrietta’s role would be to obey Clive, while Clive’s would be to cherish and protect her? But what did cherish mean, exactly? And protect her from what or from whom?
“Shall we go, then?” Julia asked, and Henrietta saw that her window of opportunity was over. “Mother will be expecting us back,” Julia said crisply, “and besides, I’m sure you still have a lot to pack. It will seem strange without you at Highbury now.” She stood up, a signal for the waiter to approach adroitly. “But not long now,” she smiled, “and you’ll be with us always.”
Henrietta was indeed kept very busy for the rest of that day and the next, her last day at Highbury as a single woman. She would have liked to spend more of it with Clive, who spent most of his days, now that he had officially retired from the force, with his father at the firm or reviewing documents about the state of Highbury in the library. They were not granted any time alone, really, until the last evening when they were out on the terrace, Mr. and Mrs. Howard having retired even earlier than usual, suspecting probably that the two of them might have much to say to each other before they became man and wife in several days’ time.
Clive handed her what had become their customary cognac. Henrietta dared then to bring up the subject of the cottage one last time, but Clive dismissed it once again as being unrealistic and impractical. Besides, he pointed out, didn’t it hold unpleasant memories for her of being held captive by Jack Fletcher? Henrietta did her best to explain that somehow it did not, that the cottage had always been such a quaint, lovely place, so peaceful by the lake, and in her pre-wedding anxiety, she yearned for it all the more, despite any unfortunate events that had occurred there. And anyway, her capture by Jack was short-lived, an hour at most, nothing like what had gone on at the Marlowe.
“I hate thinking about what could have happened there,” Clive said bitterly. “How you were almost …” He broke off here and looked out at the lake.
“But I wasn’t,” she said, putting her hand on his as it gripped the iron railing. “Let’s forget it, Clive,” she said, referring to the cottage. “It was just a silly idea. Honestly.”
He turned to her now, his face still full of concern. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s quite impossible, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, I know,” she said with a sad smile.
He tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “Are you ready?” he asked, gently changing the subject.
“To go home or for the wedding?”
Clive laughed. “Either, I suppose.”
“I wish the wedding was tomorrow,” she said, wrapping her arms around him now.
“Me, too. I want this to be over. I want you for my wife, for my own,” he said, kissing the top of her head and breathing in her sweet smell. “I want you to belong to me and only me, and I, utterly, to you.”
They spent the rest of the evening discussing the wedding and any small details that may have been forgotten, and parted, finally, for the last time, at the bottom of the stairs. The next time they would see each other would be at the altar at Sacred Heart, and the next time they said goodnight to each other it would be in the new master bedroom designed for them in the east wing. Clive took her hand and, turning it over, drew it up to his lips and kissed her palm, slowly and sweetly. Releasing it, he bent to kiss her lips, and Henrietta could feel his passion hovering just under the surface, but he kept it at bay as he wished her good night and let her go up the stairs, somewhat reluctantly, without giving in to it.
Chapter 4
Henrietta did not see Clive the next day, per their arrangement, as she groggily climbed into the back of the Daimler very early, Fritz arranging her cases for her in the trunk. She had slept rather badly, truth be told, tossing and turning all night and having several bad dreams in which she was in a big rambling maze of a house searching for Clive but never finding him. She tried to shake these thoughts as Fritz headed south back to the city, the landscape rushing by in a blur, and tried instead to concentrate on the many things that still had to be done at home in preparation—most of them, of course, made all the more difficult in that they involved Ma.
Since they had moved to Palmer Square and now owned a telephone, Henrietta had taken to calling them once each week on Sunday to check on them. At first they had all jumped when it rang, Mrs. Schmidt, the housekeeper, usually having to answer it for them, but they were gradually getting used to the sound of it, though no one ever rang them except Henrietta. Both Ma and Elsie seemed afraid of using it, and Jimmy and Donnie usually just giggled or repeatedly shouted, “Hello? Hello!” into it over and over. Henrietta exhaled deeply as Fritz pulled up outside the brownstone, knowing that she had her work cut out for her in these next few days.
—
As expected, none of them had as yet purchased any new clothes for the wedding, though Mr. Exley Sr. now provided them with a very generous monthly allowance. Elsie sai
d she had tried to take them shopping, but no one would cooperate. Henrietta’s first day back, then, was spent downtown with the kids finding suitable attire; the second day was devoted entirely to Ma, who, of course, initially balked at buying a new dress. Henrietta forced her, however, to go shopping with her, and, as arduous as it was, a little part of Henrietta enjoyed being back downtown, and she let herself, as they trudged from shop to shop, indulge in memories of her days as a curler girl at Marshall Field’s.
It seemed odd, then, since she had been reminiscing so much about the past, when she was handed a telephone message by Mrs. Schmidt upon their return home to Palmer Square from the long shopping trip. She and Ma and Elsie had been sitting in the front parlor—exhausted—drinking coffee and observing all of the new purchases when Mrs. Schmidt had bustled in to give Henrietta the telephone message. Henrietta felt her heart leap, hoping that it might be from Clive, though he had told her before she left Highbury not to expect a call from him of a romantic nature, as he knew that the operators were forever listening in. Still, as she took the folded message from Mrs. Schmidt, she could not help feeling a moment of disappointment that it was indeed not from him, but she was equally surprised that it was from, of all people, her friend, Lucy.
Struggling to find someone to invite from her side during the grueling invitation sessions with Mrs. Howard, Henrietta had finally decided to invite Lucy and the gang from the Marlowe. She had debated their respectability, being usherettes as well as female homosexuals, but they were the closest thing she had at this point in her life to friends. And it had been them, really, that had saved her and Clive from Neptune. She at least owed them an invitation, she had eventually reasoned, which Clive had agreed with when she had asked him for his thoughts regarding the invitation list one night on the terrace. Yes, he rather liked Lucy, he had said casually as he smoked his pipe, and he, too, felt they owed her their gratitude in the form of an invitation.
Henrietta had kept up an intermittent correspondence with Lucy in which she had lately written to give her their new address—and telephone number!—in Palmer Square and at Highbury. Often Lucy had suggested that they meet up, but Henrietta was forever putting her off, saying she was much too busy and rarely in town. Indeed, Henrietta had half expected them to decline to come to the wedding at all, so she had therefore been delighted when she received the RSVPs announcing that Lucy, Gwen, and even Rose would attend.
