A Promise Given Page 12

  Lovingly Henrietta and Clive looked at each other before taking their first step, Henrietta’s heart truly in danger of bursting with happiness. As they processed down the aisle, Henrietta could not retain her smiles, bestowed joyfully on the crowd as they passed by, and Clive’s face exhibited a rare, broad smile as well, Henrietta now on his arm for good.

  They had done it! For better or worse, for good times and for bad, they were married, and nothing could change that now.

  Chapter 6

  Stan stood anxiously at the Winnetka Yacht Club, gripping a glass of champagne and wishing it was something stronger, like whiskey, for example, but none seemed available just now. And, anyway, Elsie didn’t approve of him drinking whiskey, though he had tried to point out to her that all the movie stars did it, like James Cagney in The Public Enemy or even William Powell in The Thin Man, both of which he had taken her to see, but she had remained unconvinced, saying that that wasn’t real life.

  But this wasn’t real life either, was it? he thought, looking around disdainfully. He knew hardly anyone, of course. He had intended to stick next to the Hennesseys for the duration, seeing as Elise would probably be tied up with wedding duties, but they had disappeared somewhere. Photographs out by the lake, someone had said, though why the Hennesseys presence would be required for those, he didn’t know. He thought he recognized the gaggle of young women over by the bar as being Henrietta’s “friends” from the Marlowe, but he had no wish to converse with any of those girls of ill repute. Try as he might, however, he could not keep his eyes from wandering back toward them every so often. They were attractive; he would say that. And, of course, there was that pesky lieutenant sidling up to them now. Well, that was to be expected, he thought disgustedly, turning his back to them again and looking out at the lake itself, trying to shake the deep melancholy that threatened to overwhelm him.

  Henrietta was married. He still couldn’t believe it. His Henrietta! But she wasn’t his and never had been, he mused bitterly and drained his champagne glass. Thankfully a waiter passed nearby, affording him the opportunity of wretchedly grabbing another glass with minimal exertion. It had all been in his head, hadn’t it? Going all the way back to that day he had first seen her in the Dutch Girl costume on the motorbus, when he resolved that she would someday be his. So many times she had smiled at him, her sweet dimples turning his insides to mush; surely that meant something, he had told himself over and over. But no, he thought as he kicked the leg of a barstool now with his toe, it hadn’t. Or maybe it had until the inspector had distracted her from him. That’s all he had thought the inspector was at first, just a distraction, until he solved his stupid case, but before he knew it they were engaged! How could she? But then when he had seen the inspector’s house—Highbury, he called it—at the engagement party, it had all made perfect sense.

  He hadn’t put Henrietta down as a gold digger, but he supposed she couldn’t help it, poor kid. She’d been poor for so long, and the sacrifice she was willing to make for her family by marrying that old coot of an inspector almost overwhelmed him. He despaired for her! He supposed she could keep herself away from him during the day in that big of a house, but what about at night when she would have to … to give her body to him.

  He shuddered, unable to think about it anymore without feeling nauseous. But the thing that confused him was how she didn’t seem as repulsed by the inspector as he would have expected. Quite the opposite, actually. Whenever she was around Howard, Stan had observed (when he forced himself to really look at them), she seemed so maddeningly in love with him. How could that be? Surely it was an act? Well, he thought with a grin, she was a good actress, always had been. He sighed. There was nothing for it. He felt sorry for her in the end, but he just couldn’t believe it, even now. He supposed he had been hoping that she would come to her senses perhaps at the last second, but she hadn’t, and when she made her vow just an hour ago in the church, so prettily and so shyly, not being able to keep from smiling and crying all at the same time, it was as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He had had to grip the pew in front of him and was glad to be sitting next to the Hennesseys, who were blubbering quite loudly, conveniently masking his own gasp of sorrow as the sword entered his heart. And then, as she had walked down the aisle on the inspector’s arm, he had thought that maybe she would catch his eye as she passed him by and that they would exchange a last look—acknowledging her sacrifice and perhaps regret—but she hadn’t seemed to notice him at all in the crowd and indeed looked rather blissfully happy.

  After that, he wasn’t sure he would be able to endure the receiving line formed at the back of the church, but he willed himself to stand erect and take it like a man. Perspiring a bit, he looked ahead up the line and saw her, radiant, and the inspector, smug, of course, standing, shaking hands and embracing their guests, introductions proudly being made. As Stan slowly shuffled forward, he tried to think of something to say that wasn’t reproachful or regretful, but he could think of nothing, so after dutifully shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Howard, who stood at the front of the line as the hosts of the day, he settled for “Congratulations, Howard,” as he held out his hand, hoping upon hope that today of all days the inspector wouldn’t call him Pipsqueak. He didn’t think his pride could take it. Mercifully, however, Clive didn’t.

  “Thank you for coming, Stan. You’ve always been a good friend to us, especially to my wife, in our times of need, and your presence here today means a great deal to us.”

  He had said “wife” on purpose, hadn’t he? Why did he have to say that? To rub it in? Why couldn’t he have just said “Henrietta”?

  “Oh, Stan!” Henrietta was saying to him then, knocking him out of the trance he seemed to be in. “I’m so happy to see you,” she said, putting her arms around him, which immediately threw him into a panic. Awkwardly he put his arms around her, too, but was careful that his arms not linger on any part of her torso for even two seconds altogether. He hurriedly stepped back, nervously glancing at Clive, but the inspector was addressing the Hennesseys now, who were immediately behind him in the line.

  “Say you’re happy for me, Stan,” Henrietta was saying to him.

  “Course I’m happy for you,” he said, forcing a smile. “Course I am. Why would you say that?” he said with more feeling than perhaps he should have.

  “Well, thanks, Stan, for everything,” she said, and before he could answer, her eyes darted to the next guest in line, which happened to be Mrs. Hennessey, and she exclaimed over her now, holding out her arms to her, inadvertently dismissing Stan, just as Elsie, next in the line near Mrs. Von Harmon (looking deathly pale, by the way), exclaimed, “Stanley!” and his attention had been reluctantly drawn to her.

  Elsie. Yes, Elsie. He must think of her, and hadn’t he, actually, a hundred, thousand times, convincing himself that she was by far the better of the two sisters? After all, who would want someone as wild as Henrietta when they could have the tried-and-true Elsie?

  Actually, he thought, as he finished his second glass of champagne now, he was definitely better off without Henrietta. Good riddance! The inspector could have her, and, by God, he would have his hands full.

  “If you’d care to take your seat now, sir,” a waiter was saying, trying to usher the guests to their tables.

  Stan fumbled in his pocket for his table card and found that he was at table thirty-three and began wandering around in search of it. He eventually found it near the back—of course—and further despaired when he saw who was already seated there. Those three girls from the Marlowe! Oh, God! he despaired. How could this day get any worse? Slowly he approached and purposefully took a chair opposite them; he had no desire to sit near them. Introductions were politely made, and though they didn’t recognize him at first, one of them—Lucy, was it?—the blonde, after surreptitiously staring at him for the first ten minutes, finally identified him as the kid the inspector had locked in the squad car that night at the Marlowe, causing him to ask the wai
ter (who had just conveniently appeared with a fresh round of champagne intended for a toast for the wedding party’s entrance) if there was any whiskey available, to which the waiter had rather rudely responded with, “That will come later, sir,” further humiliating him. The Marlowe girls had the decency, however, to pretend they hadn’t heard. Eventually another young couple took their places at the table as well as another single man. Where were the Hennesseys? Stan wondered, looking around rather desperately. Surely there was some mistake? He couldn’t possibly be expected to sit here and make conversation with this lot. Casually he leaned over and saw that the card the couple had put down did indeed read “Table Thirty-Three” in elegant gold script. His eyes quickly perused the room until he finally spotted—to his utter disappointment—the Hennesseys, seated at a table very near the head table. Miserably he slumped in his seat, the slight obvious.

  He made a pretense of studying one of the buttons on his suit coat until his attention was aroused, however, by some commotion at the doors. The orchestra struck up “Here Comes the Bride” as the conductor announced, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you Mr. and Mrs. Clive Howard!” Henrietta—in all of her glory—and Clive entered the hall now, both of them beaming, to loud clapping and even some cheers. To Stan, Henrietta looked so much like a heavenly creature, so much like an angel, that for one brief moment he thought he might die. He watched as the happy couple proceeded to the head table, Clive delicately assisting Henrietta to her chair, and desperately Stan wished that it was him who could bend close to her and whisper in her ear just as Clive was doing now.

  The repeated clink of a silver spoon on a crystal goblet broke his reverie, and he looked to see Major Barnes-Smith standing next to the seated couple, grinning at them as though they were all in on some happy joke—which obviously Stan was not—before clinking the glass in his hand again.

  A general hush came over the room now as the major cleared his throat and began. “Ladies and gentlemen. What a lovely day for a wedding,” he said, smiling. “As many of you know, I had the very great pleasure of being Clive’s commanding officer in the Second Calvary in the war. Today is not the day to recount battles and extreme courage under fire, however, but let me just say that a finer man has never served under me.” Stan noticed that Clive looked down at the table now and that Henrietta’s gloved hand had reached for his. “A more beautiful, lovely bride I could not have imagined for you, Clive,” the major continued, “and a more fair, honorable man I have never known for you, my dear,” he said to Henrietta. “I wish both of you every happiness, for you deserve it. I implore both of you to live the life you have been given, grasp it firmly, and embrace it for all the boys who are no longer here with us, for all the absent friends. We must do the living, all of us, for them—the eating, the drinking, the working, the dancing … the loving. Live for them … and be happy,” he entreated, his voice growing more and more quiet. “And so,” he boomed out toward the crowd now, as if suddenly remembering the purpose of his speech, “I give you, Clive and Henrietta Howard! May you have a long and happy life!” He raised his glass, and the crowd stood up and repeated, “To Clive and Henrietta!” and then drank down the contents as the couple leaned toward each other and kissed, the crowd lightly applauding them.

  The dinner proceeded quickly, then, each course being brought out by what seemed an army of waiters. Stan ate his, of course, but he didn’t much enjoy it. Too fancy and rich for his liking. Whoever heard of tiny pink bubbles that were surprisingly crunchy and salty on a layer of white stuff on a bit of toast? Then there was a clear soup with hardly anything in it, followed by what seemed like a bit of fish in a thick yellowish sauce with chewy bits in it. One of the Marlowe girls had exclaimed that it was a lobster hollandaise sauce, whatever that was, but it hadn’t impressed him. Next came a laughable little ball of ice that Stan was able to eat in one bite, surprisingly tasting of lemon and vodka. He shook his head at the coldness of it and looked across at one of the Marlowe girls. Rose, he thought she said her name was. The single guy—Al, he thought his name was—was paying her particularly close attention. Stan had not really been listening during the introductions and explanations of how everyone at the table exactly knew Clive or Henrietta, but he thought this Al had said he was some distant friend of Clive’s. That would make sense, Stan thought, rolling his eyes, as he seemed particularly lecherous. Well, it was none of his business! The beef that came next was barely cooked! (Henrietta had clearly been ripped off at this place.) And the tiny potatoes it came with weren’t even mashed. Stan was about to attempt to mash them himself with his fork, but he noticed just in time that everyone else seemed to be simply eating them as is. Even the vegetables seemed undercooked, not mushy the way his mother always prepared them, which was what he preferred. All in all, it was a disappointment, but most wedding dinners were, weren’t they? He himself was partial to the spread the ladies of the Altar and Rosary Society put on at St. Sylvester’s, but that was just him. His mother always said that ham sandwiches or fried chicken were enough for a wedding, as most people, due to the large amounts of alcohol consumed, wouldn’t remember much about it in the morning anyway. No use wasting good money on a wedding dinner, she always said, and Stan was inclined to agree. Not that Henrietta and Clive hadn’t spent a lot for this rubbish, given that it was in a yacht club and all, but it hadn’t been worth it. Again, his mother was right.

  A chocolaty pudding was next, which he heard one of the girls call mousse, but he was nearly full now.

  “Oh, they’re cutting the cake!” exclaimed one of the girls, and Stan’s gaze was drawn to the corner near the head table, where Henrietta and Clive were feeding each other bits of cake (disgusting!) and laughing while a photographer snapped pictures. Slices of cake were quickly delivered to the tables not long after, but Stan had found he was no longer hungry. Still, wouldn’t it be a sort of sin not to eat Henrietta’s wedding cake? he worried. Carefully he wrapped his piece in his handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket for later.

  “Oh, goodness!” the girl he thought was called Rose exclaimed, her eyes on the dance floor now. The orchestra had been playing light dinner music, but now a woman in a beautifully flowing black evening gown had stepped in front of a big silver microphone and was smiling at the crowd. “That’s Helen Forrest! They’ve got Helen Forrest to sing at their wedding!” Rose squealed. (Stan wondered who the heck Helen Forrest was and squinted blearily at the band, but nothing registered.) An excited buzz had erupted from the crowd now, and everyone at Table Thirty-Three arched their heads to get a better glimpse of the lovely Helen Forrest as the lights dimmed slightly and she began to sing “All the Things You Are,” in a rich, velvety dulcet voice.

  Clive walked manfully out onto the floor, holding Henrietta’s hand, and when they reached the middle, he swept his other arm tightly around her waist and held her as they began to dance. Stan allowed himself, just once, to look at Henrietta’s face, and he had to turn away when he saw the complete love there as she gazed up at Howard, tears on her cheeks. Damn it! he thought.

  “Don’t they make a beautiful couple?” the girls were swooning to each other. Stan took the opportunity to look more closely at them now that their attention was elsewhere. Lucy and the other girl next to her—what was it? Lynn? Gwen?—were wearing wedding rings, so where were their husbands? Probably at home having a good rest, thought Stan. Wise move. Only Rose did not wear a ring. He saw Al try to put his arm on her back as they watched the happy couple dance, but she shrugged him off. The crowd applauded now as the dance finished, and the conductor requested that the rest of the wedding party and parents take the floor and join the happy couple as “The Way You Look Tonight” began.

  Stan watched as Elsie stood up to dance with the Major. No cause for concern, there, Stan assessed. After all, he was ancient and a bit of a cripple. Mr. and Mrs. Howard were dancing as well, as were Clive’s sister and her husband, though they were a bit stiff on the floor. Stan allowed himself to glance
once more at Henrietta and Clive, and this time was sickened, when he looked closer, to see that Clive seemed to be singing the words of the song to her! My God! That was a bit much! He looked away in search of Henrietta’s mother. He caught a glimpse of her still seated at the head table. Mr. Exley Sr. was standing near her, gesturing toward the dance floor, but Mrs. Von Harmon was shaking her head. Stan watched uncomfortably as the older man finally went back to his seat, but many eyes from the surrounding tables, Stan saw, were watching, too.

  Miraculously the song finally ended, and the conductor then invited everyone to please join the happy couple, the next song being Artie Shaw’s “They Say.” Henrietta positively laughed—laughed!—as Clive spun her around the floor. Stan tried not to watch them as he annoyingly heard the nearby Rose sing part of the lyrics …

  They say I shouldn’t dream of your face in the moon.

  They say that all my dreams will be nightmares too soon. Let them talk.

  Let them say what they want to

  If it makes them feel happy that way

  I know I’ll always love you, no matter what they say.

  The bride and groom had eyes for no one but each other, and Stan accordingly tried to force his eyes from them to search for Elsie instead. The major had retired back to the table with his stiff leg, his place on the dance floor being taken up by his nephew, the young lieutenant. Elsie’s eyes, Stan noticed, held a pleasure he didn’t appreciate. The young couple next to Stan had gotten up to dance, and Al had taken Rose off as well. The waiter had come back and announced that the bar was now open for after-dinner drinks of a wide variety should they wish to indulge.