A Ring of Truth Read online

  “Who was he?” Henrietta asked. “Was he really one of these Von Harmons from Europe that the Howards are going on about?”

  “I really don’t know. Maybe. He certainly thought he was. That was the thing about Les. Always puffing himself up, always had everyone believing he was more than he really was. He fooled me, anyway,” she said despondently.

  “How did you meet him?” Henrietta asked, her mind still trying to take it all in.

  Ma took a deep breath. “He was the butcher’s delivery boy. I used to see him when he came to the back door. I used to spend a lot of time in the kitchen. The cooks were kind to me, kinder than my parents or my awful nanny, actually. Maybe that was why I was always so big.” Her eyes looked sad as she said this. “Les always had a smile for me. He was kind, and I started to look forward to seeing him. I started to make sure I was in the kitchen when he came for a delivery. One day he came back later, in the afternoon. Said he forgot something, and, well, one thing led to another . . . and I ended up pregnant,” she said sadly.

  “Oh, Ma,” Elsie repeated. “You must have been terrified.”

  “I was. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know about such things, really. When they eventually realized what had happened, my parents wanted me to go out East with relatives and give the baby away, but I just couldn’t leave Les. I told him, finally, that I was pregnant, and he just laughed. Laughed!” Ma said, her old bitterness creeping back into her voice. “His very words were, ‘Well, I suppose we should get ourselves married, then.’ That was it. That was my proposal. At the time, though, I just wanted to get away. And he offered a way out. I didn’t think what it would mean.” Ma shifted in her chair and gestured around the apartment. “Turns out, this is what it meant.”

  “You regret it, don’t you?” Henrietta asked.

  “Of course I regret it!” she said angrily, and Henrietta felt herself wince. “The alternative was probably worse, though,” Ma said, her tone instantly shifting to one of defeat. “I’ve tried not to think about it over the years, as it wouldn’t change anything. I know I was cruel to him in the end, but he deserved it.”

  “Deserved it?” Henrietta could not stop herself from asking. “Why?”

  “Oh, what would you know about it?” Ma said fiercely and then began to cry.

  “It’s okay, Ma,” Elsie said tenderly as she reached over and rubbed her arm. Ma pulled away from her touch, however, leaving Elsie to awkwardly gather her hands back into her lap.

  “Well, didn’t you ever try to go back? Or didn’t they ever try to find you?” Henrietta asked, a part of her still unbelieving that this could have happened to her mother.

  “Oh, yes, they did,” Ma said, looking up and wiping the corner of her eyes with her apron. “I was too stubborn, though. Too proud. At first it was exciting to be with Les in our own place, away from all the snobbery of my past life. All the rules and niceties that must be relentlessly observed, but it grew tiresome after a while, the poverty, that is. Les tried his best to provide, I’ll give him that, but the babies kept coming, sinking us further and further. My father found me just after you were born,” she said, looking at Henrietta. “Came round while Les was at work and saw me in my squalor. He offered to take me back if I would quietly divorce Les, or at least separate from him, but I refused. When he saw that I would not be persuaded, he begged me to at least give him the baby.” Ma’s eyes flicked back to Henrietta now. “Let them give her all the advantages I couldn’t in the life I had chosen, he said. Told me that it would be unfair on the baby to let it live in squalor when they could give her everything. But I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.” Ma looked utterly defeated now, her proud armor having fallen away completely, and it was painful to see the wrinkled shell that was left. A tear ran down the side of Henrietta’s face, and she moved to brush it away. Ma shrugged then and looked up at Henrietta. “Maybe it was wrong. I don’t know.”

  Henrietta grasped her hand. She managed to hold it for a moment before Ma pulled it weakly away. “Of course it wasn’t wrong, Ma. I wouldn’t have wanted that life, away from all of you,” she said soothingly and was immediately struck by the poignancy of her words. As a myriad of thoughts went through her mind, it occurred to her how very old Ma looked now sitting across from her.

  “He told me that it was my last chance,” Ma went on, apparently not yet finished with her tale. “That he would cut me off if I persisted in my stubbornness, but I wouldn’t relent. He left then. I can still remember it. The light was growing dim, and I hadn’t yet lit the lamps. He stood in the doorway.” She gestured with her hand toward the door as if it were the same one. “He turned back, one last time. ‘Please, Martha. See reason’ is what he said to me, and he looked at me with such pain . . . but I was angry and I shook my head, like a child, though I suppose I still was a child, in a way. Then he turned and left. That was the last time I saw him. My parents kept their word, and I’ve kept mine.”

  Ma stood up now, wiping her eyes again, and walked to the window, staring out at nothing in particular. “Do you see now why it’s a perverse sort of irony that you’re to end up there, anyway? I suppose it was meant to be. Maybe what God wanted all along, and I just stood in the way.”

  Henrietta longed to go over and embrace her, but she was afraid she would be rebuffed. “Oh, Ma,” Henrietta said sadly from where she sat. “I never knew. I’m sorry.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when you told us you were engaged to a Howard,” Ma continued as if Henrietta hadn’t spoke. “Some sort of justice, I suppose. Now they can all see how low I’ve been brought,” she said, gesturing at her frumpy body. “The prodigal daughter returning.”

  “Well, Mrs. Howard says that—” Henrietta began, but Ma snipped her off.

  “I don’t care what Antonia Howard has to say, about anything, really,” she barked, looking over at Henrietta, a vestige of her cold, sad bitterness for life momentarily surfacing despite the outpouring of her tale.

  “But I . . .”

  She was interrupted again by a knock on the door. Both she and Elsie jumped, and Henrietta glanced up at the mantle clock. Five minutes past seven! “That must be Clive!” she said, standing up hurriedly and patting her hair in place. She had meant to meet him downstairs. Ma shuffled toward the bedroom. “I don’t want to see him right now,” she said angrily, wiping her eyes again.

  “Ma! Shhh!” Elsie said, fretfully following her. “He’ll hear!”

  “Ma! Don’t you want to thank him for helping Eugene?” Henrietta asked, incredulous, Clive having judiciously not accompanied Eugene up to the apartment earlier today.

  “Not now,” Ma said, wearily.

  “Ma!”

  “I’m grateful, Henrietta. I really am, but I can’t face anyone just now. Thank him for me, won’t you? Please?”

  There was another soft knock now.

  “Just a minute!” Henrietta called out toward the door. “Well, goodbye then, Ma,” she said, clearly upset. She felt a desperate longing then to embrace her mother, but she knew it was futile.

  “Just be sure. Sure about your choice,” Ma said before disappearing into the bedroom, a lifetime’s habit of restraining herself from physical affection impossible to overcome, even now, despite the intimacy just shared.

  Elsie paused before following her in. “Don’t worry,” she whispered to Henrietta. “You have a good time. I’ll look after her.”

  “Thanks, Els,”

  “Good luck,” she smiled and disappeared with Ma into the bedroom, just as Henrietta opened the front door to greet Clive, brushing back a few stray tears before he could see.

  Chapter 13

  The members-only Burgess Club sat squarely on Michigan Avenue and had done since 1854, just as the city was becoming truly civilized and a new social elite was emerging with it. It was a gentleman’s club of the highest order, though the lounge and dining room were open to mixed company in the evenings. Its staid, quiet interior had an air of old-w
orldliness to it with its deep wood paneling and heavy beams running across the intricate plastered ceiling. Thick pewter fixtures throughout completed the formalness. Even many of the couples that sat now in the Kensington room seemed to match the stateliness of the surroundings and were indeed of a more mature set, though there was a sprinkling of young couples as well, flaunting martinis and the latest cocktails, despite the concentrated efforts of the powers that be to keep out the nouveau riche. The small orchestra was old-fashioned, too, in its predilection for quiet waltzes, making it unlikely that the latest jazz or big band hits would be heard in these hallowed halls.

  As the maître d’ held her chair for her, Henrietta sat down carefully across from Clive, trying not to stare too conspicuously at the beautiful tables. Everything was so elegant—the crisp linen, the flickering candles in their crystal settings, gorgeous bouquets of roses everywhere, even the gleaming silver. She nervously glanced over at Clive, who was perusing the wine list now, as a waiter stood at attention nearby.

  He had been quiet on the ride over, as had she, though her thoughts were roiling in on themselves in an endless stew of emotion. When he did speak, Clive mostly talked of Eugene’s case and related what details he knew about O’Connor’s questioning of him, the terms of his bail, and how Fr. Finnegan had thus far managed to elude his attempts to question him. Clive took her silence as concern for Eugene and rushed on to explain how he had a couple of leads on employment for him and the “deal” he had struck with him at the station last night.

  Henrietta had merely nodded and absently thanked him as she tried desperately to sort out her emotions. While she was of course concerned about Eugene and his welfare, she was in truth preoccupied with what Ma had revealed just as Clive had come to fetch her. She had gotten pregnant! With her, she thought sadly. Is that why they never seemed to get along? Not only did she remind Ma too much of Pa, but she had been the inadvertent cause of Ma’s subsequent descent into misery. No wonder Ma never seemed to like her all that much. She simultaneously represented everything Ma was not and everything she had lost.

  As she watched the buildings around them grow taller the closer they got to downtown, Henrietta wondered if she had potentially lost all as well. She stole a glance at Clive, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He had seemed so cold in the car yesterday on the way to and from the police station, and he still wasn’t overly attentive, merely cordial, she would say. His eyes had quickly traveled over her body and her exquisite Lanvin dress when she had opened the door of the apartment to him, and she perceived the attraction in his eyes as he stood there. She had also felt the heat from his fingers, briefly grazing her shoulders, as he had politely wrapped her in her borrowed velvet stole.

  Even now, seated across from him, she caught his eyes linger on the low-cut bosom of the dress, though he distractedly looked away whenever her eyes caught his. She knew that look, the look of desire in men’s eyes, but she knew that desire alone wasn’t enough for a man like Clive. Suddenly she was very tired of being in suspense, tired of wondering what had happened at the board meeting, of wondering what his answer to them had been, of wondering what, if any, future they had together. Though if he were really having second thoughts about her or about Highbury, she surmised, why take her to such an exquisite place? Why not just tell her last night in the car? Or was this merely some sort of farewell gesture driven perhaps by guilt? If he didn’t speak soon, she would have to! She thought she might crack with the strain of not knowing.

  She waited as he ordered for them and instructed the waiter to bring a bottle of Dom Perignon to begin with. He handed the wine list back to the waiter, and rather than look at her, he distractedly looked out at the dance floor, seeming to watch several couples waltz as he absently (or was it irritably?) tapped his fingers on the table. There was nothing for it! She would have to speak, she told herself, and cleared her throat, the sound of which drew his attention back to her.

  “Clive . . .” she began.

  “Yes?” he asked, leaning forward a bit.

  “I . . . I just wanted to say what a beautiful place this is,” she faltered.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Clive said, a trace of disappointment in his voice. He looked around as if really seeing the club for the first time. “We’ve been members for time in memoriam,” he grinned. “Certainly from its founding, anyway. My great grandfather had a hand in financing it, I believe. On my mother’s side, that is. She was a Hewitt—cousins, I think, to the Carnegies.”

  “Oh, I see.” Henrietta didn’t know what else to say. “Do they live around here? Your mother’s family, that is? Or up by Highbury?” she asked tentatively, as if Highbury was a sensitive word between them now.

  Clive smiled. “Here? No. They’re all on the East Coast. Long Island. Newport.”

  Henrietta merely nodded, remembering now what Helen had told her.

  “I’m very rich,” he said, looking at her steadily as he leaned back.

  “I gathered,” Henrietta said, meeting his eyes.

  “I just want you to know . . . know everything.”

  “I see.”

  “Henrietta . . .” he said, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Yes?” She could feel her palms beginning to perspire through her black gloves.

  “I—” but he was interrupted by the waiter, who appeared now and presented the bottle of champagne for Clive’s approval. Clive nodded, and the waiter bowed obsequiously before popping the cork and then elaborately pouring a small taste in Clive’s glass. When Clive nodded again, the waiter replied, “Very good, sir,” and began to delicately fill both their glasses, Henrietta making a study of the roses on the table rather than having to look directly at Clive while he did so. It seemed to take the waiter an insufferably long time to then wrap a linen cloth around the neck of the bottle and adjust it perfectly in a silver bucket of ice near the table before he finally left them in peace.

  “To us,” Clive said, holding up his glass and clinking it against hers as she held it up, watching her all the while. Henrietta tried to read what is in his eyes, but it was impossible.

  “Is there an us?” Henrietta dared to ask with forced casualness, taking a sip of her champagne to steady herself. She saw some emotion cross his face, but she couldn’t tell what it was.

  Clive cleared his throat as he set his glass down gently. “I suppose that depends on you,” he said.

  Henrietta did not quite understand his meaning and took in a sharp breath in anticipation of what he might say next.

  “Henrietta,” he said deliberately, “you told me yesterday that you release me from this engagement.” He fingered his glass, looking down at it. “Is that true; do you still hold to that?” he asked, looking up at her now.

  Henrietta slowly exhaled. It was as she feared, and she felt a rising sense of panic. As she looked into his hazel eyes, now, though—the first thing she had noticed about him at the Promenade—they seemed large and vulnerable, and she felt an exquisite love for him despite the tearing of her heart. She had no wish in this moment to hold on to him, no wish to hurt him more than she already had. “Yes, I do still hold to that, Clive. I have no wish to hold you where you do not wish to be held. I do release you if . . . if that’s what you want.” She found it difficult to keep her voice from wavering and took another sip of champagne to steady the slight tremor in her hand.

  “I see,” he said quietly with a slight tilt of his head. “Then I do accept your release, Miss Von Harmon, as Inspector Clive Howard of the Chicago police.”

  Henrietta bit her lip, hoping to hold back the flood of tears that were welling up ferociously. She didn’t know where to look. She couldn’t bear to look at him, so she simply looked down at her blurry hands.

  Clive began again, his voice surprisingly wavering a bit, “But I do ask you, as Clive Alcott Linley Howard, esquire of Highbury Estate, Winnetka, to be my wife . . . if you will have me, that is.”

  His words took several moments to
register to Henrietta as she sat trying to wipe her tears before they completely ruined her face. She looked up slowly now, as she began to understand his meaning.

  “Oh, Henrietta, please don’t cry,” he said, deftly pulling out his handkerchief and handing it to her.

  “Clive,” she whispered as she gingerly wiped her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure,” he said, smiling freely now, lovingly. “But before you answer, you should hear everything I have to say.”

  Her eyes searched his, waiting.

  “When I met with the board yesterday, it was as I suspected. They claim they will not approve of Father’s eventual resignation—as if they really have that power,” he scoffed. “But leave that for now. They claim they will not accept Father’s resignation unless I agree to take his place.” He took a long drink of champagne. “I accepted,” he said evenly, looking directly at her. “I cannot run away from my duty forever, Henrietta. The police force was a refuge for me, oddly, for a time, a time when I most needed a distraction. I see that now. Sifting through other people’s misery to escape my own. But enough is enough. The future . . . our future, I hope . . . is at hand. It’s time I took up my real responsibilities. Not right away, of course—Father’s still actively running the company—but soon, I should imagine. In the next few years, probably.” He looked at her apprehensively and took another drink of his champagne. “So now you know the whole of it. No secrets. No hiding who I really am or who I must eventually be. If you say yes now, you know, at least in part, enough to make a decision about whether you want to spend your life with me, knowing it to be what it is, knowing what you will have to sacrifice. Your family will be provided for, if they will accept help, so do not base your decision on that score, either. It comes down to this, Henrietta, my darling,” he said, taking her hand now across the table, “whether you love me, this me, enough to accept my hand and all that goes with it.”