Elsie tried not to audibly sigh. Melody was forever trying to get a confession of love out of her and was relentless in her attempts to “set her up” with various promising Loyola boys, each of whom, Melody declared, was more “perfect” for her than the next, which in and of itself was astonishing, really. Who would have imagined that there were apparently so many “perfect” men out there for her?
Elsie had thus far been successful in thwarting both the confession and most of the attempted dates, not wanting to explain that she was already the subject of the very same attempts by her scheming Grandfather Oldrich Exley and his somewhat unwilling accomplice, Aunt Agatha. Nor did she wish to reveal any of her other “secrets,” for that matter, such as her recent desire to become a nun or her sordid past with Stanley and Lieutenant Barnes-Smith. And she most definitely did not want to confess, nor discuss, the real object of her tender feelings, which were something very different than any of the fleeting, immature ones that had come before. She had no wish to explain, nor was she really able to, even to herself. All she knew was that Gunther and his woes were all that mattered to her now. And her studies, of course. Where everything else was gray and shallow, this was real and alive and filled with color. It was almost blinding, actually. Gunther needed her, and that alone was intoxicating—not to mention his mutual love of literature, his tenderness with Anna, and dare she admit? . . . his handsome face and his very blue eyes.
“Well, it’s a very long story,” Elsie said, moving hurriedly toward the door.
“Even better!” Melody gushed, following closely behind her. “Oh, I do so love long stories. Especially long love stories!”
“Later then,” Elsie suggested. She was eager to find a place alone so that she could think about her new idea; the one that had just come to her a few minutes ago, which was, of course, that she, or, well, they—she and Gunther, that is—should ask Henrietta and Clive to help them find Liesel Klinkhammer! After all, isn’t that what Henrietta had told her at Christmas? That she and Clive were hoping to open a detective agency? Perhaps this could be their first case!
The wheels in Elsie’s mind were turning furiously, and she made an excuse to Melody that she had to meet with Sr. Sylvester, her math tutor. If she had merely said that she was going to the library, Melody would have found a way to talk her out of it; Elsie had used that excuse already too many times.
“Well, all right, then, Els. I’ll let you off for now,” Melody said sternly, “but don’t forget! You promised!” she added gaily as she set off in the direction of Philomena Hall. Elsie, in turn, made her way toward Gunther’s hut, hoping he was there so that she could lay out her idea. She felt sure Clive could find Liesel; after all, hadn’t he once been a brilliant detective? And it might be good, Elsie speculated, for Henrietta, too, as she hadn’t been herself since she had lost the baby.
Chapter 2
Clive shifted the Alpha Romeo into gear and turned it back toward Highbury. He had just left a private meeting, loosely termed, with Detective Frank Davis, the Winnetka police officer who had valiantly helped Clive—and Henrietta—to kill their nemesis, one Lawrence Susan, a.k.a. Neptune. Davis had been shot and wounded in the altercation, and for a while it had seemed touch and go. Only a few days ago, Clive learned that Davis had finally been discharged from the hospital and had since returned to work at the station—unfortunately, however, still under the direction of the incompetent Captain Callahan.
Davis had agreed to meet at his usual haunt in town, the Trophy Room, at Clive’s request. Obviously, it was not up to his usual standard, but Clive needed to do something. Henrietta had not been herself since she had lost the baby, and he was desperate to distract her. He had been disappointed, too, by the loss of the child, and he grieved for it in his own way, but his true despair, his true distress, was regarding Henrietta’s pervasive sorrow.
He had never seen her cry—sob—the way she had the morning it all happened. It was terrible to witness, and his heart ached for her, even now. She had since put on a brave face, but overall, she was still listless and dull. She positively moped about the house and seemed uninterested in anyone or anything around her. She would go with Antonia to the club if asked, but Clive could see she didn’t care about it. Not that she ever had, really, but up until this current melancholy juncture in time, she had at least put her best foot forward—especially when it came to impressing his mother and trying to fit in.
He didn’t understand this need in women, he thought, as he pulled into Highbury’s long lane—this desire to bring forth life. Of course, he enjoyed children, to a certain extent, and he guiltily knew he was supposed to produce an heir, lest his vile brother-in-law, Randolph Cunningham, inherit the Howard fortune. But as Clive saw it, perhaps this wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The fortune would consequently trickle down eventually to Randolph’s sons—Clive’s nephews, Howard and Randolph, Jr.—who, though only little still, did not seem to be so far taking after Randolph in his cruel boorishness. But then he would inevitably hear his father’s voice in his head, saying, “Ah, but it’s not the same as your own flesh and blood, is it, my boy?”
Clive sighed. He supposed not. Another errant thought occurred to him from time to time, an almost laughable one, really, that perhaps he could alter his will to leave the whole of the estate to his cousin, Wallace, in Derbyshire, England. But Wallace already had Linley Castle to contend with, which he wanted to turn into some sort of boys’ school or home for shell-shocked soldiers, or some such thing, once his father, Clive’s Uncle Montague, finally died. Lord Linley had recently been brought very low, not only by the news of his brother, Alcott’s, sudden death, but by the discovery that Wallace, his only remaining son after the decimation of the Great War, had secretly married a penniless French nurse and had not one, but now two sons by her. Wallace’s failure to marry into money spelled certain ruin for the Linley estate, and Montague Howard had not ever quite recovered from the blow. He was mostly an invalid at this point, Wallace wrote in his occasional letters to Clive, for which Wallace claimed he felt immense guilt and responsibility. But what could he do? he had written more than once; he had to follow his principles and his heart.
—
But there was more to it for women, Clive knew, than merely producing a legacy. It was some biological yearning to reproduce and nurture that wasn’t the same as it was for men, he surmised, though he admitted that he barely understood it. He had sought his mother’s advice after Henrietta’s unfortunate womanly trouble—a miscarriage, they were calling it in hushed tones. But could it even be called a miscarriage? he had asked his mother, for which he was promptly scolded.
“But she couldn’t have been more than a month along, Mother,” he argued quietly. “Could she have been mistaken that she was even pregnant at all?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Clive! Of course, she would know if she were pregnant or not,” Antonia hissed over tea one morning not long after it had happened. “If you take my advice, which you probably won’t,” she sniffed, “you’ll proceed with caution. Be tender and understanding. Henrietta is made of sterner stuff than first appearances; she’ll come round, I should imagine. Provided you’re not a brute,” she added.