But this little death was somehow shameful, too, Henrietta felt. She could not shake the deep sense of failure that threatened to swallow her up. The failure she had previously felt at not being able to get pregnant was nothing compared to the feeling of having finally achieved it and then failing to carry it through. Oh, why had she told so many people? Now everyone knew about her failure, and while they were very encouraging and sympathetic, of course, none more so than Clive himself—somehow this made it worse. Everyone either looked at her with pity, she was sure, or patted her on the hand, saying, “Not to worry, dear! There’ll be another!” as if that somehow should make her feel better. And the fact that it didn’t, made her feel worse yet again.
She had been so happy, so proud when she had realized she was pregnant. But she suspected too many times now, perhaps that had been the key. She had been too proud, and this is what had happened. And surely Ma, of all people, would not hesitate to remind her of this.
She let out a deep sigh. She had no wish to face Ma later this morning, but she would have to get it over at some point. No doubt Ma would have something choice to say, something like, “I told you so” or “That’s what you get for marrying outside your place!”
Well, there was nothing for it. She had to face the world again, and not just at Antonia’s ludicrous committees at the club. More importantly, though, she had to make herself try to care again. She could see that Clive was suffering, too, at her despondency, and if nothing else, she knew she needed to be stronger for him. Many women miscarried, the doctor had told her, and went on to have many children.
Clive had anxiously asked the doctor before he had left that awful day what should be done. What treatment could they give her? The doctor had said that no treatment was necessary; just to have her rest for a good week, not to excite herself.
Mary, the cook, however, had taken it upon herself to concoct various “teas” that she sent up to Henrietta with Edna, saying that these were old remedies that were sure to “put the color back in her cheeks.” The gesture had touched Henrietta in a way that sometimes only grief can, so that when she was eventually allowed to leave her room, she made it a point to go down to the kitchens to thank Mary personally. It meant even more when Mary related to her that many of the “teas” had been old Helen’s recipes from the days when she had been the head cook at Highbury. It was yet another connection to Helen, the old servant who had died on the grounds last summer, and whose photograph of herself and her little family Henrietta kept on her little desk in her and Clive’s private sitting room.
Gathering up her gloves, Henrietta decided at the last moment to place the letters she had just received this morning in her handbag, too. There was one from Herbie, of course, who wrote faithfully each week from New Hampshire where he, Eddie, and Jimmy were at boarding school at Philips Exeter, and one from Mrs. Hennessey. She knew that Herbie wrote to Ma, too, but if the conversation later became too labored or sparse, as she predicted it would, then perhaps she could offer to read them aloud to pass the time. No doubt Elsie’s little “trouble,” whatever it was, would take little time to clear up.
Henrietta had tried on the telephone to persuade Elsie to come and visit her at Highbury to impart her news, but Elsie had said she couldn’t spare the extra time it would take to get to Highbury and back, nor did she wish to make poor Karl drive her all that way. Henrietta had been wont to retort that this was in fact his job, but she had refrained. She had then graciously offered to visit her at Mundelein instead, but Elsie had declined that option as well, saying that there wasn’t really any truly private place in which for them to talk. The front parlor of Philomena Hall was open to anybody to use, she said, so there was no real assurance of privacy, and her dormitory room, she added, was also not a likely option, as who knew if her roommate, Melody, would be in or not. If she was, she would most probably have a whole gaggle of friends surrounding her. And, Elsie went on, her voice crackling over the telephone line, if she were to politely ask Melody to vacate the room for even a short time, Elsie was sure to be mercilessly subjected to a whole torrent of questions from a delighted Melody, always eager for any kind of news or gossip, which, Elsie said, she did not think she could face just at the moment—a feeling Henrietta could certainly understand.
So, in the end, Henrietta had sighed and agreed to meet Elsie at the Palmer Square house, disappointed not only because it meant having to interact with Ma but also because Henrietta rather liked Mundelein, truth be told, and enjoyed being there. Like Elsie, she found it to be a peaceful, interesting sort of place and more than once had thought that she wouldn’t have minded being a student there herself.
“Good morning, madame,” said Karl upon opening the thick front doors of the Palmer Square house to her. He was the man servant her grandfather had hired to act as both butler and chauffer for the Von Harmons. To Henrietta’s eyes, he appeared older and sleepier than even two months ago when the boys had still been at home. Now with just Ma and little Doris and Donny to serve, as it were, Henrietta thought he might have regained some energy, but instead he seemed to have lost some, as if lack of use was positively rusting him.
“This way, madame,” Karl said after he had taken her hat and coat, and he obediently led her to the front parlor. As they walked the short distance, Henrietta smoothed her dress and was surprised to hear what she thought was a man’s voice coming from the parlor, as well as that of Ma and Elsie. Could Eugene be home? she wondered nervously, her stomach sinking. Was that what Elsie had wished to tell her? And what new disaster did that spell? But before she could follow that line of thought to some predictably dismal conclusion, they arrived at the parlor.
According to proper etiquette, Karl should have announced her as “Mrs. Howard” to the already assembled personages in the room, but instead he merely gave a sort of awkward wave of his hand, made a slight bow, and then disappeared.
Henrietta sighed. She had spoken to Elsie before about holding the servants more accountable—Antonia would have been shocked by such behavior!—but it wasn’t really Elsie’s concern anymore. Not that it ever had been, really, and especially now that she had moved out to attend Mundelein College. Henrietta considered whether she should bring it up to Ma, but before she could decide, her attention was instead caught by the sight of a man seated rather close to Elsie on the horsehair sofa. They were seated at a right angle to Ma, who was perched in her usual spot in one of the velvet armchairs by the fire. The man politely stood upon Henrietta’s entering the room and gave her a slight bow. Puzzled, Henrietta looked from Ma to Elsie, who stood up hurriedly now, too.
“Oh, Henrietta!” Elsie said in a rush. “You’ve finally come! This is my . . . my friend, Mr. Stockel,” she said, and Henrietta did not fail to notice how Elsie ever so briefly touched his arm as she did so.
“Mr. Stockel, this is my sister, Mrs. Howard,” she said, gesturing toward Henrietta.
The man before her was, if not dirty, then slightly disheveled. His clothes were relatively clean but ill-fitting—a bit too big for him—and worn thin. They looked to have been well-made and of quality material once upon a time, but now were quite old and faded. He had a shock of blond hair, a trim blond moustache and beard, and the bluest eyes that Henrietta thought she had ever seen. He stood looking at her, his eyes inquisitive behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. Henrietta thought she saw kindness there, but perhaps a trace of fear, too. She held out her hand to him.