The Jewel Cage

by Jane Steen

  His voice faded away as I moved downstairs, in a hurry to catch Mr. Nutt before he ate. I flipped up my timepiece; surely the discussion about the house wouldn’t take all the time before luncheon? I needed to talk to Martin about the Lombardis. But I should choose my moment, and men became so testy when they were hungry. Maybe I should return with a large plate of beef and pickles.

  Martin’s enthusiasm for our new house—a dwelling which seemed to grow larger every time he reviewed the plans—filled the minutes so neatly that I never had a chance to change the subject before Tess arrived.

  Luncheon was a lively affair and took longer than I’d anticipated. Tess and Sarah were delighted to have both of us at home, and it would be unfair to rush back to work. By the time we all left the table, I had to relinquish the cherished dream of an hour’s sewing and agree to Martin’s proposition that we ride back to the store in the rockaway and “put our noses to the grindstone.”

  “After all,” he pointed out as he handed me into the conveyance, “we haven’t done nearly as much work as we should these past few weeks.”

  He helped me settle into my seat as Mr. Nutt shut the carriage door and climbed up onto the driver’s bench, then sat beside me, remarking, “Although if you ask me, we should still be on our honeymoon.”

  His arm went to steal around my waist, and I batted it away. The rockaway’s windows were quite large enough for people to see us. A good-natured laugh and a pinch well below the waist were my reward; once married, I’d soon learned that Martin was familiar with the weak points in a woman’s armor of layered fabrics. Satisfied with his victory, my husband angled himself into the corner of the seat and crossed his arms.

  “It’s outrageous that we barely stopped working long enough to marry,” he mused, his eyes on the carriage’s painted ceiling. “Of course, not many newlyweds are both involved in running a large store—one that has to be rebuilt into the bargain.”

  “We seem to be busier than almost anyone else I know,” I agreed. “In our social set, anyhow. I daresay the members of Tess’s family work harder than we do. Still,” I raised my eyebrows at my husband, “I was quite content with our three days in the Palmer House’s bridal chamber.”

  “Yes, they were a good three days, weren’t they?”

  The look Martin gave me sent a wave of warmth through the core of my body, and I blushed. Martin didn’t laugh though. He reached out to encircle my fingers in a large, warm hand and bent his head to kiss the inside of my wrist above my glove.

  “They were a very good three days.” I sounded a little out of breath.

  “Then you’re happy, Nellie?”

  “You know I am.”

  Martin relinquished my hand and crossed his arms again, his eyes on me. There was silence for a few moments while we contemplated each other, close together in the intimate space of the carriage, heedless of the bouncing, rocking motion of our progress toward Michigan Avenue. But eventually Martin shook his head.

  “And yet something’s on your mind, isn’t it?” He raised a finger as I opened my mouth. “Don’t deny it. You know I can read you like a book. You have that kind of face. No, don’t stare out of the window to avoid me. Besides, you told Madame that you’re distracted because you’re worried about the Lombardis.”

  “And she took it upon herself to tell you? She has no right.”

  “I suppose she has the right—or believes she has the right—to concern herself with any matter that affects the work of such an important member of the dressmaking staff.”

  Martin spoke evenly, but his smile had faded. “As the senior partner, I should be concerned too—but on a personal level, I hate to think of you fretting over something and not telling me. We are husband and wife now.”

  “I’ve been trying to talk to you about it.” I looked down at my laced hands in their fine doeskin gloves. “I intended to broach the subject earlier, but you were so enthusiastic about the house, and then it was luncheon, and then—”

  “I thought you told me the Lombardis were traveling. Why are you so worried now?”

  “I didn’t know they were traveling—I believed they must be. When I wrote to Catherine to tell her we were to be wed, I was convinced she’d come to Chicago. I even wired her the money for the train fares. When she didn’t reply, I almost wondered if I’d offended her.” I grimaced. “It was rather a triumphant letter, and you know what Pastor Lombardi says about pride. And it was awfully short notice, and I probably spent half the letter exulting over being made a partner—”

  “What, more than about marrying me? Do tell, Mrs. Rutherford.”

  “Oh, hush. And we were so busy, and so happy, and there was all that ruckus over the wedding dress—and now I suppose I feel guilty for not having thought more about the Lombardis. Especially since I didn’t write much to Catherine last year.”

  “No?”

  “Well, given that the love of my life stood accused of murdering his wife”—I saw Martin wince and sent him an anguished half smile of apology—“and I’d become a department store spy to help him, I suppose my retreat into brevity was excusable. Catherine knew about your—about Lucetta, of course. It was all over the Chicago papers for months.” I watched my husband make a valiant effort not to flinch this time. “I mostly sent assurances that you were doing as well as could be expected and gave her news of Sarah and Tess.”

  “Must have been deuced frustrating, with you at the center of such a thrilling situation.”

  “It wasn’t thrilling—it was horrible. Martin, I want to go to Kansas. I need to know what’s happened to her.”

  “Now? With Elizabeth’s wedding so close?” A line appeared between Martin’s eyebrows.

  “Well, no,” I conceded. “I wouldn’t desert Elizabeth right now. But it’s only another week—two, since we’ve said we’ll stay with her parents until the twenty-sixth.”

  “It’s the worst time of year for traveling west. The heat apart from anything else, then there’s the malaria in Kansas. Cholera, typhoid, yellow jack—”

  “You’d travel to Kansas.” I felt my face assuming its most stubborn expression.

  “On my own or with another man, perhaps.” Martin frowned heavily. “And then only if necessary. I wasn’t planning to visit the frontier till September or October. Couldn’t you wait until then?”

  “Would you wait?” I was almost shouting now, glad that the carriage was moving again and the noises of the street covered my voice. “No, you wouldn’t. I don’t intend to take Sarah or Tess. I can travel by myself.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Why is that ridiculous?” My face was hot. “Because I’m a woman?”

  “Because I’d never let you go alone when I’m able to be with you.” Martin’s face was pale and earnest. “Even if it is inconvenient or dangerous. From now on, we face our dangers together.”

  “Oh.” I drew a deep breath. “Oh, drat you, Martin Rutherford, you always have a way of sending me into a temper and then saying exactly the right thing to cool me down. I’m sorry; you’re just trying to be sensible. But Catherine’s like a mother to me.” I swallowed hard against a lump that had formed in my throat. “She’s part of my past.”

  To my relief, Martin’s face lost some of its bleak look—the look I’d seen so often in the year after Lucetta’s murder. He reached out to stroke the skin in front of my left ear, where the curved scar was fading from pink to white.

  “When it comes to your past, Eleanor Lillington Rutherford, I consider my claim the greatest. I’ve known you since you were three.”

  I captured his hand and held it over my scar. His fingers warmed the taut flesh for a few seconds before the carriage jolted, separating us.

  “Not during that period of my past.” I breathed deep, seeing Kansas again, and then farther back in my memory, the Women’s House. “The time I spent at the Poor Farm made me into a woman. And the years at the Eternal Life Seminary made me into the dressmaker I am now. Catherine was pa
rt of all that.”

  “I thought we had resolved to start life anew.” Martin spoke lightly, but there was a hint of strain in his voice.

  I was silent for a few moments, ordering my thoughts. Martin and I had talked about shedding the past in the intense, intoxicating days between our engagement and marriage, when the world had seemed to shrink to the two of us, so strong was the pull to unite as one. I had imagined then that, after being held in a Chicago jail for a murder he did not commit, Martin might want to sell the burned-over site of the first Rutherford’s store and move somewhere else—to New York, perhaps. Or that he might insist on an extended voyage through Europe after our wedding. That he might wish to go someplace where the ghost of Lucetta Rutherford, née Gambarelli, would not drift through his memories in a waft of gardenia perfume and a flash of diamonds. We had enough money to live anywhere we wanted, do anything we wanted; the store was unnecessary in monetary terms.

  But that would have meant disrupting Sarah’s life again, and a child needed stability. And was it fair to ask Tess to part from her family now that she’d found them? Chicago had become our home.

  And then there was the store. Seen as a whole, it was necessary to both of us. For me, it provided the stage on which my career would unfold. For Martin, it was something deeper—a visible symbol of his creativity, a proof of his masculinity, an edifice that shouted to the world that he was worthy. A legacy to bequeath to his heirs.

  “We could only begin life anew if we were reborn as infants, my darling,” I said at last. “And didn’t you just point out how important you were in my past? I might miss you the second time around.”

  It was the right answer, and to my relief lines of laughter creased the skin at the corners of Martin’s eyes and mouth. “Practical, as always. But won’t you allow that my concerns also have their practical side? It’s not just disease. You might be traveling toward disaster. It’s true that they’ve driven the tribes out of Kansas, but it’s a big state. And the Indian Wars are constantly in the papers.”

  It was a sultry July day, but an icy chill washed over me. “Is that what you think?” I twisted round to stare at Martin. “Do you believe the mission has been attacked?”

  “It’s one explanation.”

  “There are others?”

  Up till that moment, my fears for the Lombardis had amounted to a diffuse worry of the kind that rests upon a fundamental conviction that all would be well. I realized that I’d been counting on the perfectly ordinary explanation that would soon be proffered for Catherine’s silence. Martin’s words had burst that tiny bubble of reassuring delusion.

  “Serious illness.” Martin shrugged, unfocused gaze on the ceiling. “A roving band of outlaws—”

  He stopped and stared at me, his eyes wide.

  “Nellie, I’m so sorry. I was thinking out loud. You’ve gone quite white. What an idiot I am.”

  He gathered me to him. I let myself relax into his embrace, heedless of who might see us. His heart thudded steadily below my ear; my own seemed to be jittering in my chest.

  “You’re giving me more and more reasons to go to Kansas as soon as possible,” I said into Martin’s lapel.

  “Of course I am. I forget my wife rushes toward danger instead of running away from it. But those are my wild imaginings—reality tends to be far more prosaic.”

  “Not for me.” Almost unconsciously, I touched the scar by my ear. “I seem to possess a talent for disaster. So do you, come to that. But I’m grateful for the moments of peril I’ve lived through, in a way. I’ve grown because of them. I’ve found reserves of courage I hadn’t dreamed I had.”

  The dark bulk of the surrounding buildings warned us that we were arriving at the temporary store, and we pulled apart—but not before Martin had planted a swift kiss on my mouth.

  “You’re pure courage from head to toe, my dear. You’ve been full of fighting spirit since you were a little girl—it’s what I’ve always loved about you. But listen, would you let me make some inquiries before you go rushing off to Kansas? I could contact the denominational office, set the Pinkerton agency onto finding the Lombardis—there are a dozen different courses of action I could put in motion.” He put out a steadying hand as the rockaway slowed. “I should have thought of doing them before. It would make far more sense to gather some facts first, so you’d at least know in which direction to travel.”

  I nodded, conceding the point, and the tension in his face eased. In another moment, Mr. Nutt was opening the carriage door and Martin was handing me out, smiling as I shook out the folds the journey had put in my slate-blue day dress. The harsh sunlight of a Chicago summer flashed dazzling reflections from any window not shaded by an awning and gleamed on Martin’s tall silk hat. The moonstones in his cufflinks and tie pin shone like crystallized tears.

  In the few seconds before I smiled at the doorman and preceded Martin into the store, I was aware of people staring. A small, grubby child fingered a runny nose, gawping upward. A man in carpenter’s overalls looked pointedly at us, impatient at having to wait for us to pass. A shopgirl in a Field & Leiter’s uniform caught my eye and gave me a brief smile, as if in rueful acknowledgment of my good fortune.

  I was aware I cut a polished figure in my embroidered silk, sober and yet sumptuous, as befitted a partner in that successful enterprise, the Rutherford’s department store. But my heart, at that precise moment, was on the plains of Kansas, where the dirt would be drying to an ochre dust and the grasses ripening fast under the spreading sky.

  2

  Cage

  Notwithstanding my promise to Martin that I would not “rush off” to Kansas and his assurances that he had acted at once to send out Pinkerton agents in search of the Lombardis, I was unable to shake off my restless mood. When a messenger boy came to the atelier three days later to summon me to a partners’ meeting, my immediate reaction was one of irritation. Did Martin not realize that we were days away from Elizabeth’s wedding and that the finishing details of such a fine nuptial gown took time and concentration?

  But I was a partner in the company that owned Rutherford’s and must not neglect that duty. I gave a few more instructions to my assistants on readying the dress for the late afternoon fitting I had scheduled with Elizabeth and did my best to arrange my face into an expression of polite interest as I entered Martin’s office.

  Joe Salazar, our general manager and partner, greeted me as I entered, his narrow visage grave. “There’s been another robbery, Nell.” He held out a chair for me.

  “A seriously injured watchman this time.” Martin, who had briefly risen as I entered, went back to studying the broadsheet that lay on his desk. “At Bermann & Sidewash. And once again they were selective. They only took a half-dozen pieces, but one of them—a tiara—was astoundingly valuable.”

  “Isn’t that where you bought my engagement ring?” I forgot my irritation as I leaned over to peer at the closely printed newspaper article.

  “Best jeweler in Chicago, in my opinion.” Martin looked up. “Joe put me on to them. Sol Bermann’s his—what was it, Joe?”

  “Second cousin’s brother-in-law,” said Joe laconically. “We attend the same temple. I must go visit him in the hospital.”

  “Was he attacked too?” I asked.

  “The shock affected his heart,” Martin said. “Joe, why don’t you take some time off this afternoon?”

  “Once we’re done here. Leah’s there, of course. You can rely on my wife for visiting the sick.” Joe pulled the rolled drawing that Martin had deposited on the table toward him, spreading it out and placing small weights on the corners. “So let’s hear about this jewelry vault, Martin. With a time lock?”

  “The latest model.” Martin looked pleased with himself. “The time lock will mean that we can only open it at set times, you see,” he said to me. “Times under our control. At all other hours, it’s entirely sealed. Even if a robber kidnapped a partner and forced them to work the combination, they couldn’t get
in. We can vary the opening times so that the gangs won’t know when to plan a raid.”

  “Is that the topic of this meeting?” I leaned over to peruse the drawing, smiling at Joe as he turned it so I could see better. “It looks like a cage.”

  “It’s a big enough expense that Martin is obliged under the terms of our partnership to ask for our agreement.” Joe grinned. “As I pointed out to him.”

  “You know very well you’re as excited about the idea as I am.” Martin tapped the drawing as he pretended to bestow a stern look on the man who was not only our general manager and partner, but our friend. “See here, Nell.” Another tap. “It is a cage, buried inside a two-foot-thick box of concrete reinforced with steel shavings. A massive door—the room is big too. Far bigger than any safe I can buy. We’re just in time to make the addition and still open the store at the end of November.”

  “Do we need something that enormous?” I asked. “Is that where we’ll store the dressmaking valuables?”

  Joe shook his head, smiling ruefully. “As if we could make Madame Belvoix agree to a vault that isn’t accessible whenever she wishes it. She has negotiated her own small strongroom within the dressmaking department. Near a fire escape.”

  “So why—?”

  “Think about it, Nellie.” Martin leaned forward, his eyes alight. “Some of the gowns we sell are worn at the choicest dinners and grandest celebrations in Chicago—in the whole of the Middle West. Why should we not supply the jewels as well? You’ve listened to Powell McCombs lament the lost opportunity.”

  I nodded. The head of the Rutherford’s jewelry department had often expressed the wish that we might sell articles of higher value.

  “McCombs would love the tiara they stole from Bermann & Sidewash.” Joe ran a finger down the newspaper article, stopping at the description. “Just imagine this. Diamonds, pearls as big as your thumbnail, and sapphires. It would look beautiful in hair like yours, Nell.”