The Jewel Cage

by Jane Steen

  “And I’m asking you again, Miss. How old?”

  “I’m seventeen years old.”

  “And when did you turn seventeen, Miss?”

  “In June.”

  “Just seventeen, then.” Captain Culshaw made a note. “And your brother? Where does he live? What does he do?”

  Thea looked puzzled. “Is it relevant? He lives on Washington Street near the horsecar stables. He works at the stables as a yard supervisor. He’s studying to be a pastor.”

  “And how old is he?”

  “He’ll be twenty in February,” I said. I was also wondering where the captain’s questions were leading.

  “No parents? Guardian?” The officer directed the question to me.

  I looked at Martin, uncertain. Martin shook his head.

  “If anyone has authority over them in the legal sense, I suppose it’s their denomination.” He named it to the captain, who inscribed the name carefully in his notebook along with the address of the Chicago office. “That’s under the terms of their parents’ will, which is held at the denominational office. We assumed Miss Lombardi’s care for a while after their parents died, but we’ve never considered ourselves her guardians. We’re simply friends of the family.”

  “Huh.” The captain frowned. “See, I think you”—he pointed at Mr. McCombs— “probably had nothing to do with the whole thing, except for providing the opportunity by mistake. But the little lady,” he nodded at Thea, whose color had risen as we discussed her family, “I’m not so sure about. We’re going to go for a little jaunt, you and me and the police matron here. You’re going to introduce me to your friends, and then we’ll go back to your boardinghouse and have a bit of a talk. Thing is, I’ve got girls myself around your age and I know how easy they go wrong, girls. You’re what I’d call the weak point in the argument, Miss. And matters aren’t straightforward because you’re a minor child till you’re eighteen. Your brother’s the head of your family, but he’s a minor till he’s twenty-one under the laws of this great state of Illinois.” His voice was sardonic.

  “So he has no authority over me.” Thea was quick to see that point. Spots of red now burned on her pale cheeks. “What I do in the evenings has nothing to do with him. Everyone lets him live his life the way he wants; why can’t I live mine how I want? I’m doing nothing wrong or immoral.”

  “Why has an inquiry about an attempted robbery at our store suddenly become an inquiry into Miss Lombardi’s morals?” I asked. “I’m prepared to vouch for her. She’s worked at this store for a while now and has been an excellent employee.”

  “Oh, it’s still an inquiry into the robbery,” Captain Culshaw said gravely. “After we’ve had our little chats, we’ll all go back to the precinct so the detectives can talk to the young lady. But she’s a minor, and I’d be happier if she had a representative.”

  “I can be that representative.” My voice sounded high. “Or if you won’t accept a woman, how about my husband? We’re her employers.”

  “You’re a nice lady. It was your store they tried to rob, don’t forget that. Like I say, I’ve got daughters, and I want to give this matter a little thought. For the young lady’s benefit.”

  40

  Idiots

  “I don’t understand why they wouldn’t let us accompany Thea.”

  I watched in dismay as the hired carriage conveying Thea, Captain Culshaw, and the police matron maneuvered out into the slowly moving traffic, the driver shouting and waving his whip as he crossed in front of various vehicles proceeding in the other direction.

  “They might be trying to make sure it wasn’t a plan on my part to defraud the insurance company.” Martin shrugged. “Although how I’d work such a scheme is currently beyond me. I’m having trouble thinking straight.” His mouth set in a firm line as he looked down at me. “I was surprised to see you here, Nellie. What made you come to the store a day early?”

  I stared at him blankly for a moment before I remembered why I had been there. “I wanted a fitting.” I glanced down at the green dress. “I never thought of arranging for new clothes. And I wanted to talk to Madame, and to you and Joe if possible, about what’s happening at the store. After all these weeks, I just needed to come here.”

  “You wish to resume work?”

  I gaped in astonishment at my husband. “Of course I do. What did you imagine?”

  I had spoken loudly. Martin seemed to realize we were on the sidewalk within earshot of the doormen, not to mention several dozen passersby. “Let’s go inside, shall we?” He reached for my elbow.

  I glared at him and jerked my arm away, my temper coming to my aid against the despair that threatened to overcome me. “Perhaps we should walk to the Grand Pacific since that’s where you’re living now. When were you going to tell me?”

  Martin froze in place for a moment and then whipped round and raised a hand to one of the doormen. “Get us a cab, please.” And then to me: “I’d be grateful if you could wait to start an argument until we’re in my suite. It’s clearly what you have in mind.”

  “I did not come—”

  “Please, Nell.” Martin’s voice sounded strangled. His face was expressionless, but what I saw in his eyes made me fall dumb. I nodded.

  The short ride to the Grand Pacific was painful. My throat was sore with unshed tears, a situation worsened by the fact that the man I loved more than any other seemed to be holding himself away from me, sitting stiffly so that his arm did not come into contact with my person. What had I done to deserve this treatment?

  We took the elevator to the fourth floor of the hotel. Martin led me along the hushed corridors to his suite. When we entered, it was to the sight of trunks and bags piled in the center of the suite’s parlor. It was the same one where he’d stayed after he’d been released from jail, I realized.

  “As you can see, I was in the process of moving back home.” Martin waved his hand at the luggage, sounding exasperated. “I’m behind schedule.” He flung wide the bedroom door to reveal an open bag on the bed and a certain amount of disorder. “I intended to get the lot packed up by eight thirty and hoped to have it delivered to the house before you got there. In fact, I meant to leave yesterday, but I worked late. You know how it is.”

  Yes, I knew how it was. But I wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “So you were trying to hide the fact that you’d been staying in the hotel from me?”

  “Yes.” Martin pronounced the word with a certain amount of temper. “Because I was sure you’d read something into it, especially as I was at the Grand Pacific, where I’d stayed after Lucetta and I—well, you remember. Women always make assumptions.”

  Well, of course, Martin was experienced in such matters. Had been married to one woman while in love with another. His wife had “read something into it” and drawn the correct conclusion.

  “So why are you at the Grand Pacific?” I asked, trying to keep the shrewishness out of my voice.

  Martin sighed. “Because I like their barber. The Palmer House barbers never shave me quite right.” He rubbed his chin in illustration. “And I find this suite comfortable, even with the memories associated with it. Call me set in my ways if you want.”

  I made a noise indicative of frustration. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Why are you here in the first place? Instead of in our home?”

  All the air seemed to go out of Martin’s body, and he slumped bonelessly onto the one spot on the bed clear of his belongings. “I stuck it out at home for two weeks.” He inserted a finger behind his stiff collar as if it were irritating him, then swore mildly, pulled out his tiepin, untied his cravat, and fiddled with his collar studs until he’d removed the collar altogether. “I couldn’t abide it any longer. Every moment I was there reminded me you were not, and that reminded me of why you were not. I couldn’t bear the sight of our bed—the memory of you lying there with your face as white as the sheets and your tears running down into the pillow. So I was still sleeping in my dressing roo
m, and I thought, why not get away from it altogether? Perhaps a few weeks elsewhere would take my mind off it all. Make me feel less guilty.”

  That puzzled me. “You feel guilty? Why?”

  Martin looked up at me, his eyes wide, seemingly astonished that I didn’t realize. “For wanting a son so much. For wishing and hoping and praying that I’d get you with child in the first place, as if that were the only reason for our marriage. I feel guilty that after you told me you were having our baby, all I could think about was the boy I wanted.” He looked down at his polished shoes. “When it should have been you—your health—that mattered. When I should have been praying for a healthy child, not the right child.”

  His voice had become hoarse, and he cleared his throat noisily. I sank down into a chair, unable to hold my tears back any longer, and covered my face with my hands. I heard Martin take several deep breaths before he continued.

  “When I saw her—Ruth—she was so beautiful, so perfect—” He choked again and coughed. “After the grief had worn off a bit, I was ashamed. I kept thinking of the daughter I—we—might have had. A little girl who’d have been a joy to us both, a sister for Sarah; I’m sure she’d love a sister—”

  He stopped because my tears had become sobs that shook my entire body. I was gritting my teeth to stop myself from wailing and didn’t realize he’d moved until his arms came around me and held me tight. I resisted for a moment, and then the last vestige of my anger dissipated. I leaned my head into the bare skin of his neck, my tears running down to soak his shirt.

  We stayed like that for what seemed a long time before I was able to speak.

  “I feel guilty too.”

  I had to say it three times. The first two tries were so incoherent that Martin didn’t understand; I had to stop and get a grip on my emotions, wipe my face, and blow my nose. The process made me a little calmer, even though my head ached abominably.

  “Why do you feel guilty, sweetheart?” asked Martin with such tenderness that I almost burst into tears again. “I told you, it wasn’t your fault. You got enough rest.”

  “I feel guilty for not wanting to have another child.” I gulped down air. “There, I’ve said it. I was afraid you’d trap me into staying at home when I wanted to be at the store. I feared I’d—I’d lose myself in being a mother.” I heaved a sigh. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I’ve been a good mother to Sarah, even while I’ve grown as a dressmaker. I’m surrounded by help—by kind women—and if I need more assistance, we can easily afford it.” I blew my nose again. “But I never wanted to get married—never wanted children—and it’s hard to shake off the old, self-centered Nell Lillington even after I realized I loved you so much I’d have to marry you anyway and to Hades with the consequences. And now you don’t seem to want me anymore—”

  “Don’t want you?” Martin let go of me and rose to his feet, pacing swiftly as he spoke. “I haven’t known what to do with myself for wanting you.” He smote himself on the forehead. “Oh, perhaps that’s not what you mean—the physical side—”

  “Well, I can’t imagine what I mean otherwise,” I retorted, indignant. “The ‘physical side,’ as you call it, is part and parcel of marriage, after all.”

  “Exactly.” Martin groaned. “I’ve hardly dared touch you because I’d have wanted to put my hands on you, and I was scared of giving you another child and making you ill, and I was afraid you’d reject me and—well, if it weren’t for Joe, I’d still be running around in those particular circles.”

  “Joe?” I was mildly amused at the sudden appearance of Joseph Salazar in our marital discussion, pleased to notice that my frame of mind had somehow shifted into a much better quarter.

  Martin waved a hand. “That was part of what made me so late last night, if you must know. Joe forced me to talk to him. He’s known me a long time, and men recognize that mood, where you want a woman and it makes you tense and irritable as a horse with a saddle sore. It makes life a particular hell for very young men at times.” He grinned briefly. “So I fessed up, and he called me a damned fool.”

  “He did?” I was becoming more cheerful by the second.

  “He sat me down and explained that every man whose wife has had a baby—or a miscarriage—is the same at first. We see our women as fragile when they’re not. Well, some are, but anyway, he told me to just ask you. Or at least to ask you to let me know when you were ready. He told me I had to be honest and run the risk of rejection. And as for making you ill again, well—oh, I can’t even tell you what he said. It contained rather a lot of personal history. And he ended up by pointing out I had proved I could father a child and should be eager to prove as much again.”

  “Hmph. How ridiculous that I hadn’t even thought of that way of looking at things.” I smiled at the thought. “You don’t have to worry about not being able to father a child anymore.”

  I rose to my feet to face Martin, putting out a hand to stop his pacing. “I rather think we’ve both been complete idiots. I’m really going to have to learn to trust you.”

  “But do you still not want a baby? There are ways—it would be less dangerous—”

  “Don’t be absurd.” I locked my arms around Martin’s lean waist and pulled him to me. “Although if you start making babies on me one after the other as Elizabeth and David seem set on doing, I might ask you to read a certain book I could borrow. I—”

  But whatever I was about to say was interrupted by a kiss that seemed to go on for an indecently long time. If I hadn’t known it before, the warmth in my body told me I was most decidedly ready for a resumption of marital bliss. I believe that fact communicated itself to Martin in an entirely satisfactory manner.

  The clock on the parlor mantelpiece struck the hour, its clear chime only too audible through the open door. Martin stopped kissing me and groaned loudly.

  “Dear heaven, why do I afflict myself with responsibilities when I could be taking my wife to bed for the rest of the day?” He kissed my neck, nuzzling into the base of my hair. “I still have an attempted robbery to deal with. I suppose I should send for word of Thea and see if I need to consult an attorney for her sake. Blast the girl.”

  “And I should get a fitting done at the very least. I can’t possibly appear at the store in last year’s modes.” I pulled away from Martin, ignoring his grimace of frustration. “Are my eyes horribly red?”

  “You look beautiful.”

  He moved forward to kiss me, but I dodged around him, picking up his collar from where he’d thrown it onto the bed. I supposed it was a good thing the bed was covered with bags . . .

  “Here.” I held out the collar to him. “Resume the yoke of oppression while I do something about my face and hair. We can pack the rest of your things in ten minutes and have it all sent off home, then get to the store in time to get some work done.”

  “I’ll put on a fresh collar.” Martin wrinkled his nose at a tiny crease on the one I’d handed him. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed. “But promise me that when we get home . . .”

  “I promise you that if I’m still able to stand . . .” I laughed as Martin made a grab at me, skipping away from him. “Or lie down . . . we’ll exorcize the bad memories from our bed.” I sobered a little. “Or at least we’ll remember them as a sad moment in a long and happy marriage.”

  “What news?”

  Martin spotted Joe immediately as we walked through Rutherford’s main doors. Our general manager was busy talking to one of the night watchmen, who had clearly just arrived. I saw him disguise his indelicate grin at the sight of the two of us arm in arm with a quick series of coughs. I hoped he didn’t imagine that we . . . and in the middle of a police inquiry too . . . but his demeanor quickly switched from that of a friend to that of a business partner, with just a hint of the friend remaining as a glint in his dark eyes.

  “All serene here.” He nodded at the watchman, who tipped his cap to the two of us and moved purposefully toward the rear of the store. “There’v
e been some reporters. The man from the Tribune is going to keep coming back till he gets a statement out of you. You recall how enthusiastic they’ve been about writing up the robberies.”

  Martin nodded. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning, not before. Until then, nobody in the store is to speak to the press. We’ll need a meeting tomorrow morning to discuss the timing system.”

  “Already arranged. It’ll have to be at seven, of course.” Joe looked hard at Martin. “Are you going to fire anyone?”

  “Probably not. But it’s going to be unpleasant for all concerned.” He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and looked at it. “I intend to be home in time to see my daughter before she goes to bed. What should we do about Miss Lombardi?”

  “My advice is to do nothing.” The lines at the corners of Joe’s expressive mouth deepened. “If the police charge her, she’ll spend the night in a cell, but I doubt it’ll come to that. They’ll probably give her a hard time and eventually have Teddy take her home. Or perhaps they’ll decide she’s entirely innocent. I imagine she can talk her own way out if she is.”

  “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” I asked. “She’s so young. Perhaps I should—”

  “No, you shouldn’t.” Martin gave me what my mother would have called an old-fashioned look. “You’re here to get a fitting, remember? Running after Thea won’t solve anything. In any event, I had no intention of just abandoning her to the police.” He looked apologetically at Joe Salazar. “Joe, do you think you could get someone from Isaacson’s to run over and see what’s happening? It’s a bit late in the day, but a firm of attorneys should be used to that. They certainly had to work some strange hours for my case.”

  It wasn’t often that Martin referred to his own months of tribulation in the grasp of the law, but he sounded quite unconcerned, as if the memory were of no moment. A sign of healing, perhaps. We did heal, I realized. Sobbing in Martin’s arms had calmed and refreshed me. My wits revived and, along with them, my interest in work.