The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  “Ten seconds to midnight,” Ambrose called. “Nine. Eight. Seven …”

  He continued the countdown while waiters quickly circulated with thick cashmere shawls for the ladies. Columbine felt the involuntary shiver of excitement that comes with the dawn of a new year. Ned slipped a shawl around her shoulders and she brought her hand up under cover of darkness and placed it over his for a moment. Daringly, Ned leaned forward and kissed her fingers. A mute apology; a good start to the new year. She looked at him, and he smiled. Her heart squeezed with love and relief. She still loved him, of course, her Ned, with his boyish thick brown hair, his keen eyes, his ironic eyebrow that quirked at her with such quizzical intelligence. Even though the intellectual rebel she’d fallen for had evolved into a surprisingly clever financier on the death of his father, and become a member of the establishment she railed against. Even though she sensed they were growing apart, and it frightened her.

  “Three. Two. One! It’s Eighteen-Ninety!” Ambrose laughed aloud. Through the clear night air, the faint ringing of church bells could be heard.

  Now they all looked expectantly down into the shadows of the park. Ambrose muttered underneath his breath, then said aloud, “Any moment, now!”

  Ambrose’s exhortation was answered by a series of pops, followed by a tremendous explosion. It had force and weight, ripping through the air like an unnatural, deafening clap of thunder and rolling against their faces. The ladies screamed and shrank back, and the men and Columbine surged forward. A cloud of smoke billowed up from the ground below. A horrible scream pierced the clear night air. Shouts could be heard, along with running footsteps. A slight figure, a woman in the white apron of a kitchen worker, ran across Fifth Avenue toward the trees, disappearing in the smoke.

  Ambrose pushed his way to the end of the terrace. He leaned over the terrace railing. “What happened?” he shouted frantically. “What is it?” He strained to hear over the sound of the guests’ agitated murmurings and the shouts below.

  Those in the front heard it, then: the sound of barely concealed panic in the voice of an unseen man below. “You’d better come down, sir. And send for a doctor. It looks bad, sir.”

  Ambrose turned, his face white. He pushed back toward the French doors. There, Maud touched his arm, but he shook her off.

  Ned spoke in Columbine’s ear. “I’ll go with him.”

  Columbine watched Ned head quickly after Ambrose. She could hear a woman shrieking below, and she leaned over the terrace railing while the other guests headed back to the salon. She could see nothing except a tall man heading back across Fifth Avenue, walking quickly, almost running. Then burly Ambrose charged across the street, followed closely by Ned and some other servants. Chaos swirled below, and Columbine shivered.

  She made her way over to Maud in the salon. “You’d better send for a doctor,” she told her. “Someone is injured.”

  Maud stood frozen in the middle of her guests. “But the servants have their own doctor,” she said idiotically. “Howell knows him. I don’t know his name …”

  “Mrs. Hartley, you must send for your doctor,” Columbine repeated fiercely. “Immediately. If he has a telephone, call him.” Dropping the shawl and gathering up her full gold skirt, she pushed past Maud and ran down the hall toward the stairs, past the Corot and the suite of Goya drawings, past the medieval armor and the Ming vases.

  They were carrying the man in when she reached the bottom of the stairs. The woman in the white apron stood near him; perhaps she was his wife, or his sweetheart. Strands of extravagant red hair were loose from her white cap and waved around her thin white face. Her green eyes were blazing, but they were dry. Columbine wondered at the woman’s composure, but then she saw how her work-reddened hand shook as it fleetingly, uselessly, reached out to touch the heavy shoe of the groaning man.

  The groans were awful to hear. Columbine felt the lightheadedness that comes with the shock of sudden accident, the smell of blood. Ned was supporting the man’s head, black from gunpowder, and Ambrose trailed behind, wringing his hands. The usually imperturbable Howell, the butler, was in his shirtsleeves, frantically directing the bearers to lay the man gently on the carpet in the small salon to the left of the entrance hall.

  Ambrose stumbled toward Columbine. He seemed not to see her. His hand flailed out and hit the marble banister.

  “Who is it?” she asked him. “Who was hurt?”

  “Devlin,” he said, his eyes on the salon as the man was lowered onto the rug. “The Aubusson,” he whispered. “Maud will be furious. They should have used the cloakroom.”

  Disgusted with him, Columbine turned away. She sank down on a small tufted bench and clasped her cold hands together. She could see that one of the men, dressed in rough stable clothes, was gently cutting Devlin’s sleeve away. What should have been a hand was a mass of blood and tissue. Columbine felt sick, and she looked away for a moment, took a deep breath, then looked back. Someone put a towel underneath the arm, causing Devlin to groan again. Fresh blood spurted out onto the carpet.

  Then Ned looked up, caught sight of her, and frowned. He left the salon, closing the door behind him. “You shouldn’t be down here,” he said. “You look pale as a ghost.”

  “I’m fine,” Columbine said, though she did feel dizzy. She stood up again. “How is he?”

  Ned shook his head. “I’m no doctor, but it looks bad. Where is the doctor? Has he been sent for?”

  “Howell telephoned him,” Ambrose said wearily. He seemed to be coming out of his daze. “I’d better see to the guests. Maud will want to start the dancing, I’m sure.”

  “Dancing?” Columbine asked, incredulous. Surely Ambrose wouldn’t continue the festivities after a man had been so badly injured. He must be in shock.

  “Yes, it was supposed to start immediately after the fireworks.” Ambrose grimaced. “You know how particular Maud is about her parties. You two should come to the ballroom. Your absence will be noticed.” Suddenly, Ambrose was all business. “There’s no need to mention this upstairs, of course. I’ll just make a short speech, say everything’s all right.”

  Ned shot Columbine a warning look as she opened her mouth to protest. He said gently, “Ambrose, let me make a suggestion, if I may. Perhaps you should postpone the dancing until we talk to the doctor. The man could be dying.”

  “Ned, I have responsibilities—”

  “Exactly,” Ned broke in. “I can go upstairs and explain the situation to Maud. I’m sure when the guests know what transpired they’ll understand. You might want to remain here with your servant to demonstrate your concern—”

  “Of course I’m concerned, old man. Even though Devlin was not the most reliable of employees. And I regret his carelessness, of course—”

  “His carelessness?” Columbine broke in. She had to struggle to keep her voice down. “Don’t you mean your criminal disregard for his safety? I heard your butler tell you Devlin thought the fireworks unsafe. You knew—”

  “Nonsense,” Ambrose snapped. “You must have been imagining things, Mrs. Nash.”

  “I assure you, sir, I do not imagine things,” Columbine said tersely. “I heard every word of your conversation.”

  “Are you calling me a liar, Mrs. Nash? If you were a man—”

  “If I were a man, I’d call you a liar in a deeper voice, Mr. Hartley.”

  Ned looked from one to the other. “Ambrose, Columbine told me after you left the room that you were concerned about the fireworks. Did you know the fireworks were unsafe and order Devlin to set them off?”

  Ambrose tried to smile. “I know you’re two years older, Neddie, but I hardly think that gives you the right to quiz me. But I will tell you that the accident was Devlin’s fault. Perhaps he misjudged the amount of explosives—how am I to know? It was not my responsibility! If he felt it was unsafe, he could have refused.”

  “He did refuse,” Columbine said evenly. “And I am sure if you did not actually threaten him with the loss of his po
sition, nonetheless, that fear drove him to light the fireworks he knew were dangerous.”

  Ambrose turned back to Columbine with some relief, for she was a less formidable enemy than his oldest friend. “Mrs. Nash,” he said with a smile that was all teeth and no amusement, “I wish you would confine your socialist speeches to Union Square. I am not here to baby a servant who had the unfortunate luck to—”

  “To what?” Columbine snapped. “Blow off his hand? Yes, it was careless of him, wasn’t it? How unfortunate.”

  Ambrose stared at her, and she stared back. It was all she could do not to shriek at him. But Columbine knew no amount of shouting would pound the truth into Ambrose. Years of training would allow him to elude his responsibility without the slightest stain on his conscience or reputation.

  Ignoring Columbine, Ambrose turned to Ned. He spoke with the gravity of a patriarch dealing with a recalcitrant child. “I’ll ignore Mrs. Nash’s accusations for your sake, Ned. Obviously, she’s distraught. Now, I’m asking you, as my oldest friend, to bring Mrs. Nash and come upstairs now, with me. Maud is waiting.”

  Ned stood straight as a post, staring at his friend. “Ambrose,” he said painfully, “if I do, it would appear that I support your behavior. Your duty is to your servant, Ambrose.”

  “You need not tell me my duty, sir!” Ambrose hissed. His hands clenched and unclenched. Columbine had never seen jolly Ambrose ever raise his voice except in merriment. And she saw her lover hesitate. The code, she thought bitterly. Ned will not abandon his friend.

  “We must begin the dancing,” Ambrose repeated. His face was tight. “Maud will agree. I must tell the orchestra to begin. Let’s go upstairs.”

  They heard a movement behind them. Turning, Columbine saw the same red-haired woman who had run across the street and later, touched the injured man’s shoe. Now her face was strangely composed, her hair tucked back into her cap. But then Columbine saw her eyes. There was something deep and savage there that chilled her. The contemptuous emerald gaze flicked from Ambrose’s face to Ned’s to Columbine’s and found them all equally despicable.

  “Do you have a message for me, Fiona?” Ambrose prodded sharply.

  “Oh, but I don’t like to interrupt the dancing.” The woman’s face was impassive. Her strong, reddened hands were still by her side. Yet Columbine felt she had raised a fist. It was the absence of the usual posture—the bowed head, the almost silent murmur, the curtsey—that sent an electric charge through the air.

  Ambrose flushed heavily. “Fiona! If you have no message, return to the kitchen.”

  “The doctor is here,” Fiona answered. Again, there was a shock, widening outward like a stone dropped in a pool—the absence of the obligatory sir.

  Ambrose’s voice shook. His face held the rigid lines of panic barely in check. “Howell will see to him. And you may pack your bags tonight, Fiona. There will be no letter of reference. I will not countenance insubordination.”

  Fiona said nothing. She pivoted and returned to the small salon, closing the door gently behind her. They heard the man groan again, muffled this time.

  Ned took a step toward Ambrose, but was waved off.

  “Do what you will, Ned,” Ambrose said, turning his back and starting up the stairs. “I must see to my guests.” He climbed the stairs heavily and disappeared around the turning.

  Ned stared after him. “Columbine, I’ve known Ambrose all my life. I know his weaknesses. He is afraid, and he’s acting abominably, I know, but if I wait until he calms down and talk to him again—”

  “Stay then.” She spoke the words flatly. “I am not going upstairs to put in an appearance. You may dance the rest of the night away, but I cannot. I cannot remain under this roof. Don’t you see that I cannot?” Columbine asked, striving to remain calm. When Ned didn’t reply, she bowed her head and closed her eyes for a moment. There, she thought. There it is. The difference between us that will destroy us. He hesitates. And maybe he’ll stay.

  She turned, her silk skirts rustling, and blundered back down the hall, feeling tears begin behind her eyelids. She tried to remember where the cloakroom was. It must be the carved oak door to the right of the double front doors. Blindly, Columbine reached for the knob.

  But Ned’s fingers were there before her. He twisted the knob, found her fur-lined cloak. He didn’t speak as they waited for their carriage. Their breath clouded in the cold air, mingled and dissipated. Ned’s face set in stern lines, and he didn’t look at her or take her hand. But whether he was angry at Ambrose or her, she didn’t know.

  The carriage drew up with a clatter of hooves. Ned ushered her into the leather seat. Columbine sank back with an almost silent groan. She felt twice her years. The decade had just begun, with cries and blood and a yellow sky full of ill portents. She suddenly felt too ill-equipped, old and tired, to cope with any of it.

  Two

  THIRTY BLOCKS DOWNTOWN and three long blocks west, Marguerite Corbeau heard the bells toll the hour of midnight and the start of the new decade. She wished herself a happy and prosperous new year.

  She would turn nineteen in the coming year, and Marguerite was not pleased at the thought. Time brushed against her smooth cheeks like a draft from a rapidly closing door, and she felt the chill. She wasn’t beautiful like Columbine or luscious like Bell. She wasn’t fashionably round. She was slight and pretty, and she was bored with her brief stint at political commitment. She had given herself two years to marry—and here was one year almost gone. Avid as any debutante, she knew her only way to find herself a position was through a man.

  Columbine had rescued her from a life of domestic service, offering her a room in her own home and a job doing clerical work for the New Women Society. It was easy work, and at first Marguerite had been grateful for it. The freedom to do as she pleased on her hours off was enough to convince her she’d made the right decision.

  But over the past year, Marguerite had grown more dissatisfied. At the Statton mansion she had watched and listened. She’d improved her speech and her manners. Here, too, at the house on Twenty-third Street, Columbine Nash was a model of grace, and she even knew how to dress. But what was the use of improving herself if she never met any suitable candidates? Here, the only men Marguerite met were poor poets or ragged revolutionaries. Socialists, dreamers, exiles.

  She would have to create her own ticket out. If she didn’t take charge of her life, before she knew it she would be like Bell, twenty-seven and unmarried, an old maid. Fiercely, Marguerite pulled the mauve cashmere shawl Columbine had given her for Christmas more tightly around her shoulders. She knew more than ever now that it was time to act. Horatio Jones would have to do.

  The young newspaperman wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but he was a step in the right direction. He came from a good family. He had important contacts, he knew everyone in the city. Through him, she could meet others. If he didn’t marry her, he might introduce her to someone who could do just as well. Or better.

  Underneath the sapphire blue velvet dressing gown trimmed in white satin—a hand-me-down from the generous Columbine—she was wearing only a summer chemise, half-buttoned. Her bare skin felt cold, and she longed for her warm winter nightgown. But winter flannels didn’t fit into her plan. Horatio Jones would soon be seeing Bell home, and if Marguerite was right, he would step inside for a quick cup of hot tea before heading downtown to his rooms.

  Marguerite reached for the mirror on her nighttable and looked into it gravely. Her thick black hair was in a state of pretty disarrangement it had taken her twenty minutes to contrive. Her small fingers wandered down to fuss with her unbuttoned chemise. Not too much white skin exposed, just her throat and the tops of her small breasts. When she dropped the book, if he was quick, and she would bet that he would be, Horatio would get a flash of pink nipples. And amid it all, she would be the picture of prettily confused dishevelment.

  Marguerite sat up, listening intently, as hooves clopped outside her window. No, they were going p
ast. She settled back against her pillow again. It was too cold to remain outside the covers. Last week she’d been lucky enough to overhear Bell and Horatio after their evening out together. They’d quarrelled over Bell’s tiresome insistence on keeping their relations not merely chaste—that, Horatio had insisted, he would understand—but absolutely free of any physical contact whatsoever. It was a wonder, Marguerite thought, that Horatio put up with Bell at all. But the woman was so damnably luscious, full lips and round figure, wasp-waisted, a real beauty. It was a pity Bell’s feminine charms ended with her face and figure. She had a straightforward manner that was impressive in its own way. But she had a complete absence of guile, and that was deadly in a woman.

  As a result, Marguerite thought, biting her lips to make them redder and studying the effect in the small mirror, the ambitious young muckraker Mr. Jones just might be ripe for the plucking. She might not have Bell’s looks, but Marguerite might be willing to give at least a taste to Mr. Jones of what Bell would not. Bell would probably be relieved, for it was painfully obvious to everyone but Horatio that she would never be in the least bit serious about him.

  The sound of a carriage on the street below made Marguerite rise on her elbows. The horses’ hooves slowed, and she was up at the window, slipping behind the curtain to peer down. Just a glimpse of the top of Horatio’s hat and she was moving, gathering her robe in two determined fists and flying across the room and down the hall to the back stairs to the kitchen. Through the kitchen and dining room and scooting into the library. As she carefully closed the door halfway, she heard Horatio and Bell in the front hall. Marguerite took several deep breaths to get her breathing back to normal. Then she plucked a book from the bookshelves and strained to listen.