The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  That thought propelled up the stairs and made her hand strong as she let the knocker fall. She gave the butler her card, folding over the left corner to let him know she wanted to be received. She’d already written “an urgent matter concerning your son” on the back.

  She was left to wait in the front parlor. Marguerite nervously noted how elegant the room was. She had read of the Vanderbilt drawing rooms in the Japanese or French mode, of jeweled butterflies sewn in the velvet curtains, of the carved wainscoting, the marble fireplaces, the ebony furniture inlaid with gold. But here the elegance of the furnishings lay in their rich, discreet velvets and fine woods. Family pictures were collected on a small table, and over the mantlepiece was a luminious landscape of a Hudson River school painter. There was a minimum of the jumble and display of most parlors, however, and something in the room seemed chilly to Marguerite, despite the cheer of a small fire. Perhaps it was the absence of books, or periodicals, or even a pair of glasses forgotten on a table. Nothing personal was in this room. Used to Columbine’s clutter, and her own messes, Marguerite found it strange.

  A throat cleared behind her, and she whirled around to find the butler had returned. She was afraid that he’d been sent to escort her out again, but he told her that Mr. Stiers would receive her in the library, and to please follow him.

  She walked down a long red carpeted hall to a room at the back of the house. Her first impression on entering the room was of strong masculinity; she could smell cigars and leather and fine old brandy. Mr. Winthrop Stiers stood in the middle of the green Persian rug looking at her with a bland expression. He was almost seventy, she knew, but he still had the same elegance of form that Edwin had inherited. He waited until the butler had withdrawn and closed the door behind him. “Miss Corbeau,” he said neutrally.

  “Mr. Stiers, you must forgive me for intruding like this. If it weren’t a matter of the greatest urgency, I would not have disturbed you.”

  He nodded slightly. “Please sit down.”

  Marguerite sat in the straight-backed chair he indicated while he went back behind the desk. She wished they could have sat in the armchairs in front of the fire, but this would have to do. She knew she created a pretty impression in her white velvet hat trimmed with lilac grosgrain ribbons and violets. Even though her cheeks were pale, she told herself that it gave her an aristocratic look.

  “You know my son?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I became acquainted with your son several months ago, sir. We became … attached. He asked me to marry him some months ago.”

  He nodded again, only slightly, but at least he gave no sign that this information distressed him.

  “Edwin wants to tell you,” she said. “But he can’t. It’s that he wants to please you so much. He reveres you, Mr. Stiers. And I,” she said softly, her lashes trembling as she looked down at her prettily clasped hands, “revere him.”

  “Shouldn’t it be my son’s place to tell me this, Miss Corbeau?”

  “Of course. But I thought if I came to you, bold a step as it may be, and presented myself to you as your future daughter-in-law, we could be frank with one another. Edwin is proud, Mr. Stiers. He would think it an insult to explain his choice, to have to answer questions about my background. But I know there are things you must ask, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to do so. I am an orphan, but I come from a good family in France. My father was a very prosperous grain merchant. He was a gentleman, and I was educated to be a lady. My family emigrated five years ago, and unfortunately my parents died soon after arriving in America. I was raised by my aunt, who had fallen on hard circumstances. But still, she had a respectable house upstate. She died a year ago, and I moved to New York.” Marguerite prayed that none of these details would be checked. She would just have to risk it.

  “I see,” he said. “Are you aware, Miss Corbeau, that Edwin is already an engaged man?”

  Marguerite swallowed. “No,” she said confusedly, “no, I was not. Edwin never said—”

  “It is not official as of yet. Certain arrangements still have to be made with the father of the lady. But it is a matter of time.” He reached for a silver box and extracted a cigar. Marguerite’s stomach rolled over at the thought of the smell. He did not ask if she minded, and she could hardly ask him to abstain. She’d already spent all her courage to come to him at all. She leaned back.

  “I think Edwin would have told me if he was serious about this,” she said slowly. “Perhaps it is you who want the engagement, Mr. Stiers, not your son.”

  “Are you so sure of that, Miss Corbeau?” He clipped the end of the cigar and lit it, puffing slowly. “I must confess I am still puzzled as to why you have chosen to come to me. But you have, and you’ve said your piece, I assume, so can we consider the interview closed?”

  Perspiration gathered under Marguerite’s armpits, and she was glad she had not removed her cloak, even though she felt hot. “No,” she said. “I have not finished.” A cloud of cigar smoke rolled over the desk toward her.

  “Ah. Now comes what you would call the payoff, eh?”

  What you would call So despite her pretty dress, her hat, her careful words, her cultivated manner, he had seen through it all. He knew she was not of his class. Marguerite tamped down her anger; she reminded herself that she must charm this man. “No,” she said, “not a ‘payoff,’ whatever that may be. I’m carrying your son’s child, Mr. Stiers.”

  He lowered the cigar slowly. His face went white, tense. His nostrils were tinged pink. Something about the look in his watery gray eyes frightened her, and she understood now what Edwin told her the family called his father’s “dead eye.” And suddenly, she was reminded of her own father. It was the same look, frightening in its opacity.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Only acceptance,” she said, swallowing. “I was wrong. But I was in love. Edwin and I lost our heads, as well as our hearts. But I think we would do a greater wrong to you if we were forced to elope. Only you can make the marriage happen with any speed. Sir, I’m here before you to show you who I am, to show you that I’m a respectable person. Accept me into your family. I am carrying your grandchild. I love Edwin with all my heart. I’ll make him a good wife, Mr. Stiers.”

  He continued to stare at her, his face a mask. Marguerite held his gaze as long as she could, then looked down at her lap again.

  “You are a pretty child,” he said in rapid French.

  “Thank you, sir,” she responded in French. “But I do not consider myself still a child. I am a woman in love with a man.”

  It was a test, and she’d passed it. She knew her accent was perfect. Her mother had the accent of an aristocrat; she’d made sure that Marguerite did not pick up the peasant French in Lille.

  Winthrop Stiers pressed his lips together. He seemed to be struggling with a decision. The smoke from the cigar assaulted her nostrils. Marguerite couldn’t help it; she turned her head away.

  Immediately, he put it out, standing up as he did so. “You look very pale, Miss Corbeau. I think you could do with a rest. Jameson will escort you to a guest room, where you can lie down. I’m going to summon Edwin home and discuss this with him.” He came around the desk and helped her rise. He seemed almost kind now. “Don’t you see, this has come as a shock.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  He raised her chin with a finger. “You’re very beautiful, Miss Corbeau, and very forthright. I quite see why Edwin fell in love with you.”

  Her eyes dropped. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, you’ve had a very upsetting time, and you need your rest. Then we’ll see what we’ll do, all right?”

  She nodded gratefully, glad now to put her fate in his hands. She was so tired.

  She fell asleep almost immediately in the guest room, her cheek against cool linen. It was a light, pleasant sleep, and she dreamed of being on stage again. But this time her voice came out silvery and pure. She could not sing a wrong note, and roses
were heaped at her feet. William Paradise smiled at her, his forest eyes approving.

  When there was a tap at the door, she woke immediately. “Come in,” she said, raising herself on her elbows, thinking it would be Edwin.

  But it was the butler. “I’m to escort you to the front door, miss.”

  “But where is Mr. Stiers—I mean, Mr. Edwin?”

  “If you’ll follow me, miss. You’re to go home now, Mr. Stiers said.”

  Puzzled, Marguerite put on her hat and coat. Perhaps Edwin was meeting her at her house. She followed the butler down the hall. “How long have I been asleep?” she asked him.

  “Over two hours, miss.”

  Marguerite found herself on the front stairs without quite knowing how or why she was there. She looked back, but the door was already shutting in her face.

  It was past five o’clock. Edwin was most likely waiting for her in her house; it was thoughtful of Mr. Stiers to realize they should discuss their future in privacy. Marguerite hailed a cab and sank back against the upholstery with a sigh. She supposed Edwin might be angry that she had gone over his head. But he could not stay angry, for her idea had worked. That solicitiousness of Mr. Stiers had not been faked. She was carrying his first grandchild. He would not compromise that.

  She got back to her house with a great sense of relief. It had started to rain, and she was still groggy from her nap. It would feel like heaven to be in front of a roaring fire with a cup of tea. Marguerite climbed the stairs wearily. She pushed at the door, but it was locked, and she hadn’t taken her key. She rang the bell for Bridget.

  It seemed a full minute before the door opened a crack. A frightened Bridget peered out at her. “Oh, Miss,” she said stupidly.

  “Let me in, Bridget,” Marguerite snapped. “Can’t you see I’m getting wet?”

  “I can’t miss.” The maid said the words in a hurry. “Mr. Stiers forbids me to, miss. I’m so sorry, miss,” she said in a low moan.

  “This is impossible,” Marguerite said. “This is my home. What about my clothes?”

  “You’re to have nothing, miss. Goodbye, miss. I’m sorry.” Bridget slammed the door. The lock slid home.

  Marguerite stared at the closed door in shock. The rain began to fall faster. She ran down the stairs, yelling at the driver to wait, for he’d hesitated at the curb.

  “The Union Club,” she called to him, and stayed erect, her face set, for the short ride to Edwin’s club.

  She guessed that he would go there for dinner, or at least a drink, to get away from his father. Mr. Stiers must have laid down the law; that evil man had done this to her. He had tricked her. Edwin didn’t know that his father had done this. But she would fix Winthrop Stiers. She would get his precious son to elope with her. She’d never let him see the baby, never …

  She dismissed the cab without thinking, for her money was low. But now she had to wait on the sidewalk in the rain. She positioned herself across the street, under a tree. She was wet through now, and she wrapped her arms around herself to stay the shivers that racked her body. She was on fire with her purpose, and hardly noticed the cold.

  She seemed to wait for hours, but it was about fifteen minutes, when she saw Edwin alight from a hack. “Edwin!” she called, running across the street.

  He turned, shocked, when he saw her. “What are you doing?” he hissed. He looked behind him nervously at the windows. Then, taking her arm, he led her across the street.

  She began to laugh. His hurry was so comical, and the rain was falling, and they were so wet. “Edwin,” she said breathlessly, “your father locked me out of my house. Can you imagine such a thing? Bridget was terrified—” She stopped abruptly when the look on Edwin’s face registered. It was a look of shame, and defiance, and now, suddenly, she felt the cold in the marrow of her bones.

  “You did it,” she said.

  “Father made me,” Edwin said, not meeting her eyes.

  “Edwin, how could you do this to me? I’m carrying your child. And you love me,” she said with a sob.

  “Marguerite, Father thinks it best if I have no contact with you,” Edwin said uncomfortably. “I wanted to give you money, but he said it could be construed as blackmail. He said there should be no ties between us.”

  “But the baby …”

  “I can’t be sure it’s mine, you see,” he said. “I can’t even be sure there’s a baby at all. I met you at that dinner, for God’s sake, with all those naked women. I had to tell Father how I met you.”

  He sounded like a boy. A foolish, wavering boy. And he looked like a boy, with his wet head, his calf eyes. Betrayal wasn’t always cruel. Sometimes it came in the guise of weakness.

  Rain and tears fell down her face, and she drank in the taste of salt. She could hardly see now; a film of rain and rage clogged her vision.

  Edwin pressed something in her hand, and her fingers closed over it. Marguerite wanted to fling the money in his face, but what would that get her but satisfaction?

  Edwin felt rain seep down his collar, and he thought of the roaring fire in the Union Club with longing. “I’m sorry, Marguerite,” he said. But along with the remorse he felt relief; the worst was over. And Marguerite did not look as pretty now, with her red nose and her lank hair. And the men at the club, his friends, the men he’d gone to Harvard with, wouldn’t laugh at him, the way his father said they would should he be foolish enough to marry his first mistress, one of Stanford White’s chippies that a dozen men had had, most likely. Or at least that was what would be whispered.

  And he wouldn’t ask Georgina Halstead to marry him, no matter what his father said. No, he would stand up and be a man. He would choose his own bride. But he would not choose Marguerite.

  Edwin turned away because he could not stand her eyes. I’ll get a cab for you,” he mumbled.

  “And where will I go, Edwin?” she asked him dryly.

  He had no answer. He looked callow and stupid. She didn’t want him, anyway. Marguerite turned and walked away, down the long sidewalk, and left him standing there. And as she trudged away she left behind any tiny bit of harbored, giddy innocence that had remained in her heart.

  Seventeen

  ELIJAH AND TAVISH had gone off to a meeting of Elijah’s reading group, which tackled everything from Henry George to George Eliot, and Columbine and Darcy had the long evening to spend together. They settled into armchairs pulled close to the fire, with a small table with tea and sandwiches between them.

  “I like this room,” Darcy said approvingly. “I loved your old parlor, of course, but this is so elegant and light somehow. I like the proportions, and the big bay window.”

  “Yes, I think I’ll be happy here,” Columbine said with a yawn. Now that she had Darcy all to herself, she was chagrined to find that she was sleepy. She straightened up and moved a bit back from the fire.

  “And are you happy with Elijah Reed?” Darcy asked, picking up a chicken sandwich with a show at unconcern.

  Columbine laughed. “I remember when you used to have to circle round a tender topic, Darcy. Is it your journalistic training that’s taught you to strike right at the heart?”

  “No, just my curiosity,” Darcy answered with a grin. “I just want to know if you are happy, Columbine. It’s not clear to me, or to Tavish, I’m afraid. It’s obvious that Elijah loves you, but—”

  Columbine looked into the fire. “But?”

  “Well, there is something … Something that he holds back. You talk of your life, and he of his, as though they are totally separate.”

  “But they are. After all, we’re not married.”

  “This from a free lover? You are committed to each other.”

  Columbine’s voice was muffled. “I don’t know if we’re committed to each other or not. Or rather, I don’t think that Elijah is capable of it. He told me that from the beginning. The nature of his work, his life, is so different. He doesn’t like to be settled. Do you know that he’s lived in six cities in the past five ye
ars?”

  “Yes, he seems a man who avoids entanglements.”

  “It’s because he’s lost so many people, from a very early age. And he saw horrors in the war. Then he married, and his wife died a long and particularly awful death from cancer.” Columbine gave a deep sigh. “But it’s not just those circumstances, though they shaped him. I’m inclined to believe that we’re formed from the cradle, able to love well or not to love well, and whatever life brings us we fit into that scheme of things.”

  “But Columbine, what about redemption?” Darcy asked, startled to hear such pessimism from the normally sunny Columbine. “What about the human capacity for change, or surprise?”

  “Oh, we have the illusion that we can change our natures,” Columbine answered. “That’s the romance of life. What is life for, but striving to be good, to be better? But can Elijah Reed break out of an emotional prison formed since childhood—or can I help him do so? I don’t think so.”

  She sounded so sad that Darcy reached over and took her hand. “I changed, Columbine. How can you forget that? You’re the one who helped me. My emotions were crippled. I had been locked all my life in that same prison. And yet, I learned how to love. Through Tavish, and you.”

  Columbine gave her sister-in-law’s hand a squeeze, but she was not comforted. “I think the two circumstances are so different. You were longing for change, Darcy. Your true nature was for frank love, commitment. From the moment you realized you loved Tavish, despite everything, you were for him to the death. You opened yourself to Tavish with all the innocence of a flower.”

  “Nonsense,” Darcy said in an acerbic tone. “Now who’s being romantic? A flower, indeed.” She gave an unladylike snort. “More like a hoyden, most likely.”

  Darcy’s words broke the ice, and they laughed together like young girls. They quieted, leaning back in the chairs again. Darcy bit into a sandwich.

  Columbine’s eyes were dreamy as she gazed into the orange flames. “The thing is, if Elijah did love me,” she said quietly, I’d be the last to know.”