The Gilded Cage

by Lucinda Gray

  Several ladies waiting to make their good-byes look discomfited by her words. Henry has joined his sister, and he breaks in. “The only animal Grandfather was unable to sell was our African elephant,” he says. “His rampages have been the ruin of our west wing, and we go through an extraordinary number of peanuts.”

  Grace shoos at her brother dismissively, and a few of the guests laugh. But a middle-aged woman in green satin pauses beside me, her lips pursed. “Your cousin’s elephant can’t explain what happened at Longbrooke,” she says darkly.

  I know that Longbrooke is a large farm that links to the eastern edge of the estate, a few miles from the house as the crow flies, but this is the first I’ve heard of any happenings there.

  “Enough of that,” says Grace, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  The visitor tugs it away. “A dozen head of sheep torn up in the night,” she says. “Not even eaten. Just torn up, as if in spite.”

  The jollity of the conversation has suddenly turned ugly, and the faces around me are ugly, too: red with drink, features cast in shadow.

  Then the illusion passes. These people are just tired, this woman overwrought. A young man attempts to pull her away from me, toward the door. “Mother, come. It’s too late for silly stories.”

  “Where I’m from, wild animals are a regular nuisance,” I say, with as much brightness as I can muster. “George was always running things off our land, and I’ve killed several rattlesnakes with a shovel.”

  The young man’s uncomfortable silence is more than made up for by Jane’s unladylike guffaw. She turns it unconvincingly into a yawn and looks over to where her father is still engaged in conversation with the judge. “I’m nearly asleep on my feet. Take the air with me, Katherine? I’d like to see the damage done to the west wing up close.”

  A signal to a servant to bring my coat, and we pass down the front steps into the cool of the night. The parkland is cast in darkness, shadows on shadows. A small part of me is afraid, but deliciously so, thinking of a wild beast stalking the grounds just beyond the house.

  Jane takes my arm in hers as we pick our way across the quiet lawn. The air is fresh and cold, and the stars burn icily overhead. We cross great patches of lamplight thrown down from the windows, interspersed with silvery swaths of moonlight.

  “May I ask you something of a personal nature, Katherine?” asks Jane.

  With everyone else around me so stuffy, her question rather takes me by surprise. “By all means.”

  “Your father … he grew up here. All his life, he was surrounded by this.” Her hand sweeps across the house, the grounds, encompassing the whole rich life of Walthingham. “How could he have given it all up to risk a life abroad?”

  “I don’t think he chose to give it up, exactly,” I say slowly. “He just happened to choose the wrong wife. My mother was an innkeeper’s daughter—they met by chance when his carriage broke down outside her family’s tavern. My grandfather did not approve of the match.”

  Jane’s eyebrows arch. “He must have learned to accept it in time, if all of this is now yours.”

  “A bit late, though,” I say. “I never met him. And I think my father would have liked to know he was forgiven before he … before they passed away.”

  We reach the house’s west wing, in midrenovation after the destruction caused not by an elephant but by a felled oak tree, lightning-struck during a summer storm. The rebuilding is nearly complete, but great chunks of pale stone from the estate’s abandoned quarry still litter the ground.

  Jane lays her little gloved hand on mine and looks up at the looming, unlit structure. “It’s rather unsettling,” she says. Then her face brightens. “So, did you meet any interesting men tonight, Kat? Any likely husbands for the lady of Walthingham Hall?”

  She’s teasing me, I know, but her tone is fond and knowing.

  “My brother was the one on display tonight, not me,” I say. “I’m far too young to think of husbands.”

  She cocks her head, catching me in her frank gaze. “It would be nice if that were true, but trust me—a girl like you cannot remain unmatched for long.”

  A girl like me? I have never felt less sure of what kind of girl I am. Not one ready to marry, that’s for sure. “I’m still adjusting to my life here; I can’t think of husbands just yet.” I remember the way she looked at my cousin Henry as they spun on the floor. “And what about you?”

  “If my father has anything to say about it, I’ll be packed off to the first rich man who will have me,” she says ruefully. “He thinks only of providing for my material comfort—neither looks, conversation, nor a tendency toward regular bathing impresses him so much as an estate.”

  “But,” I venture, laughing, “what about the man you danced with tonight?”

  “I danced with more than one, Katherine,” she says coyly—then dips her head, seeming to catch my meaning. “There isn’t much to say. Not a promise, exactly, but something very close to it.” Her eyes shine with suppressed happiness, and in that moment, she seems much younger and more vulnerable.

  There’s a flash of movement just beyond the rocks. The laughter sticks in my throat. Squinting into the shadows, I see the shapes of three men approaching, one of them swinging what looks like a wine bottle from his hand. There’s something in their determined stride that I don’t like, and I take Jane’s arm. “Let’s keep walking,” I say firmly, as we move swiftly past the darkened west wing. I have the sudden, desperate feeling that we won’t be safe until we reach the lit side of the house.

  Jane has spotted them, too. “Katherine,” she says in a whisper, and her hand tightens on my arm. The men are soldiers in smart uniforms. At five yards’ distance they step into the middle of the path.

  “We thought you might want company,” says the tallest of the three, a man with a ropy neck and hair that looks nearly white in the moonlight. The other two are darker, and watch us with a hunger that’s worse than words.

  When neither Jane nor I respond, the tall man gives an exaggerated bow. “You both look lovely tonight,” he says. “That is the kind of thing you girls like to hear, ain’t it?”

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I say curtly.

  As I try to lead Jane around them, they block our progress. I think about screaming. Someone would surely hear.

  “It’s colder than expected,” I say, in a voice that’s steadier than I feel. “We’d like to return to the house.”

  “Surely you’d prefer to spend an hour in our company.” The man jiggles his bottle, which contains something stronger than wine. I can smell it. “We’ve got something that’ll warm you up.”

  I bridle at his words, and have a very Grace-like thought: Does he not recognize who I am? “Surely you’re mistaking us for some other women you’ve met tonight. My friend and I have no wish to enjoy your company.”

  “You women like to think you’re so different, one from another,” says one of the dark-haired soldiers, a stocky man. “But when you get down to what counts, you’re all exactly the same.”

  I hear Jane’s intake of breath, and a flash of hot rage overtakes me. “If you’ve ever met a woman who has endured even a moment of your company by choice, then she’s nothing like me. I’d rather spend an hour with my head in a hornet’s nest.”

  In a flash, the shorter man lunges forward and grabs my arm. I slap his face hard, and he looks shocked for a moment before he reaches toward me again, his fingers hooking around my scarf. I lift my knee sharply, driving it into his groin.

  Though he moans in pain, he still keeps hold of me. As I struggle I can see Jane from the corner of my eye, frozen in place. The man’s smell—tobacco and liquor breath—assaults me as I cringe away.

  “Remove your hands at once.”

  The man’s voice, coming from behind us, is honey in my ears. Struggling against the soldier’s grip, I turn and see John, in his footman’s uniform but no coat, standing upright and empty-handed.

  “Bugger off, boy, an
d polish some boots,” says the short man, letting me go to cradle the place between his legs. I quickly move to Jane’s side, rubbing the tender skin of my throat.

  John holds his ground, his face shadowed and unreadable. “First I’ll escort the ladies back to the front of the house,” he says.

  I hear the dreadful snick of steel as the blond soldier pulls his sword. “Walk away,” he says, his voice dripping disdain.

  John stands straighter, moving slowly toward us. “I will not,” he replies.

  Just then, Henry rounds the corner of the house. When he sees us he pauses a moment, his eyes sweeping over our figures in the moonlight and the drawn sword. Then he speeds forward, despite the painful-looking roll of his hip, moving his body in front of Jane’s.

  “You call yourselves men of the king’s army,” he spits in a cold fury. “Put up your sword and leave at once, and do not expect to be welcomed at Walthingham again. You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose your commissions.”

  The sword wilts in the fair-haired soldier’s hand, and his two comrades step back, their heads bowed, but make no move to leave. Henry reaches down and grabs a chunk of rock, lobbing it at their feet as though he were driving off dogs. “Get off this property! Now!”

  The men slink back into the shadows of the house. My heart thumps painfully in my chest, and I can’t stop touching my neck.

  Jane clutches at Henry’s arm, tears standing out in her eyes. “Thank you, sir. They were horrible. I … I could hardly breathe.…”

  Henry steps close to her, shielding her with his arms.

  “John, too, should be thanked,” I say faintly, my heart still hammering. But when I look around to do so, he has vanished.

  Henry murmurs to Jane, too softly for me to hear, as we walk back around the house.

  As we move into view of the last few departing carriages, Henry, still supporting Jane, pauses. “Please allow me to speak to your father about this terrible event, Jane. It happened on our grounds, and I want the chance to apologize to him for it.”

  She nods without speaking, and Henry moves away toward Mr. Dowling.

  “It was a horrible ending to a lovely evening,” I say.

  Jane attempts to smile. “Please don’t think me forward, Lady Katherine, but should you want company, or find yourself in town, you must come and visit me. We girls should stick together.”

  “That would be lovely,” I say.

  She takes my hand, pressing it tightly between hers. “I mean it,” she says, her eyes serious.

  I smile back. Her offer seems heartfelt, and I wonder if it has something to do with the ordeal we have just endured together, or the bond she appears to share with my cousin Henry. In whatever case, I feel grateful to have made a friend this evening with whom I can speak freely. She is as unlike Grace as chalk is to cheese. “Will you be here for the shoot?” I ask her. “It’s in a few days’ time.”

  Jane’s wry smile returns. “It’s hardly a pursuit I relish—blasting defenseless creatures from the sky for sport—but I can accompany my father if you wish.”

  I draw my hand from hers. “Yes, you must,” I say.

  “Coming, Jane?” calls her father.

  “Yes, Papa,” she says, before leaning closer to me. “The dear old thing loves a good shoot. Luckily, so do the birds, when he’s brandishing his gun. I doubt he could hit a chicken at five paces.”

  Laughing, I wish her good night, and she heads for her carriage.

  While the horses take her away, I walk into the house and straight up the main staircase.

  My room, lit by a crackling fire, is stifling after the crisp outdoors. Elsie dozes by the hearth, a book sprawled open across her chest. When I enter, she stands, yawning.

  “Oh, Lady Katherine,” she says sleepily, tucking the book away. “Was the ball as lovely as you hoped?”

  I struggle to think back to the warmly lit dance floor, the smiles of the crowd. A girl’s first ball ought to be remembered as a remarkable thing—and it was an experience Elsie could never share. I force a smile for her benefit. “It was beautiful. I’ll tell you about the dresses tomorrow.”

  “You look very pretty,” she says wistfully. “I like your hair like that, all falling loose.”

  Impulsively I reach for my fan, which rests on the dressing table. “Please, take this.”

  Her face falls. “Pardon, my lady?”

  I continue to hold it toward her. “It’s a gift, to show my gratitude. For everything you’ve done, everything you’ve helped me with since I got here.”

  She shakes her head and backs away, as if she’s actually frightened of the fan. “I couldn’t, my lady. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Nonsense,” I say. “Please, take it.”

  After a moment her reluctance blooms into a smile so radiant I’m almost ashamed. She opens the fan and flutters it gently, her eyes tracing its pattern of Oriental silk.

  I’m tired, but too restless to sleep. “You know a bit about me,” I say, “but I know nothing of you. Have you been at Walthingham long?”

  “Yes. I left my family when I was quite young.”

  “Do they live close by, then?”

  She folds the fan shut and tucks it out of sight in her apron. “I don’t have anyone to speak of,” she says. “I did have a sister once, who came with me to Walthingham Hall, but…” Her voice trails off, and she stretches her fingers toward the fire. “But I no longer have any family to speak of, no.”

  The orphan in me longs to clasp her hands, but I know such intimacy would embarrass her. I stay silent as she helps me undress. She takes such pride in folding the heavy satin, in clustering the hairpins away into a gilded box. As the clock in the hallway strikes one, she bids me good night.

  Stella is already lying at the bottom of my bed, caught in a dream. I gently pat her as she paddles the air with her paws. Tonight must go down as a success in Grace’s eyes, and really, I tell myself, the ball itself wasn’t so bad. I think Jane and I might become firm friends—though in truth, Elsie and I have more in common than anyone I’ve met since arriving at Walthingham.

  I should be happy, cosseted by luxury, my every wish attended to.

  I blow out the candle on the bedside table and watch the gray smoke drift.

  I should be happy.

  So why am I not?

  CHAPTER 4

  Dear Aunt Lila and Uncle Edward,

  Your faraway girl has been a bit further than usual these days, and for that I am sincerely sorry. You mustn’t believe that I’ve grown too grand to write; George keeps me in line quite nicely, as does the fear of using entirely the wrong utensils in front of my very high-class cousins.

  I hope the winter hasn’t been too harsh, and that Geoffrey has recovered from his fear of the “big horse” after his recent fall. Though I can’t say I entirely blame him—Bluebell always was a cranky thing. Aunt Lila, please let me know which colors you like best, because I plan on sending you something lovely for Anna’s wedding this spring.

  How is Paul getting along without George to help with the horses? And how is Connor?

  I pause a moment to read what I’ve written. After an initial flurry of homesick letters, in which I tried to portray for them the opulence of our new life, I’ve allowed contact with my guardians to trail off. With the time taken for the crossing, I won’t hear back for many weeks anyway.

  When this letter finally reaches her, will Aunt Lila show it to Connor? And if she does, will it tug at his heart just a bit, to see the paper where I’ve folded it, and to think of my life going on without him?

  A sharp rap at the door makes me jump. The cup of hot chocolate at my elbow wobbles, but doesn’t spill. Before I can answer, Grace sails in, attired for visiting. A belted salmon dress makes the most of her narrow waist, and under the wide brim of a matching hat, her face looks nearly pretty—but, as always, a bit too thin.

  “I hope you slept well, cousin,” she says.

  “I had no choice,” I say, smiling
. “That mattress must be a foot deep.”

  In truth, my sleep was fitful, punctured with dreams as strange as the preceding events. Behind my eyelids, something paced with a heavy tread. I woke to the long, keening sound of a woman’s scream—which faded to nothing as my dream deserted me.

  Grace assesses me with a raised chin, as she always does, before nodding once. “You look very well,” she says.

  When she brought the hot chocolate, Elsie also carried in a deep blue day dress, with a puffed bodice and split skirt revealing an underskirt of palest ivory. The days when I’d throw on the first patched dress that came to hand and keep it on until bedtime feel very far away; here there are rules even about the clothes one wears in bed.

  Grace wanders over to the window.

  “I’ve received many cards of thanks for last night’s ball, and more than one contained admiring words about you, Katherine.”

  My cheeks redden, and she smiles, moving forward and cupping her hand beneath my chin.

  “Such pretty roses,” she says. “It’s an accomplishment to bring color to your cheeks so easily.”

  At her touch, the memory of the drunken soldier’s fingers at my throat ripples through me, and I close my eyes against it. Grace moves her hand from my chin to my forehead. “And now you’ve gone pale as can be. Katherine, do not move too frequently from the heat of the fire to the chill by the windows. It will make you ill quicker than anything.”

  Just then a racket of birdsong and shrieks from the distant aviary rends the air. As I hurry to the window, the distant shrilling fades into silence.

  The air outside is lightly silvered with snow. Nothing stirs on the grounds or in the still woods just beyond. I wonder what startled the birds so.

  Grace’s voice comes sharp behind me. “Katherine.”

  I whirl quickly and find her clutching the necklace I wore the night before, which I’d left draped across my dressing table so it wouldn’t tangle.