The Gilded Cage

by Lucinda Gray

  He considers this for a moment, then nods. “Thank you for the lesson, lady,” he whispers as he slips through the door.

  When he’s gone, I stand dumbly a moment, staring at the space where he was. Then I smooth down my hair, ball up the practice paper in my hand, and unlatch the door for Mr. Carrick.

  “What in the world…” he says, surveying the ink-stained table, the disarrayed boots, and me. His eyes catch on the two stools, pushed close together by the table. Slowly he brings his gaze to mine, his eyes cool with understanding.

  “I was looking for a flint box,” I say carelessly. “The fire went out in my room, and you were not close by to light it.”

  He draws himself up a bit at the cheek in my voice. “I’ll send your girl up directly, Miss Katherine. And I’ll have a maid see to the mess here.”

  “Please do so, Carrick. And going forward, I must ask that you call me Lady Randolph. I am, after all, the mistress of Walthingham Hall.”

  His jaw visibly tightens as he absorbs these words. “Absolutely correct, Lady Randolph,” he says. “I will not forget your preferred address again.”

  When he’s gone, I let my body sag with relief against the table—and savor for one slow moment the memory of John’s lips, his body on mine. Then I slip the writing paper and verse book back into my pocket and extinguish the candle, leaving it on the table for John to find. My whole body feels heavy as I take the stairs, but more with languor now than grief. Again and again I tell myself that what happened with John cannot be repeated—but the moment I close my eyes, the scent and feel of him floods the darkness behind my lids, so powerfully I can hardly keep my feet.

  It’s a shock coming face-to-face with my lady cousin at the second-floor landing.

  “Katherine! I won’t ask why you’re not in bed—it seems we can’t keep you there longer than a moment. But why on earth are you coming up the servants’ stairs?” Her eyes narrow, and I remember the way she looked at me in the churchyard after I spoke to John.

  Aware of the red flush on my cheeks, the ink on my dress, I keep my back toward the wall and speak quickly. “I was ashamed of my behavior earlier, Grace. I did not want anyone to see me. I allowed myself to become hysterical, and it was unbecoming.”

  Her face relaxes. “You’ve been through so much,” she says soothingly. “I’ve put a glass of medicine by your bed, and you must take it straightaway—Dr. Ebner gave it to me, in the case of any emotional outbursts.”

  Her words make me want to fling the glass against a wall, but I make myself smile. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Grace. Perhaps it will help me sleep, at last.”

  I keep a small smile on my face as she goes, her obvious suspicion not quite spent. When she’s out of sight, I race to my rooms, holding my inky skirts in my hands. I strip to my underclothes to inspect them, and see that the ink has merely stiffened my mourning clothes without changing their color. Nevertheless, I hide the dress in the very back of my closet, thinking that I will ask Elsie to help me with it in a week or two, when any word of the mysterious ink spill, spread by Mr. Carrick, has passed from the other servants’ minds.

  I lock my door from the inside and sniff at the medicine Grace left for me. I’d had no intention of taking it, but it looks and smells very like a hot milk posset, so I swallow it down.

  My thoughts as I lie back on my bed are, for once, not of George alone. With a secretive feeling that’s a sister to guilt, I try to imagine myself living with John in a humble cottage. In my mind’s eye, it’s much like the gamekeeper’s cottage, but patched up and shining. Then I turn restlessly in bed, punch my pillow down, and see John living with me here at Walthingham Hall. Wearing the clothes of a lord, ordering our dinner from Mr. Carrick …

  Neither vision will hold for long, so I fall asleep imagining the two of us in Virginia, walking hand in hand over the acres of my lost family farm. Finally, my drifting thoughts spin into dreams, none of which I can remember.

  When I wake hours later, I’m stiff and lying in utter blackness. The fire has burned to nothing, and the air is cold. But I sit upright fast, my heart racing, because there is someone with me in the room. The steady sound of breathing fills my ears, just perceptible beneath the wind tapping around my windows.

  There—in the corner—something crouches. A dark shape, too hunched to be a man. As I adjust to the blackness, my sight sharpens, and I see two yellow eyes watching me. My breath stops in my throat. This can’t be happening. Keeping my eyes on the thing, I move my legs to the floor, carefully, carefully. It keeps its terrible gaze trained back on mine.

  My hands fumble over the bedside table until they find the lamp. Working quietly, my heart loud in my ears, I struggle to light it with clumsy fingers. The thing shifts in the gloom, and I feel a low growl stirring the hair on my neck.

  Then the lamp catches, the room fills with flickering light, and the terrible, crouching creature becomes my fainting couch, over which is folded a winter cloak, ordered before George’s death and newly arrived. The amber brooch pinned at its neck is an outstretched butterfly, its wings painted with twin gold circles that glimmer with reflected moonlight.

  I lie down once more, but I leave the lamp burning.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE BAYING OF Henry’s hounds breaks the fragile quiet of the morning. Standing next to Grace on the terrace, I feel as brittle in the sunlight as if I were made of blown glass. Stella rolls in the frozen grass below me, her nose loving the flood of smells brought with the men and their hounds and horses. The lawn unfurls from our feet to the tree line, where the riders cluster around my cousin. He sits proud on his mount, the not-so-young gentleman of Walthingham Hall. I’ve never seen him look so fresh and fine—it’s a shame Jane isn’t here beside me. Though her father sits in the honored place next to Henry, his daughter did not join him. I realize I’m very poor company at present, but am hurt that she did not at least respond to my note.

  At a gesture from Henry, Grace leads me down onto the lawn to bid them a good hunt. But for John and Matt, serving as grooms, the men are all Henry’s age or older. Because of the angle of the sun behind him, I can’t make out John’s face. I take care not to look at him too long.

  “I hope you shoot many birds, brother,” says Grace. “Though I do find it distasteful myself. Bloodshed is not known to bring out the good in people.”

  A man with a black mustache, seated on a great bay stallion, clicks his tongue smartly. “Shooting is a man’s occupation! A gentlewoman like you need not trouble herself about it.”

  Grace foolishly dips her head, but my blood goes hot. For a moment I am the Katherine of a year ago. “It’s not so much trouble for all women,” I say, and in one quick movement pull a rifle from the sling that Matt carries. Turning toward a great bank of ornamental hedges, I catch the silliest one in my sights. It’s shaped like a cockerel, and in one clean blast I shave off its comb.

  A thick spray of greenery falls at the foot of the shrubbery, and gray smoke dissipates into the blue. “Thank you for the use of this,” I say, handing the gun back to poor Matt. I ignore the censure in Grace’s eyes—her mouth is tucked so tight she looks lipless. For a moment the gentlemen simply gape at me, until Henry slaps his thigh and begins to laugh. “Very good show, cousin—you’ve gelded the gardener’s cockerel! I must ask him his thoughts on the new hen of Walthingham.”

  The other men join in his laughter; only Grace continues to look embarrassed. But my rush of pride soon subsides, leaving me feeling hollow. My brother should be here, astride Croxley. He was a better hunter than any of these men are likely to be. And wouldn’t they feel foolish when the artist bested them all at their sport. George never had to prove himself to be a good man, he simply was one. Fighting back a tide of directionless anger, I turn sharply and begin walking toward the house. At my back, a hunting horn sounds, signaling the departure of the men and their retinue.

  I turn around once and see John gazing straight back at me. His smile is fathomles
s and puts a quiver into my knees. Steel in your spine, girl. Quickly, I walk on, until a call from behind slows my pace.

  Grace huffs toward me in her purple cloak. “Katherine, that was not in entirely good taste.” The look or the shooting? I shrug my agreement, thinking of the empty hours ahead. Today, I decide, I must write the painful letter I have long delayed, informing my foster family of George’s death. That will be the end of it—no more thinking I can dream it away. The surreal horror of his being gone will become real.

  “… you must, of course, sit in on the interview, as she’ll be tending to you.” Grace has been speaking as I daydreamed, and I’m pulled back quickly to the present.

  “I’m sorry, Grace. To whom are you referring? What interview?”

  “For your new lady’s maid, of course. A young woman will be here at eleven, and we will be discussing her qualifications in the lesser parlor.”

  “But why? Elsie does her work ably, and I like her. Grace, I do not need a second maid.”

  “Good lord, girl, your head really is a million miles away. As I was saying, Elsie must be let go. Mrs. Whiting’s orders, and you know I’d trust that woman with anything, even the best of my summer silks. But that’s neither here nor there.…”

  “Let go,” I say faintly. “But to where? Walthingham is her home, Grace. And Mrs. Whiting can’t let anyone go without my leave.”

  Grace pulls herself up a bit. “You are the lady of Walthingham, yes, but Mrs. Whiting is in charge of staffing. And she’s learned that Elsie has become involved with a young man in the stables—the very one who lent his rifle to your little display. Of course, he’ll be on his way, too, directly after the hunt. It’s just a shame we needed him for one more day.”

  I think of Elsie’s high hopes, her recent engagement. Taking in my expression, Grace purses her lips. “Don’t be so appalled, dear; it’s only natural among their sort. Elsie’s sister was sent away for just such a thing—the girl had got a child with one of our staff, and we were kind enough to let Elsie stay on without her. That was a foolish mistake we’ll be righting today—I should have known such weakness would be a family trait.”

  So that’s where poor Elsie’s remaining family has gone. I wonder if they’ve even told her the truth about it. “But I like Elsie, very much,” I say, my voice pleading. “Grace, she’s a young girl in love. What foolish things have not been done for love?”

  “With that attitude, Katherine, how will you make the proper choices for the running of Walthingham Hall? Many young girls would give much and more for a position here—girls with conduct more fitting to serve our esteemed house.”

  Her words fall heavy on my ears. “But she’s so young, and already she’s lost the closeness of a sister to such a mistake. If you’ll only let me talk to her, I’m certain I can convince her to break it off with him.” I’m not so sure, but I can’t see another way of convincing my cousin.

  She wavers a moment, then sighs. “Very well. I still think you’re being far too generous, but perhaps the girl can stay on without her young man. We cannot foster such a relationship under our roof, so one of them must go. I will consult with Mrs. Whiting—on this one occasion, at the request of Lady Randolph, I think we might give Elsie a final opportunity to prove herself.”

  She stops altogether then, and turns toward me on the sloping grass. “But you must understand that here, among our kind of people, a young woman’s reputation is her most important possession. And you must look to your own self, too, and be careful about the amount of time you are spending with a certain young man, a man who may not be employed here much longer if this persists. It has not gone unnoticed, and it is not seemly.”

  I keep my head high while silently cursing my carelessness—I should have known the flirtation would not pass without consequence. Did she glean our connection from what she saw outside of the church? Or is Mr. Carrick to blame for her suspicions? I press my lips together in shame, then force a smile. “I don’t condone gossip, Grace, and I believe you have been given bad information. I haven’t been spending time with anyone but Stella. I suppose there are men here who are a good deal handsomer than her, but certainly less playful.”

  At first she doesn’t respond, and I think she’ll drop the subject. Then, in a cool tone, she speaks. “I wish you wouldn’t take me for such a fool, Katherine—I only look out for your best interests. And though it was never proven, it may interest you to know that the baby Elsie’s sister carried was believed by many of the servants to be John’s.”

  With that, she sweeps ahead of me into the house. I stare after her with a sudden sense of foreboding, chilled by more than the wind. A vision of John lying in the hay with another girl—a prettier, older version of Elsie—fills my mind. Is it possible he didn’t know she was pregnant? No, I think, he would have known. If what Grace says is true, he would simply have chosen not to go after her.

  I dawdle a moment outside, letting the air cool my cheeks, before I feel equal to taking tea with Grace. When I enter the parlor, she’s sitting with perfect equanimity on a sofa. Kneeling before her, eyes downcast and rimmed with red, Elsie arranges a cup of tea from a tray. I marvel at how unmoved Grace is by the girl’s plight. She must truly believe that the servants aren’t capable of feeling or of grieving the way that her own class can. I wonder, darkly, whether this prejudice has guided her treatment of me in the wake of George’s death. Perhaps I will always be a peasant in her eyes, just one that has been more or less trained into placidity.

  Mrs. Whiting herself enters soon after. Elsie scurries backward out of the room, barely daring to stand before the older servant’s snobbish gaze. Grace draws Mrs. Whiting into a private conference, no doubt relaying my wishes with regards to Elsie, and I quietly follow my dressing maid into the hall.

  She’s standing in place, shoulders slumped. I touch her elbow gently. “Elsie, it’s all right. I spoke to Grace: You won’t be let go. I want you working here still, and it’s my house, not Mrs. Whiting’s. And not Grace’s, either.”

  She’s started crying so hard she can’t speak for a moment but can only shake her head fiercely. “It’s not—it’s not that. I don’t care what happens to me! It’s what will happen to Matt, and that it’s all my fault!” She breaks into a fresh round of tears, face buried in her apron. I draw her into an embrace, and her raw unhappiness gives me leave to dwell a moment on my own.

  With a final, shuddering breath, Elsie comes back to herself. “I’m not ungrateful,” she says immediately. “Thank you, Lady Katherine, for helping me keep my position!”

  “Of course. Now go splash your face. We have plenty of tea already, and Mrs. Whiting needn’t know you’ve been crying.”

  She nods and darts away, hands still twisted into her damp apron.

  “Lady Randolph.”

  I spin round to find Mr. Carrick in the hall behind me, looking ill at ease in my presence. I decide this is preferable to his usual air of smug superiority.

  “Yes, Mr. Carrick?”

  “You have a visitor. Would you like to receive in the morning room or the main parlor?”

  I smile, relieved—Jane hadn’t ignored my letter after all. “The morning room will do. Please have tea sent in.” Our conversation will be more private there.

  I settle myself on a pink-and-green-striped sofa, a rare object in this house in that it’s both beautiful and comfortable. At the soft sound of someone clearing their throat, I look up.

  William Simpson is standing in the doorway. Despite his expression, one of soft diffidence, my mind goes instantly to my dream. The ghost of his mouth on my skin, my brother’s body in the road. It was him in the dream; now I’m sure of it.

  “Lady Katherine?” He holds his hat to his chest, and a leather satchel hangs from his hand.

  It takes me a couple of seconds to realize that he is the visitor I am receiving, not my friend. “Yes! Mr. Simpson, I’m sorry. I had a … a moment of dizziness. Please sit down.”

  He takes a seat
in a chair just opposite the portrait of my grandfather. I watch his eyes tracing the painted figure. “We met in this room, did we not, Lady Katherine?” His voice has a hint of a smile in it.

  The appearance of a maid bearing our tea on a tray saves me from answering. I thank her, then send her away, ducking my head over our cups while waiting for my blush to fade.

  “You’re here, I suppose, to begin putting the estate’s affairs in order?”

  It’s his turn to redden, shifting with embarrassment in his seat. “We can talk about that if you wish. If you’re ready. I’m here only to tell you … I don’t know what it will mean to you now, but the Royal Academy will be going on with its exhibition of your brother’s work. I have corresponded with the curator, and he offers his condolences. He believes the paintings will go for more, even, than they would for a…” He looks uncomfortable again. “For a living artist. But I told him I did not think you were willing to sell.”

  I look at him, surprised by the insight. “Thank you. I would not sell my brother’s work to any private houses. But if a museum wished to purchase a painting, I would consider the sale.” I speak carefully, and realize that I’d already decided this in my mind, without conscious thought. The idea of my brother’s work hanging in a museum, alongside that of the great masters, still sends a sad thrill through me.

  Mr. Simpson nods. “Yes, I think that is exactly how I should handle it, were I in your place.”

  The first distant volley of gunshots echoes through the room, and a furrow appears between his brows. “Have they gone on with the winter hunt, then? So soon after your family’s loss?” He looks as if he might say more, but falls silent.

  His words are impertinent but echo my own sentiments. “And with my blessing, though I’ll admit it was not freely given. Nor was it asked for, until the guests were nearly arrived.” My voice sounds bitter to my own ears, so I attempt, feebly, to change course. “Do you often shoot, sir?”