The Golden Cage

by Barbara Cartland

As she drew nearer still, she was aware that he had a long velvet robe that covered one of his arms, while the other was in a sling, and the robe just rested over his shoulder like a cape.

  There was a rug over his knees and, she thought, although she was not sure, that he was partially dressed.

  As she walked towards him, the valet said,

  “Here’s Miss Wayne, who’s come to help you, sir, and we’re very lucky to find anyone aboard as speaks English!”

  He spoke, Crisa thought, as if he felt he had to force his Master to be grateful to her and she said quickly, before Mr. Thorpe could speak,

  “I hope I will be able to help you. But also you may find me very inadequate for what you have in mind.”

  The valet pulled up a chair for her and, as she sat down, Mr. Thorpe said in a deep voice,

  “It is very kind of you, Miss Wayne, for, as you see, I am helpless at the moment, not only crippled but temporarily blind. I have some letters that it is of the utmost importance should be posted immediately we dock.”

  “I understand,” Crisa said, “and I am sure that I shall be able to transcribe them for you, so long as you don’t go too fast.”

  He did not speak and she continued,

  “If I take what you say down roughly in pencil, then afterwards I can write it out neatly in ink and read it back to you, so that you can make any corrections.”

  “That sounds to me excellent,” Mr. Thorpe said. “Have you anything to write on?”

  “I am afraid not,” Crisa replied. “I-I was not expecting to – work when I came aboard.”

  “Then you must forgive me for interrupting what I am sure is a holiday,” Mr. Thorpe said.

  He turned his head towards his valet and added,

  “Find Miss Wayne a pad she can write on, Jenkins, and, of course, a pencil.”

  Jenkins went back into the next room, where there was a writing desk, and Mr. Thorpe said to Crisa,

  “I am very grateful, Miss Wayne.”

  “Please don’t thank me,” Crisa replied, “until you are quite certain that I can be of some use.”

  “The Purser tells me you have been acting as secretary to an author,” Mr. Thorpe remarked. “I wonder if I have read of his books?”

  Crisa drew in her breath.

  Here was another lie and she wished again that she had not said anything in the first place.

  “Actually,” she said after a moment’s thought, “the author for whom I was working has not yet published a book but only short articles and is therefore quite unknown. But he is now compiling a book about America and that is why we have been travelling from place to place.”

  “And you found the work interesting?”

  “Oh, yes, very, but I have had to return home unexpectedly for family reasons.”

  She paused and then Mr. Thorpe asked,

  “So you are travelling alone?”

  “Y-yes.”

  Crisa was hoping that he would ask her no more questions, when Jenkins came back with a folder of writing paper headed with the name of the Liner.

  “I’m afraid, miss, there’s no pad,” he said to Crisa, “but I’ve brought you a magazine to write on. I dare say you can manage.”

  “Yes, of course,” Crisa agreed.

  She took it from him and he handed her a pencil.

  The valet adjusted the rug over Mr. Thorpe’s knees and then left the cabin, closing the door firmly behind him.

  “I am ready,” Crisa said, knowing that the man beside her could not see.

  She thought as she looked at him that without his dark spectacles and the plaster on his forehead he might be rather good-looking.

  He had a square chin, a firm mouth that she thought had a look of determination about it, and his lips turned up at the corners, as if he had a sense of humour.

  It was fascinating, she thought, to be able to scrutinise a man without his being aware of it.

  She felt too that Mr. Thorpe had well-shaped, rather elegant hands, those of a gentleman who had never done any manual work. She also thought, although she had no good grounds for thinking so, that he would be a good horseman.

  She was so intent on thinking about the man opposite her that was startled when he said,

  “I shall be interested to know what conclusions you have come to when you have finished inspecting me.”

  Her eyes widened until they almost filled her face as Crisa said a little incoherently,

  “I-I understood you could not – see.”

  “I can distinguish only between dark and light at the moment,” Mr. Thorpe explained, “but I knew perceptively well what you were doing and shall I say your vibrations, or perhaps you would prefer to say thoughts, conveyed to me what was happening.”

  “Are you telling me that you were – thought-reading?” Crisa asked.

  “Not consciously,” Mr. Thorpe replied, “but for some reason I cannot understand, I was aware of what you were thinking and I know too that you are nervous and a little afraid, not particularly of me, but of something else.”

  Crisa gave a little cry.

  “Stop!” she cried. “You are being uncanny and I don’t like it! If you are a professional mind-reader or a wizard, I think I will run away.”

  “I promise you I am neither,” Mr. Thorpe replied. “It is just that when you came into the room I was very much aware of you as a person.”

  Crisa’s fingers tightened on her pencil.

  “I think,” she said, “that we should get down to work.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Thorpe agreed.

  He was silent for a moment and then he began,

  “‘Dear Edward, I know that you will be interested to hear of my journey in America – ”

  He went on very slowly to dictate a letter that was so dull, and at the same time so unlike anything Crisa might have imagined one man would write to another, that it puzzled her.

  Then, as Mr. Thorpe continued to dictate page after page, mostly of descriptions of the places he had been to and which he described in a manner so childish that Crisa longed to ask him if it was a joke.

  When they had been working for quite a long time and Mr. Thorpe paused as if he was thinking, she looked up at him and realised that he was counting on his fingers.

  Suddenly it struck her that the letter was in code.

  She did not know why she should think such a thing, but like a flash of lightning she knew that was the reason it sounded so strange, why he spoke so slowly and why a number of the sentences seemed disjointed and had no connection with one another.

  Code!

  She tried to think of what she knew about codes and who used them.

  She wondered if Mr. Thorpe was in the Diplomatic Service or perhaps had something to do with Military or Naval security, which she was aware involved a Secret Service of which outsiders knew very little.

  Laboriously Mr. Thorpe went on again until the next time he paused Crisa said,

  “Do you think it would be a good idea if I read back to you what you have dictated so far? Some of it seems a little odd”

  “What do you mean – odd?” he interrupted sharply.

  “You will find that often one sentence does not connect with the next,” Crisa said, “and at times there is no continuity.”

  “Are you criticising my letter?” he asked and she thought that there was a note of anger in his voice.

  “No, of course not,” Crisa said. “I was just hoping that I was doing the right thing in taking it down exactly as you dictated it.”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied, as if he convinced himself that was her reason. “Very well. Miss Wayne, read back to me what I have dictated so that I can criticise it for myself.”

  Thinking that she had upset him, Crisa read in her quiet musical voice what he had dictated.

  As she finished, he said with a faint laugh,

  “You are quite right! It does sound rather a jumble and I suppose, because I am not used to dictating my more intimate letters, yo
u are right in thinking it is exceedingly dull.”

  Crisa did not reply and after a moment he said,

  “That is what you think, is it not?”

  “Y-yes,” Crisa stammered.

  She supposed if he could see, he would be looking at her sharply, as if he suspected that she was not telling him the truth.

  Then he said,

  “As I am tired, I think I should wait until tomorrow before I do any more, but thank you, Miss Wayne, for your assistance. It is very kind of you.”

  Feeling that she had displeased him and made a mistake in not agreeing with everything he said, Crisa rose and, going to his side, put the sheets of paper in his hand.

  “I am sorry if I sounded as if I was criticising,” she said in a low voice. “I have enjoyed being able to help you and, if I can do any more, please send for me.”

  “We have not yet finished this letter,” Mr. Thorpe replied, “and I shall certainly need you to do that and several other things for me. Will you come here at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, of course,” Crisa agreed.

  “But not if you are enjoying yourself in other parts of the Liner,” Mr. Thorpe said. “Perhaps you are taking part in the various shipboard games with other young people, I expect, like yourself.”

  “No, I shall not be doing that.”

  She was surprised at the question.

  Then she said,

  “I think the truth is that I am rather – shy at being alone amongst a crowd of strangers – which is something I have never experienced before.”

  As she spoke, she thought that that was not quite true.

  She had certainly been amongst a crowd of strangers when she arrived in New York and found herself surrounded by Vanderhaults, who were hostile to her because she had come home with the Head of the Family unconscious in a coma.

  She could remember how nervous she had felt and how she had longed for one friend, one person who would understand what she was feeling.

  “What happened to hurt you?” Mr. Thorpe asked quietly.

  With a jerk Crisa realised that once again he had been reading her thoughts and was aware of what she was feeling.

  “I-I cannot – talk about it,” she answered.

  “Why not?”

  She would have turned away, but he said,

  “Sit down and talk to me for a moment. If you are nervous, so am I. And remember, while you can see what is going on, I am left here in the dark.”

  There was a plea in his voice that Crisa could not ignore.

  Almost as if he ordered her to do so, she sat down again, looking at him with wide eyes, wondering how he could sense, for that must be the right word, so much about her without being able to see her.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Mr. Thorpe said and now there was a beguiling note in his voice that had not been there before. “Surely it is very strange for somebody as young as you are to be travelling without a chaperone or somebody to look after you?”

  “H-how do you know that I am so – young?” Crisa asked.

  He smiled and she thought it transformed what she could see of his face.

  “Your voice is very musical and to me very attractive after the American voices that I have been listening to these past weeks. And your voice is very young, like that of someone who has not yet lived very fully.”

  “How – can you know that?” Crisa asked. “Unless of course, as I have already suggested, you are a – wizard.”

  “I have made it my job to study human beings.”

  “Why? Is it because you are a psychiatrist or something like that?”

  “Nothing like that,” he said, “I just find the human race interesting and I have realised that you can learn a great deal from voices and from vibrations from one person to another and, of course, more especially those coming to me, and I have found it quite an interesting study.”

  “I am sure it can be very fascinating,” Crisa agreed. “At the same time it must be difficult for you in your present condition.”

  “In some ways it is easier because one concentrates more completely.”

  Crisa did not answer and after a moment he said,

  “And now tell me about yourself.”

  “There is – nothing to tell,” she said quickly.

  “That is not true,” he answered, “and I know, as I have already said, that you are very young and not used to being alone and, as you are a lady, that is something you should not be.”

  Crisa looked at him, trying to find an answer to what he had said, but finding it impossible.

  Then with a twist of his lips that made him appear cynical, Mr. Thorpe went on,

  “What happened to the author you were travelling with? Did he find you incapable or was he enticed away by another woman?”

  For a moment Crisa could only stare at him, thinking she had not heard aright.

  Then she understood what he was saying. He was insinuating that the so-called ‘author’ was a polite euphemism for a lover she had come to America with.

  Her whole body stiffened as she said angrily,

  “What you are thinking is not true! Of course it was nothing like that! Nothing!”

  Mr. Thorpe gave a little laugh.

  Then he said,

  “My dear, I will apologise very humbly, if you will tell me the truth.”

  Crisa rose to her feet.

  “No,” she said, “you have no right to pry into my private affairs or to imagine things that are not true and make up stories about me.”

  She paused before she went on,

  “I am going back to my cabin and I will help you tomorrow, if you need me. But as a secretary, not as one of your studies under a microscope!”

  She reached the door as she spoke and, pulling it open, she hurried out and as she did so she heard Mr. Thorpe laugh very softly and it was the sound of a man who was intrigued and amused.

  *

  Without thinking, Crisa had left by the communicating door into his sitting room and, when she entered it, she found Jenkins sitting in one of the armchairs reading a newspaper.

  He jumped to his feet as she appeared and said,

  “Has the Master done enough? I meant to warn you, miss, not to tire him.”

  “Mr. Thorpe says he has done enough for today,” Crisa replied. “If he wants me tomorrow, I shall be available.”

  She did not wait to say any more, but opened the door into the corridor and hurried to her own cabin.

  When she reached it, she could hardly believe that she had really heard what Mr. Thorpe had said to her.

  She thought that he had been insulting. At the same time she was intrigued by the things he had said, his perception where she was concerned and most of all by the fact that she was convinced that she had been taking down a letter in code.

  It flashed through her mind that he might be a criminal of some sort, escaping from New York, perhaps with money he had stolen and was in hiding from the Police.

  Then she told herself that it was very unlikely.

  Whatever else he might be, she was sure that Mr. Thorpe was a gentleman and was in no way a criminal.

  Again she thought, as she had when she was taking down his letter, that he was in some sort of secret work and she longed to find out what it was.

  Because she was so interested, almost despite herself, in Mr. Thorpe, she found it difficult to concentrate on the novel she had been reading when the Purser had interrupted her.

  When she went down to dinner in the Dining Saloon, she found her thoughts not on the other guests, looking very glamorous in their evening clothes, but on the man with dark glasses sitting alone in his lonely suite.

  *

  After dinner there was dancing and to Crisa’s embarrassment, a young Frenchman came up to her as she left the Dining Saloon and said,

  “Pardon, mademoiselle, I should be very delighted if you would dance with me.”

  It was so unexpected that Crisa found herself stammering
as she replied,

  “Th-thank you – monsieur, you are – very kind – but, as I am – tired, I am going to bed.”

  “That is a great mistake, if I may say so,” he replied. “There will be plenty of time later for you to sleep, which is a waste, may I say, of your youth and beauty.”

  The words sounded more flattering than they would have done in English and Crisa blushed, but despite his pleas she hurried back to her cabin.

  Then she thought that perhaps there would have been no harm in dancing with the stranger.

  But, she also knew her mother would not have approved of her doing anything so intimate with a man she had not been introduced to and about whom she knew nothing.

  She could hear the music, very gay and beguiling, throbbing in her ears as she undressed and climbed into bed.

  ‘Perhaps I ought to take my opportunities wherever they occur,’ she reflected.

  Then she knew that she was too shy to accept the sort of invitation she would be offered by a Frenchman.

  What was more, it was wrong.

  *

  Crisa wondered the next morning whether Mr. Thorpe would send for her or whether he expected her to turn up at eleven o’clock as he had directed.

  Then at ten minutes to ten, Jenkins came tapping on her door to tell her she was expected at eleven.

  Knowing that she should have some exercise and fresh air, she hurriedly put on her cloak and went for a brisk walk round the deck.

  The sea was rough, but not tempestuously so, as it had been the day before, but there were fewer people on deck and those there were mostly men.

  Some of them raised their hats as she appeared and most of them looked at her admiringly.

  Feeling shy, she hurriedly passed them, looking out at the green waves of the ocean rather than staring around her to see who else was on deck.

  Then she went to her cabin to tidy herself and at exactly eleven o’clock she knocked on the door of Mr. Thorpe’s State room.

  This time when Jenkins let her in she found that Mr. Thorpe was sitting with his back to the light in a comfortable armchair with flowers on the table beside him.

  “Good morning, Miss Wayne,” he said when she appeared. “I hope you slept well.”

  “Very well, thank you,” Crisa answered, “and I hope you are feeling better.”

  “I believe I am,” Mr. Thorpe replied.