The Golden Cage

by Barbara Cartland

  Then, as Crisa sat down in an armchair near him, he said,

  “Now, Jenkins, Miss Wayne is with me, so I insist you go out on deck and get some fresh air. After that you are to rest in your cabin.”

  “I’m all right, sir,” Jenkins replied.

  “Those are orders, Jenkins! I know Miss Wayne will be obliging enough to sit with me until luncheontime. That gives you two hours off duty and I am having no argument about it!”

  “Very good, sir,” Jenkins said, “and if you wants anything important, you knows where I’ll be.”

  Crisa started at the word ‘important’, but Mr. Thorpe did not say anything.

  She had the strange feeling that he was annoyed with Jenkins for speaking in that particular way.

  However, the valet left the room and this time Crisa had brought with her some writing paper from her own cabin and a pencil that was also provided by the Liner in a special drawer that acted both as a writing desk and as a dressing table.

  She sat waiting, and after a moment Mr. Thorpe said,

  “I was wondering during the night what was your other name.”

  As if he had taken her by surprise, she replied without thinking,

  “Crisa.”

  She thought, although he could not see, that he looked at her in surprise.

  Then he said,

  “I might have guessed there would be something Greek about you.”

  “You know the name ‘Crisa’?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Thorpe replied. “The last time I was in the little town of Crisa I imagined myself as Apollo, leaping from the dolphin-guided ship disguised as a star at high noon and marching up the steep road to slay the dragon that guarded the Shining Cliffs.”

  Crisa gave a little gasp.

  “I have never before met anyone who knew that story. Actually my mother was in Crisa before I was born, which was why I was given such a strange name.”

  She thought as she spoke of how the Vanderhaults had said,

  “I suppose ‘Crisa’ is short for ‘Christabel’ and it is a mistake not to use your proper name.”

  She had not enlightened them, but only replied,

  “I have always been called Crisa and I prefer it.”

  Now this strange man with his dark glasses had been to Crisa and, as her mother had done, had looked up at the Shining Cliffs and known how much they meant to those who had worshipped in Delphi.

  As if once again he knew what she was thinking, Mr. Thorpe went on,

  “When Apollo had slain the dragon, you will remember that he announced clearly to the Gods that he claimed possession of all the territory he could see from where he was standing.”

  He smiled before he continued,

  “Apollo was, amongst other things, the God of good taste and, as your mother must have told you, he had chosen the loveliest view in the whole of Greece.”

  “You are so lucky to have been – there,” Crisa said in a low voice. “I have always longed, ever since I was a child, to visit Greece, but I suppose it is something I shall never do.”

  As she spoke, she suddenly remembered that she had actually forgotten how rich she now was.

  Now, unless the Vanderhaults dragged her back to New York, she would be able to visit Greece or anywhere else in the world that took her fancy.

  Then, even as she thought about it, she knew that she would be too afraid to travel alone, at least until she was very much older than she was at the moment.

  “Of course you must go to Greece,” Mr. Thorpe said as if he followed her thoughts. “There is no difficulty about it nowadays and I would like to show you the place after which you are named and take you up the winding path where over the years so many thousands of pilgrims climbed to visit the Temple of Apollo.”

  “It is no longer there?”

  “Nero removed seven hundred statues from Delphi and sent them to Rome,” Mr. Thorpe answered. “Now there is nothing but ruins and yet there is one thing neither the Romans nor those who came after them could destroy.”

  “What was that?” Crisa asked.

  “The Light of Greece,” Mr. Thorpe said quietly.

  Crisa drew in her breath.

  Somehow she could hardly believe that this stranger, this man whom she could not see clearly, could speak as her mother had.

  After a moment she said because she could not prevent herself,

  “Tell me – tell me about Greece and what you saw when you were there!”

  “It’s difficult to know where to begin,” Mr. Thorpe said with a faint smile.

  Then as he spoke he put his hand up to his bandaged arm, which was in a sling, and Crisa knew by the way he did so that he was in pain.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I expect Jenkins is walking round the deck as I ordered him to do and it would be difficult to find him.”

  “Your arm is hurting?”

  “I think Jenkins must have bandaged it too tightly and it is swelling a little.”

  “Please, let me look at it,” Crisa offered.

  Mr. Thorpe hesitated and she said,

  “I have done quite a lot of bandaging at one time or another and I promise I will not hurt you or do anything wrong.”

  She remembered as she spoke that she had bandaged her father’s arm when he had injured it in a fall out riding and once when he cut his leg she had bandaged him for a month.

  Mr. Thorpe, obviously in pain, finally capitulated.

  “If you don’t mind helping me,” he said, “I think it is only a case of the bandage being too tight.”

  Very gently Crisa removed his robe and then the sling.

  She could see the bandage round the upper part of his arm and, as she unwound it, she was aware that he was right in saying it was too tight and this was causing his arm to swell and was giving him a considerable amount of pain.

  There was a wad of gauze beneath the bandage, which she carefully lifted in case it was stuck to the skin and she saw that his arm was red and swollen.

  She could see a wound in the flesh that was not large and quite deep.

  “What has Jenkins been putting on it?” she asked.

  “Some stuff the doctor gave him,” Mr. Thorpe replied. “I don’t think it is any good, as the inflammation keeps returning.”

  “My mother always believed that inflammation of a wound like this, as long as it was clean,” Crisa said, “could be cured by honey.”

  “Honey?” Mr. Thorpe asked in surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely! And it will take away the pain almost at once!”

  “It is still hurting me most unpleasantly,” he said, “but it is better now that the bandage is off.”

  “I would like to put some honey on it,” Crisa said. “May I ring for a Steward?”

  “I am quite prepared to give your idea a try,” Mr. Thorpe conceded, “and let’s hope that it is as effective and efficacious as the ambrosia of the Greek Gods that conferred everlasting youth!”

  Crisa smiled at him as she rang the bell and a Steward came instantly.

  “Will you please bring me a pot of honey?” she asked. “And if possible, I would prefer the thick clover honey.”

  The Steward looked surprised, but he went away and Mr. Thorpe said,

  “I suppose, as we were talking about Greece, I should not be sceptical about natural medicine, considering the Greeks believed that their herbs and plants and, of course, their honey, were very efficacious.”

  “You should have remembered that before, when you were letting the doctor treat you with what Mama always said were a lot of chemicals that no one knew about until they tried them whether they would be good or bad for human beings.”

  Mr. Thorpe laughed.

  “I can see, Crisa, that you have many talents besides that of being a secretary.”

  She noticed how he had used her Christian name and she was wondering whether it was something he should not do, when the Steward returned with a
jar of honey.

  It was the type she had asked for, a thick clover honey, and she guessed that it came from the North of France.

  Opening the lid, she spread it thickly over the wound on Mr. Thorpe’s arm and covered it again with the gauze. Then she bound it lightly but firmly before she replaced his arm in the sling.

  “I don’t think it will throb anymore,” she said. “But if it does, you must take off the bandage at once. It will only hurt you excruciatingly if it is bandaged too tightly and it will also make your arm worse than it is already.”

  “Thank you, nurse!” he said mockingly. “Of course I will do exactly as you say!”

  “How could you have managed to have such a terrible and unpleasant accident?”

  Even as Crisa asked the question she knew the answer and it made her draw in her breath sharply.

  She was sure, absolutely sure, that the wound she had just seen on Mr. Thorpe’s arm came from the thrust of a knife.

  chapter five

  It was the fourth day since Crisa had boarded the Liner and she knew when she awoke in the morning that she was enjoying herself.

  She found it fascinating to work with Mr. Thorpe not only because of what he dictated, which had altered considerably both in subject matter and in style in the last two days, but also because they could talk together.

  She realised that he was deliberately keeping her talking so that Jenkins could have some exercise and fresh air.

  She had taken to being with him from eleven o’clock until luncheontime and then again after he had had a rest from three o’clock until sometimes as late as six in the evening.

  She thought at first that it was like being with her father as they discussed various subjects, ranging all over the world.

  She would sometimes argue with him, just for the sake of stimulating the conversation and making it more exciting.

  He was now in much better general health, obviously due to the fact, as Jenkins had told her, that his wound was healing rapidly.

  “I thinks it be a lot of poppycock, miss, when the Master told me how you put honey on his wound,” he said, “but I has to admit, it’s much better than anythin’ the doctor gives him.”

  “Honey is a wonderful healer,” Crisa replied, “and if you were sensible, you would persuade Mr. Thorpe to have some for breakfast.”

  Whether it was due to the honey or to the rest and relaxation on board ship, Mr. Thorpe did look better and the plaster had been removed from his forehead.

  Now she could see the nasty-looking wound that had been stitched by a doctor when he had first sustained it and which Crisa was sure, like the wound on his arm, had been made with a knife-thrust.

  She knew without even trying that it would be no use asking questions.

  Yesterday, however, when they were talking after he had finished dictating, she had said,

  “What took you to America in the first place? Was it something interesting?”

  She knew it was a pertinent question and there was a perceptible pause while Mr. Thorpe sought for an answer.

  Because she was teasing him she said after a moment,

  “I wondered if perhaps, like so many Englishmen, you were looking for a rich wife.”

  Mr. Thorpe laughed.

  “That is the last thing I would look for.”

  “They told me in New York,” Crisa went on, “that many of the European aristocrats had travelled across the ocean for that very reason and how the American debutante’s dream is of becoming a Duchess or even a Princess!”

  Mr. Thorpe laughed again.

  Then he said,

  “The idea disgusts me! If I ever have to marry, I would certainly not want a wife who was richer than I was myself.”

  Just for the sake of argument, Crisa remarked,

  “By English law, when she marries you, her money becomes yours.”

  “That would make it even worse!” Mr. Thorpe replied. “Imagine every time I spent some of her money I knew that she was thinking how extravagant I was being and perhaps grudging every penny!”

  Last night after she had gone to bed, Crisa thought over what he had said, and told herself that his opinion was very likely that of every decent Englishman of whom her father and mother would have approved.

  She then had the terrifying feeling that once it was known how rich she was, her position in England would be very much the same as it had been in New York with men like Thomas Bamburger wanting to marry her, while any man whom she could love would in honour turn away from her.

  ‘I hate my money! I hate it!’ she told herself in the darkness of her cabin.

  And yet she recognised that it had saved The Manor, which had been in the Royden family for so many centuries and, as she had known from his letters, had given her father a great deal of pleasure during the last months of his life.

  Yet, almost as if somebody was saying it aloud, she could hear the question, ‘but what of your future?’ and knew that she had no answer.

  Now, as she dressed, aware that the sun was shining outside, that the sea was comparatively calm and in a short while she would be working with Mr. Thorpe, she was happy.

  ‘If only I could go on being Christina Wayne forever,’ she thought. ‘Then there need be no problems, no fear of being put back into a gilded cage just because I am so rich.’

  She walked around the deck, feeling the sun on her face and thought the sea looked very beautiful and that everything was so different from when she had crept aboard, terrified in case at the last moment she would be prevented from escaping.

  She walked round and round the deck, acknowledging the greetings of those coming towards her with a shy little smile.

  When she returned to her cabin, she tidied herself before she went to Mr. Thorpe and, when she knocked on the door, it was opened as usual by Jenkins, who greeted her with a cheeky grin,

  “Mornin’, miss! You looks like a ray of sunshine!”

  Crisa was about to answer him when she realised that Mr. Thorpe was in his usual place near the porthole, his head turned in her direction and that he was smiling.

  She had thought before that his smile made him look younger and more handsome and she found herself wondering as she had so often done at night what he would look like without his dark spectacles.

  She sat down in her usual chair and Mr. Thorpe said,

  “Off you go, Jenkins! I doubt if the fresh air will make you look like a ray of sunshine, but it will certainly improve your constitution!”

  Jenkins grinned again at Crisa.

  “Look after him, miss,” he ordered and went from the cabin, closing the door rather noisily behind him.

  Crisa laughed.

  “Your valet is like a character out of a book or a play,” she said. “I never know what he is going to say next.”

  “He is invaluable to me,” Mr. Thorpe replied, “and he cossets me like a Nanny and lectures me in much the same way as my Tutors used to do!”

  They both laughed and then Crisa, putting her paper neatly on her knee, asked,

  “What are we going to do today?”

  “I have been thinking,” Mr. Thorpe said slowly, “partly because you are so efficient and so helpful, that it might be a good idea for me to write a book.”

  “Write a book?” Crisa echoed in astonishment.

  “It was not my idea, but has been suggested to me several times in the last year by my friends, because I have been to so many strange places in the world and seen and done things that are outside the ordinary traveller’s experience.”

  “I wish you would tell me about the places you have visited,” Crisa said somewhat wistfully. “I am sure, if you described them in a book as eloquently as you have talked to me about your visits to Greece, it would be a bestseller!”

  “I very much doubt that!” Mr. Thorpe laughed. “In any case Greece is rather different from the other places I have been to.”

  They had already talked several times about Greece.

  She k
new that he was deeply moved not only by the country but its history and the influence that the Ancient Greeks had on the civilised world even today.

  They had talked about it as she had with her mother and she wished now that she had made notes of what Mr. Thorpe had said.

  Instead of dictating as he had on other days, Mr. Thorpe, almost as if he was clearing his mind, talked about the places he might include in his book.

  He spoke about India and various places in Malaya. He also described Japan and nearer home, Turkey and North Africa.

  Crisa asked questions and he answered them with what she was aware was an inner reserve that she could not penetrate.

  The more he talked, the more certain she was that his visits had been secret and in some way connected with the coded letters he had dictated to her, the knife-thrust in his arm and the wound on his forehead.

  She knew that there would be no use asking him directly to tell her about that part of his life.

  At the same time she was fascinated by his description of the Ganges in India, the Zen Monasteries in Japan and the strange customs of the Arabs in Africa.

  Time seemed to flash by and she could hardly believe it when Jenkins returned to say that it was now luncheontime.

  This meant that she must leave Mr. Thorpe, because she knew that being virtually blind he did not wish anybody to see him eating.

  He had never so much as offered her tea while she was working with him. Now to her surprise he said,

  “I think, Jenkins, because we have done a great deal of talking this morning, Miss Wayne and I should have a glass of champagne before luncheon.”

  “Very good, sir,” Jenkins replied. “And it’ll do you good. I’ve always thought it’s a better tonic than all that rubbish the doctors give you!”

  When he had gone from the room, Crisa laughed.

  “He has an answer to everything!” she said.

  “Many people might think him impertinent,” Mr. Thorpe replied, “but his heart is in the right place and that is more important than anything else.”

  “Of course it is!” Crisa agreed.

  But she also thought of Nanny and how in her own way she was something like Jenkins with her tart remarks. It would be wonderful to be with her again and forget how unhappy and frightened she had been this past year.