The Gilded Cage (17 page)

“It's a big undertaking,” Bell said dubiously.

“Yes, it is.” Ideas tumbled through Columbine's brain, clicking like the tumblers of a lock. “The women run the house themselves. We offer protection, perhaps we can hire some kind of protection for them. We'll live there too, of course. We'll need a nursery where they can take turns watching the children. And we'll use the New Women Society for our employment agency. Oh, Bell, it could work. A waystation. A place to rest, to gather forces. And a new direction. We can do that, at least.”

Bell frowned. “But where will we get the money, Columbine?”

Columbine laughed. “I've no idea. But I'll get it. We can build on what happened tonight. We can use it. I'll get the money.”

Bell gave her a slow, quiet smile. “Yes, I do believe you shall.”

Columbine was kneeling now, her face alight. “We can do so much good, Bell. We can take what happened to us and we can use it. Will you help me?”

A man might have shaken her hand. But Columbine was moved when Bell, instead, quietly embraced her. “Of course,” she said.

While the house suddenly buzzed with energy for Columbine's new project, Marguerite moved about in a dream. Toby sent her a more formal invitation to the dinner, and she had accepted with pleasure. She had planned for days what to wear as Columbine and Bell discussed their project, which they'd decided to call Safe Passage House. They made lists, argued, and made more lists yet. And Marguerite dreamed of lace and worried about her gloves. She irritably wished she had a jewel for her hair.

She thought the night of the dinner would never come, but then it arrived, and she hardly felt ready. Over breakfast, she received a briefing from Columbine about what to expect, down to silverware and the timing of when dishes would be passed. She went to her room after tea and took a nap to refresh herself. Then she rose and bathed in a scented tub. She dressed with great solemnity. She wore her very best gown, an old one of Columbine's that she'd altered for Marguerite's slimmer figure, ruby-colored broche satin with a low-cut velvet bodice. The gown had less trimming than Marguerite would like, only some delicate white velvet roses with pale pink ribbon, but the material was fine and the color perfect for her white skin and red lips.

Even in the midst of work, Columbine could never resist sartorial preparation, and she knocked on Marguerite's door and offered to help. She was all breathless laughter as she buttoned Marguerite into her old gown. Marguerite watched herself in the mirror while she ran nervous fingertips along the rich velvet. It would be the first time she'd worn it. She'd never had anyplace grand enough to wear it before.

“Now for your hair,” Columbine said. “A crystal ornament, I think. Let's pile it high, shall we?” She ran to the dresser to get pins and a hairbrush. Marguerite watched in the mirror as Columbine expertly twisted and pinned. “I do wish you'd tell me who your escort is, or where you're going, Marguerite,” Columbine said around a mouthful of pins. “I never knew you were so mysterious.”

“It's a trait I'd like to cultivate,” Marguerite said, her eyes serious as a child's as she met Columbine's gaze in the mirror. “I want to be a mysterious woman.”

“That's all very well, if it's directed at a suitor,” Columbine said. She jabbed a pin in to anchor a curl, and Marguerite winced. “Oh, sorry, dear. As I said, I agree that a woman should have mystery. But with your friends, dear, it's quite another thing.”

“I'll tell you tomorrow,” Marguerite said. “But tonight, I want it all to myself. I don't want to spoil anything.”

Columbine stopped, her hands in the air. Her eyes softened. “I remember,” she said. “Of course you should have your secrets.” She picked up the last lock of raven hair and twisted it into place. “There. You're done.” She stepped back and looked at Marguerite in the mirror. “Oh, my,” she said finally. “I don't think I realized how beautiful you are, Marguerite. You truly are.”

Marguerite gave herself a critical look. She still looked too young, she thought. Too flat-chested. Not very mysterious at all. She needed more bosom for that. But she did look very pretty. “I'll do,” she said.

“Aren't you critical. I know, I'll lend you my fur stole, and you'll dazzle all the guests. Just watch what your hostess does, and follow her, and you'll be fine. And don't be afraid to speak up! Remember, no matter how stuffy they appear, guests at a dinner party are secretly dying for fresh conversation from an intelligent and charming young woman.”

As the cab jounced downtown, Marguerite tried to compose her nerves. She wished that she was arriving in a private carriage and not a hack. At least Toby had already paid for it.

Not for the first time, she wondered at the way she'd been invited to the dinner. She supposed that actors did things differently, a little more freely. These guests would not think it amiss that she was unescorted, she hoped. Toby had said he'd already be there, waiting for her. And he'd promised her that there would be important people there, society people.

The cab pulled up in front of a large, square building on a street in Greenwich Village. Marguerite's heart was fluttering as she descended to the pavement. She clutched her skirt in both hands—even though Columbine had instructed her once that a lady only used one hand, but immediately added with a laugh not to let it inhibit her—and ran up the stairs. At the top, she composed herself, taking a deep breath, and knocked.

The door opened immediately. The tall, spindly butler nodded, but did not take her wrap. “One flight up, door at the end of the hall, miss,” he said.

Marguerite nodded, confused, but followed his pointing finger to the marble staircase. She climbed up in a stately fashion, her skirt held one-handed this time, but there was no one around to approve. At the top of the stairs she paused. Behind the double doors in front of her she heard heavy masculine laughter and shouts. But the butler had said the door at the
end
of the hall. Frowning now, Marguerite turned away and walked the length of the long hall. This didn't seem like a private house, but neither did it seem to have apartments. Marguerite reached the door at the end of the hall and pushed it open nervously.

It was a grand, opulent room, all plush purple velvet and gilded wainscoting, and it stretched the entire length of the building. The drapes that covered one entire windowed wall were heavy velvet, drawn against the dark night. The other walls were covered in lilac damask, and the gas was turned low. Enormous marble fireplaces were at either end of the room, and a huge fire was built in both. Marguerite took a few steps forward, and noticed that she was not alone. A girl sat on a gold satin couch, her blond head bent over some work in her lap. She looked up, and Marguerite saw a pretty, round face with perfect skin and china blue eyes. “Can you sew?” the girl asked. She was wearing a pretty pink gown in velours frappé, velvet stamped with a flowery design.

“Not very well,” Marguerite lied, coming closer. She wasn't about to do this girl's mending for her.

“It's my costume. I tore it when I pulled it out of the pile. Look.” The girl pointed to a gauzy, flesh-covered confection in her lap. Marguerite could see a tear along a seam, and a couple of crooked stitches that only called attention to the tear.

“I'm sorry,” Marguerite said. “Are you in the theatre?”

The girl eyed her indignantly. “I should say I am. You wouldn't have seen Mollie Todd, would you?”

Marguerite sat down and slipped out of her furs. There was no one to take them, but it was dreadfully warm in the room. “No, I wouldn't have. I'm Marguerite Corbeau.”

“Oh, Gladtomeetyou. I'm Gem Jackson. Toby sent you?”

Marguerite frowned as she watched Gem pick out the crooked stitches. “He invited me to the dinner, yes. Where is everyone? Am I terribly early? I must have got the time wrong.”

“No, dearie, you're on time. They're just getting started in there. Oh, damn and blast this thing, I'll just leave the tear. Let me show you the shawls we have. They're so pretty.”

“Shawl?”

“It's a seraglio theme, didn't Toby tell you? That's a harem.” Gem giggled. “We're all wearing these Turkish things, and Mollie's going to be carried in wrapped in a rug, can you imagine? At least our shawls are pretty, wonderful silk, I hope we get to keep them.” Gem jumped up and ran into an adjoining room, separated from the room they were in by double French doors. She kept the doors open, and Marguerite saw the adjoining room was domininated by a large round dining table. A dozen or so young women were sitting around it, eating chicken and lobster and picking with their fingers at various salads from silver serving dishes. There were three buckets of iced champagne. All of the women were in various stages of undress. Underneath one woman's satin dressing gown Marguerite glimpsed the same spangled gauze that Gem had torn.

Gem picked up a slice of ham and ate it. She licked her fingers. “Where are those shawls?” she asked a woman dressed in a rather soiled pink wrapper. Holding her champagne glass to her lips, the woman pointed to a corner with a delicate finger.

Marguerite stood up jerkily, like a marionette. When Gem returned, she hastened toward her, her blond curls bouncing. “Are you feeling poorly? Do you want supper? There's a nice spread in there for us. It's catered from Sherry's. Come on.” She linked her rounded arm with Marguerite's. “I'll sit with you.”

“What is this?” Marguerite asked shrilly. “Where am I? Where is Mr. Wells?”

Gem laughed. “Toby's always late. He always says he'll be here to greet us, and he never is. Don't get your dander up, sweetie, it's just his way. Come on, the girls are awfully nice.”

“The girls …”

“And look at your shawl, isn't it pretty? I picked the blue one for you, it will suit you best. And it covers more than you'd think.”

“What?”
Marguerite almost screamed the word. Several of the women in the other room looked up sharply. Turning, she looked frantically for her bag and furs.

“There's no need to get all het up,” Gem said, affronted. “I'm just trying to be make you feel like one of us.”

“One of you? No thank you.” Marguerite grabbed her bag and threw the fur cape around her neck. She felt on the edge of hysteria.

“Hey now.” A tall, shapely brunette stood in the doorway of the dining room, a chicken leg in her hand. “What are you suggesting, Miss High and Mighty? We're all
entertainers
here.”

Toby Wells chose this moment to sweep grandly in the door. He was in formal dress, and he swept his silk scarf off as he walked in. “Good evening, girls. I've arrived, and I'm—” Toby stopped short as he saw Marguerite's face. “Miss Corbeau, you're here already.”

“Yes, I arrived on time,” Marguerite said through clenched teeth.

His gaze traveled to Gem, then to the brunette. “What have you been telling her?”

Gem snorted. “What have
you
been telling her, Toby?” She bent down and grabbed her gauze costume.

“I'm leaving,” Marguerite said tightly.

“No,” Toby said, frantically signalling Gem toward the dining room while she pointedly ignored him, running her fingers through the gauze. “Miss Corbeau, let me explain. You have blundered onto a situation which—”

“I was invited!” Marguerite shouted at him.

“Of course, of course,” he said soothingly. “But—”

“To a dinner,” Marguerite continued. She felt close to tears, but she'd be damned if she'd let Mr. Toby Wells know it. “But by the looks of things, I am overdressed.”

Gem laughed, and Toby threw her a poisonous look before extending his hands pleadingly to Marguerite. “Miss Corbeau. I ask only one thing. That you stay and let me explain. You could leave now, angry and hurt, and never know why I asked you here. Wouldn't you have the kindness to hear me out before you decide what to do?”

“Toby, didn't you tell her? You
are
a caution,” Gem said.

“I'm leaving,” Marguerite said icily.

“Wouldn't you rather hear about it than wonder?” Gem asked practically.

Marguerite stared at her round, friendly blue eyes. The girl had a point, she supposed. She pictured herself going home, in her fine gown, and trying to explain to Columbine. She sighed.

“All right, Mr. Wells. Explain, if you can.”

“Okay. Okay.” Toby ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Next door there's a dinner going on. Among the guests are the most distinguished men in arts and letters in New York. Stanford White heads the table, and around it are artists, writers, architects, the leaders of society—”

“Get to the point,” Marguerite said tersely.

“Honey, he's telling the truth,” Gem put in. “At least right there he is,” she muttered.

“These ladies here tonight have been engaged for the purpose of entertainment. They are actresses, singers. Nothing nefarious, I assure you, will go on, nothing that would compromise your reputation—” and here, Gem rolled her eyes—”everything open and above board, I assure you. Why Gem, here, is an accomplished opera singer. Delilah is a dancer at the Plantagenet Theatre.”

“And what is my talent, Mr. Wells?” Marguerite asked.

“You're pretty,” Toby said bluntly. “And young. Why, in this light, you could pass for sixteen. Mr. White likes, uh, slender women. All you have to do is pour the champagne at the end of dinner, make conversation.”

“And what will I be wearing while I ‘make conversation'?” Marguerite persisted.

Toby looked uncomfortable. “A costume would be provided for you. Purely voluntary, of course. Tonight's theme is a seraglio. There'll be Turkish slippers, shawls, some harem outfits. You can choose whatever you want. You'll be decently covered.”