The Gilded Cage (28 page)

They were blessed with good weather for the passage, and they felt lucky, with second class accommodations, compared to steerage. But their good spirits faded upon their arrival in New York. Marguerite would never forget the shock of seeing her father at the pier. Looking at her mother, she knew Sophie was shocked, too. Jacob was old.

At first, he had tried for a good job uptown, his hopes moving downward from manager to accountant to clerk. Nobody wanted him. He was a Russian Jew, no matter that he had been born in France, and he found that German Jews looked at him with distaste, thinking him a peasant. They would give him a chance, some said, but times were bad. For some reason, he could not hold onto any job he took. Later, Marguerite realized that Jacob was a good employer but a bad employee. He had lost his spirit and his hope, and he was not willing to do menial work. He grew affronted at slights, he lost his temper, and he was often fired. The job as a clerk in a store had given him a burst of optimism and he had sent their passage. But in the time it took for them to make ready and cross the ocean, he had been fired again. Jacob was at his lowest ebb; he was a peddler.

Marguerite was no longer a privileged child. She was sent to school, but it was a public school filled with peasant children. Her mother sewed, and they took in boarders. And instead of the adoring father she dimly remembered, a thin stranger stood in his clothes, a stranger who, after her fifteenth birthday, told her flatly that she would turn out to no good. Things were never the same for Marguerite. She had another year of hell, and then she moved out. She put on her clean shirtwaist and her black skirt and took the El uptown, all the way to Fifth Avenue. She put on her French accent, for she had picked one up in France, called herself Marguerite Corbeau—raven, in French, a nod to a time when her father still loved her—and got a job as a maid. She'd suffered there for two years until Columbine had rescued her.

But her mother was still trapped. Marguerite looked around at the grayness her mother lived with. She remembered the fresh flowers her mother would insist on having all around her in Odessa, and even in Lille. She remembered Sophie, her blond hair spilling out of her bun, her cheeks flushed with triumph over the success of her tomatoes. Now, Sophie would never think of wasting a nickel and taking the El up to Central Park.

“Mama,” Marguerite said impulsively, “if I came down and met you, would you take a cab with me uptown to the Park? You could see trees and grass. It's so lovely, Mama.”

“Oh, I don't know. That would take a half a day, wouldn't it? I couldn't take the time.”

“But I have money, Mama. I could give you the money you'd make that afternoon. Papa wouldn't have to know. Will you think about it?”

Sophie touched a fleeting hand to her hair. “But I have nothing to wear, cheri'.” She laughed. “You forget I am French.”

“I'll buy you a new hat, a beautiful hat, with feathers and flowers, whatever you want.”

Sophie stared at her penetratingly. “And where will you get the money for such a hat?”

Marguerite briefly considered telling her about Edwin, but decided to wait until she was actually married. “I'm taking singing lessons, Mama. Remember how you told me I sang like a bird? My teacher says I have great talent. I'm going to audition for William Miles Paradise in a few weeks.”

“Who?”

“William Paradise,” Marguerite said impatiently. “The most famous theatrical producer in New York, Mama.”

Sophie frowned. “On Second Avenue? What kind of a name is Paradise?”

Marguerite shook her head. “Not Yiddish theatre, Mama.
Real
theatre. He put on
The Girl from Abeline,
and Maisie's
European Tour,
and, oh, so many plays. And he does revues, too. He knows everyone—Lillian Russell, Edwin Booth, John Drew …”

“He must be a great man. But Marguerite, how are you paying for these lessons?”

Marguerite looked away impatiently. “I have a job, remember? I'm living with Columbine Nash, and I work in her office.”

“You never had fine silk dresses from that job,” her mother observed.

“You sound like Papa,” Marguerite said grimly.

Sophie hesitated. “No. But I'm your mother. I know how men take advantage …”

“And what if I take advantage of them?” she tossed out with a laugh.

Sophie withdrew her arm and turned to her. Her blue eyes were sharp with censure. “You are still a child, Marguerite, not a woman. When you are a woman, you will show respect to your mother. Do you think I am without wisdom, without experience? I'm not a peasant, not an uneducated woman. Do you think I am just the meek little wife, running after my difficult husband? You forget how long I was without him, how I made a life for you, alone. And now you toss away my words like chaff in the wind. Don't be so smart, little one.”

Marguerite decided not to point out that they had lived with Aunt Mariette and Uncle Max in Lille. Sophie had not exactly been alone. “No, Mama, I don't forget,” she said in a concilatory tone. “Let's not quarrel. I have to leave you, and I can't if you're frowning at me.” Marguerite dug into her bag and pressed all the money she had in her mother's hands, leaving some change for a cab. “Buy some meat this week. Some medicine for Papa's chest, though he doesn't deserve it.”

Sophie blushed as she took the money. “I didn't tell you, but things could be looking up. There's a rumor—this rich man, Baron de Hirsch, he's asked how many immigrants are on the East Side. He's counting the Jews, and they say he'll give one hundred dollars to each person! Jacob is sure of this. Won't that be wonderful?”

Marguerite looked into her mother's eyes. She could see that her mother did believe it. “No one is going to give you anything, Mama,” she said. “Don't you see that it isn't worth it, to do piece work, to live like an animal? You have to take a big step, a big risk, to get anywhere.”

Now her mother was annoyed again. “What do you know of risks? It doesn't take much courage to risk when you're young and pretty. That's the danger of it.”

Marguerite pulled on her gloves. “All right, whatever you say,” she said, not listening. “I'll bring more money next time. And Mama, I'm not what Papa thinks I am. I promise.”

Sophie looked down at the money in her hands. “But what are you?” she asked slowly.

Marguerite pretended she hadn't heard. She kissed her mother and walked quickly away.
What, indeed?
she thought. But she smiled while she thought it.

F
IONA
D
EVLIN REFUSED
to meet Elijah at her home, so they met halfway at a restaurant on Charles Street. It was mid-afternoon, and they were the only customers. Elijah ordered two coffees from the bored proprietor, who poured out two mugs and then returned to nap in front of the coal stove.

While Fiona blew on the coffee and took her first sip, Elijah studied her face underneath the brim of a black hat. For this age, the feminine ideal was of lush womanhood, bosomy and fullhipped in elaborate gowns. Fiona would not be thought terribly attractive. She was a working woman in a shabby black dress; she looked underfed.

But some future age might call her beautiful, Elijah thought. She had a strong, striking face, and he admired it. The nose was straight and long, the jaw a bit too prominent. One of her front teeth overlapped the other slightly. Her skin was pale, but it did not have the creaminess that some women of fair coloring had; it was thin and translucent, skin that would show any change in temperature or emotion. Her eyes were extraordinary, icy green, and in the left one, there was a tiny triangle of deep gold. Next to the skin and the eyes her hair was tangerine colored, wild, extravagant. It was thick and very long, the kind of hair that it is impossible to tame, wavy, kinky and curly by turns, and always unruly.

“Do you see something you like, Mr. Reed?” she asked him mockingly.

He had been caught, and Elijah regretted his rudeness. It was not a good way to begin. “I didn't mean to stare. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Devlin.”

She shrugged and cupped her coffee. Her hands looked red and cold; the cuticles were cracked, and one knuckle was skinned. “It's all right. What do you want? Are you writing another article about the poor and downtrodden?”

“No.” Elijah remembered now how blunt she was. She had no time for anyone who bored her. “I learned something recently that I thought you should know.”

She looked at him over the thick rim of her coffee mug. There was no curiosity in her eyes. She would wait for the information, then decide if it was worth knowing or not.

“I'm afraid that Mrs. Nash's position might have been misrepresented to you,” he said. “She has agreed to testify for you, should you wish to bring a lawsuit against Ambrose Hartley.”

Fiona blinked, the only sign that this information had interested her. She put down her mug very slowly. She picked at a cuticle, then put her hands in her lap. “She agreed, you say?”

“Yes. From the first. I wanted you to know that.”

She nodded several times while she took in the information. “Well, it doesn't matter. My Jim won't go through the bother and expense. We don't expect justice, why would our case be any different from the way things are? And with Mr. Hartley having that heart attack, no judge would rule for us anyway.”

“I agree, the chances are not good. But I would help in any way I could, should you wish to proceed. I'm sure I could find counsel who wouldn't charge a fee, or wait until the settlement to take any money.”

She waved a hand, then reached behind her for her coat. He noticed how the stitching near the armholes was coming out. A benefactor, indeed, Mr. Birch. “I have something else to tell you,” he went on. “An offer, actually.”

She paused, then let her coat drop to her lap. “Yes?”

“Mr. Van Cormandt is looking for a domestic worker. A parlormaid. He asked if you would be interested in taking a job.”

With an impatient jerk, she turned her head sideways, then glanced at him. “I never did upstairs work. I always was in the kitchens.”

“Mr. Van Cormandt is aware of that.” Elijah leaned across the table. “He's more liberal than most, Mrs. Devlin. You and Mr. Devlin could live in, or out, as you choose. Sundays and one other afternoon off, and Mr. Van Cormandt is often out of town these days, and doesn't entertain. He said he could use another stable worker, too. Isn't Mr. Devlin up and about?”

She nodded shortly. Her mouth twisted. She looked over Elijah's left shoulder, into the distance. “A one-armed man in a stable?”

“I've seen Mr. Devlin. He's a good, strong man, stronger than most. What do you say, Mrs. Devlin? Would you like to talk to Mr. Van Cormandt?”

She stood up abruptly, surprising Elijah, who reared back as her chair skidded across the tiled floor. The proprietor woke up and looked at them with new interest.

Clutching her coat in front of her, she leaned over the table and locked eyes with Elijah. “I wouldn't work for that man if he danced barefoot to my doorway over broken glass and knelt on his bloody knees at my feet.”

Elijah hesitated, then nodded. “A compelling image, Mrs. Devlin. But I do get your point.”

Fiona pulled on her coat, thrusting her arms into the sleeves stiffly. Adjusting her hat, she started toward the door.

“Mrs. Devlin?”

She turned. “There's more, Mr. Reed?”

“When did you first meet Mr. Birch?”

Her nostrils flared. “And what business is it of yours?” she asked tightly.

“Was he there that night, at the New Year's Eve party, to see you?”

Fiona met his gaze squarely. Her green eyes glittered. “No,” she said, and walked out.

Bell was packing china from the breakfront when Columbine burst into the dining room.

“Bell, I must talk to you.”

Bell put down a handful of straw. “For heaven's sake, Columbine, I almost dropped the good teapot. What is it?”

Weakly, Columbine collapsed on a chair. “You didn't take any cash from the Emergency Fund without entering it into the ledger, did you?”

Bell shook her head. “Of course not. Why?”

Columbine's brown eyes were full of panic. “Because there's money missing. Quite a bit of money. I was hoping that you took it.”

Bell slid into the chair across from Columbine's. “Did you ask Rosa? She has a key to the drawer.”

Columbine shook her head. “No, I wanted to talk to you first. Bell, it's all gone. And since I received those funds from England it was more than usual. It was over a thousand dollars, Bell! I was going to put it in the bank today. I knew I shouldn't have left it in the drawer.”

“But the drawer is locked. We're very careful.”

“And only three of us have the key. You, me, and Rosa.”

“And Marguerite. I gave her one when she started to work on the fund with me.” Bell's eyes widened as speculation entered her mind. “But this is terrible.”

Columbine moved the toe of her shoe over the carpet. “I can't imagine Marguerite doing such a thing.”

“Nor can I.”

“Rosa has had trouble at home. Her mother has a problem in her lungs, and can't work. They're behind on the rent.”

“You think Rosa—”

Columbine stood up, agitated. “No, I don't think Rosa, and no, I don't think Marguerite, either. But I would rather think that someone who needed money took it.”

“Marguerite had all those pretty clothes before she left,” Bell said musingly. “Those gloves, the lavender dress—”

Columbine shook her head fiercely. “I don't believe it. Someone else could have gotten the key somehow.”

“You have to talk to them, at least,” Bell said. “Do you know where Marguerite is living?”

Columbine nodded. She sat down, then stood up again. She walked to the window and looked out into the back yard, lost in thought.