The Jewel Cage

by Jane Steen

  “The old guy’s hurt, Nick,” said a voice on the other side of the carriage. The black-haired man stopped swearing and threw the stone down.

  “Hurt bad?” he yelled.

  “Not so bad, I don’t think,” said the second voice. “He fell off the seat.”

  I flew to the door on that side in time to witness Mr. Nutt being helped to his feet by a tall, very muscular young man, rain-soaked, his trousers drenched in mud to above the knee. I realized he and his companion must be the laborers who had been working on the road.

  “You got a cut on your head,” said the younger laborer to Mr. Nutt. Indeed, my carriage driver was an alarming sight. Blood ran down one side of his face and his coat was torn at the shoulder. Yet he was upright, and his eyes were focused.

  “You all right, Mrs. Rutherford?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” I reached out a hand toward him. “Come and sit in here. How badly are you hurt?”

  The black-haired Irishman shut the door behind me and ran around to join his friend. He and the younger man helped Mr. Nutt into the rockaway, whereupon our driver dropped untidily into the seat as if his legs had buckled.

  “I’m all right—all right—just a little winded,” he gasped as I pulled off one of my gloves, screwing it into a wad to press against the wound on his head. With my reticule gone, I had no handkerchief; it was the only thing I could think to do.

  “It ain’t deep,” the younger laborer said reassuringly. He had shut the remaining door and was leaning on the open window, watching my efforts at nursing.

  “It’s a scratch. I hit the lamp on the way down.” Mr. Nutt’s voice strengthened as he recovered his breath. “I’ll be sore all over tomorrow, is all.”

  “We saw them play that trick before.” The young man pushed a filthy hand through a thick, overgrown, thoroughly wet brush of blond hair and grinned shyly. “The police ain’t never on this stretch of the road. We would’ve went to help quicker, but we was down in the hole. I told Big Nick we’d stop them this time though, and we did.” His voice was slow, halting, and somehow familiar.

  “Did they get away?” Mr. Nutt asked, pulling out his handkerchief to help me clean up the blood on his face.

  “Ran like jackrabbits.” Big Nick came back into view behind his friend, grinning in satisfaction and displaying a gap where his front teeth were missing. “Did they take anything from ya, Miss?”

  “My reticule with a few coins in it, nothing worse. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’d like to give you a reward.” I had begun to relax, knowing we were safe with the two large men.

  “Ah, no reward necessary. We had our bit of fun.” Big Nick wiped the moisture from his face and nodded at the younger man. “Or perhaps you could give it to Donny since he’s the one who worked out what they was up to. They call him slow, but he’s smart enough, if I’m any judge.”

  I looked hard at the younger laborer. “Don’t I know you?”

  He wasn’t somebody you’d easily forget, being at least six feet four and very broad across the shoulders. His massive chest and arms, covered by a cotton undershirt and crossed by suspenders, bulged with the muscles of a manual laborer, but he had a surprisingly sweet face. It had a low brow under the thick growth of blond hair and a perpetual small frown, as if its owner had to work hard to understand what people were saying. The eyes that stared shyly at me from under thick, fair brows were an attractive dark blue.

  The answer to my question was a shrug and a half smile. “I knew a lady with hair like yours once. She sewed shirts for us.”

  “Donny, of course.” In my mind’s eye, I pictured him, younger and far less muscular, crying as he held up a shapeless black hat to my window. “You were at the Poor Farm. My name’s Nell, do you remember? Nell Lillington—Rutherford since I married.”

  “Miss Nell.” Donny wiped a huge hand on his undershirt and enveloped the one I had proffered. “You haven’t changed much.”

  “Well, ain’t that a nice happenstance.” Big Nick put a friendly hand on Donny’s shoulder. “But beggin’ your pardon, Miss, we got to get back to work. You goin’ to be all right to drive the lady home?” he asked Mr. Nutt, who was rising to his feet.

  “I’ll be fine.” Mr. Nutt raked back his hair with one hand and dabbed at the cut on his head, which was still oozing a little blood.

  “Your hat’s here.” Donny opened the carriage door again and put out a hand to help Mr. Nutt descend. “You’re pretty brave for an old guy.”

  I could hear Mr. Nutt expressing his thanks as the young man moved away from the door. Big Nick leaned in closer to me, lowering his voice.

  “Didn’t want to say it in front of the boy, but he could really use a reward. You don’t have to worry none about me—I got a wife and a home—but the kid’s got nothin’ but the clothes on his back. He’s a nice boy, but he’s”—Nick made a surreptitious gesture toward his head to indicate Donny’s slow wits—“and in the flophouses they take advantage, steal from him and all. I been tryin’ to help him get regular work, but it ain’t easy.”

  “I have nothing to give him at present, but if I tell you my address, will you remember it and help Donny find it?”

  Big Nick nodded. “He can find his way around. You just tell me where you live, and I’ll make sure he comes by.”

  “I’m thinking of hiring a younger man to sit next to Nutt.” Martin finished the last bite of pork chop and put down his fork.

  Our dinner had been very late. Martin had ridden for the doctor to attend to Mr. Nutt’s injuries before he even considered our own creature comforts. I too had contributed to making our driver comfortable in Mrs. Power’s large kitchen armchair. He was probably still there, being fussed over mightily by the cook. He’d declared that the large bandage made him feel like a silly old man.

  “Won’t it be a little cramped up on that seat?” I asked. “The rockaway’s not built for two drivers. And besides, Mr. Nutt’s already upset about being overpowered and knocked off his perch. Even after I praised his bravery to the skies in front of Mrs. Power and the doctor.”

  “He was brave, but he’s only one man—and, sprightly as he is for his age, he’s over sixty. Supposing that had been a serious attempt at harming you?”

  He meant rape, of course. I didn’t consider myself an overly imaginative woman, but the memory of being trapped in the small carriage with a dirty, smelly, drunk man on either side of me had also led me to anticipate that possibility. Still—

  “It’s never happened before, and I don’t suppose it will happen again.” I half rose to pour more water into Martin’s glass. “I’ve already told you I’ll get Mr. Nutt to take Van Buren Street in the future and go south on Michigan Avenue instead of State Street. That’ll get us farther away from the saloons. Besides, we’re only renting this house for a couple more months. After that, we’ll stay at the Palmer House, won’t we? It’s only a block or two from the temporary store and the new one. I don’t see the point of a carriage at all, not really, until they finish the new house.”

  “You’ll see the point soon enough when it rains or snows and it’s dark. We’ll have a carriage and driver—and a bodyguard for you.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Last year I walked around Chicago unaccompanied. I rode the streetcars. In all weather—at night as well as in the day. I liked it. Why should being married to you change that?”

  Martin’s mouth set into the rigid line that had appeared as I’d told the tale of our encounter on State Street, and when he spoke his tone was exasperated. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a prosperous man. As my wife—and being wealthy in your own right,” he held up a hand to forestall my interruption, “you are vulnerable to kidnapping. The times are hard and getting harder. There’ve been a few cases around the country where the wives and even children of rich men have been held for ransom.”

  “Their children?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to frighten you, but now the subject’s come up . . . I would prefer
that we ask Miss Baker to accompany Sarah when she plays in the gardens here in the square. Once we move, I’m going to think about what other arrangements we could make.”

  I felt a sensation like a shiver in the middle of my spine. It had never occurred to me that Sarah could be in any kind of danger.

  “A large young man is a good deterrent.” Martin folded his napkin and pushed back his chair. “Come now, Nellie, it’s not that unreasonable, is it? And it will give employment to someone.”

  I stared, unfocused, at the wall behind Martin for a few moments, my mind racing. “In point of fact, it’s not unreasonable,” I said eventually.

  “Merciful heavens, Mrs. Rutherford, are you on the brink of conceding to my wishes?” Martin drawled with a smug expression on his face.

  I scowled. “Not if you smirk like that. But listen, I’ve had a wonderfully practical idea. Donny.”

  “Who?”

  “The younger of the men who came to my rescue. I told you, remember? He used to be at the Poor Farm. Don’t you recall a nice-looking lad greeting us when we arrived that day with Catherine Lombardi? After the Great Fire? When they all thought she was a ghost?”

  Martin closed his eyes and wrinkled his brow. “That does stir a memory, now you mention it.”

  “He’s grown into quite the colossus—in a good way. He’s very tall and very muscular. He’s a bit on the slow side, but he’s clearly brave—and hardworking too. I remember him as a sweet-natured young man. Probably too sweet-natured for the kind of life he’s leading these days, but I’m sure he would fit in well with a household.”

  “But I could easily hire someone with experience—training—in protecting women and children. Don’t you think you’re being rather hasty? If he turns up for a reward, I’ll happily give him one, but—”

  “The point is he wouldn’t just theoretically protect me. He actually has protected me. From real attackers. Big Nick said it was Donny who figured out the trick those men were working and watched out for the next attack. If that’s not proof of his willingness and ability to protect a woman, what is?”

  The expression of bafflement on Martin’s face gave me a secret moment of happiness as he looked down his beaky nose at the tablecloth. “Huh. That’s a hard argument to counter.”

  “I have to win sometimes.” I rose from my seat and lowered myself into Martin’s lap, my arms around his neck. “We can at least talk to him if he comes to see us, can’t we? If I can concede that a little extra protection—a bar of the cage, if you will—may be necessary on occasion, you could at least let me choose my jailer. After all, Providence sent him. I prefer to believe so than in a fantastic coincidence.”

  “Hmmm.” Martin’s arms encircled my waist, and he kissed my neck in a way that flooded my body with warmth. “Are you using your womanly wiles to persuade me? Because it’s working. Well, partially at least. I’m beginning to forget what we’re talking about.”

  “Good.” I straightened up, reluctantly halting the kissing, and cupped Martin’s face with my hands. “Then if Donny comes here, we’ll consider offering him a job. I still object on principle to any attempt to curtail my freedom though. Not until you give up yours.”

  “All right, all right.” Martin raised his eyes to the heavens, or at least to the Katzenmeiers’ coffered ceiling. “I know when I’m bettered in a negotiation.” He kissed my neck again. “But for now, Wife, to bed. Tomorrow’s problems can take care of themselves, and tonight . . .” The laughter lines gathered around his mouth. “There may still be some pleasure in this overlong day—if we don’t both fall asleep as soon as our heads touch the pillow.”

  We didn’t.

  Martin was a tall man and had filled out in the shoulders since our days in Victory, but Donny Clark dwarfed him. The young worker appeared even more substantial now that he was standing in our parlor, the muscles of his chest straining against the plaid shirt he’d evidently chosen as his best article of clothing. He’d attempted to clean himself up, but the stale smell of the worst kind of lodgings clung to him. I saw bites on his neck that suggested fleas or bedbugs. He had declined to sit on the Katzenmeiers’ furniture, a show of consideration for which I was thankful. He stood in the center of the carpet, surveying us all with a shy expression.

  “I’m sure relieved you’re able to see me so early, ma’am and sir. And miss and ma’am.” He nodded at Sarah and Tess, who had followed him into the parlor. “Big Nick said if you didn’t want to see me, he could still get me on a work crew if I came back quick enough.”

  “It’s certainly early.” Martin, who was leaning against the windowsill, grinned. “You’re lucky we’re early risers.”

  Tess nodded vigorously. “‘By much slothfulness the building decayeth; and through idleness of the hands the house droppeth through.’ That means being lazy is a real bad idea,” she added helpfully.

  “They never let us get up late at the institute,” Donny agreed.

  “What’s the institute?” piped a small voice from the region of my waist.

  “Where I used to live.” Donny smiled at Sarah. “What they used to call the Poor Farm.”

  “What’s a Poor Farm?”

  “We’ll talk about it later, darling.” I’d have to ask Donny not to talk about the Poor Farm—the Prairie Haven Institute for the Feeble-Minded, as he’d told me it was now called—in front of Sarah. I would tell her about her place of birth one day, but not yet.

  “I didn’t mean you to give me breakfast either, sir and ma’am, but I’m real grateful. I didn’t eat such good food since a long while.”

  I suppressed a grin. I’d glimpsed Donny in the kitchen eating his way through a huge plate of ham and hotcakes at the rapid, efficient pace of a man who rarely had the luxury of sitting down at a table—and Mrs. Power had whispered to me that it was his second helping.

  “You were really hungry,” Sarah agreed, her eyes glowing. It was she who’d asked Donny if he needed to eat and towed him down to the kitchen, her small hand around two fingers of his, when he’d admitted he did.

  Donny hunkered down so he could talk to Sarah more easily. “I was, Miss Sarah. It was a real pleasure having your company for eating. I’m beholden to you for introducing yourself so genteelly, but I knew who you was—you had that pretty hair when you was a baby.”

  “I guess I’ll always have hair this color,” Sarah said solemnly. “You can have a lock of it if you like, for saving Mama and Mr. Nutt. Mrs. Power says I can go see Mr. Nutt this afternoon if it’s all right with Miss Baker—that’s what my governess is called. I made Mr. Nutt a drawing of a horse to make him feel better. How come you knew me when I was a baby?”

  “We can only offer you a tiny room over the stables for now. Barely enough space for your bed.” Martin spoke quickly, forestalling any reply Donny might make to Sarah’s question. Despite his initial difficulty in recalling Donny from our visit to the Poor Farm, he had recognized the young man straightaway. He had greeted him with enthusiasm, pressed several bills into his hand as thanks for his bravery, and made him a firm offer of employment on the strength of half an hour’s acquaintance—proving, I thought, that I was not the only impulsive member of our household.

  “That’s just fine.” Donny straightened up, towering over Sarah and Tess. “Does the feller I’m sharing with work nights, then?”

  “Mr. Nutt has his own room.” Sarah supplied the information, stepping back so she could see Donny’s face. “You’re going to have your own room too. It’s my favorite of all the rooms in the stable block because it’s very little and cozy. You come to the kitchen to eat. Mr. Nutt sits by the fire with Mrs. Power in the evenings when it’s cold—I guess you can too. It’s nice and warm in the kitchen.”

  The small frown that seemed habitual with Donny deepened, and he stared at Martin for a few moments before his face brightened.

  “I get my own room?”

  “Yes.” One corner of Martin’s mouth twitched up into a smile at Donny’s astonishmen
t. “A dollar a day, three meals, your working clothes—and I’ll throw in shirts, socks, a pair of boots, and—” he raised his eyebrows at Sarah, who shouted, “Inexpressibles!” with glee.

  “That’s how you should refer to all articles that clothe your nether limbs in polite company,” she explained to Donny. “Papa taught me the other day when I made Mr. Mulcahy’s face go red because I said—”

  “Never mind what you said.” Martin intervened to prevent the word Sarah had been about to pronounce—one I’d been surprised to learn she’d picked up—before returning his attention to Donny. “We’ll be moving to Calumet Avenue as soon as they finish our new home. There will be a carriage house down the street with living quarters for several men above the stables. Each man will have his own room.”

  “Jehoshaphat,” breathed Donny. “I’m going to be living in a palace.”

  Tess, who had been following the conversation closely, giggled. “It’s not a palace, silly. Martin, could you advance him a day’s wages so he can go to the bathhouse? If you don’t mind me mentioning that you could do with a wash,” she said to the young man.

  “Miss Tess, ma’am, you can mention anything you like that would make me more pleasing to present company. It’s so downright good to see old friends—and a real treat to know I can be of use to you all. You just tell me where to go and what to do.”

  Tess giggled again, and a rosy blush spread over her cheeks. There was something about the way she was looking at Donny that preoccupied my mind while we discussed a few minor details.

  Soon Martin and I said our good-byes; it was high time we left for the store. The sound of a door opening below prompted Sarah to grab Donny by the hand again. Miss Baker had arrived, and clearly introductions were about to take place.

  “A good day’s work, and it’s only half past eight.” Martin glanced out of the window at the street below, where Mr. Nutt—still sporting a bandage but patently determined to do his job—was waiting for us on the rockaway. “Get your things. I’ll go tell Nutt he’s acquired an apprentice.”