The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  SUSANNAH BAMFORD

  M EVANS

  Lanham • New York • Boulder • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

  M. Evans

  An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

  http://www.rlpgtrade.com

  10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom

  Distributed by National Book Network

  Copyright © 1991 Susan Bamford

  First Rowman & Littlefield paperback edition 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  ISBN 13: 978-1-59077-370-3 (pbk: alk. paper)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Rosalind Noonan

  Contents

  December, 1889 Sex and Politics

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  November, 1896 The Propaganda of the Deed

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  April, 1898 In a Warm Room

  Epilogue

  December, 1889 Sex and Politics

  One

  THERE CANNOT BE a great deal of sympathy for the unhappy woman who stands, in her Paris gown, at the most stylish New Year’s Eve party of the season, holding a glass of perfectly-iced champagne by its delicate crystal stem while her handsome, rich, and devoted lover smiles adoringly at her across an opulent room.

  Columbine Nash told herself this, and continued nevertheless to be unhappy. Clutching her champagne in one hand and her rose-pink gauze fan in the other, she retreated behind an embroidered screen. There, she gave up and decided to brood before someone found her out. She should have about ten seconds of solitude, if she was lucky, for women, in 1889, did not find themselves alone very often in drawing rooms, though what mischief or misery they could come to amidst such a crowd she never was able to understand. Perhaps 1890 would be different, Columbine thought, taking a sip of champagne. She doubted it.

  It was ten minutes to midnight, and the wine-colored velvet curtains of Ambrose and Maud Hartley’s second floor salon in their Fifth Avenue mansion were drawn back wide despite the cold. Elaborately tasseled gold cord embraced the folds of rich drapery and trailed fecklessly on the Turkish carpet. Across Fifth Avenue, the trees of Central Park loomed, skeletal branches scraping a pale sky with an odd yellow cast. Clouds scudded across a sulphuric moon.

  The conversation of the guests, fueled by Pommery, was brisk and animated. It was the most stylish New Year’s Eve dinner of New York society’s “younger set,” and the room seemed almost to spin with its dizzying consequence. The shirt fronts of the men were at their snowiest, the beards at their glossiest. The women glittered in their most formal and extravagant gowns, Nile green and ciel blue, Rose Dubarry pink and the moonlit simplicity of white satin. Clouded moiré collided with broché satin, pearl trimming brushed against spangled chiffon. Diamonds and emeralds flashed, wrapped around necks, sewn in bodices, and cunningly secured in coiffures styled after Paris fashion. They looked resplendent, they knew it, and they had not yet begun to be bored by how familiar it was.

  Columbine was wearing her best gown, gold satin with rosepink crystal trim, but she felt rather cowed at the display tonight. She turned her back on the wide windows with a shudder. Was she the only one to be bothered by that strange yellow sky? She told herself that her uneasy feeling was because she was rather bored, which she was. Columbine had spent the day dreading this party, and already tonight the company had cooperated by behaving even more stupidly than usual.

  Tonight, Maud had seated her—and the placement had been deliberate, for Maud always seated Columbine Nash next to the guest most likely to annoy her—next to a bore at dinner. Columbine had picked at her mousse de jambon while Gerald Ferrar had jovially but painstakingly explained to her how her feminine mind was unable to grasp the pure, God-given nature of male superiority and the free enterprise system. There was no need for women to have the vote, he said, his mud-colored eyes concentrating on the course to come. For it was women’s nature to influence, to guide. Their sphere was the private one; through their husbands and sons they could exercise their most delicate of talents.

  Columbine swallowed her lobster bisque and only politely pointed out that there did exist some women who were not mothers or wives. There were even some women, she said, smiling graciously, who were of the working class. Of course, this was no argument, as she well knew, for what did such women count to a man like Gerald Ferrar? He ignored her comment and charged on while Columbine tried to catch the eye of her lover, Ned Van Cormandt, who was devoting himself to his neighbor as a gentleman should, leaving Columbine to her turbot and her florid partner.

  If there was one thing that set Columbine’s teeth on edge—and there were many, many things, most assuredly—it was the heavily masculine guest (oh, they were always men) who insisted on converting her to his point of view while she was trying to eat. Invariably, the naivete of their views, their patronizing smiles, and their refusal to listen to even one word of what she had to say, made her drink too much champagne and desperately look for a rescue which never came. It was difficult to be a socialist and a suffragist on Fifth Avenue.

  If only she could be rude! But as the daughter of a British baronet, Columbine was incapable of it. It was one reason she admired the anarchists of her acquaintance. They had an impatience for stupidity which they didn’t bother to conceal. Of course, they didn’t have much time to waste, as the revolution was just around the corner.

  A head poked around the screen. So she’d had ten seconds, at least! Ambrose Hartley beamed at her, her host and an excellent target for any anarchist. Guiltily, she summoned up a smile.

  “Ah, Mrs. Nash, I find you out. And your glass is woefully empty. Surely you need a touch more champagne.” Ambrose inclined his curly head at her. He had the gay but desperate air of a former man-about-town who had married a sour wife. Maud Valentine had roused herself to vivaciousness a year ago during their courtship. But once she had caught Ambrose and returned from their three-month honeymoon in Europe, she’d retreated into her silks, her sulks and her chinoiserie. Already, Ambrose had put on twenty pounds and had begun to sport the ruddy complexion of a man who likes his drink.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Hartley,” Columbine said with a smile. “I’m content, I assure you. I’m looking forward to your firework display.”

  “Only five minutes to go,” Ambrose said with satisfaction. “And then the nineties will be upon us. The decade will bring more miracles, I’m sure. Just think of all the wonders we’ve seen in the eighties—the telephone, and the incandescent light. The Brooklyn Bridge, and—”

  “—and Hay
market, bloody strikes, Anthony Comstock and his campaign against any device to prevent conception, the continued defeat of suffrage for women ...” Columbine smiled to assuage the bluntness of her remarks. She was on Fifth Avenue, after all.

  Ambrose looked startled for a moment. Then he tilted back his head and burst out laughing. Across the room, Ned looked up from his conversation with Converse Bowles. His aristocratic face collapsed in a grin, his summer-leaf eyes sharing a private joke with her across the room. He no doubt thought she had sent forth a delightful bon mot. Columbine was famous for her wit. Unfortunately, people laughed hardest when she wasn’t joking in the least.

  “Well, leave it to you, Mrs. Nash, to render me speechless,” Ambrose said. “Yes, I suppose we had all that as well. But America is still the best of all possible worlds, a shining example of progress and Christian patriotism. We will see even more miracles and ingenuity before the century turns, I’ll warrant.”

  Columbine had seen the same editorial in the World that morning, but she merely smiled and inclined her head. Ambrose was her host, and she was never waspish to hosts. Especially when their wives were so very close to rendering her a large check for her New Women Society. Maud had a tremulous dedication to women’s suffrage, although she was nervously waiting until more upper class women found it fashionable.

  “And may I say, while we’re tête-à-tête here, I’m glad to see that you’ve settled down, Mrs. Nash,” Ambrose continued. “No more of those lectures on free love. I’d much rather enjoy your lovely face across the dinner table than on a podium.” Ambrose chuckled. “Thank heavens that’s over. I’m sure Ned is most relieved.”

  Stupified, Columbine wasn’t sure which comment to take offense at first—the fact that Ambrose felt that she was no longer scandalous, or that he had assumed that Ned was glad she had scaled back her lecture tours. Or was it merely his fatuous tone?

  Ten years ago, bishops had thundered against her in pulpits. Five years ago, newpapers had slandered her. Two years ago she had been called a Hester Prynne who gloried in her scarlet letter, a threat to decent society. Today, she was standing in decent society’s drawing room. And her leering host was telling her she belonged.

  This is what I’ve become, she thought grimly. A radical pet. Domesticated, de-clawed, her teeth filed down. She was no longer dangerous at all. She was coasting on her laurels at thirty-five. And it took a fool like Ambrose Hartley to tell her so.

  “Actually, Mr. Hartley, I’m planning a new lecture tour,” she said demurely. “‘The Secret Life of the American Husband.’ You know, of course, that my New Women Society has worked with the poor unfortunate girls of this city who sell their bodies, Mr. Hartley, to make a living. I’ve learned much from their… activities. Names, places … oh, it’s shocking, I assure you, how the men of good society piously deplore the vice of the city in public while partaking of it so enthusiastically in private.” She widened her large, luminous eyes at him. “It is so necessary to expose hypocrisy wherever we might find it, don’t you agree?” She smiled encouragingly at him.

  Ambrose swallowed. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “What do you think of Maud’s redecorating?” he finally squeaked. “She redid the salon from top to bottom.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely. Remarkable,” Columbine said virtuously. It was an appalling room. Maud’s famous collection of chinoiserie perched perilously around them, a jumble of ginger jars and vases. The carpet was Turkish, and the furniture was all in the rococo extravagance of Louis XV Chocolate-colored woodwork and an assortment of gilt-framed mirrors completed the decor. There were a few bad paintings from the worst of the Barbizon school.

  Columbine took a very unladylike gulp of champagne, but the room remained hideous. She smiled winningly at Ambrose.

  “Mrs. Nash, you must come to the window,” Ambrose said, regaining his poise with a grand manner. “I’ll find you a good place for the firework display.”

  He held out his arm, but before she could take it, a butler appeared at Ambrose’s elbow. He spoke quietly. “May I have a word, sir? It’s about the fireworks.”

  Annoyance deepened the crease on Ambrose’s forehead. He drew the butler away from Columbine, but she could hear them clearly. “Yes, Howell? Not a problem, I hope.”

  “Devlin needs to speak with you, sir. He’s worried about the fireworks. They look damaged, he says. He won’t set them off, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” Ambrose said impatiently. “I’ll talk to him. I promised my guests fireworks, and fireworks we shall have! Tell Devlin I’ll be out in a moment.”

  The butler nodded and turned away. Ambrose turned back to Columbine. “Just like the Irish to wait till the last minute to complain. Let me bring you to Ned and he’ll find a place at the window.”

  Columbine paused. “But did he say that there was some question of the fireworks being unsafe? If so, I hardly think—”

  “Nonsense,” Ambrose repeated firmly. “It’s only a snag, I assure you. It’s almost eighteen-hundred and ninety, and I insist on the proper fanfare.”

  In a moment, he had delivered her to Ned—like a package, Columbine thought, but then, men did not excuse themselves from ladies in drawing rooms without handing them off to another male—and rushed out.

  Ned smiled at her. “What did you do to Ambrose?” he murmured. “He looked like he swallowed a live chicken.”

  “Not a thing,” she said. “I was perfectly charming. He’s worried about his fireworks.”

  “Ah. He hasn’t changed much since he was a boy. If it doesn’t come off he’ll sulk all evening. Come to the window anyway, there’s a strange light tonight.”

  She took his arm and they strolled to the French doors. Cool air emanated from the frosty windows, caressing Columbine’s bare shoulders. The salon had been rather hot, and she pressed even closer to the glass. The guests were excited now, and they milled about, laughing about Ambrose and his eagerness. Letitia Garth, the most delicious young ingenue of the season, flirted with graying Converse Bowles behind a fan of white peacock feathers and diamonds. Clara Vandervoon narrowed her small black eyes and whispered to her cousin, Georgina Halstead, about the scandalous behavior. Would confirmed bachelor Converse Bowles fall at last?

  “Perhaps we can leave early, as soon as the dancing starts,” Ned murmured.

  Columbine didn’t answer. Something about her conversation with Ambrose pricked at her, and she felt irritated with Ned as well as with herself. She would prefer to end the evening alone in her own room, where she could think.

  Shortly after they’d become lovers three years before, Ned had leased a house in Greenwich Village. They met there as often as their schedules permitted, usually taking separate hansom cabs, with Columbine veiled for secrecy. A woman, Mrs. Haggerty, kept the house and her tongue.

  But tonight, Columbine’s pulse did not race in anticipation. She was a mistress, but she might as well have been a wife, so stately and predictable her relations with Ned had become. What was the use of being a dangerous mistress if you no longer felt thrilled at the thought of your lover? What was the use of secrecy and denial if it didn’t add spice to the proceedings? She was so comfortable she might as well be married.

  Is that what had bothered her so about Ambrose’s words? It wasn’t Ned’s fault that she had become so predictable, Columbine raged at herself. She was being unfair. She wished Ned would skip the carriage ride to the Village and seduce her on her own parlor sofa, as he once did. Perhaps passion could drive the restlessness from her soul.

  “Why don’t we leave now?” she asked impulsively. “We can take French leave.”

  Ned smiled in an indulgent way that told her he didn’t take her suggestion seriously for a moment. “Slip away early without saying good night? How wicked of us.”

  Columbine touched him fleetingly with her fan. “Ah, but it’s time you were wicked again, Ned Van Cormandt,” she chided. “You are definitely in danger of committing the worst sin of all, in my opinion—” />
  “And that is?”

  “Predictability, of course.”

  Columbine’s tone was light, but there was a hint of asperity that Ned rarely heard. “I shall take that warning under advisement, madam,” he said, trying to match her lightness.

  Columbine saw the hurt in his eyes and immediately felt guilty. “Don’t mind me, tonight, Ned. A devil is on my tongue.”

  Ned laughed in relief. “As long as you make it up to me later,” he murmured.

  “Oh, is there any question of that?” she answered dryly. “By twoseventeen in the morning, two-thirty if there is traffic on Broadway on the way downtown, I’d wager you’ll be quite satisified, sir.”

  Ned looked at her sharply, and Columbine instantly felt guilty again. She looked away and fanned her warm cheeks.

  “It appears the show is about to begin,” Ned said in a cool tone. He flipped open his gold dress watch. Around him, the other men did the same. “It’s three minutes to midnight.”

  Columbine looked out through the glass. A dark figure crossed Fifth Avenue and hurried toward a grassy spot underneath the bare trees.

  Moments later, Ambrose rushed into the room. “It’s almost time,” he said excitedly. He extinguished the gas jets, and the room was filled with moonlight. Some of the guests oohed, and they all pressed closer to the glass doors. Someone opened the latch, and the men and the more adventuresome ladies spilled out onto the terrace. Columbine heard Letitia’s soprano laugh as the cold air hit them. Moonlight splashed on her white satin gown trimmed with crystals and pearls.

  Columbine shivered, but she welcomed the frosty air. It was intoxicating to feel the fresh night air for a moment. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of New York in winter, frost and snow and the faint smell of horses, even here on upper Fifth Avenue, only beginning to attract a fashionable crowd, facing the long rectangle of the Central Park. She returned to London once a year, and sometimes even thought of living there again. But in the past few years she’d begun to realize that New York was her true home. Something about the rough vitality of the city kept her; somehow she could breathe here. There were no bad memories here. She did not have the weight of centuries of family on her back.