A Golden Cage

by Shelley Freydont

  He strolled out to the almost empty deck and sat down in an alcove on a comfortable couch to enjoy his meal. The night air was cool; beyond him the bay seemed quiet in comparison, though there were plenty of yachts and fishing boats moored there.

  He ate until he was content, then finished the last bit of cheese off with a sip of champagne and stood. He was looking forward to his bed.

  As he stepped back inside, he heard an argument coming from one of the guest compartments. He was sure he heard the name Belle. Were they arguing over the actress?

  He slowed. After all, he was his mother’s son, and if Amabelle or any of the women were in trouble, he might be forced to intercede. He listened more closely; the voices, both male, grew louder then suddenly cut off as a door opened. Joe hurried back the way he’d come. He’d just reached the deck again when the door slammed shut.

  Seconds later, a young woman, one side of her toga sliding down her shoulder, ran toward him. “Help me, please!”

  Joe pulled the girl onto the deck and pushed the door closed. They were standing in shadow and he couldn’t see her face but he could feel her trembling against him. She wasn’t wearing a corset or anything beneath that flimsy piece of fabric as far as he could tell.

  When Joe was sure no one had followed them, he pulled her out into the light.

  “Are you all right? How can I help you?”

  Sobbing, the girl looked up at him with red, frightened eyes.

  Joe cursed himself for letting Vlady talk him into coming. He looked more closely at the girl’s face. She looked familiar. Because they had met before.

  “Amabelle?”

  Chapter

  3

  The girl pushed Joe away.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I’m Joseph Ballard, we met last summer. My mother is Laurette Ballard, she’s a friend of your mother’s.”

  “Oh . . . at Saratoga . . . the races.”

  Joe nodded, relieved that she actually remembered him and he wouldn’t have to go into lengthy explanations. He thought he should be getting her out of this environment before whoever was frightening her came looking for her.

  She stood quietly chafing her bare arms. Joe tried not to notice the see-through fabric or the curvaceous body beneath it.

  “You’re cold. Would you like me to see you home? Where are you staying?”

  “No—no—he would kill me.”

  Joe’s face suffused with heat. “No, I mean—I could put you in a cab, pay for it of course, if you wanted to leave this place.”

  Amabelle shook her head. Her hair had partially come loose and bright blonde ringlets bobbed around her face. She reminded Joe of a china doll, with high round cheeks, big round eyes fringed by long lashes, and a rosebud mouth.

  Pretty, soft, and helpless-looking, though he imagined she would have to have some backbone to manage the life of an actress.

  Voices brought him back to himself.

  “I have to go,” she whimpered and pulled away from him.

  “If you need help, go to my mother at Bonheur.”

  A door closed. Joe stepped in front of the door to bar their way, but the footsteps receded. He opened the door just enough to see inside. The corridor was empty.

  He turned back to tell Amabelle she was safe.

  She was gone.

  He hoped she would be all right. He didn’t know if she’d heard him tell her to go to Bonheur or not.

  He left soon after that. He didn’t see Vlady or any of the other men his age, nor did he see Amabelle Deeks again. His conscience clear, he set off down the cobbled street toward the Fifth Ward and the warehouse he called home.

  * * *

  Church bells, thought Deanna, and tried to force her unwilling eyes open. But surely it was too early for church. She pulled the satin comforter more tightly around her neck and turned over.

  The bells rang again, followed by the sound of feet running outside her bedroom. Her eyes pried open. It was still dark. The sky was only a slightly lighter shade of ebony than when she’d gone to bed and Elspeth had turned out the lights.

  Not church, but the doorbell. Her first thought was that something had happened to her papa or Adelaide or her mother or Joe. She pushed the covers away and grabbed her robe, pulling it on as she ran across her room.

  She opened her door to Gran Gwen and Laurette standing in the hallway. Mr. Ballard, a burgundy and green paisley dressing gown thrown over his nightshirt, was running for the stairs.

  Laurette held out her hand to Deanna, who hurried over to stand with the other two women.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gran Gwen said. “It isn’t a burglar, they never show such good manners, and I doubt if it is a marauding militia come to pull us out of our beds in the dead of night.” She marched off down the hall.

  Maybe not, Deanna thought, but a predawn caller could not bode well. Nevertheless, she and Laurette followed Gran Gwen down the stairs.

  The Ballard butler, Carlisle, was just opening the front door when the three women reached the foyer. Mr. Ballard stood with one hand in his dressing gown pocket, and for a moment Deanna wondered if he was holding a pistol out of sight. She shook her head.

  Too many dime novels, she told herself. Then changed her mind when she saw his hand tighten inside the pocket.

  No great scuffle ensued, no attacks or shooting or low-down grappling. Nothing at all happened.

  The two men just stood looking out the door. Then simultaneously, as if they’d awakened from a spell, Carlisle opened the door wider and Mr. Ballard stepped out onto the flagstones to usher in a diminutive figure wrapped in a gold cape, the hem of a diaphanous white gauze skirt swaying beneath the cape’s hem.

  It was a girl. She looked up and Laurette shot forward. “Oh my dear, are you hurt? What on earth is the matter?” She began unclasping the cloak from Amabelle Deeks’s neck.

  “I—I’ve done something. . . .” The girl swayed, then crumpled to the floor.

  “Good heavens,” Gwen said. “Someone call Minerva.”

  Carlisle moved quickly out of the foyer as Mr. Ballard scooped Amabelle into his arms and carried her into the back parlor. He gave his wife a quick look as he passed her. Laurette shrugged slightly. They seemed to know without saying a word just what the other was thinking.

  Deanna followed the others into the parlor.

  Amabelle Deeks lay on the settee, looking pale and vulnerable in spite of the exaggerated red of her lips. Almost like a nymph in her gauzy—and very revealing—white dress. Deanna raised an involuntary hand to her mouth; Laurette pulled a tapestry off the arm of a chair and spread it over the girl.

  Minerva, Gran Gwen’s maid of long-standing, swept into the room carrying a small silver tray holding an array of bottles, atomizers, and tiny pill boxes. Elspeth slipped in behind her, stopped while her eyes scanned the room, then rested on Deanna’s face. Her relief was palpable.

  “Come, Elspeth,” Deanna said, “and see if you can be of some use to Minerva.”

  Deanna thought she’d given the order with authority, but Elspeth slowly let her eyes drift toward the ceiling before she stepped to Minerva’s side. There was absolutely nothing Elspeth could do to help, and they both knew it.

  Minerva was the consummate lady’s maid, trained in Paris by Gran Gwen over twenty years before. Deanna had been hoping some of her aplomb would rub off on Elspeth while they were staying at Bonheur, but so far Minerva had managed to ignore the younger woman.

  Of course, Elspeth was from Ireland via the Fifth Ward of Newport; her English was underscored by a thick Irish brogue. Minerva spoke impeccable English with a cultured French accent.

  She was nice enough, helpful, never complained that Deanna knew about, but still she always made Deanna feel like a clumsy oaf whenever she was around. Deanna could only imagine what Elspeth m
ust feel. Well, actually, she could do more than imagine. Elspeth could give as good as she got. Didn’t care for maids who put on airs, even if the airs were real. And passed damning judgment on poor Minerva by saying that she bet she’d never had a sweetheart and wouldn’t know what to do with one if she did.

  She’d made Deanna blush, because the same might be said of Deanna.

  Amabelle stirred, her eyelashes fluttered, and she awoke with a start. Minerva moved the salts from under her nose.

  She reared back. “Where am I?”

  Deanna caught another roll of Elspeth’s eyes as the maid turned from the invalid.

  Deanna had to look away to keep from smiling. Amabelle sounded just like one of those pitiful girls in the melodramas at the afternoon theater.

  Laurette helped the girl to sit up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you said I could come here if . . .” Her lip trembled.

  “And we’re very glad to have you,” Laurette continued for her in a tone of voice that Deanna could imagine she used when inspiring the suffragettes to walk one more mile. “But what has happened?”

  Amabelle looked around the room and bowed her head.

  “Good heavens, Laurette,” Gran Gwen said. “It’s nearly dawn. The girl is exhausted. You can ask your questions in the morning. Deanna, you and Elspeth take Miss Deeks to your room and find her something to sleep in. Minerva, have the rose guest room made up for our visitor.”

  Minerva curtseyed and smoothly left the room.

  Laurette helped Amabelle from the settee. “Can you manage the stairs?” Laurette asked.

  Deanna moved to her other side. “We’ll help you. You can come to my room and you’ll be right as rain.” Besides, Deanna was dying of curiosity to find out why the runaway actress had now run away again and shown up at the door without her valise. Or even a hairbrush.

  “Laurette,” Gran Gwen said, “please come down when our guest has been safely bestowed with Deanna.”

  Laurette hesitated, then nodded slightly, and with Deanna’s assistance helped Amabelle from the room. Deanna glanced at Gran Gwen, wondering what had just happened, and Gran Gwen returned her look with one so intent that Deanna knew she had just been given a command. The whole Ballard-Manon family were very good at giving silent orders. Now Deanna just needed to figure out what she was supposed to do.

  Elspeth led the way and straightened the covers of the bed Deanna had just vacated, while Deanna and Laurette settled Amabelle in a slipper chair. Elspeth went into the dressing room to find her something to wear.

  She’d barely gone before there was a light tap at the door.

  For a tiny second no one moved, but since Elspeth was in the dressing room, Deanna answered it.

  Minerva stepped just inside. “Madame, you’re wanted downstairs. Miss Deanna, Madame said for you to call me when the young lady is ready to be shown to her chamber.”

  “Thank you, Minerva. Please tell my mother I’ll be down shortly.” Laurette stood until Minerva reluctantly left the room.

  Deanna thought Minerva was showing just a bit too much attitude, but Laurette laughed. “Those two—you’d think Bonheur was their house instead of Lionel’s. Though I suppose we’re so infrequently here that it must feel that way.

  “Well, it seems I must go see to la grande maman,” Laurette said. “If you need anything more, just ask Deanna or Elspeth. And please feel free to stay as long as you like.”

  She smiled and left the room.

  Amabelle relaxed as soon as the door closed. And so did Deanna. She knew what Gran Gwen wanted her to do.

  “Is that old gorgon downstairs Mrs. Ballard’s mother or mother-in-law?”

  “Mother,” Deanna said. “And she isn’t a gorgon, she’s just . . .” She searched for a word. “Majestic.”

  “Well, I’ll give you that.”

  Deanna was confused by this sudden change in Amabelle. One minute she was a terrified child depending on the mercy of a family she barely knew. Now she acted like an ordinary guest who belonged there.

  Which Deanna guessed she did. She came from a good family and was probably used to the opulence of her surroundings.

  Then she shuddered violently, and Deanna felt contrite. She was obviously just trying to put on a strong front.

  “Are you cold?”

  Amabelle shook her head, but she was clutching the tapestry around her shoulders as if expecting a storm. It was a mild night and the windows in Deanna’s room were open to let in the sea air.

  “I can close the windows.”

  “No, please, leave them open. It’s so calming to hear the sea. It’s so beautiful here in Newport.”

  “Yes, it is,” Deanna agreed.

  “I wish I could stay here forever.”

  “But then you couldn’t be an actress.”

  Amabelle smiled a little sadly. “True.”

  “It must be exciting to be an actress,” Deanna said.

  “I suppose, but it isn’t easy. You have to work every night. And days, we have to rehearse, you know. It’s long hours and you get tired.”

  “It sounds hard, but exciting to have freedom. To be in charge of your own life.”

  “I guess.”

  Deanna thought people who were lucky enough to have adventures should at least appreciate them. “So why don’t you go home?”

  She hadn’t meant to speak so harshly, and when tears filled Amabelle’s eyes she rushed to make amends.

  “Amabelle, I didn’t mean it that way. Won’t they take you back? Mrs. Ballard said your mother asked her to make sure you were all right.”

  “I can’t go back.” She broke down into sobs. “I won’t go back.”

  “Amabelle,” Deanna said, alarmed.

  Amabelle said something, but her hands were covering her face, and Deanna couldn’t make out the words—word—it sounded like “hell.”

  “What?”

  Amabelle looked up. “Belle. Call me Belle.”

  Deanna pulled a footstool up and sat facing her. “Belle. Is there any way in which we—I—can help you?”

  Amabelle gave her a tentative smile. “I’m not sure anyone can help me.”

  “Well, we won’t be able to help if we don’t even know what’s bothering you.”

  From the corner of her eye, Deanna saw Elspeth, carrying one of Deanna’s white nightgowns, step out of the dressing room. She stopped, then melted back into the dressing room, where, Deanna didn’t doubt for a second, she was all ears.

  “It isn’t me.” Amabelle stood suddenly and walked to the table next to Deanna’s bed. She picked up the copy of Loveday Brooke Deanna and Elspeth had been reading before bed.

  “I liked this one,” Amabelle said, beginning to recover. But I like Kate Goelet better.”

  “Me, too,” Deanna agreed.

  “Your mama lets you read them? And with your maid?”

  “No. I have to hide them at home. . . . But not here.”

  “My mama would never let me have any fun.”

  Deanna bet she wasn’t any stricter than her own mother was. Not only did she have to hide her reading material, but every idea, plan, opinion, or desire she ever had. Until her mother had been forced to take Deanna’s sister to Switzerland for the cure.

  Since coming to stay with Gran Gwen, she’d been part of conversations that her mother would never have allowed. Learning about things a young lady shouldn’t know. Wore clothes she would consider unacceptable, like the new lighter, more comfortable tennis outfits and the scandalous bathing costumes. She’d even bought a bicycle, against her mother’s express wishes, though fortunately, the letter forbidding her to buy one had come too late. She’d even joined a bicycling club that met every Saturday afternoon. Cycling was all the rage among the more modern cottagers.

  Now she was talking to a b
ona fide actress. Well, almost bona fide. And it was time she probed a little deeper into why Amabelle had come.

  “Mrs. Ballard says that the theater is one of the only places that women earn as much as men.”

  Amabelle shrugged. “I guess. But being in the chorus doesn’t pay all that well for either men or women.”

  “But if you work hard and—”

  Belle sighed. “The leading actors have a better time. They get real parts and are courted by patrons, taken out to dinner. People send them gifts. They are treated with deference and get called great artistes. The chorus?” Amabelle shrugged again.

  Deanna really hoped she had a better repertory of gestures if she planned longevity in the dramatic arts.

  “Some people stay in the chorus their whole lives.” Belle was beginning to sound like the vapid young ladies Deanna spent every afternoon with.

  “But you get to dress up in costumes and pretend to be somebody else. And meet interesting people.”

  Amabelle had begun to relax, but now the blood rushed from her face and she gripped the tapestry in both hands.

  Deanna shot a desperate look toward the dressing room. Amabelle looked like she might bolt, wearing nothing but a see-through gown that made Deanna blush for her.

  Elspeth bustled into the room. “I bet there are all sorts of handsome young men in love with you,” she said matter-of-factly as she pulled Amabelle to her feet and relieved her of the tapestry.

  She only gripped it for a moment, then allowed Elspeth to pull off her costume and replace it with Deanna’s nightdress.

  “I—” She shot a look at Deanna. It was obvious that she was surprised at Elspeth’s familiarity. “Yes, very handsome . . . and some not so.” Amabelle turned to let Elspeth button up the front buttons. It was a gesture more natural than any of the others she’d made that night.

  As soon as Elspeth closed the last button, Amabelle tried to hide a huge yawn behind the back of her hand.

  “You’re tired, miss,” Elspeth said, dropping back into her role as maid. It occurred to Deanna that Elspeth might make a good actress, though she’d never suggest it. She needed Elspeth by her side.