A Golden Cage

by Shelley Freydont

  She stayed close to Gran Gwen during the evening and absorbed every conversation she could. Everything she heard was fascinating.

  “I saw their motion picture demonstration in Paris. I say, the Lumière brothers are way ahead of Edison.”

  “Perhaps, but he will turn it to good account.”

  “This fellow Freud in Austria. He’s bound to set the medical world on its ear.”

  “But really, my dear sir, do you actually believe his postulations?”

  “Remains to be seen, remains to be seen.”

  Several men were gathered around a woman dressed in a black tea gown with golden braiding at her neck and sleeves. A poetess whom Deanna had never heard of and with a name that she couldn’t pronounce.

  “Yes, but you must realize,” she said in a thick accent, “words are but a gloss that we agree to understand.”

  Every group they stopped at was more intriguing than the last. Deanna didn’t understand half of what people were discussing, but she was excited by it. She wanted to write down everything, then go back to Bonheur and study every one of the things they mentioned.

  “Well, what did he expect?” said a man with a barrel chest and a red sash over his evening wear.

  “Come now, sir. Is a man not allowed his private life?”

  A loud laughter burst from the group. “Nothing Oscar does is private. He would die of boredom if it were.”

  “So who do you think will replace Morris Hunt?”

  “Thank God he managed to finish The Breakers before he died. Mrs. Alice would have followed him to hell with final instructions.”

  It was a while before Deanna began to notice that the women were gradually moving into another room. She’d seen several of the girls she knew, and they motioned her over, but she was sure they would just be talking about dresses or Consuelo’s duke who would be arriving any day, and really this was all just too fascinating to miss.

  After a while Gran Gwen suggested they get some refreshments and sit for a while. Deanna went with her into the second parlor, where they sat down on a settee just vacated by Mrs. Vanderbilt and her daughter. Deanna might have liked to talk to Consuelo, but Consuelo reminded her of Adelaide, so perfectly well bred. She kind of missed her sister and reminded herself to write a letter as soon as she got back to Bonheur.

  A footman was there immediately with a tray of wine and lemonade.

  “I think it’s such a shame,” one of the ladies was saying. “No, not about Consuelo. She knows where her duty lies, but about . . .” She leaned forward to the lady sitting in the gossip chair facing them.

  The lady across from her snapped her fan. “I hope, Frances, you are not going to mention that abominable playwright—you know the one to whom I refer.”

  “Oh, him. Certainly not. I was speaking of the dead man found in Gwen’s conservatory.”

  “Oh,” the second lady said. She turned to Gwen. “It must have been dreadful.”

  “Quite.” Gwen smiled graciously, but there was an edge that Deanna noticed, that unfortunately the lady did not.

  “Why on earth did he come to Bonheur?”

  “Not to see me, I assure you,” Gwen said.

  “Oh, Gwen, you’re always so droll. Didn’t you take in one of those actresses who was in the play at Judge Grantham’s fete?”

  “Really, Frances,” her friend interrupted. “What a question.”

  “Well, it is a question,” Frances said, her eyebrows raised toward Gwen. “Quite frankly I don’t know what Maude was thinking by having that troupe on her property. The Judge may love the theater. Who doesn’t? But to give those people free rein of one’s property is ridiculous. They say she even allowed the leading ladies and men to use rooms in the house for their dressing rooms.”

  “I just hope they didn’t rob her blind.”

  They were being so unfair. Deanna started to say so, but the subtle pressure of Gwen’s hand against hers silenced her tongue. If her mother had done that—not that her mother would ever have allowed her to listen to the conversation—Deanna would have been angry, but she knew Gran Gwen well enough to know she wasn’t trying to stifle Deanna’s opinion.

  And she was certain of it when Gwen glanced to the lady who was sitting on the second half of the gossip chair, her back to the group and conversing with others.

  She turned to Frances, and Deanna recognized Drusilla Edgerton, her face white with mortification or anger, it was hard to tell.

  “Frances Dougherty, Mama was gracious enough to let Walter and me plan the fete. It was my idea to hire a theatrical troupe for the evening. And Mama went along with it because she knew my father would enjoy it immensely.

  “I take full responsibility for the situation. It was I who invited the actors inside according to their station as principals. What occurred afterward had absolutely nothing to do with my father’s party or my family. So if you feel you must have someone to blame, you should address me.”

  “Well, really, Drusilla. Don’t be so sensitive. You have to admit the whole situation is scandalous.”

  “I recall you enjoyed the play immensely, isn’t that so?” Gwen asked with that same edgy smile.

  “Well, really,” Frances said. “I was just making an observation.” She stood, lifted her chin, and walked away, stopping immediately at another group, who just as immediately all turned to look at Drusilla Edgerton.

  Drusilla’s lip trembled. But she gave them stare for stare.

  “Pay them no mind, my dear. It was a lovely gesture and, after all, the body was found in my conservatory.”

  “You say that as if it were something to be proud of. Excuse me.” She stood and walked away in the opposite direction.

  “You were just trying to make her feel better,” Deanna consoled Gwen.

  “Never mind, my dear. Drusilla, I’m afraid, is one of those women crushed by society rather than fulfilled by it. Let’s hope Consuelo has better luck with her duke.”

  “You mean Drusilla’s marriage was arranged with Walter Edgerton?”

  “Yes. He was the Judge’s protégé. Very ambitious.”

  “But if Drusilla is unhappy, surely she could tell her father.”

  “I doubt if Drusilla has ever been truly happy. Some women enjoy their misery.”

  As the evening went along, Gran Gwen gave her the background of most of the people in the room. She introduced her to society ladies and businessmen, and dropped a few morsels of gossip about most of them. “Only so you understand the context,” she told Deanna. Some she declared to be true artists and others, mere charlatans. It seemed Gran Gwen knew everyone.

  It was while Gwen was in a lively exchange of ideas with a French painter that Deanna saw Drusilla Edgerton talking with two other ladies. The ladies left and for a moment Drusilla was alone. She was only a few feet away, so Deanna slipped from the conversation to speak to her.

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, Miss Randolph. Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I . . . I just wanted to say, not to think anyone listens to that gossip about the actors. I thought your fete was excellent.”

  Drusilla turned a look of derision on her so devoid of comfort that Deanna took a step back. “You know nothing about it.” Without another word, she walked away.

  “My, my, what did you say to the dreaded Drusilla?”

  Deanna started. “Oh, Vlady, you startled me.”

  “Herbert and I decided we had better come to the rescue before she devoured her prey.”

  “I felt sorry for her. People said such nasty things about the Judge’s party.”

  “Old cats,” Herbert said.

  “Yes, and I’m afraid I’ve made it worse.”

  “Well, you tried your best,” Herbert said.

  “Yes, don’t give it another thought,” Vlady said. “Now,
come with us. Mrs. Schermerhorn has convinced the incomparable Miss Kellogg to sing a little Gilbert and Sullivan. What say you to that?”

  “I think it sounds infinitely more interesting than being chastised for trying to be nice.” Deanna started to take his arm, but stopped. She turned to Herbert. “Do you think . . . ?”

  “It’s perfectly respectable,” Herbert interpreted, and he offered his arm, easing Vlady out of the way.

  Miss Kellogg had just finished a selection from H.M.S. Pinafore when Deanna felt someone move up beside her. Thinking it was Joe saying they were ready to leave, she turned and smiled. But it wasn’t Joe.

  Walter Edgerton stood towering above her, or so it seemed to Deanna. He was smiling, but what he said was anything but friendly. “I hear you’ve been upsetting my wife.”

  “No, I—”

  “Your mama would certainly not be happy with your behavior if she were to find out what you’ve been up to.”

  “But I haven’t done anything.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Miss Randolph. My wife’s nerves are delicate, I can’t have her upset. Please do not continue to insinuate yourself into our family or its affairs.”

  Mortified, Deanna tried to explain, but he cut her off. “You know the Judge is a very powerful man. He oversees the morals of society. And he can make life difficult for those with questionable lifestyles. Like . . . hmmm . . .” He looked about at the guests. “The Ballards, for instance.”

  Mortification turned to anger, and she was in danger of telling Mr. Edgerton what she thought of his threats, but Herbert was there, stepping between them. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said with his usual insouciance, “but I’ve come to fetch you as your party is ready to leave.”

  Mr. Edgerton bowed slightly and walked off.

  Herbert drew Deanna’s arm through his. And she clung to it. Her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid it might burst.

  “You’re trembling. What’s afoot?”

  “That odious man just threatened me.”

  “Edgerton? What did you do, applaud too loudly at the G and S?”

  “He’s upset because these two ladies were questioning the wisdom of hiring a theatrical troupe to entertain at the Judge’s party.”

  “Egad, it must be a slow week in Newport for everyone to be harping on that still. I say ignore him.”

  “It wasn’t just that.” They had come to the hallway, and she stopped him to lean closer. “Can I trust you?”

  “With your life.” He put his free hand over his heart, which would ordinarily be funny, but tonight made her want to cry with appreciation.

  “He said if I didn’t leave them alone, the Judge could make life difficult for people who—I can’t remember exactly what he said—but he implied that the way the Ballards lived was suspect.”

  “Oh, what sheer . . . balderdash. But I would steer clear of him and his. These righteous sorts don’t always have the best aim; liable to hit the innocent by mistake when they’re going after crime, or immorality, or whatever they think they’re freeing the world from.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “Their victims rarely do.”

  “Do you think he’s going around threatening everyone who says anything about the fete?”

  “God only knows. He may have picked you out because, one, he doesn’t like the Ballards, and, two . . .” He hesitated.

  “Two?”

  “You’re a formidable lady, my dear Deanna.”

  “Me?”

  Herbert grinned. “You. He may feel a wee bit threatened.”

  “By me?”

  “By you. Now, I promised Joe to deposit you at the door. So let us proceed forthwith.” He smiled in the way that always brought her a gurgle of laughter, but not tonight. “But, Deanna, I wouldn’t bother mentioning any of this to Joe. Gran Gwen will laugh it off, but Joe . . . he might feel he has to confront such accusations to protect his family’s name.”

  Chapter

  14

  Deanna went straight upstairs when they arrived back at Bonheur. She’d spent the carriage ride home from the soiree waffling between anger and fear that she’d unwittingly set off something that would hurt the Ballards and Gran Gwen. She was caught between wanting to tell them what Edgerton had said to her, and keeping quiet, so Joe wouldn’t rush out and do something stupid.

  Joe was usually pretty levelheaded, but there were times . . . and lately he’d seemed downright volatile.

  She didn’t, however, hesitate to blurt out everything she was feeling to Elspeth.

  “It was awful,” she said as she held the unopened copy of The Experiences of Loveday Brooke, Lady Detective, while she sat at the dressing table and Elspeth brushed her hair. “At first the party was nice, the people so interesting, except Joe practically left us at the door and wandered off to talk to everyone but Gran Gwen and me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I did meet Mrs. Astor. She’s quite frightening. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side. Consuelo was there with her mother, looking like a very tall lamb going to the slaughter. Some of the regular crowd. But the others, oh, Elspeth, it was fascinating—artists and authors and all sorts of interesting guests, and their conversation was exhilarating and probably would have been even better if I’d been familiar with the subjects they were discussing. And it was all so . . . so passionate.” She sighed. “Then we sat down with these women, and it was like being in the most boring afternoon visit, at least until the subject turned to the murder.

  “Then these women said mean things, you know how they do, like they’re being sympathetic but secretly they’re gloating over your misfortune. They wondered how the Ballards felt about finding the body of poor Charlie here—but they didn’t call him ‘poor Charlie,’ they called him ‘that actor person.’ And one of them said something about the Granthams, and Drusilla overheard them. I felt sorry for her, so later I told her not to pay them any mind, and she got mad at me. Me! And I was only trying to be nice.”

  “Well, then I say let her be unhappy.” Elspeth held a clump of hair to work out a tangle. “There are some that just can’t be anything other than miserable.”

  Deanna sighed. “But that’s not the worst of it. We were listening to this singer, when Walter Edgerton slips in next to me and tells me to leave his wife alone and that the Judge could make things difficult for the Ballards if I didn’t.”

  The brush stopped. Elspeth scowled at Deanna’s reflection in the mirror. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “Well, that’s what he said. I tried to tell him I was just trying to be nice but he wouldn’t have any of it. Just told me to stop insinuating myself into his family,” she finished in her snootiest imitation. “Not that I ever would. Who would want to be a part of that family? Snobbish, opinionated—”

  “Powerful,” Elspeth finished for her.

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, miss, sometimes . . . I told you servants know more than anyone about what goes on in the rich folks’ homes. And the Judge is a feared man in the Fifth.”

  “How can he be? He’s a judge in Manhattan.”

  “But he’s got clout. And once he gets his nose bent outta joint over something, you can be sure heads will roll.”

  “What’s he upset about in the Fifth?”

  “Our lewd, drunken behavior. Though they never scrimp on the champagne at his house. Not long ago they arrested Molly Adams for desem—desem—handing out . . .” She leaned in close to Deanna and whispered, “Birth control information.”

  “That’s against the law?”

  Elspeth nodded seriously. “Smut, Officer Crum called it.”

  “Oh, Officer Crum can go chase his own tail.” No one liked the sergeant who policed the Fifth Ward. Deanna placed the magazine back on the dressing table. “Is it smut?”

  Elspeth shrugge
d. “Maybe, but I’d rather have smut and save my bacon than end up bleeding to death from a back-alley butcher.”

  Deanna shivered.

  Elspeth sighed. “And don’t go asking me to explain it to you. People of your class can do better, or they just go to visit their aunties in the country for a few months.”

  Deanna sucked in her breath.

  “Sorry, miss. Did I hurt you?”

  “No. It was just talking about aunties. And having gone to see that awful aunt of Amabelle’s. What if Amabelle got in trouble with Charlie?”

  “And killed him when he tried to stop her from . . . what?” Elspeth asked.

  “From telling? From . . . going to her aunt?”

  “But she came here, didn’t she?”

  “But she didn’t stay.”

  “Well, I suppose, but from what you said about the aunt, seems like she wouldn’t find any help there.”

  “No,” Deanna agreed. “The old lady said she hadn’t seen any of her family and didn’t want to see them. Not that she’d be able to. She keeps the rooms so dark. She couldn’t even hear them. We had to yell every word. . . . I wonder.”

  “Uh-oh. When you start wondering, I get to feeling queasy.”

  “I just keep thinking of that open attic window. It’s probably been left open for years.”

  “Probably. ’Cause a lot of times folks hang their wash up there instead of outside when it rains.”

  “But there was the stolen food. . . .”

  “A servant girl what probably goes home on a full belly. Are we gonna read tonight or not?”

  Deanna reached for the book, opened it to the story “The Black Bag Left on the Doorstep.”

  * * *

  Dreams of pyramids and open windows, Gilbert and Sullivan, and black bags left on doorsteps kept Deanna tossing and turning most of the night, but it was the dream of Joe yelling at her from across the ocean that woke her up.

  She lay in bed, blinking. Joe wasn’t across the ocean, he was here in Newport. Her mother was in Switzerland. How on earth had Joe and her mother gotten mixed up in her dream? It didn’t take her long to figure that out. “Because you’re both always telling me what to do.”