A Golden Cage (18 page)

“But how will we ever find her?”

“We'll find her. I just hope I can find the real culprit before
they arrest and execute the wrong person.” Will pushed out of his chair.

“Won't you stay for tea?” Gwen asked.

“Thank you, but I have work to do.” He stopped at her chair, kissed her cheek. “You understand that I'll have to make inquiries about the diamonds.”

Gwen nodded.

“If someone tried to sell or pawn them, it could lead us to the killer.”

“W
ell, I don't know if Joe is planning to join us for dinner; he seems to have wandered off with Will. But with or without Joe's escort, we must make an appearance at the Schermerhorns' soiree. Anne will never forgive me. We missed her musicale earlier this summer.”

Deanna smiled wanly. A soiree was the last thing she felt like tonight. “Will there be music, ma'am?”

“Most likely a string quartet playing in the background. I imagine there will be literary figures and a few artists. William is quite the connoisseur; he has truly good taste. There will be all sorts of people there who might be quite amusing and certainly passionate about their work.

“Not exactly ideal,” Gwen said, motioning Deanna into the parlor, “since your mama has already written twice to remind me that the only reason she allowed you to stay at Bonheur was in the hopes that I would find you a suitable husband. I feel we must have something to write about in our
next letter to her. There is the Rensselaers' on Thursday. Then the Fishes' ball, but she won't be pleased with them. Oh well, we'll have to do our best.

“So tonight please find someone suitable to assuage her fears that I'm turning you into a terrible example, but don't pay him so much attention that you give some poor soul the wrong impression.”

“Ugh,” Deanna said.

“Chepstow is a lovely house, grand but not cloyingly so. And the Schermerhorns have a much-to-be-admired art collection. Though I imagine tonight the talk will turn literary, considering the news from England.”

“What news?”

“It will probably stay among the men at their port, but if it does erupt in company, just don't pay any attention.”

“I don't understand, ma'am. What could it be?”

Gwen sighed. “I suppose forewarned is forearmed. Your mother would skin me alive. But I'm speaking of the trial and sentencing of the playwright Oscar Wilde.”

“The one who penned
The Importance of Being Earnest
? The Perrys saw it in London and said they enjoyed it very much.”

“Yes. Well, I'm afraid his talent has been overshadowed by his private life.”

Deanna waited. There must be some scandal Gran Gwen knew of. It seemed like there were scandals in everyone's households except hers and the Ballards'.

“I suppose you must know. You're bound to see it in the papers. The man was accused of having, um, indecent relations with the Marquis of Queensberry's son. Lord Alfred Douglas.”

Deanna waited.

Gwen cleared her throat. “The kind of relations a man usually
has with his wife. They've sent him to prison. Ah, here's Carlisle with tea at last. And enough said about Mr. Wilde. Surely no one will bring it up in mixed company.”

Carlisle placed tea and cakes, and a decanter of sherry for Gwen, on the tea table.

“Tell Minerva to prepare my bath. And tell Miss Deanna's maid, too. We've had an eventful day; I think we can forgo the drive again this afternoon.”

Carlisle bowed. “Yes, Madame.”

“Oh, and Carlisle, Joseph is planning to be in residence for a while. If he returns in time for dinner, please let him know that he'll be escorting us to the Schermerhorns' this evening. Have someone lay out his evening kit.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Carlisle bowed and left the room. Gwen poured Deanna tea and herself a sherry.

She took a sip and looked over the sandwich and cakes tray. “I keep thinking about that old lady and her tin of cookies.” She chose a delicate cress sandwich. “Do you think she knows where that wretched girl is?”

“It didn't seem so,” Deanna said. “And I can't imagine Amabelle seeking her out for help. I know I wouldn't.”

“No. A horrible way to grow old.”

“I wonder if her family cast her off?”

“Or just forgot about her. Tragic. Even though she was an annoying old bag.” Gwen sighed. “I suppose if I manage to find a better situation for Lilbeth, I'll be responsible for finding her someone more capable, who can do a little dusting and open the drapes occasionally.”

It was a short tea, and Joe hadn't returned when Deanna and Gran Gwen repaired upstairs. Deanna wondered where
he and Will were and what they were discussing. She didn't like feeling left out.

Elspeth undid her dress and carried it away. Deanna removed the rest of her underthings and climbed into the tub of steaming water. It was long enough to stretch out in and deep enough to come up to her shoulders; marble, carved with fat cupids and grape arbors.

When she'd first come to Bonheur, Deanna had found it a little unsettling to climb naked into the tub in front of the little angel boys, but since they were as naked as she was, she soon accustomed herself to it and now barely noticed them at all.

The water was hot and the oils that Gran Gwen had given Elspeth to use in her baths always left her skin silky. Deanna breathed in and out in slow breaths, scrubbed her skin until it glowed, as she relaxed into a semistupor.

She was practically asleep when Elspeth shook a warmed towel at her and made her get out of the water.

“You'll look like a shriveled prune tonight at the soiree,” she said.

Deanna stood and let Elspeth dry her off, then used Elspeth's shoulder to steady herself as she climbed out of the tub.

“I think you oughta have a nice lie-down until dinner,” Elspeth said.

And Deanna didn't protest. Between the entertainments and the cycling and the murder, and the visits, she was having a hard time staying the course.

She closed her eyes and didn't wake up until it was time to dress for dinner.

She sat at the dressing table while Elspeth brushed her hair.

“You're ever so quiet tonight, miss.”

“I'm thinking.”

“About what dress you're going to wear tonight?”

“No. I've already decided to wear the persimmon brocade. Did you hear downstairs if Joe is going this evening?”

“No, miss, is that why you're wearing the persimmon dress? It sets off your hair and complexion perfectly.”

“No, it is not. I just wondered. He's being so strange lately. Fun one minute then an ogre the next. I don't understand.”

“Orrin says—”

Deanna cut her a look. “I thought you were going to stop saying ‘Orrin says.'”

“Sorry, miss, but my brother does say that Mr. Joseph's been having some trouble with part of that machine that's supposed to make paper bags.”

Deanna huffed out a sigh. “Is that all?”

“All? Well, it's pretty important to him. And I'd think you could show a little interest, since Orrin says . . .” She glared at her mistress. “Orrin says that his machines are going to save R and W's ars—are going to save the company.”

“Well, he has a champion in you.”

“And he oughta have one in you, too . . . if you don't mind my saying so.”

“Well, I do mind.” Deanna rested her elbows on the dressing table. “And I am interested. And I think it's wonderful what he's inventing. But he doesn't care what I think.”

Elspeth frowned.

“What is it, Elspeth? Why are you looking like that?”

“I'm not looking like nothing. If you'd be nice to him, he'd be nicer to you.”

“I am nice to him. Most of the time.”

“Just so long as nobody's nicer to him than you are.”

“I don't understand. I
am
nice to him.”

“Good, then.”

“I wish everything didn't have to be so complicated.”

“Ha. Pardon me for not crying. You and me, we've got it made: good food, a nice place to live, a family who loves us. Not everybody gets even close to that.”

Deanna thought of Lilbeth, and the obnoxious Mrs. Deeks, and Amabelle, out there somewhere alone, or dead. And Charlie, who would never have a chance to have any kind of a life now. “I'm sorry, Elspeth. I'm being awfully selfish. Forgive me?”

“True-blue, miss. Now, you put on your fine gown and wow all the gentlemen tonight. And when you come home we'll have a nice read.” She sounded like everything was back to normal, but Elspeth was frowning when she sent Deanna downstairs.

*   *   *

C
hepstow was an Italianate villa with a mansard roof and arched windows. It was so soothing after the extravagance of the Grantham fete and the dinginess of the Deeks house that Deanna was lulled into a calm she knew was deceiving.

Joe had agreed to come with them, and he looked very distinguished even with his bandaged hand. Though he refused to tell everyone that he received the injury in a duel, as Deanna suggested. Really, he'd lost all of his sense of humor recently.

The interior of the house was just as Gwen had described it. There was artwork everywhere, paintings on the walls, statues on tables and in nooks, and smaller items on shelves and in display cases. And yet the rooms didn't seem overstuffed, like some of the huge rooms in many of the newer mansions.

They were, however, overstuffed with the prestigious families
of Newport and people Deanna had never seen before. Gwen pointed out artists, poets, musicians, and philosophers of note.

She introduced Deanna to Mrs. Astor, who was rather daunting in her pearl choker as she watched Alva Vanderbilt and her daughter, Consuelo, walk by.

“I see she's let the poor girl out for air, and just when we were all beginning to think she had the child chained to her bed until the duke's arrival,” Mrs. Astor said.

Gran Gwen just smiled.

“Will she really have to marry him?” Deanna asked.

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Astor gave her a bored look. “It's what we do.”

Gwen bowed and they walked on.

“Not you or Laurette?” Deanna asked.

“Not Laurette,” Gwen said, and turned to greet a lanky gentleman with thinning hair and a long thin beard in the German style. And Deanna had no time to ponder whether Gran Gwen had married for love or not.

They were joined by another lady and gentleman, and the man with the beard moved off to another group. Gwen introduced her to person after person who wrote, painted, or was a patron of the arts. It was a delightful, if head-whirling, evening. There were a few young people invited, but not many of her normal crowd, except for Herbert Stanhope, looking unusually distinguished, and Vlady Howe, who had accompanied his mother and was behaving in a very gentlemanly fashion.

Deanna's eyes began to wander, and she saw Joe and Herbert deep in conversation with an older gentleman across the room. She knew they were either talking about the sugar industry or the automobile industry, and she longed to join them.

She wished she knew more people. She could only guess
that would come with time, though she might never be allowed to rub shoulders with such interesting people once her mama was back from Geneva.

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?”