The Gilded Cage (19 page)

At first, Marguerite was only conscious of noise and light. A roar of approval met their entrance, and several men stood and cheered. Marguerite tried to head for Stanford White at the head of the table, the man of the extravagant gift-giving propensities, but was swept along with Gem, down the far side of the table, as heads turned, one after the other, to follow their progress. Gem giggled and pranced and flicked the ends of her shawl and appeared to be having a marvelous time. She stopped in front of one gentleman, turned her back and wiggled her hips at him while he banged his wine bottle on the table and cried, “That's it, by jingo!”

Marguerite tried to smile as widely as Gem, but she felt rather silly. Some of the men were standing now, chasing down various girls and trying to capture their shawls. It was an easy conquest. Soon half the silky fringed shawls were drifting down to rest on the carpet. Were these the same bored girls who had disparagingly referred to the men as goats in the other room? Now these same young women blushed and cavorted and wiggled their way around the room. The once-melancholy Mollie Todd picked a shawl off the floor and eluded a pursuer with a laugh as she headed for Stanford White, to all eyes seeming a young girl on a festive picnic running toward a favorite uncle.

Legs and spangled-covered breasts swam before Marguerite's eyes, and she backed up steadily until she hit a tapestry-covered wall. But then she looked over to the double doors and saw Toby watching her with a frown. This was her chance. Was she destroying it because of a sudden, surprising shyness? She was being ridiculous; she could be as captivating as any of these girls!

Squaring her shoulders, she approached an older man sitting morosely at the table. She trailed her fringe along his shoulder and he looked up. Marguerite leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips, as she'd seen Mollie do. “It can't be that bad,” she whispered, and he smiled. She sashayed on.

Perhaps champagne would help. Marguerite allowed a bushyeyebrowed gentleman to pour her a glass while he watched her avidly. She drank a glass down in a gulp, and her situation improved immediately. She accepted another glass from another admirer, and sipped it sparingly while she eluded grasping hands, sat on laps, stroked beards, danced with Gem and then with a redfaced man who presented her with his fez.

Suddenly, the sound of banjo music filled the air, as Toby ushered three musicians into the room. A cry went up for a song. Toby banged a spoon against a crystal decanter until the men quieted. “Perhaps Miss Marguerite Corbeau will favor us with one,” he said. His laughing eyes turned to her. There's your challenge, his eyes said. Show me.

Marguerite's lips pressed together for only an instant. She lifted her chin and tossed her head. “Perhaps one,” she said flirtatiously. “For I'm in a mood to be generous tonight.”

Applause and laughter rang through the air as one of the men stood, and with a flourish helped her up on the table.

The room had gone suddenly quiet. Marguerite felt her mind go blank. The banjo players looked at her expectantly. For the life of her, she could not think of a song other than “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and that was hardly appropriate under these circumstances. The faces of the dinner guests looked like gaping fish to her. Their little red mouths were open, waiting …

A lyric of a popular song floated into her mind, and she grabbed it. The melody was easy, and she began by humming it softly. Behind her, Gem took up the melody and sang a pretty counterpoint. God bless Gem! Then the banjos picked it up.

Marguerite launched into “Father You Raised a Virtuous Girl, But the City is Full of Vice.” Her low contralto began on a quaver, but she gained confidence quickly as she saw the men begin to smile. She caught each man's eye as she wrung every nuance of suggestiveness out of the lyrics. Standing on the table, Marguerite felt a strange power infuse her. And she'd thought being in bed with a man was exciting! Some of the pins had come loose on her shawl, and she tore the rest free and slid the silk off a shoulder or parted it to reveal a spangled thigh while she sang a song of innocence corrupted. She trailed the fringe along rapt faces; she clutched it to her modestly only to fling it wide again. The men were roaring their approval by the end, and they joined in on the choruses with energetic, though slightly off-key, fervor.

They stood and cheered when she finished, and she gave a low bow. As she lifted her head, she looked into the glittering eyes of Mollie Todd. Sparks of jealousy and spite jumped across the room at her, but Marguerite forgot them in the heady confusion.

She'd never felt so exhilarated. Pushing aside dishes and coffee cups and brandy glasses with a dainty booted foot, she danced her way to the end of the table and fell into the arms of Steirs, the birthday boy, who caught her with surprising strength.

Under the cheers, he gazed at her with moist hazel eyes. “Say, that was fine,” he said. He held her securely against him, and Marguerite realized he wasn't as drunk as she'd thought. She slid down the length of his body and her feet hit the floor. In her high-heeled boots, he wasn't much taller than she was.

“Thank you, sir. You're very kind.”

“And you're very pretty, Miss—”

“Corbeau.” Her eyelashes fluttered downward. Marguerite thought it rather outrageous to pretend shyness under such circumstances, but why not? Modesty and transparent gauze could be an enticing combination.

“Will you have a glass of champagne with me?” Edwin Steirs looked down at the adorable creature who sang like an angel and had flung herself in his arms. Her black lashes cast shadows on her pale cheeks. She was as delicate as a bird. Most women made him feel small, unmanly. But this girl was all light and air. He could protect a girl like this. She looked up at him, and her eyes were the blue of a midnight sky.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. Her voice was low and musical; it seemed to tease him even while it purred approval.

“I'm twenty-three today,” he blurted.

Smiling demurely, Marguerite gathered the silk shawl around her. She sat in the red velvet seat and arranged the fringe to cover her like a lady. Holding out a hand, she accepted the champagne with a gracious smile. She noticed that Mr. Stiers wore no wedding band. “That is a very good age for a man to be,” she said, while naked spangled girls sang and aging florid men joined in the ribald choruses. She'd had a wonderful time, but she wouldn't want to be trapped in this kind of life. There had to be another way, and she was just lucky enough to find it at once.

“Now, tell me more about yourself, Mr. Stiers. Tell me—oh,
everything.”

Everyone was bribed not to talk, but the news got out anyway, and the Seraglio Dinner burst onto the New York winter gossip circuit, supplanting the already tired stories of Ambrose Hartley and the fireworks on New Year's Day. Stanford White retreated to his wife on Long Island and birthday bachelor dinners were for the time being off until the furor died down. Mollie Todd became an overnight celebrity, and William Paradise immediately spotlighted her in his newly opened revue and sent her six dozen roses every day for a week.

Marguerite awoke to roses the next day as well, from Edwin Steirs. There was no diamond necklace that day, but one arrived two weeks later, when she slept with him. Marguerite hid it in her purse and only put it on when she was in a private hired carriage heading for Delmonico's to meet Edwin. She enjoyed the thrilling secretiveness of her new life, for Edwin needed time before he announced his love to his family. Meanwhile, Marguerite had Toby Wells, her new friend and music teacher (Edwin paid for the lessons, of course) to amuse her. Marguerite took up smoking and began to buy silk stockings.

She put off Horatio Jones for two weeks, arranging to be out when she knew he would call—he was such a methodical creature—and ignoring his messages. Finally she agreed to see him when she grew afraid he would, in an excess of passion, follow her right to Edwin Steirs' private dining room at Delmonico's, where so far most of their encounters took place.

She met Horatio in Central Park. He looked miserable, his hat jammed down too far on his head. He must have walked all the way there, for his face was red with cold. She felt quite sorry for him. She greeted him with a cool nod, and they turned without a word and headed down a gravel walk.

“Why have you been avoiding me, Horatio?” she asked petulantly as soon as they were past a group of young girls with their nannies.

Shocked, Horatio looked into her still white face. “Me? Marguerite, my dear, how can you say such a thing to me? I've sent you a note every day, I've called—”

“Duty, merely,” she flung out. “You've bedded me, and so you'll be a gentleman about it.” There was a flash of something across Horatio's face, for she'd hit her mark, and she pressed on. “I knew I could never drive Bell out of your heart!” she cried.

“Marguerite, please, listen to me—”

“No,” she said, walking more rapidly, “Every word cuts me to the heart, Horatio. You will never love me, I know that now.”

“But, Marguerite—” Horatio tried. He wanted to tell her that he
could
love her, that though Bell would always be part of him, it was time to go on. He felt foolish and callow continuing to yearn for a woman who didn't want him. He wanted to lose himself in Marguerite.

But Marguerite interrupted him again. “Please don't continue,” she said. She stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “It's my fault as well as yours, Horatio. I pursued you shamelessly. I let my heart run away with me.”

“It is to your credit that you did so, dear,” he said gently. “I never blamed you for that.”

She bit her lip. “I know, you were very kind.” Suddenly, Marguerite felt exasperated. Horatio
had
been very kind. She was grateful to him. But he was in her way! She was terrified that he had begun to love her, now that she was sure that she would never possibly want him. “Horatio,” she began again, softly and reasonably, “I release you from your obligation to me. If I cannot be first in your heart, I don't want to be there at all.”

He looked around him at the bare trees, confused. Didn't she love him, after all? She had whispered so often of her love, her devotion. And she was giving him up? “But I cannot be with Bell,” he said. “She has made that clear. And with time, her image can be supplanted by another. Marguerite, I am being most sincere. I cannot lie to you. I will never lie to you. I was in love with Bell, and such feelings do not die away overnight. But I will be true to you.”

Marguerite gave an ironic smile, and suddenly she did not look as young as she usually did. “I have enough vanity to say that I could not wait for the day when you consider me first, Horatio.” She touched his arm, and he noticed how fine her glove was. He wondered, fleetingly, how she could have afforded such a fine kid glove, trimmed in sable. “I release you,” she said softly. “I will not be an obligation to you any longer.”

“But, Marguerite—”

She went up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips were cold. “Goodbye, dear Horatio. I'll never forget you.”

And then she was gone, walking rapidly down the path the way they'd come. Horatio stared after her for a few minutes, then sank onto a bench and stared at his shoes. He felt dizzy, as though he'd been furiously waltzing in a bright ballroom for hours without a rest, whirling around and around and around, his vision growing blurred and his mind fevered, while a slight young body twisted and turned beneath him. Now his hands were empty, and he had nothing. He felt stunned, and he realized that it was very cold, and he was alone.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Van Cormandt,” Elijah Reed said.

Ned nodded. “Of course, Mr. Reed. How are you enjoying New York City?”

“Very much,” Elijah answered.

“I read your story in the
Century,
” Ned remarked pleasantly.

“Yes,” Elijah said, “and I understand it caused you some difficulty. I'm sorry for that.”

Ned waved a hand. “Nothing worth mentioning. I thought it was an excellent article, and I was happy to see the story printed, though little good it did,” he said with a grimace. “All New York, it seems, is enjoying clucking over the details of the Seraglio Dinner and exactly what shade of peacock blue the shawls were made of. Now, what can I do for you?”

Elijah shifted in his seat a bit. “This is rather awkward …” he began. Damn, he hated feeling uncomfortable. He never should have come. But he was here.

“Please don't hesitate,” Ned said. His light green eyes were genial, warm. He was a good man, Elijah saw. “If I can help you with something, please be assured that I am at your disposal, Mr. Reed.”

“It's about Mrs. Nash,” Elijah said, and he saw the other man start. Ned covered it by reaching for his cigar box. He offered it to Elijah, and he took one. While they went through the masculine ritual of lighting them, Ned regained his composure. His eyes were placid when they returned to Elijah's face.

“Yes, Mr. Reed?”

“I've become acquainted with Mrs. Nash through the lecture series I'm arranging for Cooper Union.”

“Yes, yes, excellent series, I got a subscription ticket. Unfortunately, I'll be making frequent trips to Washington, so I'll miss a few of the talks.”

“I've noticed that she had made the acquaintance of a young man, about twenty-eight or so, a Mr. Lawrence Birch.”

Ned's face darkened immediately. “I have met Mr. Birch.”

Elijah felt encouraged by Ned's reaction. “I must be frank, Mr. Van Cormandt. I do not know Mrs. Nash very well, so I feel uneasy in interfering in her life, in suggesting that the lady might be taken advantage of by a man of whom she knows nothing. Nevertheless, I felt I had to act. I took the liberty of digging into the man's past a bit.” Elijah cleared his throat, a sure sign that he was nervous. “I've done a little investigating, and I believe that Mr. Birch is unscrupulous, and possibly dangerous.”