The Gilded Cage (24 page)

“Hello, Bell,” he said, standing. For once in his life, Horatio felt absolutely speechless. He fished through his glossary of appropriate remarks. “A fine day,” he said.

“Yes, very fine,” Bell said, politely ignoring the threatening sky above. “I was just going to get tea for the office.”

“May I walk with you?”

Bell hesitated. “Actually, I'd prefer to be alone, Horatio.”

Horatio struggled with his emotions, but he lost. He couldn't stop himself from pushing her. “Can't we be friends, Bell?” he said painfully.

She looked away, down the long square, and he couldn't see her eyes. “Please, Horatio.”

Horatio felt incapable of withdrawing, of making a polite remark since Bell was obviously reluctant to continue the discussion. “Bell, I still love you,” he said, trying to say it gravely, with no hint of his vast desperation. “I don't know what happened with Marguerite. I was in despair, thinking you would never love me. I'm not offering this as an excuse, rather some kind of explanation for behavior which was so horrendous, ungentlemanly … Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course,” Bell said serenely. She turned her lustrous amber eyes on him with their steady, frank gaze. “I already have.”

“Then can we start slowly? Can we be friends again? I assure you, I would ask for nothing more …”

She looked down. Her lower lip caught in her teeth. Her skin had a winter pallor that was delicate and lovely to Horatio's eyes. Even the tip of her nose, which was beginning to redden with the cold, seemed adorable to him. “I'm sorry, Horatio,” she said finally. “I'll always remember our friendship with fondness. But I truly do not see how we can go on with it. I mean, it isn't what happened with you and Marguerite, not really. I know she must have pursued you.” She looked up, and her gaze was no longer serene. “It's me. I'm damaged.”

The word hit him like a fist. “Bell, no.”

She shook her head, backing up a small step. “Don't say anything.” She tried to smile, and she held out her hand in a friendly way. “Let's just shake hands—I'm glad we can do that, at last.”

“But you must tell me what you mean.”

She continued to hold out her hand, and her smile was distant now. “Won't you shake hands with me?”

What could he do? Horatio held out his hand and shook Bell's mechanically. He could only feel the softness of the kid glove, but closing his eyes for an instant, he thought of the feel of her skin. He wanted to fall to his knees with grief and love, but he merely nodded and turned away, since that was what she wanted. When he turned after a few paces to watch her, he saw that her step was just as brisk, just as businesslike as it had been before.

Marguerite lifted her skirt and arched her foot to study her new boots. They were of the softest leather, lined with fur, and totally impractical for walking, for she tended to trip occasionally from balancing on the slender heel, higher than she was accustomed to. And she shouldn't have worn them to Toby's studio, for her feet felt hot inside the sable. But she couldn't resist wearing them. Toby always noticed her clothes.

Immediately upon arriving, she had thrown herself on his sofa in a most unladylike fashion and announced that she did not feel like singing that day. Toby had laughed at her and complimented her new boots, then sank into his deepest armchair with a glass of brandy. He was a horrid taskmaster most of the time, but today he did not seem to mind delaying the lesson. He was amused, rather than annoyed, at her sulky mood.

“I've been waiting for this,” he said cheerfully. “You're bored. Edwin keeps you on a very short leash, I must say.”

“Edwin is afraid that the virtue I surrendered to his protection is in danger around any member of the male sex. Except you, Toby.” Marguerite sat up in a flounce of lace and a rustle of petticoats. “Which reminds me. Why don't you want to seduce me, Toby?”

He choked on his brandy. “Are you disappointed?” he asked.

“Rather,” she pouted. “Of course, I wouldn't surrender, as I'm not attracted to you in the least, and besides, my heart, as you know, belongs to Edwin. But it would be rather nice if you tried, nonetheless.”

This seemed to vastly amuse Toby. “Oh, my dear. You are such an innocent, despite how hard you try to be naughty. Don't lose that quality, petal, for you can use it. Now, let's get back to Edwin. Are you terribly bored with him?” A gleam lit up Toby's dark eyes, for he loved gossip, especially of the malicious variety.

“Not in the least,” Marguerite said stoutly. “And when we're married, I'm sure he'll let me—”

She was interrupted by a hoot of laughter from Toby. “Married? Surely you don't think he'll marry you, do you?”

A tiny frown appeared between Marguerite's eyebrows. “Well of course I do. Why do you think I'm with him?”

Toby's smile faded abruptly. He put down the glass of brandy. “You
are
serious. Marguerite, Edwin won't marry you. I don't want to be cruel, but it's best you face reality, darling. He'll marry a Miss Clara Vandervoon, or some other pallid debutante. Someone should undertake to teach you the rules. Oh dear, I suppose it's got to be poor me.”

“What are you talking about, Toby? Jay Gould's son married his mistress.”

“Darling, don't you know the difference between a Jay Gould and a Winthrop Stiers? That's old money—Edwin's father is so revered he should be bronzed. He'd never let his oldest son marry his mistress.”

“But Edwin is his own man. He is always telling me so.”

Toby had no answer to this, just a lift of sardonic eyebrow.

“You're being very disagreeable,” Marguerite said sharply. “I don't know why I came at all today. I wish I hadn't.”

Toby groaned. He sat up and poured himself a drop more brandy. “Don't you realize, my petal, that you're part of the demimondaine now? You should just relax and enjoy it.
Were
the ones having the fun. Those swells don't know how to live. I'm all for money, but if I have to sit at Mrs. Astor's table and eat her horrible food for it, I'd rather bow out, thank you very much, for a better meal at Rector's with better company. The dresses are just as pretty, the women prettier, and the talk is vastly more clever.”

Foreboding trickled down her neck like icy rain. She didn't want to joke, or flirt. She didn't want him to tease her. “Toby, you don't understand. I met Edwin in an unorthodox way, yes. But I was a virgin. And I told him how you tricked me into that party, that I didn't know what was expected of me—”

Toby gave his hoot of laughter again, which was beginning to have an obnoxious sound. “Darling, they
all
say that.”

Marguerite drew herself up. “I am not
they,”
she pronounced icily.

He paused, the brandy glass pressed against his lips. “No, you aren't, Marguerite,” he said seriously. “I'm sorry I suggested it.”

Somewhat mollified, Marguerite relaxed a bit. “Besides, you don't know how much Edwin loves me. Men marry foolishly all the time. The rules are relaxing all over town. Don't you read the papers? Everyone is decrying the collapse of society, you know.”

Toby shrugged. “All right, I'm not going to argue with you. I wish you luck, petal. But just in case Edwin doesn't get down on bended knee, perhaps we should have a go at developing a career for you.”

“I don't feel like singing today,” Marguerite pouted. “Especially since you've been so cruel to me. I should think that you'd
want
me to marry Edwin. That way you'd be sure to keep your position as my singing teacher. Perhaps he'd even raise your wages. Usually, you're so selfish that you'd understand that immediately.” The remark was ungenerous, but Toby really did deserve a slap.

To her surprise, he wasn't offended. He leaned forward, earnest now. “I'll ignore that, because you don't know any better. I'm the best friend you ever had, Marguerite. I happen to be fond of you, you know. Sometimes I forget how very young you are. You should know what you got into the moment you accepted Edwin's protection.”

“Well, as for protection, Edwin doesn't give me money, you know. I had a little money saved, and he invested it for me. He's an absolute genius with stocks—I've made some marvelous dividends. The money's mine, really, you know. He just administers it.” Marguerite trotted all this out with the same firm and reasonable tone Edwin had told it to her.

But Toby didn't look impressed. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “that's the way it's done all over town. For some reason, the swell thinks it saves face for the lady, which is ridiculous. It's just one of society's many hypocrisies. Is that house in your name? I don't think so. And with all this money you're supposed to have, I don't see you sitting at Mrs. Astor's dinner table, do I?”

The observation stung, and Marguerite turned her face away. “Stop it. Don't preach at me, Toby. I've had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

“I'm hardly preaching, petal. I just want you to realize how very lucky you are. Come, let's not argue. Stand up and practice your scales. I have a surprise for you, and if you're not a good girl, I won't reveal it.”

Marguerite concealed her interest underneath a frown. “What kind of surprise?”

“Come on, do your scales and I'll tell you.”

“No. Tell me first.”

He sighed impatiently. “No.”

“Then I won't get up.”

“As you wish. Then I'll put on my hat and go out.”

Marguerite stuck her little red tongue out at him, but Toby was not Edwin, and he was unmoved. He calmly put down his glass and went for his hat and coat. He had buttoned the last button and was tying his scarf in a distinctly effete manner when Marguerite finally gave in.

“All right, all right, you beast.” She stood up and went to the piano. Toby grinned and took off his coat. Tossing it on the sofa, he crossed to the piano and sat down, still wearing the opulent paisley silk scarf around his neck. He tossed one end behind his shoulder.

“Scales,” he said. He struck a chord, and Marguerite began. He listened carefully, and he watched her. Today he felt the same
frisson
of possibility he'd felt the first time he'd heard her at the Seraglio Dinner. He had something here. She was almost ready. If that callow ass Edwin Stiers didn't break her heart or get her pregnant. It was too bad Marguerite didn't see that she could do better than Edwin Stiers. But Toby had coached many singers and actresses, befriended many of them. He knew from experience that he could tell them nothing. He could only help them when they arrived at his door, as they inevitably did, pregnant or scorned or deeply hurt and concealing it behind a too-bright laugh.

Under the spell of music, Marguerite's bad mood vanished, and she sang the songs he'd chosen to show off her husky contralto. What her voice lacked in purity it made up in character. She was an original. She had looks and sex and youth and nerve and a decent voice, and there was no telling where it all might take her. The last test was how she'd do on a stage.

When the lesson was over, she leaned against the piano. “Tell me,” she ordered.

“All right. Petal, I think you're almost ready to audition. Three weeks, maybe a bit more. I'm in the process of setting it up with with William Miles Paradise himself.” He rolled out the name slowly. It was time to tell her; she'd work harder.

Marguerite had not expected this. She straightened. “Willie P. ? Oh, Toby, do you really know him?” she breathed.

“Of course I know him. I know everyone, don't you realize that yet?”

She giggled. “I thought you were a tremendous fibber, Toby, I must confess.”

“Shame. Just for that, I'll cancel the appointment.”

She threw her arms around his neck from behind. “No, you won't. Toby, do you really think I'm good enough? Don't you think I should start a bit, uh, lower?”

“Why? You'll just pick up bad habits. Besides, it's always easier to go down than up. If Willie P. doesn't take you on, we'll go to the second best, and he will. And then within six months Willie himself will be knocking at your door with his diamond-handled cane.”

Marguerite laughed delightedly. “Tell me more.”

“And you'll make so much money you'll be bored with it. Real money, your money, free and clear, that you make yourself. You'll live in a grand hotel in a suite of rooms. Admirers will send you enough roses to fill twelve bathtubs, and jewel after jewel will arrive at your door after each performance. You'll do a world tour, and princes and counts will lay their hearts at your feet. Lillian Russell will envy you. Monsieur Worth will beg to design for you. Chefs will name elegant dishes after you. Women will despise you, and men will adore you. And I'll take care of you, petal. I won't let anyone hurt you.”

“Really?” she breathed by his ear. “Oh, Toby, you do love me.”

“I do.” He patted her slender hand.

“And you
know
me,” she went on. “You know how horrid I really am.”

“I do.”

“You know that I'm terribly selfish. That I can be cruel.”

“I know you as well as I know myself, because you're just like me,” he said, laughing in a rather constricted manner as she squeezed his neck. “Now don't choke me, petal, I'm very fragile, you know.”

Marguerite straightened suddenly. “But what about Edwin, Toby? I forgot all about him.”

Toby slumped theatrically against the keys, making a dissonant chord. “Oh, please, don't be tiresome. We were having such fun. Edwin's not the man for you. I'll tell you when you meet the right man.”

“But I thought Edwin was perfect,” Marguerite said, perplexed. “I was so
sure
.”

Toby twisted around on the piano stool. “I thought you wanted to sing.”