A Golden Cage (12 page)

I
t was a long time before Deanna had mastery of her emotions. Shaking with cold and hurt, she slipped out of the spring house and crept into the servants' entrance. She managed to get the attention of a footman and asked him to say that she was fine but that she wouldn't be down to dinner.

If he wondered why her face was blotched, her eyes were swollen, and her hair was mussed, he managed not to show it. She crept up the servants' stairs to her own room and locked the door.

She didn't know which made her feel worse: that for some reason Joe hated her; that she was in real danger of being sent to Aunt Harriett; or that her behavior would reflect badly on Gran Gwen and Mr. and Mrs. Ballard—maybe even bring them disgrace.

Though she didn't really understand why. They did much
more outrageous things than Deanna ever did. She just read novels and got locked in a closet.

She was perfectly behaved in public, well, most of the time. And she was useful. Maybe she would just take the ferry to New York and live with her father while she decided what to do with her life. Of course, he would wire her mother in Geneva and then Deanna would be trapped again.

And maybe it was just Joe who was scandalized by her behavior, though she didn't see why. He was the one who had shocked society by going to live with working-class people and doing work where he got his hands dirty.

To the devil with him. She'd just ask Laurette and Gran Gwen right out if they would like her to leave. And then what? She'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

There was a tap at the door.

Deanna's courage failed. She wasn't ready to put it to the test.
Coward
, she told herself. She reluctantly went to the door and opened it.

A maid carrying a dinner tray stepped inside. Deanna's knees nearly gave way in relief. Not Gran Gwen, but cold chicken and pickled peaches.

The maid curtseyed and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

The food looked delicious, but when Dee sat down she found she couldn't eat it.

Her stomach was tight, her emotions were in turmoil. She felt like things were closing in on her, society's expectations, her mother's plans for her future, the need to not embarrass the Ballards or bring complete ruin to herself, her ambivalence about what she wanted in life. What choices did she have? Would the choice even be up to her?

She tried to picture herself packing a few things and running away. She couldn't do it. How could she be so cruel to leave like that after all everyone had done for her? And what would happen to Elspeth? She couldn't take her along. How could Deanna support them both? How could she even support herself?

Is that the way Amabelle had run away? Left without a word, or after a fight? Her parents knew where she was, because they'd asked Laurette to look her up. Did they follow her career? Did they ever try to see her? Did they even want her back?

Where was she? Was anyone besides the police even looking for her?

Deanna sat down in front of the dinner tray, cut off a piece of chicken, and chewed slowly.

If she were Amabelle, where would she go? Back to the city? Belle must have an apartment or a room there—did she share it with someone? Had the police looked there? And if she hadn't left Newport, where was she? She had to be staying somewhere.

Deanna cut another piece of chicken. Noreen and Talia might be hiding her somewhere in the boardinghouse. That seemed unlikely, with all the people coming and going. But they might have seen her since Charlie died and were giving her money or food to survive.

It was good to have friends like that.
A family
, she'd almost thought. The actors were like a family. Everyone concerned for one another and comforting one another over Charlie's death.

The star performers were staying at a hotel in town, but Deanna didn't think Amabelle would have gone to them.
From what Belle had said, chorus girls didn't mix with the main players.

Deanna put down her fork. If Deanna had run away, was lost or scared and hiding from the world, she'd want a friend. And she bet Belle could use a friend about now.

So, unladylike behavior or not, an embarrassment to the Ballards or not, she had to find out if Amabelle was still alive. If she was, Deanna would try to help her. And if doing that sent her to Aunt Harriett's, so be it.

*   *   *

J
oe thought dinner would never be over. He should have done exactly what Dee had done. Run away and locked himself in his warehouse. That way he might have half a chance of getting some work done. Not that he had much hope for that now.

All winter he'd been working systematically toward two goals: reconfiguring the company's current centrifuge for higher efficiency with accompanying safety features, and completing a prototype bagging machine. He planned to install the prototype in one of R and W's refineries. It would be the first test. Joe would have to spend time in New York. That was fine by him. It's where his work would ultimately be used.

During the winter, there had been the odd setback or two, an occasional instance of vandalism, but nothing like the last few weeks. Since the summer had returned, vandalism increased and the work had slowed to a crawl. It seemed like he was needed everywhere except the warehouse.

His father insisted he accompany his grandmother and Dee to one party after another. His workshop had been attacked
no fewer than five times: two window breakings, two arsons, and an attempted break-in. Fortunately, Hiram and his men had been able to thwart all of the attacks.

And to that was added Dee's propensity of landing herself in trouble. When she'd been a child, he'd applauded it. It fascinated him. But he'd expected her to grow out of it. She hadn't. God knows, her mother had done everything she could to argue, upbraid, lambaste, and possibly even beat it out of her, to no avail.

“Well . . .” His grandmother's voice broke into the silence above the pea soup. “Since you've deprived us of one dinner guest, you may at least entertain us with some fascinating banter.”

Joe gritted his teeth. Put down his spoon. “I beg your pardon, Grandmère, but Dee deprived us of her charming personality of her own accord. And if I might point out, she is behaving in a way that is the product of your and mama's handiwork.”

“You may leave me out of your spats with Deanna,” his mother said.

“Mother, it wasn't a spat. I realize you probably don't know what she was doing yesterday afternoon instead of joining her cycling group.”

His grandmother patted her lips with her napkin and gave him her full attention.

“Accosting actresses on the street, following them back to their boardinghouse, where she attempted to interrogate them, except for the entrance of the police, when the actors locked her in a linen closet until the police had gone.”

Neither his mother nor grandmother even blinked. Joe
glanced to his father, who lowered his head, in fear, shame, or amusement, Joe couldn't begin to guess. Though he imagined the hint of a spasm that rippled across his shoulders was an attempt to stifle laughter.

His father was probably used to behavior like that. It sounded just like something his mother would do. But his mother was happily married for many years to a rich and powerful man. She could withstand a few slurs against her character. Deanna could not. And she seemed to have no idea of what was at stake.

She had stubbornly refused to understand why men could manage their lives one way, that going off to work for them could be a good thing, an exciting thing. But for women, working for a living for most was a drudgery at best, and little more than slavery at worst.

The world was changing; there were a few female doctors, lawyers, even stockbrokers. But for the most part women were given menial jobs while men rose to the higher offices.

If Dee married the right man, with the right amount of social clout, she might, in a few years, get away with the odd suffragette or temperance rally without bringing the wrath of society—and her mother—on her head.

But not now. Staying viably social was not just an amusing pastime for young women. It was a fact of life.

He realized no one was talking; they were all looking at him.

“Will and I were down at a pub last night. He was keeping an eye on the actors. The manager is complaining because they can't work while they're stuck here. He demanded Will find them a place to rehearse.”

He saw the glint of interest in his grandmother's eye. “Not here,” he added. “After Will left, one of the actresses told me
about Dee and warned me that she would be in danger if she continued to investigate.”

“What kind of danger?” his mother asked.

“Was it a threat?” Grandmère asked.

Even his father looked up, expectant of an answer.

“Neither. More like she was frightened for Dee and for herself. When I pressed her to explain, she said that I wouldn't understand. And to leave it alone.”

“True,” said his grandmother. “It is a different world, the theater. But do you think it's more than a lover's quarrel taken to the extreme?”

Joe shrugged. “I have no idea. Amabelle didn't strike me as the kind of girl anyone would be afraid of, merely emotional and silly, but I definitely felt that Noreen was frightened.”

“Perhaps she is frightened for Amabelle and afraid that any intervention from outside would be harmful to her?”

“I have no idea,” Joe said.

“But I do think you should share that with Will, though I think perhaps you can leave out the part about Deanna being locked in the linen closet.” His grandmother's eyes twinkled.

Joe's lip twitched, then he laughed out loud. “Only Dee.”

“You may laugh,” his mother said, “but Dee is probably in her room crying her eyes out.”

“Just because I told her what to do? She's never let that bother her in the past. And someone needs to be thinking about her future.”

He was greeted by three silent, serious faces.

“Well, they do.”

“I shall go up to her later,” his grandmother said. “And I think you should go home. You have committed an unforgivable sin today.”

Joe's stomach turned. “Me? What—”

“A man can do many things, Joseph. He may scowl and rail, he may scold and yell; he may even break wind in public and be left unscathed. But when he fails to compliment a lady on her new dress, that is beyond the pale.”

Joe knew—thought—she was kidding him. He looked from Grandmère, in her pale aqua tea gown—he'd seen that before—to his mother, wearing a wine-colored tea dress. And though it was a bit too daring for afternoon calls, it was one of his father's favorites.

“The two of you look lovely,” Joe said while he tried to make sense of their outrage. “But neither dress is new.”

They both continued to look at him.

“I apologize for not complimenting you both sooner. I've had much on my mind. No excuse for bad manners, I realize.”

Neither of them moved. Like two Sphinxes from that play, waiting for him to come up with the correct answer. And then enlightenment hit. “Dee?”

His grandmother sighed heavily. “Dee was wearing her new tea gown and it was quite becoming on her. I would say elegant. But did you even notice?”

He hadn't noticed. He'd been so angry.

His mother stood. “It's very chivalrous of you, my dear, to be concerned for Deanna's safety, but not to the degree that you forget to compliment her wardrobe.” She glanced at her husband.

He agreed with a dip of his chin.

Surely they were having a joke at his expense.

“And,” she continued, “not if your concern pours over into the typical male boorishness of thinking we women can't take care of ourselves.”

“I think I've learned by now not to do that.”

“I believe I taught him that,” his father said, smothering a smile.

Grandmère's eyebrows rose, but his mother's high-handedness was no match for his father's affection. She tightened her lips, but her shoulders shook with a quick silent laugh.

“Yes, yes,” Grandmère said. “Chivalry is all fine and good, and I don't relish Deanna putting herself in danger's way any more than you do. However, so far, the worst thing that has happened is she's been locked in a linen closet by a troupe of actors. And you have to admit, she might not have learned a lot from them, but I bet she learned more than Will Hennessey did. Or you, for that matter.”

“That's not the point.”

“Did you even ask her?”

Joe thought back. He must have, but . . . he hadn't.

“I realize your concerns, but Deanna is not reckless.”

“How do you know?”

“She's enjoying her newfound freedom; what's the harm? Riding a bicycle is practically de rigueur among the younger set—they're golfing, swimming, and traveling the world.”

“But they don't do detective work, even in an amateurish way. If she gets a reputation for unladylike behavior . . .”

“Joseph.” His mother threw her napkin on the table. “I never thought to hear a son of mine—”

“Leave him alone, my dear. He is only concerned for what is best for Deanna. He's not making a moral judgment.” Joe's father frowned. “Are you, son?”

“No, of course not.”

“There, that's settled, and now I would like to spend the last few minutes of my weekend enjoying the company of my wife.”

Joe's mother actually blushed. “I beg your pardon, Lionel. I was on my high horse again. And I beg your pardon, too, Joe.” She stood.

“I think we can forgo after-dinner port today,” his father said.

Joe couldn't agree more.

“If you're planning to return to the workshop and can wait a few minutes, I'll have the carriage drop you off on its way back from the pier.” His father followed his mother out of the room.