A Golden Cage (2 page)

She was startled from her wandering attention by a cymbal crash. Several members of the audience started. The orchestra swelled, and a panel that looked just like stone, rose, exposing a golden room inside the pyramid. Light shone from it like rays of the sun, glinting on the golden walls and pouring out onto the stage. And from this stepped Hathor, the embodiment of the great stone Sphinx, dressed in shining gold.

The goddess stretched her arms forward, and she seemed to rise from the floor.

“Hydraulic lift,” Joe whispered.

Deanna ignored him. Hathor stepped out of the chamber and walked forward almost as if she were standing on air—not the wooden stage. The audience applauded her appreciatively.

The young girls returned, now dressed all in white for their weddings. Only, these wedding dresses looked more like the drapery one saw on Greek statues. They were made of some filmy see-through material, but were completely respectable since they were draped over a satin underdress.

One by one they answered the Sphinx's questions correctly. The action became a little tedious, and by the time the maids had married their bedouins and Professor Papyrus and Hathor had fallen in love, Deanna was thankful the play had been only an hour.

And then in the final chorus, the Sphinx broke apart, and the first young couple stepped back into the golden space. Before everyone's eyes, they rose up and out of sight. The second couple did the same and the next, until all had ascended in heavenly wedded bliss, and only the professor and Hathor remained on stage.

The orchestra swelled and the lights rose to reveal the couples standing above the audience, raining rose petals down on the solitary couple below them.

“How did they do that?” Deanna asked Joe.

“Some kind of wheel, probably a modified Ferris wheel. With platforms instead of baskets.”

“But where did they go and how did they get all the way up there?”

“I imagine they stepped off the platforms and onto a catwalk that spans the stage. Hmmm.” Joe leaned forward. “Interesting. Yes.”

The curtain fell to enthusiastic applause, and thoughts turned to dinner being served on the terrazzo. But Joe just sat there looking at the closed curtain.

Deanna recognized that look. He was getting an idea.

“Did you enjoy the play?” Mr. Ballard asked her.

“Immensely. Though there could have been a little more adventure.”

“A band of bedouins isn't enough for you?”

“He's teasing you, Deanna.” Laurette gathered them up. “Lionel, you and Joseph go on up to supper. I must say hello to Rosalie's daughter, and then I'll join you. Deanna, would you like to come with me?”

Joe started to protest, but Laurette cut him short. “It's all well and good for you to turn your back on society and go off to do what interests you, but should not Deanna have the same choice?”

Joe's mouth tightened.

Laurette patted his arm. “Don't sulk. It's only a handful of actors in Mrs. Grantham's garden, not suffragettes on a hunger strike.” And with a trill of laughter, she spirited Deanna away.

“Men,” she said as soon as they'd rounded the back of the
theater. “You know I would never do anything to put you in harm's way. And if any of your mother's friends objects to your visit backstage, tell them I made you do it.”

She led the way, humming one of the tunes from the show.

They passed a tent set up for dining.

“So society won't have to interact with the hoi polloi, though, mark my words they'll be sauntering down to get a close-up view before the night is over.”

Ahead of them a wide wooden walkway ran between the back wall of the stage and a row of tents. They made their way down the path avoiding the large chunks of pyramid, which was being dismantled and carried into one of the tents. It had looked so real onstage, but now Deanna saw that it was made mostly of thin wood and cardboard.

There was a costume tent and an equipment tent, and two additional tents on the end.

“See? Separate dressing areas for males and females. Perfectly respectable.”

As if to prove her wrong, a commotion burst out ahead of them, and a woman carrying a heavy bundle of gowns out of the women's changing tent backed out with a final battery of French. As she was turning to go, two beefy workers careered around the corner, carrying a length of footlights between them.

“Watch yer back.”

The
costumière
let out a squeal. At the last second, they managed to slide past one another and detour around Laurette and Deanna so smoothly that if it had appeared onstage, a choreographer would have been employed to ensure there would be no mishap.

But once disaster had been evaded, the accusations and
insults blossomed into a bouquet of harsh words—with sneers from the stagehands and fiery insults delivered in perfect French from the wardrobe lady—catapulting over Deanna's head.

Laurette pulled Deanna aside. “Perhaps not totally respectable. But energetic. Yes, real energy. If it could only be reined in and used for . . .”

Laurette's words trailed off as she saw a handsome middle-aged man in an exquisite dressing gown striding toward them. He was still wearing full makeup; his hair was parted in the middle and winged back from a long face and patrician nose.

“
Mon Dieu
, if it isn't the lovely Laurette.” He bowed low over her hand, then still holding that hand, he looked up. “And where is the honorable Lionel this evening?”

“Waiting for his dinner up at the terrazzo.”

“But of course.” He let go of her hand. “And how did you enjoy our little show?”

“Well, actually—”

“Yes, a butchery of a play that wasn't that meaty to begin with.” He glanced at Deanna and tilted his head.

“Edwin. May I introduce my friend Deanna Randolph? Deanna, Edwin Stevens, our star of the evening. And manager of the acting troupe.”

Deanna curtseyed, trying to take in this debonair, refined gentleman who had just spent the last hour playing the ridiculously comic Professor Papyrus. She wondered which one was the real Edwin Stevens.

“Edwin. I've come to say hello to Amabelle Deeks. Is she in the ladies' tent?”

Edwin's eyebrows winged slightly upward, making his expression more humorous than he obviously intended. “She is in the last tent with the other chorus ladies.” He nodded
toward the end of the row of tents, moved closer to Laurette, and said so quietly that Deanna almost didn't hear him, “If she has a friend, that friend should take her away . . . now.” He lifted his head. “Ah, Theo. I was just coming to talk to you. If you will pardon me, ladies. Delightful to see you again.” He tipped his chin and strode away.

Deanna peered at Laurette in the uneven lighting of the backstage area, but she couldn't gauge her expression. She wondered how she knew Edwin Stevens, and if Mr. Ballard knew or minded.

“Yes, Deanna?”

Deanna blushed at what she had been wondering, and answered with the other thing on her mind. “Do you think he doesn't like your friend's daughter? Why would he say you should take her away?”

Laurette sighed. “You know these actors. Always onstage. I'm sure he was just being dramatic.”

Deanna nodded but noticed that Laurette walked a little more quickly toward the last tent.

“Ladies?” Laurette called when they stood at the opening of the women's dressing room tent.

“Who is it?”

“A friend of Amabelle's.”

There was silence, then a young woman opened the flap and peered out. She was blonde and pretty even with the dark kohl encircling her eyes and the rouged cheeks and her red-painted lips.

She pursed her lips into a pretty bow. “Mrs. Ballard. I suppose my mother sent you to beg me to come back to the fold.”

“Oh, mainly just to see how you're doing,” Laurette said
lightly, and swept past her into the tent. Amabelle looked sourly at Deanna and said, “I suppose you might as well come in, too.”

Deanna entered but stood just inside the door, taking it all in. It was a tent, but there was a wooden floor and a long dressing table where several of the chorus sat taking off their makeup in front of a mirror outlined in lights.

Amabelle sat down at an empty chair and began to apply cold cream with a cotton pad. “Thank you for your trouble, but I'm very happy doing what I'm doing.”

“Certainly,” Laurette said. “I shall tell your mother so. Are you staying long in Newport?”

Amabelle looked in the mirror and spoke to Laurette's reflection. “The company will stay until tomorrow night's ferry, a morning off, and we'll arrive in New York in time to open again on Tuesday.”

“And you're staying where?”

Amabelle eyed her suspiciously. “At a local boardinghouse.”

Her expression said she was used to finer accommodations, and Deanna wondered where and how she lived when in the city. Then something on the dressing table caught her eye. A magazine.

Deanna stepped closer. “Is that
Beadle's Weekly
?”

Amabelle pulled the cotton away from her face and looked from Deanna to the magazine and back to Deanna.

“The latest issue. I brought it from the city. Do you read
Beadle's
?” she asked. “You look like someone who would consider it too trashy.” She pursed her lips. “Not edifying for a young lady.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Mine, too,” Amabelle said. “And she lets you read them?”

“I hide them under my bed. I read them with my maid every night, but I haven't gotten the new issue yet.”

“It's delicious,” Amabelle said, warming slightly. “I'd loan it to you but I haven't finished it yet.”

“Oh, I'll have to get a copy from the bookshop.”

“And your mama—”

“Is in Switzerland with my sister.”

“Lucky you. And you're staying with Mrs. Ballard?”

Deanna nodded. “Well, really with Gran Gwen, Gwendolyn Manon, Mrs. Ballard's mother. She stays in Newport for the full season. Laurette travels quite a bit.”

“Ah. And what about her handsome son, what is his name?'

“Joe—seph.”

“He's staying there also?”

Deanna wasn't sure she understood the look in Amabelle's eye.

“No. He lives . . . elsewhere.”

Deanna glanced at Laurette, but she had wandered over to the other girls and was deep in conversation, probably talking to them about birth control or women's suffrage.

A man leaned into the tent opening. “Well, come on then. Chow's on.” Behind him, several other male voices urged the girls to hurry up to dinner.

“We won't keep you,” Laurette said as she returned to them. “But if you need anything or decide you might want to stay for a night and have your own bath, you're welcome at Bonheur. Just ask anyone the directions.”

Amabelle nodded. “Thank you, but . . .”

“Amabelle, hurry up,” called one of the girls as they bustled out of the tent.

“Yes, do,” said the young man who held the flap open for
them, then stepped inside. He was very handsome, with longish blond hair and sparkling eyes, and was dressed in the plaid leisure suit that actors seemed to be fond of. Deanna blushed as their eyes met. She had admired his calves in his Egyptian wedding kilt.

“Excuse me,” Amabelle said.

Laurette nodded and guided Deanna toward the door.

“Nice to have met you,” Deanna said over her shoulder, just in time to see the young man move closer to Amabelle.

“You, too,” Amabelle called. “You'll have to button me up, Charlie. Everyone seems to have left me.” Then she giggled and the tent flap closed behind them.

D
eanna didn't break the silence as she and Laurette made their way to the terrace for dinner. It was obvious that Joe's mother was deep in thought, and Deanna wondered if she was worried about the vivacious Amabelle.

It had been a shock to see the backstage area. The magic and exoticism of the play seemed like a different world. The pyramid had become mere pieces of wood. The giant Sphinx head papier-mâché and plaster. Even the costumes so luminous and airy under the lights were mere piles of fabric in the costumer's arms.

With adventure novels, you merely came to the end. There was no seeing what happened next. The characters just disappeared, and you could imagine them off doing more daring deeds while you waited for the next installment. You didn't see them wiping cold cream on their faces and acting like everyone else.

Deanna didn't think she'd ever look at theater the same way again.

“The theater may be one of the few venues open to women, where they are as respected and well paid as men,” Laurette said out of the silence. “Though not necessarily a place for someone brought up in the lap of luxury and as silly as Amabelle Deeks.”

“Do you mean she is in danger of becoming a fallen woman?” Deanna ventured.

Laurette snapped her head around to look at her. “I think Amabelle has always been a somewhat flighty, shallow girl. Actors and actresses live by a different code than other people . . . well, maybe not all that different, but they live their lives fairly openly. I'm not sure Amabelle understands that difference.”

She took Deanna's arm in hers. “But let's leave Amabelle to herself and to her Charlie. We have offered our hospitality. Our obligation is fulfilled. Now let us find the others. I'm quite famished.”

As they reached the brick piazza, they were joined by Joe and his father.

Lionel offered his arm to his wife. “Gwen is sitting with Quentin Asher. I told her we would join them.” They strode off together.

After a moment of hesitation, Joe offered Deanna his arm.

She looked at it.

“Dee.”

“Are you sure you want to be seen escorting me across the floor?”

“Haven't we gotten past that stupid engagement thing yet? I escorted you to the Wetmore ball the other night.”

“And Olivia Merrick and that awful Ivy Bennett commented about it nonstop at the Casino the next day.”

“Well, I can't leave you standing here. Grandmère will have my head.”

Deanna pursed her lips and primly took his arm and allowed him to escort her to the table. “But if I hear anything about it at the next get-together, I'm going to be really mad.”

“Well, be mad at them, not me.”

Deanna cut him a sideways glance, but didn't comment. She wasn't angry with Joe, she just didn't understand what had happened.

This wasn't something she'd taken into consideration when she'd begged her father to let her stay with Gran Gwen while her mother took her sister to Switzerland.

Her father and Joe's had been the ones who made plans for Joe and Deanna to marry, but Joe had balked and left society to live in the working-class Fifth Ward.

Which was fine by her; he'd rarely attended social events, was even looked down on by some families. She hadn't worried about seeing him again. Now suddenly he seemed to be everywhere. Probably from some misplaced sense of gallantry. Or maybe because Lionel made him.

Either way, it was more humiliating than flattering. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And there was always some young man willing to escort her.

Gwen was already seated next to Quentin Asher, whose name was often linked to Gran Gwen's, though surely any kind of possible involvement was in the past. They both must have been in their sixties, maybe even seventy.

He was still a very handsome man. Tall and straight, and not
bent over at all. And he strode, not shuffled. He had thick white hair, sun-crinkled skin, and Deanna could imagine him at an earlier age, gracing the cover of one of her adventure stories.

He stood and offered Deanna a seat between himself and Herbert Stanhope, a friend of Joe's and someone of Deanna's own set.

“I thought you might like someone closer to your own age to entertain you,” Mr. Asher said as she sat. “Though I'm more than willing to give young Stanhope a run for his money.”

Deanna smiled. “I'm sure Herbert couldn't begin to keep up with you.”

Mr. Asher broke into a charming smile. “I shall certainly try to stay apace.”

Across the table, Joe's parents sat down together, breaking the usual form of sitting at separate tables. Lionel had been adamant. “I see my wife so infrequently that I insist on keeping her to myself when we are together.”

Joe sat next to a young woman, who was introduced as Yvette Schermerhorn, a cousin of the Astors'. Deanna was surprised at the little spark of proprietary jealousy that she felt. Which was stupid. Joe didn't want her, and she didn't want him. Still . . .

As soon as they were seated and greetings exchanged, two footmen began to serve supper.

Champagne was served with the cold salmon and dill, and even though her mother was thousands of miles away, Deanna remembered her admonishment to drink and eat sparingly.

“We haven't seen so much of you lately, Herbert.”

Herbert raised both eyebrows and put down his fork. He was the comic of their set. Slightly gawky, with carroty orange
hair and a ready smile, he kept them in stitches with his antics and witticisms. But lately he'd been a bit removed from them, and had been attending fewer and fewer functions.

“Ah. I've been busy making preparations for my visit to the continent at the end of the season.”

“Do you plan to stay long?”

“Yes. Perhaps. It depends.”

Deanna laughed. “You haven't made up your mind yet?”

“That's it. Are you going to the regatta next week?”

“Oh, I imagine so.”

“And I imagine you'd prefer to be sailing rather than watching.”

“Well,” Deanna said, “truthfully, I'm not that good of a sailor. Mama doesn't like us to be out in the sun too much.”

“Ah yes, your mama. Have you heard from her? How is Adelaide doing?”

Conversation continued as it always did at dinner parties, keeping to innocuous subjects—even among Gran Gwen and the Ballards. As the last course was cleared away, Walter Edgerton, Judge Grantham's son-in-law, rose and quieted the guests.

“It is my great pleasure to fete a man most dear to me and all who know him. He has had a profound impact on interpreting the laws that make our society safe and wholesome. An inspiration to friends, family, and those of us in the jurisprudence professions. And for me personally, as mentor and professor, as well as the father of my beautiful wife. So I ask you all to raise your glasses to Judge Grantham.”

“To Judge Grantham,” was the response, though some toasted through tight lips.

“A man who is hand in glove with Anthony Comstock,”
Laurette said so loudly that Deanna was afraid she might have been overheard.

“Don't bite the hand that feeds you, my dear,” Lionel Ballard said. “At least not until after dessert.”

Deanna knew that Comstock was the purveyor of what constituted morality, much the same way that Mr. McAllister had dictated who was to be considered society's elite.

But she also knew that there was a big chasm between not being invited to a party and being thrown in jail for things Comstock considered immoral, even if they were done in the privacy of one's own home.

And from what she'd heard, there wasn't much that Mr. Comstock hadn't deemed immoral.

A dessert of meringue and crème anglaise and more champagne was served, and conversation turned to talk of the upcoming regatta and the next concert at the Casino theater.

It was afterward, when the women were entering the house to freshen up before the ball began, that Deanna saw Alva Vanderbilt ahead of them.

“Well, well,” Gran Gwen said as they climbed the stairs to the ladies' withdrawing room. “I wonder who's guarding the prisoner?”

“What prisoner?” Deanna asked.

“They say she's got that poor child, Consuelo, locked in her room at Marble House. So afraid she is that she'll try to escape before they can marry her off to the duke.”

“It's criminal,” Laurette said.

“True. I personally see no reason to keep the destitute European aristocracy afloat on the back of American money.”

“Poor Winnie Rutherford. They say he's heartbroken.”

“I assume Winnie understands. It's just business as usual. And I mean that in the literal sense.”

Maybe
, Deanna thought. But she thought it was awful that Consuelo had to give up the man she really loved to marry some English lord she didn't even know.

“Why must Consuelo marry one man?” Deanna asked. “If she loves someone else?” But she knew the answer.

“Because she knows her duty, my dear.”

Deanna and Joe's situation hadn't been that much different, though Joe wasn't royalty and Deanna's fortune wasn't anywhere near the Vanderbilts'. Their match had been orchestrated by their fathers, but at least they hadn't been officially engaged. Joe had been the one to break it off, but if he hadn't Deanna would have, duty or no duty. If you asked her, Consuelo should have spent more time reading dime novels than practicing the harp. Then she'd have some gumption.

When they came downstairs again they were directed to the lawn for a fireworks display. They'd just joined Lionel and Joe when, with a chorus of pops and whistles, Roman candles sent swords of color through the night air. Reds, greens, yellows, followed by a spray of white stars. One after another until the sky was filled with color. Just as they started to subside, three Catherine wheels whirled to life along the cliff walk. Only to be replaced by a giant scales of justice blazing against a background of real stars.

As the guests applauded, the orchestra began to play, and everyone retraced their steps over the lawn to where the theater had been transformed into a ballroom.

The orchestra had been moved to the front of the stage to allow extra room for dancing. To each side, the black proscenium curtain glittered with electric stars. And where the wedded
couples had ascended into the clouds, golden birdcages and flowers appeared and reappeared in a continuous rotation.

It
was
like a Ferris wheel, Deanna thought. And amazing to see.

“Shall we?” Herbert Stanhope offered Deanna his hand and led her onto the dance floor.

As soon as the dance ended, Deanna was claimed for another, and another, and it was sometime later when she wondered what had happened to Amabelle and the other actors. Had they gone back to the boardinghouse where they were staying? They certainly hadn't been invited to mingle with the guests. Were they having a party of their own somewhere?

Deanna hardly saw Joe all night, though she imagined he was backstage talking to the stagehands about hydraulic lifts and such. The few times she did see him, he was always dancing. And when Deanna and the rest of his family climbed into the carriage well after two o'clock, and started for home, they had left Joe waltzing with Yvette Schermerhorn.

*   *   *

D
eanna went straight up to bed. As she opened the door to her bedroom, Elspeth appeared in the doorway to Deanna's dressing room, poking wisps of burnished copper hair behind her ear. She was smaller than Deanna, but strong. Tonight her cheeks were flushed from the heat, and one side of her face was creased from sleep. She stepped into the room, and, stifling a yawn, she took Deanna's wrap and purse.

“Did you have a good time?”

Deanna yawned. “Yes. There was a fair with games and things and Joe won me a little lacquer box. It's in my bag.”

Elspeth opened the bag and took the box. “Hmmph. It's not
big enough to put anything much in, but pills, and you don't take any. But it's pretty, I guess.” She put it on the dressing table.

“The play was kind of silly, except when the bedouins came in spinning to the music and holding their scimitars above their heads.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“It was, but then the girls just had to answer questions so they could get married. But I enjoyed the songs. Oh, and the fireworks. They were great. I'm sorry you missed them. Did you get home for a bit tonight?”

“Yes, miss. Orrin was there and we played with the little ones, but then Ma's been feeling a little down so I helped her with the wash.”

“She isn't sick, is she?”

“No, miss, just tired. She really ought to get some help if she keeps taking in other people's clothes.”

“Not you,” Deanna said quickly, alarmed at the idea of losing her maid. Not only was Elspeth a good servant, she was also Deanna's best friend. Practically her only real friend since Cassie Woodruff had to move out West.

Gran Gwen assured her she'd make other friends, but most of the girls she knew were vapid and on the hunt for rich husbands or ones with a title, like poor Consuelo Vanderbilt.

“I'm not gonna go to be a washerwoman as long as I got a posh job like this.”

Deanna stared at her. Deanna would hardly call being a lady's maid a posh job, but Deanna did suspect that she was a less demanding mistress than many of her peers.

She turned to let Elspeth unbutton her. “I met an actress tonight.”

“Lord save us,” Elspeth moaned. “First you go to a carney, then you're consorting with theater rabble.” She ruined her stricture with a big grin. “What was she like?”

Deanna stepped out of her dress. It was one of her favorite purchases, a light yellow China silk embroidered with hummingbirds. “She's not your typical actress, I don't think. She's about my age; she might even be younger, though I don't think anyone would hire her if she were younger than eighteen.”