The Gilded Cage (35 page)

The stairs to Toby's rooms seemed endless. Along with her queasiness, she felt a bit guilty as she climbed. Poor Toby; if the audition went as he wanted, he would be losing her to marriage. All his work would be in vain. Marguerite told herself that she would not exclude Toby from her drawing room after she married. Of course, she couldn't invite him to dinners, just large receptions. But she would continue her lessons, he would like that.

Marguerite gathered herself at the threshold of Toby's door. She straightened her hat and her shoulders. She wouldn't want Toby to see how nervous she was. He was an awful scold.

He opened the door, handsome in a new light gray suit. His boots were impeccably polished. “Good morning,” he said. “Are you ready to become a star, Miss Corbeau?” Then he stopped abruptly and really looked at her. “Good God, you look awful!” he burst out furiously. “Did you stay up late last night, you wretch?”

“Oh, do let me sit down, Toby.” Marguerite pushed past him and sank onto his sofa. “I didn't go out last night at all, for your information, even though Edwin wanted to. I said I had a cold. I think I
do
have a cold. I feel wretched.” She turned up her face to him pleadingly. “Don't be angry. Just give me some tea, I beg you.”

Toby ignored the request. He put his hands on his hips. “However do you expect to sing today?”

“I don't know. Maybe you could postpone the audition. I was thinking that might be best.” She looked at him hopefully.

“Oh, you were thinking that, were you. Well, forget it, petal. Willie P. is too important to cancel on. Who do you think you are, Lillian Russell? You're just going to have to pull yourself together, that's all there is to it. Do you have any rouge? No matter, I have some. We'll give it a try, anyway.”

Marguerite sighed. “Do I look so very bad, Toby?”

He relented when he saw how distressed she was. “No, not so very bad,” he said in that special voice that meant he was going to fuss over her. Marguerite leaned back against the sofa, glad to have back the Toby who petted and made everything all right.

“I'll have you fixed up in no time. Did you eat this morning? I'm sure not. Well, there you are. No wonder you're so pale, petal. You'll have some toast and tea, and you'll be as right as rain. Why didn't you eat, for God's sake?” he asked her, fussing impatiently with the teapot. “I told you to be sure and have something.”

“I did,” she insisted. “But then it came up again.”

Toby's hand froze over the tea things. He stood stock still for a few seconds, then turned to her. “Oh, my God. You're not pregnant, are you?” He shook a piece of toast at her. “Don't lie to me.”

“Don't be silly. And don't use that awful word.” Marguerite removed her hat placidly. “I'm feeling better already.”

“Do you
know
you're not ?” Toby persisted.

“If you mean what I think you mean, yes, I know. I mean, I'm never regular—I can't
believe
I am discussing this with you, Toby! And I'll murder you with my bare hands if you keep standing there with your mouth open not pouring my tea.” Toby turned back, and Marguerite quickly went over dates. It
had
been over a month, but Edwin had promised that she could not get pregnant. “I'm not,” she said aloud. “I'm not.”

“You'd better damn well not be,” Toby said, handing her a teacup.

Fortified with tea and toast, a spot of rouge on her cheekbones, Marguerite climbed back into the carriage with Toby for the ride to William Paradise's theater, where
Potpourri!
was currently packing in audiences.

“Don't be nervous, petal, you'll be wonderful,” Toby said as he took off his gloves and put them on again without seeming to be conscious at all of what he was doing.

“Please stop telling me not to be nervous, Toby,” she replied through gritted teeth. The carriage was swaying back and forth, and she felt carsick. Marguerite pressed her handkerchief against her forehead, which had drops of perspiration on it. She dearly hoped she could keep her food down.

It seemed ages before they pulled up in front of the theater. Marguerite took several deep breaths of fresh air and immediately felt better. Optimism surged through her again, and she smiled at Toby.

“That's better,” he muttered.

She composed her face into its prettiest attitude, her lips slightly parted, her eyes shining with innocent enthusiasm—Your freshness, petal, we must use that!—but William Paradise had not yet arrived, and it was wasted on the worried-looking stage manager. He told them to wait, and they took two seats in the orchestra. Marguerite sank into the red plush, glad to have a few moments to herself. Her nerves were humming now, acute and sensitive. But it was so stuffy in the theater. So delightfully warm, actually … It only took a few minutes for Marguerite's head to droop, and she fell deeply asleep.

The next thing she knew, Toby was shaking her. “He's here,” he hissed. “Wake up, Marguerite, for God's sake.”

Marguerite shook her head slightly and focused on the stage. William Paradise had arrived through the stage door, and he was earnestly in conversation with the morose stage manager. He wasn't much taller than Toby, and though he was beautifully dressed, his figure was not elegant, like Edwin's. As a matter of fact, he was almost stocky. Marguerite preferred tall, slim men.

The stage manager pointed them out to him, and he started down the stairs and across the front aisle to meet them. Toby tugged her to her feet.

As William Paradise came closer, Marguerite was still not impressed. He had dark hair and dark eyes and a dark suit; he was mid-sized and middling handsome. This was the famous producer, the notorious lover, the man who, it was said, had broken more hearts than anyone on Broadway? She passed his like every day on the street.

He greeted Toby like an old friend and asked about his mother, of all things, who apparently had been an actress herself twenty years before. William Paradise seemed to have a genuine interest in this woman; too genuine, for Marguerite was standing there, trying to “look like an angel,” as Toby had advised her, and growing a bit sulky. And then, finally, he turned to her.

“Miss Corbeau.” He took her hand for an instant and looked at her. Marguerite saw that his eyes weren't brown, but a dark, woodsy green. His gaze was keen and focused and alive; it drank her in without being in the least offensive. He smiled, and suddenly, Marguerite wanted very much to please him.

“Will you sing for me?” he asked, as though she would be bestowing a favor.

And even though they all knew very well how much Toby had schemed and pleaded and scratched for this audition, she followed Willie P.'s lead and nodded her head shyly, as though he had asked her to sing in his parlor, for his most intimate guests.

She mounted the steps to the stage with Toby. He went straight to the piano.

“Toby?” William Paradise's voice was soft, but it carried up to the stage. “I'd like George to play for Miss Corbeau, if you wouldn't mind.”

Toby looked startled, but he nodded. “Of course.”

“Thank you. Miss Corbeau, I'm going up to the balcony. George will signal you, and then you may begin when you wish. Abram, the lights please.”

The footlights flicked on a moment later. Marguerite blinked. It was her first time standing on a stage, and she was overwhelmed. The floorboards seemed to vibrate underneath her feet and send up shock waves all the way out to her fingertips. She liked being high like this and looking over empty seats. She imagined them full of people, all looking at her. Through her nerves, her queasy stomach, she felt a sharp thrill, as though she'd just looked into the eyes of a new lover, and she had the same strong sense of fate. I belong here, she thought.

“Take off your things,” Toby hissed. He handed the music to George on his way back down the stairs.

She slipped out of her coat quickly and fumbled with her hatpin. Toby had gone over and over her wardrobe, and finally selected her new gold gown. It was her most flattering dress, accentuating the narrowness of her waist and giving her a bit of bosom, as it was lownecked and cunningly tucked and embroidered on the bodice. Marguerite had stuffed several handkerchiefs down the dress for good measure. A design of pale pink chrysanthemum petals was embroidered on the gold damask, and a double garland of pearls mounted on tulle with crystal pendants was drawn up in a series of loops diagonally down the skirt, held by jeweled clasps in the form of scallop shells.

Marguerite tried to imagine that she was the luscious Lillian Russell. She struck the pose she and Toby had practiced, and when George nodded at her a moment later, she was ready. She took a deep breath and looked out into the empty seats. “Sing to the last row,” Toby had advised her. “Picture someone sitting there, someone you want to impress, even someone from your past… your father? No, I can see that's a bad idea. Well, how about me, then, petal?”

Marguerite smiled a bit, remembering that. But she pictured her mother, in an extravagant hat Marguerite would buy her, sitting in the last row. She nodded at George, and as the opening bars began, she took a breath and sailed in exactly as she'd practiced, over and over again.

They'd chosen “A Bird in a Gilded Cage” for her to sing. Though the song was written from the point of view of someone looking at a young woman who'd sold herself in marriage to a rich, older man, Toby had coached her performance to suggest that Marguerite was the young woman herself “You may think she's happy,” Marguerite had sung, over and over on those sunny afternoons, “but she's not, though she seems to be …” Toby had been thrilled with the result, telling her that she packed a wallop better than John L. Sullivan himself

But today, she couldn't seem to capture that plaintive fire. Maybe it was the accompanist, who played at a slightly different tempo than Toby. Her voice was fine, but Marguerite knew, even as she sang, that she was not giving her best performance. Her tiredness showed in her voice, and she could not seem to pull herself together. As she sailed on, she frantically tried to inject life into the song, and it came out wrong. It was bad, it was wrong, she was trying too hard, and she was relieved when she could finally stop, on a note that was slightly sharp. Marguerite wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. She was never sharp. Toby had been the first to tell her that she had something known as perfect pitch.

She didn't dare look at Toby. She wouldn't get another chance, not with William Miles Paradise, and would even Toby want to continue with her when she'd let him down so badly?

William Paradise stood up in the balcony. “Thank you, Miss Corbeau,” rang out through the darkened theater. The footlights clicked off. Marguerite missed the warmth of the lights on her face. George got up from the piano and wandered off into the wings. It had taken less than five minutes, and it was over.

Slowly, Toby rose from his position in the fifth row. She could sense it rather than see it, for her head was down. Suddenly, she felt ill again. Sweat popped out on her forehead, and she was dreadfully warm. Marguerite pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Well—” Toby began, but he stopped abruptly as Marguerite picked up her gold skirts in both hands and ran to the wings, where she deposited her second breakfast of the morning on her new gold kid boots. With Toby standing over her, exasperated and angry, catching the jeweled hair ornament when it tumbled from her curls, she retched and sobbed bitterly.

When she'd finished, she weakly lifted her head and looked straight into the cool, amused eyes of William Miles Paradise. She hated him more than she'd ever hated anyone.

“I'm sorry,” she gulped. She was dreadfully afraid that her nose was running, but she'd be damned if she'd swipe at it with her hand. She'd already been humiliated enough.

“Don't worry, it's happened before,” he said. Then before she could realize what his intention was, he reached into her bosom with two respectful fingers and extracted a handkerchief. With a mock bow and a twinkle in his eye, he handed it to her with a flourish. “Your handkerchief, Miss Corbeau,” he said.

Darcy and Tavish Finn arrived with smiles and presents and large trunks, for they were planning a two-month stay in Europe. “We need ideas,” Tavish said, “new experiences, new people, and I want to learn French.”

“And I want to spend time with my mother,” Darcy put in. “I haven't seen her in more than twenty years. It's a fine thing to forgive someone by mail, but it's time we faced each other. Though I must say I don't like the timing one bit.”

Darcy's mother, Amelia Grace Snow, had been a famous beauty who scandalized New York society by running off with the painter James Fitzchurch. The family had never heard from her again; Darcy had been forbidden to speak her mother's name. She'd written to her mother soon after she was married, however, and they'd struck up a thriving correspondence. Since Darcy's father had died in the great blizzard of '88, Amelia and James had been able to quietly marry at last.

“What's the matter with the timing?” Columbine asked as she poured them all glasses of sherry. “I would think spring is the perfect time to go to Paris.”

“She means now that Amelia is married she can't shock everyone by seeing her,” Tavish said with an arch glance at his wife. “Darcy would much rather visit her mother while she is living in sin.”

Darcy laughed. “You are too awful, Tavish. You know that's not true.”

“It is true, and I had the black eye to prove it.”

“Oh, dear, have you two come to blows so soon?” Columbine asked with a grin.

“Not that old story, Tavish. I declare, you must tell everyone you meet. I think the entire train thinks I beat you.”

Tavish raised one eyebrow at his wife and turned to Columbine. “It was at a very elegant dinner party at the Vesey Montclairs. They tolerate me, but they adore Darcy because she's a Grace and a Snow, you see. Why do all society people in America feel compelled to use two names? Anyway, needless to say they've never read one word of what she's written, or they'd ride her out of town on a rail.”