The Gilded Cage Read Online Free Page A

herself two years to marry—and here was one year almost gone. Avid as any debutante, she knew her only way to find herself a position was through a man.
    Columbine had rescued her from a life of domestic service, offering her a room in her own home and a job doing clerical work for the New Women Society. It was easy work, and at first Marguerite had been grateful for it. The freedom to do as she pleased on her hours off was enough to convince her she’d made the right decision.
    But over the past year, Marguerite had grown more dissatisfied. At the Statton mansion she had watched and listened. She’d improved her speech and her manners. Here, too, at the house on Twenty-third Street, Columbine Nash was a model of grace, and she even knew how to dress. But what was the use of improving herself if she never met any suitable candidates? Here, the only men Marguerite met were poor poets or ragged revolutionaries. Socialists, dreamers, exiles.
    She would have to create her own ticket out. If she didn’t take charge of her life, before she knew it she would be like Bell, twenty-seven and unmarried, an old maid. Fiercely, Marguerite pulled the mauve cashmere shawl Columbine had given her for Christmas more tightly around her shoulders. She knew more than ever now that it was time to act. Horatio Jones would have to do.
    The young newspaperman wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but he was a step in the right direction. He came from a good family. He had important contacts, he knew everyone in the city. Through him, she could meet others. If he didn’t marry her, he might introduce her to someone who could do just as well. Or better.
    Underneath the sapphire blue velvet dressing gown trimmed in white satin—a hand-me-down from the generous Columbine—she was wearing only a summer chemise, half-buttoned. Her bare skin felt cold, and she longed for her warm winter nightgown. But winter flannels didn’t fit into her plan. Horatio Jones would soon be seeing Bell home, and if Marguerite was right, he would step inside for a quick cup of hot tea before heading downtown to his rooms.
    Marguerite reached for the mirror on her nighttable and looked into it gravely. Her thick black hair was in a state of pretty disarrangement it had taken her twenty minutes to contrive. Her small fingers wandered down to fuss with her unbuttoned chemise. Not too much white skin exposed, just her throat and the tops of her small breasts. When she dropped the book, if he was quick, and she would bet that he would be, Horatio would get a flash of pink nipples. And amid it all, she would be the picture of prettily confused dishevelment.
    Marguerite sat up, listening intently, as hooves clopped outside her window. No, they were going past. She settled back against her pillow again. It was too cold to remain outside the covers. Last week she’d been lucky enough to overhear Bell and Horatio after their evening out together. They’d quarrelled over Bell’s tiresome insistence on keeping their relations not merely chaste—that, Horatio had insisted, he would understand—but absolutely free of any physical contact whatsoever. It was a wonder, Marguerite thought, that Horatio put up with Bell at all. But the woman was so damnably luscious, full lips and round figure, wasp-waisted, a real beauty. It was a pity Bell’s feminine charms ended with her face and figure. She had a straightforward manner that was impressive in its own way. But she had a complete absence of guile, and that was deadly in a woman.
    As a result, Marguerite thought, biting her lips to make them redder and studying the effect in the small mirror, the ambitious young muckraker Mr. Jones just might be ripe for the plucking. She might not have Bell’s looks, but Marguerite might be willing to give at least a taste to Mr. Jones of what Bell would not. Bell would probably be relieved, for it was painfully obvious to everyone but Horatio that she