The Gilded Cage by Susannah Bamford Read Free Book Online Page B

vague but tantalizing private meaning, and Horatio glanced behind him. Bell was engaged in conversation with Lawrence Birch, and he looked back at Marguerite again. “I wish you the same, Miss Corbeau,” he said blandly. There was not a hint of fliration in his tone, Marguerite noted with disappointment. “Can you tell me, by any chance, who that gentleman with the light hair is? There, over by the fireplace. I’ve not seen him here before.”
    Marguerite didn’t need to turn. “Lawrence Birch,” she said dismissively. “A visitor from California.”
    â€œAn acquaintance of Mrs. Nash, then,” Horatio said, his casual tone barely concealing the relief in his voice. Could he really believe, Marguerite thought incredulously, that his problems with Bell had to do with a rival?
    â€œThat’s right, Mr. Jones,” she answered, already bored with the subject. She’d met Mr. Birch at breakfast and was not impressed. He was too poor to tempt her, and she didn’t trust his eyes.
    â€œHe’s a well-looking man,” Horatio said. Now that he knew the man wasn’t a rival, he could afford to be generous.
    â€œI suppose,” Marguerite said with a shrug. “But I prefer a different sort altogether.”
    â€œYes, well,” Horatio said gruffly. “I see Mrs. Nash is free. I should pay my respects.” He bowed, and Marguerite gave him one last pretty smile. She frowned as she watched him cross the room. Perhaps it was time to step up her campaign. A blunt approach? Did she have the courage? Or, more to the point, would it work?

    â€œSo you work at the New Women Society with Mrs. Nash,” Lawrence said.
    Bell nodded. “I started as a secretary, but now I’m in charge of the Emergency Fund. We reserve part of our budget to help women who are in dire need of funds—to pay rent, or buy food, or fuel…” Her voice trailed off as she became momentarily tangled in Lawrence’s pale intent gaze. “I know what an anarchist would say,” she continued with sudden asperity. “A waste of time.”
    â€œYes, some would,” Lawrence agreed. “It sounds cruel, but the more reformers try to ameliorate the sufferings of the poor, the longer we shall have to wait for them to rise. Johann Most believes the eight hour day, for instance, will only serve to divert the workers, lull them into complacency for more killing years.”
    â€œPerhaps you would not say that,” Bell said, “if you saw how they suffered.”
    â€œDo you think me so removed, Miss Huxton? Do you think I have no heart?”
    Confused, Bell looked away. “I don’t know. I only speak of my own experience. The eight hour day can alleviate so much hardship for the working class. The drop in industrial accidents alone—”
    â€œWill mean only more profits for the ruling class,” Lawrence interrupted easily.
    Her eyes snapped to his face. “So what do a few hands, or fingers, or eyes, of the workers matter?”
    Although he didn’t answer, she saw now how hard his icy eyes could be. But then he smiled, and the eyes warmed, and she wondered what she’d seen. Still, the thought of the ruthlessness seemed to flood her with warmth, and strangely turned her mind to her struggles upstairs, fighting her flesh, succumbing to her flesh, and sinning. To her horror, Bell blushed.
    Lawrence knew she would blush before she did. He’d seen something in her large amber eyes, something that momentarily excited her. Even though she despised him—for he could see by her face how repellent his words had been—she, for an instant, had wanted him. Interesting.
    â€œPerhaps you can show me what you’re talking about one day,” he said. “Show me Manhattan’s working class. Take me to a factory. Or take me to your office, perhaps.”
    â€œI’m sorry, I couldn’t possibly. I’m very busy.