Free The Gilded Cage by Susannah Bamford

very near the markets, as well. You might want to return and sample some oysters—they’re shipped in from the harbor right here. But today after our stop we’ll walk east toward First Street. It’s a long walk, but an instructive one. Some fine houses around Washington Square, some tenements, factories, businesses, New York University. You’ll see much of downtown.”
    â€œI should like that,” Lawrence said.
    Columbine led the way to 142 Gansevoort Street, finding her way with some difficulty, for she didn’t know the area very well. They reached the address, and Columbine looked at the house dubiously. It seemed to sag with the weight of centuries; it was a wonder it didn’t fall in on itself with her first step on the creaking porch. Columbine rang the bell.
    An older woman answered. Gray whiskers sprouted from her chin in patches. She looked Columbine up and down suspiciously but said nothing.
    â€œGood day. We’re here to see Fiona Devlin,” Columbine said. “Would you tell her Columbine N—”
    â€œRound back,” the woman said, and slammed the door.
    â€œThank you,” Columbine said to the door.
    â€œNot a good beginning,” Lawrence said with a smile. It lightened his features, making his pale blue eyes warm.
    â€œPerhaps they owe her some rent,” Columbine speculated.
    Lawrence took her arm as they picked their way through a woodpile to a dirt alley running alongside the house. The ground was muddy and encrusted with ice, but a narrow walkway of boards had been set down for passage. Columbine balanced, still holding onto Lawrence’s arm, for there were patches of ice on the boards as well. She could feel the bunch of steely muscles underneath his coat. The elegant Mr. Birch was burlier than he appeared.
    Around back they found the rear of the building in even worse repair than the front. A dirt-packed yard was crisscrossed with clotheslines. There was a door with cracked, rust-colored paint that seemed to lead to a basement apartment. Columbine knocked at it. It opened almost immediately.
    The small, red-headed woman stood, one hand on her hip. Her expression was less strained than the night of the accident, but it was not one whit less fierce. Wisps of red hair from an untidy bun waved around pale cheeks. A clean apron was tied over a plain black dress. If the old woman upstairs had a suspicious look, Fiona Devlin was positively murderous.
    Columbine had never been slow to recognize hostility. She didn’t smile, knowing it would only infuriate Fiona Devlin. “Mrs. Devlin, I was at the Hartley house the other night when your husband was injured. I’ve come to inquire about his health.”
    Fiona Devlin said nothing. She continued to stare at Columbine with opaque green eyes. There was a golden patch in one corner with a dark spot in it. Lovely, hostile eyes.
    â€œMy name is Columbine Nash,” she continued determinedly. “And this is my friend Mr. Birch. Mrs. Devlin, I’ve come to see if there’s anything I can do for you. I know Mr. Hartley will be forthcoming with assistance, but until then—”
    A sneer lifted the corner of Fiona’s thin upper lip. “Yes, he will be forthcoming, though I’ll not be waiting,” she said, in an attempted imitation of Columbine’s upper crust British accent. “Mrs. Nash,” she added. The name was like an insult. Columbine had heard her name pronounced in this way before. One could not advocate free love, family limitation, and votes for women and not hear it. But this woman was a master at it.
    â€œIf we could come in,” Columbine tried.
    â€œMy husband is sleeping. He has a fever, you see. The doctor is worried about gangrene, though he won’t use that word to me.”
    â€œPerhaps you need help with nursing—”
    â€œMy sister lives with us. And we have neighbors. Goodbye.”
    Fiona began to shut the door.