Free The Gilded Cage by Susannah Bamford Page A

Columbine put her hand against it. Fiona’s eyes flicked for one contemptuous second at her fine kid glove.
    â€œI work with the New Women Society,” Columbine said. “We run an employment agency—for clerical work, mostly. If you need assistance, our office is on Fourteenth Street, at Union Square. And we also have a fund for cases such as yours, Mrs. Devlin.” With her other hand, she reached into her pocket and took out an envelope.
    Fiona ignored it. Again, she merely stared at Columbine.
    â€œMr. Van Cormandt and I tried to talk Mr. Hartley into staying with your husband the other night,” Columbine said desperately. “I do not countenance his behavior. I am ashamed of his behavior. I—” Columbine stopped and collected herself. She was only making Fiona Devlin more contemptuous, she could see. “I want to help you,” she finished quietly. “I hope you will let me.” Again, she held out the envelope.
    Fiona stared at it. Then she raised cool green eyes to Columbine. “And why would I be taking money from a slut?” she asked evenly.
    The breath left Columbine’s body. Her hand fell. “I beg your pardon.”
    â€œMrs. Devlin—” Lawrence began.
    â€œI know about you,” Fiona said, raising a red hand to stop Lawrence and keeping her gaze on Columbine. “I know you’re that rich man’s mistress, Mrs. Nash. I’ve seen your fine gowns and your diamonds. And you come here expecting me to welcome you in, when it’s your kind who done what they did to my Jimmy? Do you want me to give you a cuppa and cry on your shoulder?” Fiona began to shut the door, until only her white face was visible. “You’re a slut, a liar, and an Englishwoman, Mrs. Nash, and I spit on you and your class.”
    Lawrence stepped forward—to do what, he didn’t know. Still, Fiona didn’t shut the door. Waiting for the satisfaction of a reaction, perhaps. She looked at Lawrence, her green eyes gleaming with triumph.
    â€œMrs. Devlin—” Columbine started. But the second door of the day was slammed in her face, and she stared at peeling paint, her mouth still open. She closed it.
    â€œI’m so dreadfully sorry,” Lawrence said. “She is obviously in great distress, but—”
    â€œPlease,” Columbine said. “Can we go?”
    She was glad of Lawrence’s arm as they navigated the wooden boards back to the sidewalk. Columbine felt unsteady. She’d been spoken of with contempt before, she’d been called names. But never so baldly. She’d been arrested, but she’d always had the protection of the police knowing her class. She’d been treated well. Never before had she seen herself so plainly, through the eyes of a working woman who did not want her help. The women who came to her door, who came to her lectures, wanted her help. Never before had she had to offer it to someone who flung her notions back in her face, who mocked her. Strange, Columbine thought. Strange that this had not happened to her before, in all her years of speaking and writing. Catcalls in a lecture auditorium and hostile questions are easy to deal with. Blood pumping from the righteousness of her cause, and words flying from her mouth, and the audience claps and screams at her cleverness. But alone, face to face, looking at the eyes of desperation and contempt, well. That was another thing entirely.
    When they reached the street, Columbine began, unaccountably, to shake. She realized, horrified, that she was very close to tears. So strange, she thought again. I used to be so brave.
    Lawrence felt her tremble underneath his arm. He saw that her face was white. “Mrs. Nash, you’re faint. Let me help you.” Murmuring close to her ear, he buoyed her up. He led her to the closest and cleanest stoop, took off his coat, and laid it down for her. Columbine sank onto it and burst into