Birds in a Gilded Cage

by Judith Glover

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

'She's only a bird in a gilded cage, A beautiful sight to see; You may think she's happy and free from care, She's not, tho' she seems to be' After Dinah Garland's husband died in the Boer War, she thought she would never be able to love again, until she meets the confident and daring Warwick Enderby. But those around her are not so disarmed by Warwick's charm and are determined to delve into Mr Enderby's secrets. Dinah's brother Francis has secrets of his own in the shape of Cecilia Desatti, a young headstrong Italian whose beauty torments him. And young Laura Bates, on the verge of womanhood, has to conceal her love for the boyish Algie from her stern father. Each becomes trapped by the demands of private emotion and social background. When their secrets are revealed, will it bring heartache or happiness? Set in the years immediately before the First World War, Birds in a Gilded Cage is the final novel in the Sussex Quarter that began with The Stallion Man.

Release date: June 18, 2015

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 304

Sample

“If I have to play the Dead March from Saul many more times, I can’t help it, I shall scream aloud,” Dinah Garland declared, allowing the lid of the theatre piano to drop with a decisively loud bang.

She pushed back her stool and got up.

“I mean, it’s been twice a night for a week now. Every performance the same. And matinees, too. There’s a limit to the novelty of watching motion pictures of a funeral, surely.”

“Not a funeral,” her companion reminded her, putting away his violin into its case. “Not just any old funeral. Consider who we have for star turn. None less than King Edward the Seventh himself – and you can’t go better than that. And supported by a cast of hundreds.”

“Oh, hardly hundreds, Algie. They’d never have got them all on to the news-reel.”

The young man returned her smile. “Well, dozens, then. But what dozens! All of ’em hand-picked for quality performance. Kaisers, kings, archdukes, peers, princes of the realm, prelates, politicians … and one small dog. Jolly nice touch that, don’t you think, getting in the dog?”

“Our patrons seem to like it.”

“Not half they do! No sooner does the sub-title appear on the screen than the whole house falls a-sighing.”

Turning himself in a dramatic manner, Algie Langton-Smythe threw out an arm and in solemn tones announced to the emptied auditorium of the Electric Picture Theatre – “His late Majesty’s faithful terrier Caesar, grieving for his master as he follows behind the gun carriage.”

“Was there really a dog in the procession?” Casting her fellow player a look, Dinah leaned across to pick up her hat from the top of the piano.

“Must have been. Else what was it doing on the news-reel film?” He moved round to face her again. “The camera can hardly record what wasn’t there in the first place, can it?”

She gave a doubting little shake of the head, and glanced past him up at the blank square of the muslin screen. The lights had been doused now, and in the dimness its taut flat surface, powdered over with a coating of aluminium dust, shone with a ghostly luminescence in the black-lined alcove above the stage. The Electric Picture Theatre had been opened here in Lewes only two years ago, in 1908, and prided itself greatly on the innovation of American-made kinematographic equipment and concealed projection. The fixed red-plush seating was all new, too; and only the arrangement of stalls, dress circle and upper gallery betrayed the building’s origins as a former Sussex music hall.

Algie folded his music stand and propped it behind the piano. Then, taking his blazer jacket from the back of his chair, draped it casually about his shoulders before moving the chair out of the way against the wall. Though grown to a man’s full height, his round, snub-nosed features gave him very much the look of a boy still, his skin peppered with freckles and his gingery-fair hair slicked flat except where it sprang up in a defiant tuft from the crown of his head.

He had been employed here as a music accompanist for just over three months now, since the end of February, playing violin to Dinah Garland’s piano, and despite the ten-year difference of age, already there had developed between the couple an easy, friendly relationship which yet respected the other’s privacy. All that Dinah knew of Algie Langton-Smythe was that he was an Oxford college graduate of good family background, lodging in straitened circumstances away from home; and all that he knew of her was that she was a widow, her husband killed in the Boer War, and that she lived alone at South wood Place, the house until recently shared with her now-deceased mother-in-law.

She was also, Algie had not been slow to acknowledge to himself, a deuced fine figure of a woman, the type on whom maturity bestows an assured loveliness; and it had not surprised him in the least to discover that she’d attracted a number of gentlemen admirers from among those who regularly patronised the picture theatre.

“Am I allowed to walk you home this evening?” he offered nonchalantly, watching while she secured her fashionably large hat, embellished with tulle and plumy feathers, on top of her upswept auburn hair.

Dinah gave him a quick smile from beneath the wide brim. Then, removing the pearl-headed hat pin gripped in her teeth, answered, “No, that’s all right, Algie. I’ve already got company.”

“No need to ask who, I suppose?”

She smiled again, and shook her head.

It had been just a few months before young Algie appeared on the scene to eke out an impecunious livelihood as violin accompanist, that Dinah Garland had first made the acquaintance of the Enderby brothers. To be more precise, that of Warwick Enderby, the oldest of the three.

In common with many such houses, the Electric Picture Theatre was equipped with ‘morality lights’, whose diffused amber or rose-tinted illumination during performances prohibited members of the audience from using the darkness as a cover for activity. Without detracting from the clarity of the motion pictures showing on the projection screen, this low lighting was sufficient for the management to keep a watchful eye upon its patrons: not only amorous couples, but also petty thieves and those who might become so roused by the reality of a good dramatic story that they vented their feelings upon the villain by pelting the screen with whatever lay to hand.

From her vantage point at the piano in what had formerly been the old theatre pit, Dinah had a good view of those in the first few rows of seats; and when not watching the subtitles for the cue to play, was inclined to let her gaze wander to the audience. So it was that she could not help noticing one evening a stranger sitting almost at the end of the first row, whose attention seemed clearly far more taken by the theatre’s pianist than by the black-and-white celluloid charms of the actress above on the screen. In the dull glow of the wall lights, Dinah had difficulty in distinguishing the man’s features, but there was no mistaking his interest in her: even the manager had remarked upon it during the short interval while the film reels were being changed.

“He’ll know you again when he sees you, won’t he?” he’d said with a jerk of the head. “What’s the betting he’ll be back tomorrow night?”

The guess was right. The same stranger was in the same seat the following evening. And the evening after that; though for all the notice he took of the flickering images overhead, he might just as well have saved himself the trouble of spending sixpence to come in, Dinah thought.

On the fourth evening, however, his place was empty, and she had felt a curious sense of anti-climax at the absence; so much so that when he re-appeared again on the next night she permitted herself a little smile in response to his cheery wave of greeting.

It had been after the matinée performance the following Wednesday afternoon that the pair of them had first spoken. Dinah was putting away her music when a current of air from the open fire escape door beside the stage had blown the top sheet of paper across into the aisle, and before she could move from behind the piano to retrieve it, her admirer had come quickly forward to catch it up and bring it back.

At this close distance it was impossible not to be aware how good-looking he was, and she had experienced a momentary frisson of pleasure as his fingers – whether by accident or purpose – brushed against hers as he handed her the sheet.

“My name is Warwick Enderby,” he said without preamble. “I know yours already. It’s Dinah, isn’t it.”

Taken aback by such a bold approach, she had felt the colour rush to her cheeks.

“I took the liberty of asking the doorman,” he went on, sparing her the need to question. His tone of voice held a hint of drollery in it, reflected by the expression of humour in the dark blue eyes. “I hope you don’t mind?”

She shrugged and looked about her, not knowing quite how to respond but thinking to herself that his behaviour was, to say the least, unmannerly. “You’re free to ask if you wish, I suppose.”

Then, turning away and pretending to busy herself putting the sheets into her music case, she’d forced herself after a moment to go on in a matter-of-fact way, “And what else have you been finding out about me?”

The answer came without any hesitation. “That you’re a widow.”

She made no reply to that; and after a pause, he added, “I wouldn’t have presumed to make your acquaintance otherwise, Mrs Garland.”

“Indeed?” She’d given a little laugh, astonished at such breath-takingly frank directness and the self-assured manner in which it was delivered.

“Indeed.” Warwick Enderby smiled, disclosing good firm teeth beneath the neatly-clipped moustache.

“And anything more?”

“Only that you are unattached. As a gentleman, I felt it my duty to ascertain the fact before making myself known to you.”

“Well – really!” Sudden sharp indignation replaced the astonishment. This was going too far. Turning abruptly away from him, Dinah had made to move out into the aisle.

His hand on her arm detained her.

“I’m sorry. That was clumsily said. Don’t be angry with me.”

She brushed the hand aside.

Chaffing her a little, he went on, “I should have guessed you’d have a temper with that wonderful fiery hair of yours. I can almost see the sparks flying. Look – let me make amends, won’t you? Let me invite you to have tea with me this afternoon? There’s a place in Station Road where they serve the most superb cream cakes. What’s it called, can you remind me? Something exotic, like Scarlatti’s.”

“Desatti’s,” she corrected him coolly.

“Of course. Desatti’s. Good! You don’t need to be back again till seven for the evening performance. That leaves us plenty of time to get to know one another better.”

“And what if I say no, Mr Enderby?”

“But you won’t, will you?”

“I’ve a very good mind to.”

“Then I must warn you, Mrs Garland – I’m not the sort of fellow who takes no for an answer.”

Why had she accepted his invitation that day last winter? Dinah couldn’t possibly say for sure. She might just as easily have refused; and probably never seen him again. It was really quite ridiculous, the way he had made his attraction so blatantly obvious from the start, marching boldly up without any encouragement beyond a smile, expecting her to be swept off her feet by his charm, his debonair good looks, his smoothly self-confident attitude towards life and the world in general.

Yet swept off her feet she had been, right from the very beginning.

Oh, it was easy for others to criticise and say she was acting like a silly young girl, that she ought to know better at her age than go letting herself become infatuated with some stranger. Yes, it was so easy for them to warn her to be careful, warn her that she could find herself in the kind of situation where she’d be hurt, that she’d been too long without Richard to remember … remember what? The happiness of knowing herself cherished and wanted by the man she loved? The joy of feeling every fibre of her being alive again?

Much of this well-meant criticism had come from one source: her friends the Moores. Dinah had known Stephen and his sister Jessie since the time of her marriage, when she’d left the childhood sanctuary of her parents’ vicarage at Eastbourne to come to live here in Lewes as Lieutenant Richard Garland’s wife. And it had been to Stephen and Jessie that she’d turned in her grief when Richard died of typhoid in the epidemic which had ravaged Bloemfontein in 1900.

They had been married so briefly, no more than five months; and in that short time had lived together as man and wife for only three weeks before his regiment had embarked for the war in South Africa.

She had never seen him again, not even had the solace of a grave, for the strong young body which she’d loved so much had been buried far away in foreign earth, not brought back as she’d wanted for interment in the family vault at All Souls Church in Lewes. He had been the last of the Garlands, and it was her mother-in-law’s one complaint against Dinah that she had failed to conceive a child before Richard went away.

Stephen and Jessie Moore had been wonderful, the truest and kindest of friends; but they had no right now to try to turn her against Warwick Enderby with their well-intentioned dagger-thrust comments and cautious moralising. It was unfair, and unworthy: there had been no other man in her life since Richard’s death. Friends, acquaintances, yes; but no close companion, certainly no lover. Not since the first sharp grief of loss had faded, leaving an emptiness in her heart where she had learned to live with sadness, not once had Dinah felt the inclination to think of re-marriage – even had there been opportunity, which there never was, for the senior Mrs Garland’s failing health had required constant nursing during the final years the two widows shared alone together at the family house in Lewes.

When in the winter of 1907 her mother-in-law died, Dinah had found herself the sole beneficiary of the estate: at the age of thirty-one regarded by society as set up for life with her own property and a handsome annuity to supplement her Army widow’s pension. It had, therefore, surprised and even alarmed her circle of acquaintances when she’d applied the following year for the vacant position of piano accompanist at the newly-opened Electric Picture Theatre in the high street.

What on earth did she think she was doing, they’d cried, to take it into her head to go out and earn a living – and what a living! – when she had no need to do any such thing?

Dinah’s answer had given no comfort at all. She hated idleness, she told them candidly; hated having nothing to do, no occupation or distraction but to sit about sipping tea in drawing rooms, seeing the same faces, the same places, making the same small-town talk day after dreary day. Moreover, she was a good pianist – no concert performer, perhaps, but competent enough – and there was something about the novelty of moving-picture entertainment which quite fascinated her. That ‘job vacant’ advertisement in the Sussex Express represented freedom, adventure, an opportunity to combine talent with interest and give her a practical diversion from the tedium of the endless inactivity of middle-class widowhood.

“But your family – how do they regard your working in a picture house?” Warwick had asked her early in their relationship, one day in January when they’d come as usual for afternoon tea at Desatti’s. “It somehow doesn’t quite fit the usual image of the parson’s daughter, does it?”

“What image? There’s no such thing any more, surely?” Dinah demanded of him in return, laughing. She was in a vivacious mood, wearing the new hat bought after their first meeting, a stylish ‘Merry Widow’ model with mauve plumes whose colour matched the amethyst brooch at the throat of her high-necked cream lace blouse. “Let me remind you, this is the era of the female suffrage movement.”

“Dear me, that sounds suspiciously as though you’re a sympathiser.”

“Indeed I am! I mean, take my own case. Is it fair that I should own property, employ servants, pay rates and taxes – yet simply because I’m a woman be denied the right to decide who shall represent my interests in Parliament?”

“Haven’t you enough already?” There was a flicker of something in her companion’s tone, too quick to be registered, before the humour reasserted itself. “The next thing we’d know, by jove, you’d be clamouring for women to stand as politicians. No, Dinah, no – you ladies are quite dangerous enough without being given the vote.”

“We’ll see. The fight’s only just started.”

She glanced back at him, smiling, aware of the look of absorption in the handsome face opposite and warming herself in the apparent fondness she believed she could read there; and she remembered later being conscious of a sudden sense of release, as though she were no longer walking hand in hand with a ghost from the past.

“But to answer your question, about my family – no, they’ve raised no objection to the way I earn a living. Ours is a slightly unusual household in that respect. My mother is an artist, you see – her work is exhibited at one of the London galleries. And my younger brother Kit paints too, though only as a hobby –”

“Kit, he’s the one you told me is serving with the Army?” Warwick interrupted to ask.

“No, that’s my other brother, Francis. Kit has followed in Father’s footsteps and entered the ministry. He’s curate of a parish at Tunbridge Wells, where there’s an enclave of amateur artists to indulge his daubing.”

“And Francis?”

“Oh, Francis … well …” Dinah made an off-hand little gesture and looked about the busy, low-ceilinged tea room. “Every family has its black sheep, I suppose. Francis is ours. I’m the only one who ever sees much of him, and I dare say that’s only because his regiment’s quartered so near.”

“The barracks at Southover.”

She nodded. “The Sussex Artillery. My husband’s regiment.”

There had been no awkwardness when she said that: it was becoming easier to speak of Richard now without feeling the old sadness overwhelm her.

“My brother introduced us, you know,” she went on. “Richard was a lieutenant in his company.”

“Is that so? They served together in South Africa?”

“Yes. Would you –” she indicated the empty cups – “would you care for more tea? There’s still some in the pot.”

While it was poured, Warwick lit himself a cigarette from the monogrammed silver case he carried. Then, almost carelessly, he asked, “Why is your brother Francis viewed as such a scapegrace?”

“I suppose … well, I suppose it’s because he doesn’t see eye to eye with Father and Kit about some things. Different lives, different ways … you know how it is.”

Natural reticence had kept her from telling the truth: that Captain Francis Bethway had severed himself from his family’s affection by the flagrancy of his conduct towards his wife, whose quiet forbearance in the face of his numerous adulteries was something to be marvelled at.

Deflecting the subject, she said lightly, “Tell me, are there no black sheep among the Enderbys?”

“Grey ones, perhaps. In wolf’s clothing.”

“Oh?”

A shrugged smile. “What titled family doesn’t have its share?”

But again there had been that momentary change of tone, as though the lightness of his words masked something deeper.

Dinah put down her cup and pushed it aside. The tea room’s violinist had just started playing, a melancholy-faced Italian youth who was one of the proprietor’s sons. As the muted strains of Puccini filtered across through the buzz of voices at the crowded tables, she turned to listen for a moment or two before looking again at her companion.

“You know, you’ve told me nothing about your family.”

“That sounds like an accusation.”

“Well, it’s the truth. A few hints here and there, that’s all. You’ve mentioned your brothers Guy and Neville, but for all else I know about you, you might be Warwick Buckland the actor, masquerading under an assumed name.”

“Do I look like Warwick Buckland?” he asked, amused.

Dinah put her head to one side and pretended to examine him critically. Mr Buckland was one of the leading stars of the Cecil Hepworth acting company, and a much-idolised performer in romantic picture films. There was some slight resemblance: the same broad-shouldered build and thick dark hair, with a slim moustache on the upper lip to complete the well-groomed appearance. In fact, when Dinah had first learned Warwick Enderby’s name she had remarked to herself on the similarity.

“A little,” she agreed at last, with a smile. “Though I think Mr Buckland is rather more handsome.”

She’d been about to add something further to this raillery when her attention was distracted by the sight of a couple who had just at that moment come into the tea room; and starting up, she exclaimed, “Oh, look – there are the Moores! You remember I spoke of them? I must introduce you, they’ve been simply dying to meet you.” Then, with a teasing laugh – “Though I should warn you, Stephen’s your greatest rival.”

Half-rising to her feet, she waved across to the pair and after a few moments succeeded in catching the eye of Jessie Moore, a young woman in a dark green tailored costume and smart veiled hat. With a responsive wave of recognition, Jessie indicated Dinah’s table to her brother and the two at once began making their way between the chairs and brass-potted palms towards them.

As they approached, Warwick Enderby stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, and with noticeable deliberation took out his pocket watch and consulted it before getting slowly up from the table.

“Unfortunately I’m just about to leave,” he apologised when the introductions had been made. “Frightfully sorry and all that.”

“But you don’t need to dash away so soon, surely?” Dinah objected.

He blew her a kiss, and by way of reply said, “See you Sunday afternoon.”

“I thought you’d arranged to see us on Sunday afternoon, my dear?” Stephen Moore put in, a frown of surprise wiping the pleasure from his affable features. “We were taking a ride in the carriage to the alms cottages at Chailey Mill.”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Warwick answered for her, smoothly. “Mrs Garland has already agreed to join me, for a spin out in my motor car. To Brighton, as it happens.”

There was a short pause. Stephen looked down at Dinah.

“Is this true?”

Again, it was Warwick who took it upon himself to answer; but hardly had he got out a word before there came a terse interruption.

“I trust, sir, you will be courteous enough to permit Mrs Garland to speak for herself. After all, it was with her that our plans were made.” The other’s tone was now noticeably cool. “Dinah –?”

She glanced up with a quick, awkward smile. “I’m sorry, Stephen. How ill-mannered it must seem … but the temptation to accept Warwick’s invitation was simply too much. I’ve never been out before in a motor car, so it was quite impossible to say no. Would you mind so very greatly, you and Jessie, if we were to postpone Chailey until another time? The Sunday after, perhaps?”

The response was a pained shake of the head.

“The arrangements have already been made. The old folk are expecting us, Dinah. Surely it can’t have slipped your memory that the three of us were especially invited to a celebration afternoon tea with them all in the dining hall? We can’t disappoint them –”

“My brother takes a great interest in the welfare of the aged poor, Mr Enderby,” Jessie Moore came in assertively, as though defying argument. “The alms cottages at Chailey are among his concerns.”

There was a slight raising of one eyebrow as Warwick considered this information; then, giving one of his most charming smiles, he responded blandly, “But surely, ma’am, Mr Moore is capable of pursuing his philanthropic hobbies without requiring Mrs Garland’s presence to witness them? I would have thought the dear lady had already made herself sufficiently clear on the matter. Quite simply, she has declined the pleasure of your brother’s company in favour of mine. And to be honest, who can wonder at it, given the choice?”

“May I know what choice is that, sir?” Stephen Moore’s expression was set like stone.

“Why, sir, the choice between dull duty and a bit of jolly excitement. I ask you, what young lady of any spirit would prefer to suffer the meagre fare of a charity house at Chailey when she might be enjoying champagne and oysters at Brighton?”

“Honestly, Dinah, what can you be thinking of? You’ve scarcely known the fellow above five minutes, yet here you are as besotted with him as some naive convent schoolgirl.”

Throwing up her hands in exasperation, Jessie Moore turned to look towards her brother, who had moved away across the lawn at Southwood Place to admire the colourful display of midsummer blooms against the far wall.

“Stephen!” she called out, vexed by this apparent lack of interest in the ever-pressing matter of Dinah’s relationship with Warwick Enderby. “Stephen, do come back here and sit down and stop wandering off among the flowers. I need your support.”

“You seem to be doing rather well without it,” Dinah observed idly, lying back among the cushions of the garden hammock, eyes half-closed against the glitter of sunlight through the shifting leaves of willow forming a green canopy overhead. “Besides, perhaps Stephen is not quite so vehemently preoccupied with poor Warwick as you.”

“Well, he jolly well should be,” Jessie retorted crossly. “If he’d had any sense, he’d have asked you to marry him years ago, instead of letting things drift on in such an aimless fashion.”

She picked up her glass of barley water from the circular wooden table beside her chair and took a sip from it.

“I mean, it’s so ridiculous, the whole affair. Stephen wants to marry you.”

“Do you, Stephen?” Dinah shifted her head on the cushions as he came strolling slowly back across the lawn. “Do you really want to marry me?”

“My sister has this obsessional interest in the hatchings, matchings and dispatchings of all around her,” Stephen observed lightly, a smile in his warm brown eyes. “One would have thought the fact that she’s so soon to be married herself might’ve blunted her appetite. But, alas, not.”

He leaned down to refill his own glass from the jug of barley water.

“If anything, imminent wedlock has whetted her zeal even more. I see I shall be forced to have a word with Esmond.”

This was a reference to Esmond Bates, a fellow solicitor, to whom Jessie had become engaged the previous spring. Though both men worked for the same legal firm, Esmond’s office was some distance from Lewes, in the Wealden market town of Weatherfield: it had been Dinah who’d effected the social introduction between them all, her family having been connected with the Bateses for many years.

“If anyone is to have a word with Esmond, it shall be I,” Jessie declared roundly, “to see whether he cannot persuade Dinah of the folly of this absurd dalliance.”

“Dinah’s friendships are her own affair – even if this may not be the wisest one she has ever had.”

“But the man’s a perfect stranger!”

“Most people may be counted strangers to begin with until one gets to know them as friends,” her brother said patiently.

“Agreed, but there is no need to fall in love with them.”

“Are you in love with Mr Enderby, Dinah?” Stephen replaced his glass on the table, glancing down at her over his shoulder, the shadow of leaves hiding any expression on his face.

She hesitated a few moments before making her answer; then turned her head away to look across the sun-filled garden and said quietly, “I hardly know. But … yes, I suppose it must be love.”

“There, you see!” Jessie exclaimed. “What did I tell you? She’s behaving like some silly schoolgirl. Really, Dinah, how can you? The fellow’s not even a gentleman.”

“Nonsense, of course Warwick’s a gentleman.” The other raised herself on one elbow. “You’re only saying that because he took the liberty of introducing himself. His family background is impeccable, as you very well know. His uncle is Lord Claverley –”

“Do we have a copy of Burke’s to hand?”

The jibe was ignored. “And the family seat is at Whitmore Reans in Staffordshire – where Warwick and his brothers would have been raised were it not for the fact that their mother married against the late Earl’s wishes.”

“Ah, yes.” Jessie uttered a laugh of disbelief. “What was the story? That the father was a classical actor whose Romeo was played to such perfection that the young lady was persuaded to elope with him and live for ever after as his Juliet in drearest Middlesex?”

“The facts are very likely. It’s happened before, you know.”

“Oh, indeed it has. And now the noble son is reduced to living on his uppers in a locality like Star Street.”

“Warwick is not on his uppers! Why are you so spiteful towards him? His appearance is immaculate –”

“He has moth-holes in the lapels of his jacket,” Jessie interrupted tartly, “his shoes are scuffed at the heel and his nails are badly manicured.” Always beautifully turned out herself, she had a sharp eye for these little details. “If you want my opinion, my dear, the fellow is nothing but a fortune-hunter, and you are being a very gullible bait.”

Dinah threw herself back again among the hammock cushions and cast Stephen Moore a look of troubled exasperation. Much as she liked his sister, this pr. . .