The Gilded Cage

by Josephine Cox

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

A young woman's search for her parentage has far-reaching repercussions...

Josephine Cox writes a gripping saga in The Gilded Cage - a story of passion, ambition and discovering your roots. Perfect for fans of Lyn Andrews and Nadine Dorries.

Powerful, hard-hearted Leonard Mears ruthlessly presides over his wife and children, exiling them from the outside world and brutally punishing any disobedience. But he is also a man with a dark secret; an illegitimate daughter that he forced his sister to bring up. The girl is now a young woman who, unbeknown to him, is determined to find the father that abandoned her.

James Peterson, a gifted young man, runs Mear's factory with more success than Leonard's own sons. He lives for the day he can have his own business and make his fortune. Only then will he be able to declare his love for beautiful Isabel Mears who he means to release from the gilded cage her father has created. But then the lonely, lovely Sally comes in to his life, turning his heart and dreams upside down.

What readers are saying about The Gilded Cage:

'This novel is Josephine Cox at her best... The strong characterisation and spellbinding plot made this book hard to resist...The plot has plenty of twists and Josephine manages to bring laughter, tragedy and intrigue into this novel'

'The Gilded Cage is another book that cannot be faulted, once I started it I couldn't put it down, a brilliant read'

'The author described the time and the people so easily that you felt like you knew them'

Release date: December 23, 2010

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 257

Sample

THE GIRL SAT at the front of the church. White-faced, her eyes downcast, she could hardly believe the events unfolding around her.

Her bright blue eyes were dry now. There would be no more tears, for she had cried them all away. Now the happier memories she held close would have to carry her through the uncertain times ahead.

She had not wanted to come here today, but her mother had insisted. ‘People must see you there,’ she’d said. ‘Even if the thought of being near me makes your blood run cold.’

The girl raised her gaze to the woman beside her; this was the one she called Mother, and yet she was no more her mother than any stranger here. In fact, any stranger might have been more compassionate, more loving, and less cruel than this one.

Recalling everything that had happened, the girl could not suppress the fleeting sense of hatred that took hold of her. For here was a monster, while there, only an arm’s reach away, dead of pneumonia, lay the soul of kindness itself. Why is it, the girl wondered, that the good are taken while the bad live on?

She watched the woman for a moment, hoping she might feel some measure of pain at her loss, yet thinking that she never would. Oblivious to the girl’s attention, the woman sat rigid, playing her part to perfection . . . pretending to care, when all the time she was giving thanks. For what she had done, the girl could never forgive her.

Suddenly the congregation was rising. ‘Move yourself, girl!’ The hissing voice persisted in her ear. She felt the woman’s bony finger in her back and, in a moment, was ushered out of the church . . . into the brightness of a sunny day.

Brushing shoulders, the people filed out. Some, not knowing the woman’s true nature, gathered round to comfort her. Others, who knew her only too well, kept their distance.

‘She helped put that poor man where he is!’ one brave woman remarked, and, glancing to the girl, murmured to her neighbour, ‘It’s Sally I feel sorry for. I can’t bear to imagine what her life will be like now.’

Discreetly, the pair observed her. ‘She’s such a pretty little creature, and so quiet,’ said the second woman. ‘But then, I don’t suppose she’s been allowed to have much of a say . . . not with a mother like that.’

Along with everyone else, they went to the girl and spoke of her loss, and asked how she would cope. ‘You and your mother must look after each other now,’ someone suggested kindly.

Sally nodded. They don’t know the truth she thought. They don’t know what it is really like.

On foot, the funeral party made their way to the woman’s house, she leading the way. Tall and straight with hard features, she made a formidable sight.

The girl followed. Small and dainty with sad eyes bluer than summer skies, she won everyone’s sympathy.

Along the route, passers-by showed respect; men raised their hats and women nodded their heads, before hurrying on their way.

Soon they were filing into the humble little house in Whitechapel. ‘Tea in the parlour,’ the woman said, and they rushed to quench their thirsts.

When Sally made to follow, she was taken by the arm and pressed against the wall. ‘Not you!’ the woman told her in a harsh whisper. ‘You’re not needed here.’ With a spiteful flick of her arm she pushed the girl towards the stairway: ‘Stay in your room until I come up.’

Knowing what was to come, Sally went with fearful heart.

Hating the loneliness of her room, she sat at the top of the stairs for what seemed an age. From the parlour, she could hear the gentle clatter of cups on saucers and the quiet drumming of voices. Thoughts of the man who had lovingly raised her stole into Sally’s heart.

‘Oh, Daddy, I wish you were still here,’ she murmured. Heart-broken, she bent her head forward and covered it with her hands, ‘I miss you so much. You were always there, and now I don’t know what to do.’ What could she do? She wasn’t yet fifteen. She had nothing to call her own, and now, God help her, she was at the mercy of a mother who hated her.

It had always been that way, ever since she could remember. ‘Why can’t she love me?’ she asked softly. ‘And why was she so cruel to you? What did we ever do to make her hate us like that?’

Whatever the reason, their lives had been hell on earth.



WHEN, SOME TIME later, the visitors could be heard preparing to leave, Sally softly got up from the step and went on tiptoe along the landing. Like the house itself, the landing was small and dark; her room too. Simple and hard-wearing, the furniture all over the house was made from sturdy, old oak. The walls were damp and the carpets frayed and sometimes, when it rained very heavily, the roof leaked.

It wasn’t a pleasant place, but it was all the home she had known. When her father was alive, he had brought sunshine into it. He created laughter and made everything seem worthwhile. Now the house had lost its soul.

Letting herself into the bedroom, Sally climbed on to the bed, her back to the wall and eyes focused on the door. ‘Don’t let her hurt me,’ she muttered over and over. ‘Please don’t let her hurt me.’

A short time later she heard the front door close. There was a span of silence, then a sound that struck terror into her heart – the slow, heavy sound of footsteps climbing the stairs.

Her heart pounding, she waited.

With a resounding crash, the door was flung open and there the woman stood, a dark, evil smile creasing her leathery face. For a long moment she stood, legs apart, the whip in her hand softly flicking the floor. ‘They’ve gone,’ she murmured, ‘we’re all alone now.’ Her eyes were like those of a wild woman.

‘Leave me alone,’ the girl pleaded, ‘I haven’t done anything.’

Suddenly, the smile slipped away. Closing the door, the woman turned the key and dropped it into her skirt pocket. Then without a word she went across the room and drew the curtains halfway over the windows.

When she turned to see the girl scrambling off the bed, her laughter rang out. ‘There’s no escape,’ she said, ‘nobody to help you now. He’s gone. It’s my turn now.’

Desperate, Sally rattled the door handle although she knew it was futile. ‘Why do you hate me?’ she asked. ‘What have I ever done to you?’

‘Ruined my life, that’s all. You’re not my child . . . nor were you his . . . for all he doted on you!’

‘I don’t believe you!’ To be told he wasn’t her father was the worst kind of punishment.

Satisfied to see how distressed the girl was by her words, the woman smiled. ‘You were brought to this house over fourteen years ago, a babe in arms . . .’ Her voice shook with emotion. ‘A bastard!’ All these years she had told no one, but now the truth poured out in a rush of venom. ‘I hated you right from the start. But he didn’t, oh no. He took you in his arms . . . in a way he had never taken me, and he loved you from that very first minute.’ While she talked, her eyes were closed. ‘I would have given anything to give him a child of our own, but I couldn’t, you see. I don’t know why.’ Her warped mind going back over the years, the woman went on: ‘You were my brother’s bastard . . . got by some common streetwoman!’ Hatred trembled in her voice. ‘Oh, he paid us well enough . . . a small fortune. You’d think the money would have given me the life of a lady, wouldn’t you? But not when my own husband thought more of somebody else’s child than he did of his own wife.’

She took a step forward and Sally flinched, her arms over her face.

The woman laughed. Then, just as quickly, the laughter stopped. ‘I was given a pittance,’ she snapped, ‘while the rest was hidden away . . . “It’s for the child,” he said. “For when she grows up.”’

Taking another step forward, she continued bitterly: ‘Can you imagine what it was like . . . cleaning and feeding you, when with every bone in my body I wanted you dead? I might have strangled you with my own bare hands, but he was always there. The day after you were brought here, he stopped going to work and made his office in the parlour. It was me that had to deliver his ledgers, and collect them again. Maybe he didn’t trust me alone with you. He’ll never know how right he was!’

The hatred on her face was ugly to see. ‘I couldn’t even blackmail my own brother. Here I was . . . married to a clerk and raising a bastard, while my brother had properties and riches I could only dream of! But he hadn’t made all that for nothing. Oh no! He was a clever, devious man. When he brought you here, he brought a legal man with him. We had to sign a paper saying that we were paid handsomely and that the solicitor had acted as go-between. We agreed never to be in touch with Leonard again.’

She shook her head. ‘I should have known we could never hurt him. He even told me that if I should ever ask for more money, he would send his “people” after me, and they would show me no mercy.’

A look of fear trembled on her face. ‘He would do it too. Leonard was always cruel, even as a child.’

When she began to advance, the girl cried out: ‘I didn’t know! Please . . . I’ll go away. I’ll do anything you say.’

The woman stared at her with disbelief, the tears rolling down her sorry face. ‘Will you give me back all those wasted years?’ she asked simply.

There was one, brief moment when Sally thought she might be spared. But the moment passed. Now, as the woman raised the whip, there was no mercy in her heart.



SOME TIME LATER, the woman prepared to leave. She placed a tapestry bag on her bed, then from her wardrobe chose only a few items, and laid them reverently beside the bag: long black underskirt and camisole, with other, neatly pressed undergarments, a small, frilled black jacket and skirt to match, and a pair of best brown boots.

She then gathered together a number of toiletries, which she packed along with everything else. There were no jewels, nothing of any value. ‘I have money enough to buy whatever else I want,’ she murmured. ‘And no one to please but myself.’

Snapping the bag shut, she stretched out her left hand and stared at it for a while, all manner of thoughts going through her tortured mind.

Slowly, she slipped the wedding ring from her finger and slung it on the bed. ‘I’m done with all that now.’ For a moment longer she stood there, gazing round the room and wishing with all her being that she had never seen it. Not this room, nor this house, and certainly not that girl. ‘May the devil take her!’

Grabbing the tapestry bag, she went out of the room and down the stairs. In the parlour, she closed the door behind her and crossed to where the desk stood in the far corner.

Pushing the desk to one side, she fell to her knees, groaning with discomfort. Then she gave a small laugh. ‘I may not be so young as I was, but I’m richer, and that’s all that matters.’

Kneeling beside the desk, she turned back the rug and lifted the loose floorboard. ‘You thought I would never find it, didn’t you?’ Chuckling insanely, she drew out a small wooden chest. ‘It took me all week, but I found it. If it had taken me a year and I had to tear the house apart, I would never have given up.’

Clutching the chest to her body, she took a moment to savour the feeling. ‘I’ve waited so long . . . a lifetime. And now, it’s all mine!’

Having previously opened the chest, she removed the broken lock and raised the lid. Peeping inside she saw her fortune nestling there, she had seen it only twice before . . . once when it was placed inside the chest on the night the girl was brought here, and the day before his funeral, when she had searched high and low until finding its hiding place.

Tipping its contents on to the floor, she watched, mesmerised, while all manner of documents tumbled out. Spying the house deeds, and the fat wad of banknotes, she grew excited. ‘Mine!’ Furtively, she snatched them up, and rammed them in her travelling bag.

With trembling fingers, she then began sifting through the documents. There was the will and that wretched letter, signed by each of them that night, but little else of benefit to her.

She concentrated her mind on the will. Rolled and tied with a blue bow, it made a pretty sight. She didn’t yet know its contents.

Untying the bow, she laid the document out on the floor, but what she read only served to fire the loathing that had eaten away at her all these years:

To whom it may concern:

I, Edward Hale, of 14 Victoria Street, Whitechapel, do hereby bequeath all my worldly goods and possessions to my daughter, Sally Elizabeth Hale.

In here is the sum of fifty guineas, which is to be given to her at ten guineas on my demise, and the remainder to provide a regular income at her disposal . . .

The deeds to 14 Victoria Street, Whitechapel, are enclosed with my will, the house and its contents to be given to the said Sally Elizabeth Hale.

I ask only one thing in return, and that is for my dear daughter to show compassion to my wife, Anne Polly Hale, of the same address.

Out of the goodness of her heart, I ask that she will allow my wife to end her days in the house, and I pray that, in the fullness of time, they might somehow become friends . . .

‘Never!’ Shaking with rage, Anne took the will into her hands and tore it to shreds. ‘You fool! It isn’t me who’ll “end her days” here . . . it’s her!’

Glancing up at the ceiling, she dropped her voice to an awesome whisper. ‘You see, I’ve done something I should have done long ago, and I don’t regret it . . . not for one minute!’

She gathered the torn paper and, taking it with the chest to the fireplace, set it down there. Quickly now, she went into the kitchen, returning a moment later with matches, and a folded newspaper, which she crumpled, then spread over the firegrate. ‘Burn them,’ she kept whispering. ‘Burn them all!’

She laid the documents over the newspaper. First the will, then other papers relating to his work . . . private things in which she had no interest. Only four items in that chest had warranted her attention: the letter, the will, the precious house deeds, and that wonderful wad of banknotes.

One by one, the contents of the chest were torn asunder, before being thrown into the firegrate and set alight.

Last of all was the copy of the letter. ‘That was when it all started,’ she muttered, her hard gaze scanning the words written there. ‘My own brother’s bastard . . . given over to me, as if I was a wet nurse. Oh yes, he may have paid out a handsome sum of money . . . but it was never mine . . .’ She chuckled, ‘Until now, that is.’

Tearing the letter from top to bottom, she flung it into the grate. The fire was slow getting going, so she fanned it with one hand until the flames began leaping from the back. Taking the travelling bag into her fist, she stood there, watching with delight while the flames licked high.

She waited long enough to satisfy herself that the damning will was burned to a crisp, and now, the letter too, was engulfed in flames. Her heart soared. She’d waited so long for this day.

Unable to stay one minute longer in that house, she quickly left. Not even pausing long enough to make sure the front door was closed behind her, she went at a fast pace, down the street and on to the bus-stop, where she boarded a bus for Baker Street.

On arrival, she went straight to number sixteen, the office of a gentleman named Andrew Slater.

‘I thought you might have changed your mind,’ he said, ushering her inside.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ she said, seating herself before his desk. ‘Have you the money?’

‘I have.’ Beaming with satisfaction, he revealed, ‘My client deposited the money with me two days ago . . . soon after you approached me.’ Adopting a more serious mood, he asked guardedly, ‘And have you brought the necessary proof of ownership?’

‘Of course.’ Triumphant, she took the house deeds out of her bag and placed them before him. ‘It’s all here.’ Opening her purse, she took out a long brown envelope and offered it to him. ‘I have his death certificate,’ she said. ‘I am the only relative he had. The house is mine now.’

There was something about the way she said it. As though she had won a long, hard battle. He stared at her for a moment, noting the haggard face and the twitching hands, and the way she constantly glanced towards the door. There must have been a time when she was a handsome woman, he thought curiously. Even in her mourning clothes, she had a certain appeal. Her eyes were darkest brown and her hair shining like that of a younger woman. And yet she looked so very old, as though all the light had gone from her life.

He didn’t know why but, in spite of her arrogant and peevish manner, he pitied her.

‘I don’t have time to waste,’ she said, guiltily shrinking before his gaze.

‘Of course not.’ Pinching his nose with spectacles that were painfully small, he perused both documents. ‘It seems we can do business,’ he said presently.

She visibly relaxed.

Ringing a bell on his desk, he brought a harassed-looking clerk rushing into the room. ‘Are you ready for me to witness, sir?’

The other man nodded. Addressing Anne Hale, he pointed to the relevant line. ‘Sign each one,’ he said. ‘My clerk will countersign.’

Heaving a great sigh, she took up the pen.

In no time at all, the transaction was complete. ‘You haven’t forgotten, I’ve sold the furniture and contents,’ she pointed out. ‘As I have already explained, these will be collected in the next few days. Your man can take possession only after that.’

He nodded. ‘Of course. As we agreed, I have taken a note of it all.’ Only when she rose to leave did he offer his condolences: ‘I am sorry about your husband,’ he told her reverently, ‘it must be a great loss to you.’

Her smile surprised and shocked him. ‘I think I have gained far more than I lost,’ she answered, and swept out, leaving him to consider her odd remark.

Twenty minutes after arriving at the office, Anne Hale emerged from it, far wealthier than she could ever have imagined. In her bag she carried a small fortune. I must get to a bank, she decided. London is not a place in which to be carrying so much money about.



TORN AND BLEEDING, Sally took a moment to realise what had happened to her. For what seemed an age, she lay on the floor where Anne Hale had left her, astonished to be still alive, though she knew she was badly hurt.

The silence was ominous. She tried to remember . . . what had been said? Why had she been so brutally punished? Her mind began to focus . . . something about not being their daughter?

Opening her eyes she recognised familiar surroundings. They brought no comfort. Fear trembled inside her. Was she alone here now, or was there someone else in the house? Was Anne Hale waiting to finish her off? She hardly dared breathe. Listening, she could hear no sounds from downstairs; only the silence permeated the house. Somehow, the silence was more frightening than anything she had endured so far. ‘Have to get up . . .’ But even the slightest movement made her cry out.

She lay a while longer, growing weaker as the blood trickled away. When it soaked deep into the rug, leaving a crimson stain, she knew then how truly desperate her situation was. ‘Have to get help . . .’ She tried to turn over but the pain was excruciating. ‘You can do it, Sally,’ the words shouted in her mind. She opened her mouth to call for help, but no sound came out.

She lay a while longer, her senses coming and going, and her mind alive with terrible images . . . the church . . . her daddy. No! Not her daddy. And the woman . . . not her mother. Oh, the hatred, that shocking hatred . . . all her life. But why? Of course . . . now she remembered. That was why she had to be punished.

She listened again, so afraid. It was all right now. There was no one in the house but her. Mustering every ounce of strength, she made herself turn over. The pain was unbearable. It felt as if the whole of her body had dried in one position and to move just one inch tore it wide open. But she couldn’t stay here and die. She had things to do. People to find!

Determination took hold and, bit by bit, she edged along the floor. Somehow she had imagined she was near the door, but then she remembered . . . When the whip came down again and again, she was rolled along the floor like a top, until now that same door was so far away it seemed impossible to reach. Inch by agonising inch, she pulled herself along. The door was partially open. With curled fingers she tugged, until it was wide enough for her to creep through.

She never realised the landing was so big, nor the stairs so steep. Lying there, looking down, she feared her life would end then. She called out, ‘Help . . . me.’ Her voice was pitiful. Falling back, she lay very still, drained of strength; thinking of her daddy. Tears filled her eyes. He would always be her daddy, no matter what.



THE NEIGHBOURS HAD never liked Anne Hale. ‘A sly, unfriendly woman,’ they called her. Even the passing of her husband had not brought her many friends. Their sympathy was for Sally.

Two women who lived in the street always walked past the Hale house to and from the bus-stop. That very afternoon, they had noticed the front door was not properly closed.

‘She’s left it open on purpose,’ one said, ‘in case anyone should want to pay their respects.’ That was the way round here.

‘Well, she’ll not get me paying respects,’ the other answered. ‘I wouldn’t set foot through that door if my life depended on it.’ Then she remembered. ‘Did you hear the noise earlier?’ she asked. ‘Shouting and screaming . . . like there was a murder going on?’

Her neighbour shook her head. ‘No, but nothing surprises me.’

Moving on to other things, like the price of fish at the market, and how the cobbler’s prices were going through the roof, the two women hurried to catch their bus.

It was growing dark when they passed that way again. ‘Look there,’ said one, ‘the door is still open, and the house is in darkness. That’s strange.’

In both their minds was the earlier comment about the noise ‘like there was a murder going on’.

Afraid to go in by themselves, they went for help. It came in the form of a burly neighbour. On night shift as a cab driver, he slept through the daytime.

‘I thought I heard a row earlier,’ he recalled. ‘It woke me up, but I didn’t take much notice. Well, you know what she’s like . . . allus shouting and screaming at summat.’

Pushing open the door, he carried his lantern along the passageway. Keeping a safe distance, the two women followed. First they looked into the kitchen. The door held fast at first; most doors in these old houses were badly warped. But there was no one in there.

‘Hello!’ he called upstairs. There was no answer. ‘That’s funny,’ he remarked, ‘why would she go out and leave the door undone?’

‘Yes, and where’s the girl?’ The question was on all their minds.

‘We’ll check in there.’ He led the way towards the parlour, tripping over something on the way. ‘What the devil’s this?’ Shining his light down, he saw it there, curled like a snake, its tongue reaching out to the front door, the shaft close to his feet where he had tripped over it. Bending to pick it up, he gasped, ‘My God! Look at this . . . it’s a whip . . . covered in blood too.’ Grimacing, he dropped it to the floor, wiping his hand where the blood had stained it.

Raising his lantern, he shone it into the parlour. The small, twisted shape by the fireplace was just recognisable. The woman saw her first. ‘Oh, dear God!’ she cried, pushing forward. ‘It’s the girl!’

And she was barely alive.



GENTLY THEY CARRIED her to the ambulance.

Outside, the neighbours watched and prayed. ‘Did you see her?’ they asked each other. ‘Did you see what that evil woman did?’ For there was no doubt in their minds that it was the work of Anne Hale.



THE NURSE WAS kindness itself.

For over a week, she had watched over Sally, soothing her, bathing her scarred back, and talking to her about everything in general that might stimulate her mind. But still the girl was not ready to talk. She just lay there, white and sad, and racked with pain in spite of all the efforts of the hospital staff.

On the tenth morning, when the girl was able to attempt a light breakfast, the nurse brought her an envelope. Inside was a charred piece of paper. ‘It was clutched in your hand when they brought you in,’ she explained. ‘You were holding it so tight, we thought we should keep it. If it’s nothing, I’ll dispose of it straight away.’

Intrigued, the girl smoothed out the torn paper. In a whisper, she read out the name, ‘Leonard Mears . . .’ Funny . . . Mears was her mother’s maiden name. Her mother! Repulsed, she looked away.

‘Leonard Mears.’ Repeating the name, she tried hard to work out why that name should be on a charred scrap of paper. There was something else too, but it was barely readable. Part of a street name, and a town. She whispered the words, ‘P-e-ton New Road . . . Blackburn . . .’ The rest was beyond recognition.

She remembered crawling into the room where she saw the smouldering paper. Instinctively she knew the woman had been burning something important . . . evidence, perhaps, to do with her, and her real parents.

She looked at the name again, saying it softly, ‘Leonard Mears . . . her brother. My father.’ Bitterness flooded in. ‘The one who signed me away.’

Carefully studying the scrap of paper once more, she asked the nurse, ‘Where is this place . . . Blackburn?’

Delighted Sally was beginning to recover, the nurse smiled, ‘Somewhere in the North, if I’m not mistaken. But then, I’m a cockney born and bred. I’ve never strayed from these parts and never wanted to, so I could be wrong.’

‘How long before I can leave here?’

‘Well now, that depends on you.’

For the first time in many a lost day, Sally smiled: ‘Then it won’t be too long.’

Because suddenly, she had a purpose.



JAMES PETERSON TOOK off his boots and hurled them into the cupboard. ‘Leonard Mears is the worst kind of bastard. If I had my way, he’d be run the length of the high street, with a cat-o’-nine-tails licking his cowardly back!’

‘Hey! You mind your tongue, my boy!’ Maureen Peterson had an Irish temper and a set of rules that she stood by come hell or high water. There were two things in life she would not tolerate: one was a man who thought woman was put on this earth to serve his every need, the other was violent language. ‘I’ll not have you cursing like that in my house,’ she warned sternly, ‘and I’ll thank you not to fling your smelly boots in my cupboard like that! By! Like as not you’ll send them right through to the other side, so you will!’

Rushing across the room, with auburn hair flying and her small hands bunched into fists around the wet dishcloth, she looked ready for anyone.

Feigning terror, James smiled behind his arms as he crossed them over his face. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ he cried fearfully. ‘Leave me be.’ He could never keep a bad mood, especially when his mother was about.

Maureen laughed out loud. ‘Give over, you silly divil!’ Slapping him over the head with the dishcloth, she urged, ‘Wash that work-muck off, and sit yourself at the table. I’ve got stew and dumplings, and a jar of best ale for afterwards.’

Standing to full height, James reached down to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I don’t know why I put up with you,’ he quipped, ‘unless it’s your stew and dumplings.’

‘I spoi. . .