The Gilded Cage Read Free

Connor’s, and from the back, with their broad shoulders and height, they could be mistaken for each other. But John does not share Connor’s easy smile. He often looks sad, I think, when he doesn’t know he’s being watched.
    John’s was the first face I saw on English soil, waiting with my cousins the day we docked in Bristol. He’d carried my ancient blue trunk, weathered almost to whiteness, to the waiting carriage.
    Now I feel his eyes on my exposed throat, and I am sure I’m blushing. “My lord, my lady,” he murmurs. George nods a response. He’s adjusting better than I am, learning to treat the servants, as Grace instructed, like part of the furniture.
    George’s hand is tight on my arm as we reach the stairs—he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.
    â€œI may need to use that arm again after tonight,” I say.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he replies. “It’s just—are you actually looking forward to this?”
    â€œThis is our introduction to society,” I say. “Think of it like branding cattle. A sharp pain, then we belong.”
    â€œAnd then to the slaughterhouse?” says George.
    From below come the silvery sounds of the hired strings, and the low swell of voices. “They can’t scare us, George,” I say.
    â€œCan’t they?”
    â€œWe may not be as fine,” I say. “But we’re far richer.”
    We stifle our laughter as we walk down the stairs, and I try my best not to tangle my feet in my dress. The butler, Carrick, is waiting at the doors to the ballroom. Cousin Henry Campion, Grace’s older brother, limps from the drawing room to the bottom of the stairs, smartly dressed in his dragoon’s uniform. Until we were identified as Randolphs by Crowne & Crowne, the family’s lawyers, he was custodian to Walthingham, and since our arrival he’s welcomed us with great kindness. I haven’t dared ask about his wound, but Elsie tells me he got it fighting in France, and that he nearly lost the leg to infection.
    â€œThe young lord and lady are ready for their audience, I see,” he says. “Katherine, you look beautiful tonight! Mr. Carrick, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    George’s grip tightens on my arm again as the butler swings open the doors. His voice rings across the room beyond. “Ladies and gentlemen! Lord George and Lady Katherine Randolph!”

 
    CHAPTER 2
    â€œY OU WERE RAISED on a farm, they say. Was it dreadfully messy?” The woman in yellow lace grimaces.
    â€œThere was a fair amount of dirt,” I reply.
    â€œBut surely you knew all the time that your place was elsewhere. You must have felt it. The blood will out, as they say.”
    â€œI was too busy, perhaps, to notice it.”
    â€œBut it’s all very romantic, is it not?”
    I think the romance would have worn off for Lady Flint after a single winter on our tiny farmstead, but I laugh politely all the same.
    The conversation bubbles on, and I look for George across the expanse of the ballroom. I wonder if he has told the story as many times as I have. Of our parents’ deaths five years before, our simple life under the kindness of our guardians, Edward and Lila, and the lawyer’s visit that changed everything.
    I’ve met so many people; their faces and titles are a blur. Several are men from Cousin Henry’s regiment; others are local landowners and their wives and children. Everyone seems to know each other, which makes sense: George and I are the strangers here.
    â€œIt must have been such a shock,” says Lord Flint, “living in some dusty shack one moment, and now this.” He throws a meaty hand around to indicate our present surroundings.
    It wasn’t quite a shack , I almost say, but then I suppose, to these people, it probably would be. Over our heads, candles reflect off glittering chandeliers, and the guests move below in a