Rating: Teen & Up
Warning: Choose Not To Warn
Category: F/M
Tags/contains: Gilded Age; snobbery; sexism; lust; possibly romance?
Summary: What is Hetty thinking about when she's looking out the window? Here's my guess.
A Bird in a Gilded Cage
by franticyoohooing
The carriage moved another few precious feet and then stopped again. They were stuck in a great crowd of carriages slowly moving towards Mrs. Vanderbilt’s party, and Elias was losing his temper about a situation neither he nor Hetty could have prevented. The rumor was that twelve hundred people had been invited to this party. Arriving early would have made them ridiculous; arriving late would have meant they’d miss the entertainments Mrs. Vanderbilt had arranged, to charm Mrs. Astor into accepting her as a member of Society. So they had to arrive in the worst of the crowd.
Hetty and Elias had always been members of Society. There had been no question they would be invited. It was the one genuine good that had come from her marriage.
Hetty looked down at her lap. She was beginning to have doubts about the costume she had chosen. She had decided to dress as a steel mill, with an iron-gray bodice and steel-rod details, and a darker gray skirt with rosettes of black and red to imitate coal afire. But she wondered how bright the room would be—in the dark carriage, her bodice and skirt appeared black, and the red in the rosettes barely visible. Did she look like she was in mourning?
She could have consulted her husband, if she hadn’t been married to Elias. They hadn’t planned their costumes together, like some couples might have.
He was dressed as Henry VIII. It suited him.
Eventually, they reached the front door of the Vanderbilt mansion. Once inside, Hetty could see that the party was as grand as promised. She could readily believe that there were over a thousand people in attendance, and even Mrs. Vanderbilt’s enormous home was filled. Hetty had learned that the party would start with a set of quadrilles danced by some of the young people. Just before the first was about to start, Elias looked down at her and told her he was going to fetch her something cold to drink, and that she should remain where he’d left her.
And then he vanished. She watched the first set alone, and then the second set, surrounded by faces she vaguely recognized.
Perhaps she should forget about Elias, and find some of her own friends, so that she could see the costumes they’d been gossiping about for the past two months. But he’d asked her to stay where he was, and Elias got so curt with her when she was disobedient.
He had been cruel with her twice that night. Once about the wait, in the carriage, and once at this point in the party, when she’d spotted her friend Mrs. De Lancey across the room, and crossed over to chat with her and her daughter. They were dressed in truly charming costumes, as a peach and a peach blossom. How could Elias have been so angry about something so innocent? Perhaps the woman he’d been trying to flirt with had not been interested, and he had chosen to inflict his anger on someone else?
Don’t think of that, don’t think of that.
“That is an amazing costume,” said a man’s voice next to her. “You’re a steel mill, right? It really suits you.”
She turned and saw a man she didn’t recognize. He was handsome and dark-haired, and wearing an eighteenth-century suit. Her favorite style of menswear, to tell the truth; modern men’s clothes were so dull. The exquisite embroidery on the coat was styled like a peacock’s feathers. She couldn’t help but notice that the man’s stockings revealed a fine pair of legs. Much nicer than Elias’s, actually.
“You shouldn’t be speaking to me,” she said, as politely as possible. “We haven’t been introduced.”
“Oh!” said the man, holding up his hands, apologetically. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”
He was ill-mannered, but teachable. “What you should do, at this point, is find a mutual acquaintance who can introduce us.”
“Well, that would be difficult,” said the man, reflectively.
“Perhaps our hostess?” asked Hetty. Though she hadn’t seen Mrs. Vanderbilt since they’d been welcomed at the door.
“She wouldn’t know me, either. I’m actually crashing this party,” the man admitted.
Hetty gasped. “Are you a journalist?”
“No! Oh no, of course not,” said the man, putting his hand on his heart. “I’m a tailor.”
“What?”
“My customer bought and paid for this suit, for this party, but then he decided it was too gaudy for him. He’s somewhere in here, dressed like Don Quixote or something. So I thought, ‘I have a costume, I know where the party is, there will be tons of people there the hostess won’t know by sight, why don’t I just take the costume and have a good time?’”
Hetty considered Mrs. Vanderbilt’s claimed exclusivity, and the ease with which this tailor had broken past her guard. Ha! “It does fit you well,” she said.
“Thank you!” said the man, beaming. “That’s very kind of you!” He stuck his hand out. “Trevor Lefkowitz, good to meet you.”
And here Hetty faced a choice. She could insist that it was impossible for her to speak to a man she didn’t know. Or she could take this man’s hand and become part of his ridiculous plan.
And it was certainly all right if what she did now, in her own mind, was not necessarily the same as what she would have done then.
She nodded, and permitted herself a small smile. “I’m Hetty Woodstone.”
She put her hand in his, and he kissed the front of her gloved wrist, and shot her a meaningful look. She considered suggesting that they see the garden, where they could talk more privately. But then she realized that what she wanted most to do with this man, at this place and time, was to show him the most wonderful party of her generation. Thousands of dollars sacrificed for pleasure and power; this man would have understood.
“If you’ll give me your arm, Mr. Lefkowitz,” she said, “you could be my escort for the evening. I hear Mrs. Vanderbilt owns a chest of drawers that originally belonged to Marie Antoinette, and I could point it out to you. And her dress is apparently electrified. There’ll be dancing, and a supper for thousands at two in the morning…”
“That sounds like a lot of fun. And her dress lights up? Fantastic.” He gave her his arm. Up close, she could smell his very attractive cologne. “I wonder if there’s champagne,” he said.
“Enough to bathe in,” she said, archly.
He beamed at her again. “My kind of party.”
The next time Hetty saw Mr. Lefkowitz was the day after she learned that--
She had known for a very long time that Elias had been unfaithful. One expected that of men, after all. Not one’s own husband, perhaps, but men in general. It was the nature of the animal, driven as they were by hungers that were entirely missing in—
She was in her carriage after attempting to soothe her temper by buying herself a dress. But she’d been unforgivably sharp to the dressmaker, who had been in no way at fault. In the end she’d pleaded a headache, left a down-payment for some future purpose at some unspecified date, and bolted back to the carriage. She’d smooth it over next time, or she’d find another dressmaker, it didn’t really matter.
She looked out the window of the carriage. There was Mr. Lefkowitz, dressed in a neatly tailored suit, a large paper-wrapped bundle in his arms, nodding and smiling to his friends as he walked.
She couldn’t believe she was so delighted to see a man who was delivering a parcel. Her friends would have been horrified. She knocked at the doors separating her from the driver. “Jones, could you please stop here? The day is so fine, I’d prefer to walk from here.”
“Of course, Mrs. Woodstone,” he said.
No, she would have had a maid with her. Wouldn’t she? Of course she would have, a genteel woman never traveled alone through the dangerous streets of New York. How had she forgotten that?
Fine. She’d pretend the maid had some minor illness, like the measles or the mumps, and she’d gone off on her own. Was anyone judging her for historical accuracy, as long as this story stayed safely within her own mind?
She waited until the carriage was out of sight, and then walked as briskly as possible to catch Mr. Lefkowitz. He was focused on the crowd in front of him, and she was forced to call his name aloud. How terrible!
He turned and smiled at her, as if spotting her on the street were the biggest treat he could have imagined. “Mrs. Woodstone! What a nice surprise! Where are you headed, I’ll walk you there.”
Mr. Lefkowitz was untutored in the social graces, but he had his own rough politeness. Still, his kindness had caused her a small problem. “I was merely walking today,” she said. “For the exercise. No intended destination.”
He stuck out his arm for her. “Well, then, help me with my errand. I’ve got to drop off a shirt I fixed for my friend Sass.”
She instinctively matched his stride. “You fixed a shirt? Not his mother, or his wife?”
“Well, I am a tailor,” he said.
“True,” she said.
“And Sass—he’s a great guy, and not bad looking, but for some reason he’s got no luck with women.”
“Unlike you,” she said, acidly.
“Oh, I’ve got thousands of girlfriends.” He raised his eyebrows at her.
She laughed. She couldn’t help it—she liked the way Mr. Lefkowitz would play the fool for her amusement.
“Well, here we are.” They’d stopped short in front of a store that said Sassapis Wholesale Buttons. Mr. Lefkowitz looked at her, concerned. “Is something wrong?”
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t seriously be considering, even in her own mind, visiting a wholesale merchant’s shop. Women of her sort spent a life sheltered from all the realities—including the fact that the handsome buttons on her dress had spent time in a noisome, crowded warehouse, with coatless men smoking cigars and haggling over prices. And what sort of escort was Mr. Lefkowitz, anyway? She ought to have him put her into a cab, to be taken directly home to the townhouse, where Elias was undoubtedly waiting for her.
He hadn’t been at the townhouse. He had left for the country estate, along with—-
“I’m afraid,” she admitted. “I’m afraid someone might see me and know me, and this really isn’t the sort of thing I’m supposed to be doing, Mr. Lefkowitz.”
He considered. “Mrs. Woodstone might get in trouble with society, but my friend, Mrs. Woods the seamstress, who’s looking for a new button dealer? Not a problem.”
Now it was a game, and one they were playing together. She couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, Mr. Lefkowitz,” she said.
And after all that, it was a perfectly genteel place. Mr. Sasappis was polite and friendly, even if there was something a little acerbic in his smile when Mr. Lefkowitz introduced her as a friend. The room was clean, and light streamed in through the large windows. On purpose-made tables, there were bins of buttons of all types: bone ones, china ones printed with a pattern, delicate hand-painted ones, metal stamped ones. Hetty found herself picking up a metal button imprinted with a pair of birds on a tree.
“You like that?” asked Mr. Sasappis.
“It’s charming,” she said.
“Keep it!” he said. “I won’t even miss it.” He gestured towards the overflowing bin.
She thanked him and slipped it in her pocket.
The shirt safely delivered, Mr. Lefkowitz was ready to leave. The two of them strolled along the sidewalk, arm in arm. “I suppose I should take you home.” He considered. “Or around the corner from your home, if you want to be careful.”
“True,” she said.
She didn’t want to go home. That was where she’d seen Elias, with Molly. Her own maid, in her own home. It made her feel as though the ground were crumbling under her feet. She and Elias had never loved each other; they both knew it. But could she pretend that she didn’t know about his liaison? Could she watch the mirror as Molly stood behind her and fixed her hair, both of them feigning innocence?
“Or I could show you where I live,” Mr. Lefkowitz continued, unaware of her thoughts. He stopped and took both of her gloved hands in his, and looked her right in the eyes. They were nearly of a height, which she liked. “Just tell me what you want, Mrs. Woodstone.”
Hetty reflected that she’d always been taught to be afraid of men. What they might do to her; what they might take from her. But she had the very strong sense that nothing was going to happen to her in Mr. Lefkowitz’s apartment that wouldn’t give them mutual joy.
“I’d like for you to take me home,” she said. “And I’d like for you to call me Hetty.”
Afterwards, Trevor pulled on his clothes to bring her fresh water from the pump outside. She bathed herself with a cloth at the washstand, feeling his eyes heavy on her. She looked up at the mirror, and he was looking at her with such affection—
No. Don’t think of that.
She turned to face him, and there was a look on his face much more aligned with what she expected. A raw, uncouth appreciation that warmed her. “Must you stare at me?” she asked.
“I’m never going to wash that towel again,” he said.
She shook her head. “You reprobate.”
He smiled at her admonishment. “I’d like to see you again,” he said. “But I think that’s in your hands.”
“I don’t know how,” she admitte. “How would I meet with someone in your position?”
He leaned his head against the wall and considered. “Well,” he said. “I’ve started keeping the books for my boss. Maybe you could start with that?”
“We’ll have guests for lunch at noon,” said Elias. “Two men, here to visit the mill. Your attendance won’t be necessary. Arrange something with the chef.”
It was ten in the morning, and she was expected to provide a full lunch in two hours, without warning. Of course she wasn’t doing the cooking herself, but she was in charge of marshaling the forces. Ensuring that the meal showed off the best Woodstone could offer, and that the table was set to perfection.
When his men had the gift of organization, Elias paid and promoted them; when she did, it was no kind of work at all. More like the scent a flower naturally emitted.
This time will be different, she told herself. This time she would eat the meal she organized, with two men whose presence she enjoyed.
And Hetty knew a secret about Trevor—she knew the food he liked best. A simple roast chicken, with carrots and potatoes cooked in chicken fat alongside. And maybe a fine, white Burgundy to drink?
Was it ridiculous to know a ghost’s favorite food? Was she making herself ridiculous? If she was, no one would know.
Hetty met with the chef -- who was just as irritated at Elias’s late request, even if outwardly tactful—and remained downstairs until the kitchen’s forces were deployed. Then she met with the butler and discussed the table arrangements. Once she had ensured that all was in order, she ran upstairs and had Molly put her in her prettiest day dress and do something a little dashing with her hair.
There. As the doorbell rang, Hetty had just enough time to float downstairs, as if she’d been sitting all morning over her needlepoint. Not a care in the world. And there was her old friend Captain Higgintoot, with a second man. Trevor, wearing a dark, well-fitted suit appropriate to the gentlemen of her own time. He handed his hat to the butler, and looked up, giving her a small nod, and then an amused little smile.
She’d never seen anyone look so handsome. She bit the inside of her lip and maintained a distant expression.
“Mrs. Woodstone,” said Elias, sounding displeased. “You remember my engineer, Mr. Higgintoot. And this is his assistant, Mr. Lefkowitz.”
“Of course,” said Hetty. “Captain Higgintoot, what a pleasure to see you again.” Elias always omitted the man’s honorific, because he himself had paid a substitute to avoid serving in the Civil War. So Hetty was always careful to use it, and thereby irritate her husband. “And good to meet you, Mr. Lefkowitz.”
“I assume lunch is ready?” asked Elias.
“I do everything you request, Mr. Woodstone,” she said, acidly. “If the gentlemen would like to freshen up, Smith can lead you to the guest rooms. If not, my husband can take you to the dining room.”
“You’re not joining us?” asked Trevor, looking up at her.
“Really,” said Elias. “We don’t need to be distracted from our business by my wife’s prattle.”
She tried to keep her face from falling.
“Mr. Woodstone,” said Isaac, “I’ve known your wife for many years, and I’ve never found her conversation to be anything other than enchanting.”
And this was why Isaac was her oldest, dearest friend.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Woodstone,” said Trevor. “The more good-looking women at lunch, the better, right?”
Elias frowned slightly, before getting control of his expression. She’d pay for this later, but at the moment, she didn’t care. “Well, never let it be said I disappointed a guest. Come along, Mrs. Woodstone.”
The dining room showed to perfection with freshly pressed linens, and flowers from the Woodstone greenhouse on the table. Smith had served them all, and stood at the side of the table, refilling wine and water glasses as necessary. Elias had risen to the role of host, and was mostly excluding her from the conversation, which was fine.
It was strange, Hetty reflected, as she watched Mr. Lefkowitz eat. All her life, she’d been taught to compete with other women, and to please men, because women had no power in their own right. She’d been so tired of always being aware of men’s desires, of satisfying these desires before they were even expressed in words. And yet, as she watched Trevor eat his roast chicken with an almost boyish delight, she found that she was enjoying herself.
Here was the unusual thing about Trevor: he never took kindness as his due. He always seemed so surprised and pleased when someone was kind to him. It was endearing, really, though she must never tell him that, because that would ruin things.
Trevor chewed a piece of chicken, crowned with crispy skin, and contemplated. “Mrs. Woodstone, I can’t think of the last time I had a lunch this delicious.”
“You don’t need to flatter me,” she said.
“In fact, I haven’t had chicken this good since my grandmother died,” he added.
“Mr. Lefkowitz!” she said, pleased.
“After lunch, would it be possible to go to the kitchen and thank the chef?”
Elias made a warning rumble, and looked over at her.
“I’ll pass along your thanks,” said Hetty. She reflected. Elias and Isaac could certainly, plausibly, be consumed by their work after lunch. Even for an hour or two. Who was telling this story, after all? In which case—“Perhaps a tour of the mansion, instead?”
“It’s a beautiful home,” he said. “I’d love to have you show it to me. Every room. Including the private spaces, if you’ll permit me.”
It was amazing how the man could make anything sound salacious. She put on the haughty air she knew he particularly liked. “Even a tour of the stables, Mr. Lefkowitz? Do you have any interest in horseflesh?”
He smiled at her, a wicked little grin. “Absolutely,” he said.
Hetty sat in the living room in her favorite chair, the one that caught the shaft of light from the window, and smoothed the freshly-sewn black silk of her skirt. Elias had been missing, presumed run off with one of his floozies, for over a year. The only curious part was that he’d never drawn on any of the bank accounts. At last she had been able to have the man declared dead, though she would not have been surprised if he’d returned to torment her.
Of course now she knew he’d been sitting in the vault the whole time. She did feel a bit sorry she’d never buried him. He had been the father of her children, worthless as they would prove to be, especially Thomas—
Don’t think of that.
The doorbell rang, and Smith let someone in. It was Trevor, his hair shot attractively with grey.
Older in her imaginings than he’d ever been in life.
“Hetty,” he said. “I heard about Elias.” He was fidgeting nervously with his hat, which he’d forgotten to give Smith.
“Sit down, Trevor,” she said. “Please.”
He sat on the couch, belatedly realizing he had the hat, and putting it next to him. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know how you’ll take this—I really don’t know.”
She laughed, a caustic little laugh. “Are you getting married?”
“If you’ll have me.” He knelt in front of her and moistened his lips. “Hetty Woodstone, will you marry me?”
And this was the North Star her story been steering towards, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t.”
She winced as the devil-may-care mask slipped back over his face. “I know. I mean, I always knew you wanted to keep things casual. Forget I even asked. Take it as a joke--”
“No!” she said. “If I married you, here in my own time, we’d be happy. We’d be very happy. But my life would still be wrong, and I’d want all the wrong things, and all that would happen differently is that we’d have them together.”
His face softened. He looked at her in the way she’d always wanted him to look at her—as if he loved her, even though he knew her to the bone. The way she’d never permit in reality. He cupped his hand over her cheek and stroked her cheekbone with his thumb. She found herself burrowing into the warmth of his hand.
“Well, Hetty,” he said, and smiled a little. “Who’s telling this story, you or me? So why don’t you tell it differently next time?”
The carriage moved another few precious feet and then stopped again.
