The Gilded Cage (10 page)

Lawrence Birch had plenty of answers, and he made her laugh. He had fire and a romantic vision of the world, and that was an irresistible combination. The weeks passed without him finding a place to go, and he was so unobtrusive when she wanted him to be and so attentive when she needed it that Columbine found herself not minding his presence in the house. She was so lulled by it that she was surprised, one morning, to discover that the other women did not feel the same at all.

“Lord, is the man never going to leave?” Marguerite asked, handing Columbine the mail at the breakfast table.

Columbine laughed as she leafed through the envelopes. “You don't like Mr. Birch, Marguerite?”

“No. Do you like him, Bell?”

Bell put down her coffee cup. “He can be charming,” she said. “But he tries too hard. No, I don't like him.”

Columbine looked at the two women. “I had no idea,” she said. “Does he make you uncomfortable ?”

“Not at all,” Bell said quickly.

Marguerite shrugged. “It's your house, Columbine.”

“It's yours as well,” Columbine protested. “I'll ask him today if he's found a place,” she said decidedly. “You're right, of course, he's been here too long.” She slid toward her a pile of periodicals she'd neglected earlier in the week.

Bell folded her napkin. “Perhaps it would be better, Columbine. The neighbors are starting to notice.”

“Yes, he's not very discreet,” Marguerite said. “I heard him come in after midnight—my room faces the back. He made an awful racket, I must say.”

Columbine was frowning now, but she wasn't listening to Marguerite. “Oh, no,” she exclaimed in dismay.

“What is it?” Bell asked.

“It's the newest issue of the
Century,
” Columbine said in an offended tone, as though the
Century
had no right to put out a new issue. “That wicked, wicked man.” She stood and left the table, trying to manage the heavy skirt of her velvet dressing gown and read the magazine at the same time as she left the room.

“I'm glad to see Columbine getting excited about things again,” Marguerite observed, reaching for a piece of toast. “For the past few weeks even Anthony Comstock only provoked a yawn. It's been dull around here since she developed that insomnia.”

“I wonder where Mr. Birch goes at night,” Bell said, staring down at the tablecloth. She'd spoken without thinking, and she looked up quickly at Marguerite, to see if she'd noticed.

But Marguerite was too self-absorbed to wonder why Bell was concerned about Mr. Birch's activities, or why she blushed. She spread jam on her toast with a small smile. “Who knows where anyone really goes at night?” she asked, crunching into the toast with her small white teeth. She smiled innocently at Bell.

“What does that mean?” Bell asked, frowning.

“Oh, nothing. I've been meaning to ask you, Bell. Do you think coffee is bad for the complexion?”

“You must tell her,” Marguerite said.

“Yes,” Horatio said.

“When?”

“Soon. Marguerite—”

“When?”

Horatio groaned. Astride him, naked and poised inches above him, Marguerite moved slightly downward. She brushed against the tip of him lightly. Her tiny teeth caught her lower lip. “When?” she said again. Her husky voice was even lower than normal.

“Soon,” Horatio repeated, with a sudden lunge upward. He pushed against her, and now Marguerite moaned. She slid herself downward on him, then moved slowly up and down. Up and down. How easily she had caught the rhythm of sex. She flung her head back and closed her eyes.

Horatio, she knew, had been shocked at her willingness, her avidity to try any position, any variation. The first time she had sat astride him, crossing over during dinner to raise her skirts and swing one naked leg over him, he had even blushed. As much as she enjoyed him, she had a feeling that Horatio's belief in his own adventurousness was certainly overblown. However, there were still things he could teach her.

Horatio sprawled beneath her, his body brown and lithe. He was a beautiful man, a delight of textures, all crisp hair and smooth muscles. Long fingers and feet, a smooth beard that tickled her cheeks and upper thighs and brushed against her nipples. She adored him. But Marguerite was aware that she adored him in what some would say an animal fashion. She had heard Columbine speak about the spiritual nature of love. She had not yet discovered that side of sex.

Ah, there. Marguerite changed her rhythm slightly. Then as Horatio's hips moved and he groaned again, she abruptly withdrew and raised herself above him. This is what he liked, to have her tantalize him, to brush her breasts against his chest and run her lips against his neck while she murmured of her pleasure. Only here, in bed, did she have his complete attention.

He still thought about Bell, she knew that. He still held out a hope that he would win her, incredible as it seemed. This made Marguerite feel impatient with Horatio. As long as they had to see each other in secret, she had no chance of meeting the important people that Horatio knew. Horatio knew everyone in New York—writers and painters, politicians, actors, high society and low society. Marguerite didn't know what she wanted yet. But she wanted to run a finger along her choices before she grabbed at one. And she would have no opportunity to do so if she spent all of her time in Horatio's rooms, in Horatio's bed, as nice as that was.

She breathed against him; she moaned. Her lips slid along his chest and moved downward. This seemed to excite him even more, even as it alarmed him. His dark eyes widened as her mouth followed a path made by trailing fingers. “If you don't tell her,” she said, her lips following a line of dark hair descending from his navel, “I don't know what I'll do. I just hate going behind her back.”

His hand tightened on her hair. “All right. I promise,” he gasped. He raised his hips.

“Oh, Horatio.” Her lips curved into a smile, and she took him in her mouth. His gasp of pleasure surprised her with its intensity. Here was something new, some new power she didn't know she had. Marguerite felt the power push her on, fuel her own excitement as her clever tongue and hands ensured her lover's cooperation.

Ned stood when Columbine entered his office. His heart squeezed with pain. She hesitated at the doorway, then walked in and held out her hand. He shook it.

“Columbine, it's a pleasure to see you. Please sit down.”

He waited until she was seated and had removed her gloves. Nervously, she smoothed her silver-willow skirt.

“I'm surprised you'd even receive me, Ned. I read the article in the
Century
. I was a few days behind everyone else, I fear.”

“Columbine, I'm not sure what you're talking about.”

“Didn't you read the article?”

“Yes, but I hardly know why I'd blame you for it.”

“Because I gave Elijah Reed the information. He came to my house as a friend, not a journalist. I didn't know he'd use the story of what happened at the Hartley's New Year's Eve. I'm so sorry, Ned.” Columbine gazed at him, trying to discover if he was merely being polite or if he truly did not blame her.

Ned steepled his fingers in a lawyerlike way. “Columbine, set your mind at ease. It never occurred to me to blame you. Elijah Reed got his information from several sources, including the Devlins.”

“I gave him their name—”

“He could have gotten their name from many places.”

“I told him that Ambrose showed a complete lack of concern, that it was his decision to start the dancing—”

“It's all right, Columbine. It is a story that should be told, isn't it? Though I must admit that the results of the article are unfortunate, however. I wish Elijah Reed had showed it to me before printing it.”

She leaned forward. “What do you mean, Ned?”

He dropped his hands and grimaced, looking tired. “Ambrose is furious. Even though Mr. Reed did not mention him by name, there is no doubt to any reasonably aware New Yorker who the man is. Ambrose has refused to make the settlement to the Devlins.”

“Can't you do anything?”

“I'm afraid not. Ambrose cut me at the Union Club yesterday. He blames me for the article. I'm afraid our friendship is over.”

“Ned, I'm so sorry.”

He waved a hand. “Oh, it was over on my part anyway. After that night… well, we saw a side to Ambrose we didn't want to see, didn't we.”

“But will he influence other friends of yours …”

“Yes, he's already done so. I find I'm not welcome in certain homes. Columbine, please don't fret about it. It will blow over, undoubtedly. I'll be spending much of my time in Washington anyway.”

“Washington?”

“I've been appointed to a federal commission on labor.”

“Oh?” Columbine felt a pang, a little loss. It comforted her to know Ned was in New York. She was truly losing him. She shook off the feeling. “Congratulations, Ned.”

“Yes, well, perhaps I can do a bit of good.” Ned looked at her, trying to keep the yearning out of his eyes, but needing to imprint every feature, every line of her face into his memory. When would he see her again, this woman that he loved so dearly?

Columbine stood and put on her gloves. “I know you'll make a difference, Ned. If anyone can, you can. And I'm sorry if I caused one particle of trouble for you.”

“Columbine,” Ned said softly, “I always welcomed your brand of trouble.”

She smiled faintly at him. “God bless you, Neddie,” she whispered, and walked out.

It hadn't been at all difficult to discover Elijah Reed's address. All her friends seemed to know. Everyone seemed to gather there in the evenings until he kicked them out. For a tired-looking man, Columbine thought dryly, he must have a great deal of energy.

She found the house on East Eleventh Street easily. She was surprised when Reed himself opened the door. He was wearing baggy corduroy trousers and a flannel shirt with a soft collar, and he was wearing small silver-rimmed glasses.

He looked over the top of his glasses at her. “Mrs. Nash.”

She nodded determinedly. “Mr. Reed.”

“I thought you were my neighbor, Mrs. Stein. She's bringing over my lunch. I'm afraid I'm working now. I receive callers from four on.”

She was surprised at such bluntness. It was very close to being rude. “I need to see you, Mr. Reed. I'm sorry to report this is not a social call.”

He hesitated only a second. “Please come in, Mrs. Nash.”

He ushered her into a front parlor that was set up as an office. Crumpled papers were thrown on the floor around an old desk. Books were piled on a red sofa, and he quickly moved them off and stacked them on the floor. “Please sit down.”

She didn't. “I won't be staying long,” Columbine said. “I've come to ask what you expected to accomplish by exploiting the troubles of the Devlins for a magazine serial. And I've come to ask you what kind of journalist comes to a house as a friend and prints information that was given in confidence.”

His dark eyes were quizzical behind his glasses. “You didn't tell me the story was confidential, Mrs. Nash.”

“You did not tell me you were a journalist, Mr. Reed. I thought you were serializing a new novel.”

Elijah Reed sighed and took off his glasses. “Let me understand this. Because of your misapprehension, you blame me for printing a story that is common knowledge around New York.”

“Mr. Hartley's behavior downstairs was not common knowledge,” Columbine snapped. “And now it is.”

“I did not use Mr. Hartley's name.”

“Mr. Reed, I assure you that there is no one in New York who doubts your character's true identity.”

“No one? Sometimes I am convinced that generalizing is the disease of our times,” Elijah Reed said softly.

This infuriated Columbine. She felt she was being patronized, and that always caused bells to go off in her brain. “Sir, I did not come to hear how I happen to embody the failings of our age. If you want to philosophize I'm sure your editor will pay you even more money to do so.”

He gazed at her gravely. “Mrs. Nash, you are a reformer, are you not? A progressive. Then why, in heaven's name, do you object to my article? At the risk of sounding grandiose—although I'm sure my editor would pay me to do that as well—I was trying to right a wrong. Factory workers are not the only oppressed workers in this city. Often the plight of the domestic worker is ignored.”

“I agree completely.”

“Then why are we arguing?” he asked mildly.

“If you had asked for my help, I would have given it,” Columbine said in a confused way. “But not at the expense of the Devlins, or of… someone who was hurt by your article.”

He took off his glasses. “You mean Ned Van Cormandt. I heard he was being blacklisted. But I'm sure the eminently intelligent Mr. Van Cormandt sees that those who would blacklist him would just as cheerfully stab him in the back for less enlightened reasons.”

“It's easy for you to say,” Columbine answered evenly. “But Mr. Van Cormandt is of an old New York family. He takes his social position seriously. He would not want to embarrass an old friend, especially when he has managed to get that friend to do right by his servant. At least he had. As soon as Mr. Hartley read your article, he decided to withhold the settlement.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. But I must confess I had my doubts about that elusive settlement. The Devlins have yet to receive one penny from Mr. Hartley. He would not even settle their doctor's bills. Fiona Devlin is a hard-headed woman. I think she never expected to see it, either. She worked for the man. And I'm sure Mr. Hartley is using my article—and Mr. Van Cormandt—as an excuse to bluster his way past his own culpability.”

Columbine sank down on the sofa. “You think he never intended to pay?”