The Gilded Cage (31 page)

They were naked and entwined on the bed; he cradled her, warming her with his large body. He was brown and sturdy, the hair on his chest a mixture of silver and black. The lines around his eyes were exquisite to her, and she traced them with a fingertip. He was on top of her now, and she felt him, urgent and hot, between her thighs. Still, he hesitated, and looked down at her. Lover to lover, they stared into each other's eyes and found love there. They did not need to know, just then, how far that love would take them, or if it would take them anywhere at all. It was enough to see it. And then desire overtook them again, and, fierce and aching, they knew each other completely at last.

It took Lawrence most of the month of April to assemble the pieces for the bomb. It had to be done carefully, and he had not picked the most reliable of associates. Chaim Lepinsky was not a diligent anarchist; he was also a poet by trade. He had connections to get explosives, and his prices were cheap, but he was often forgetful and made excuses time after time. Lawrence would have found someone else, but he trusted Chaim's discretion and he wouldn't improve his chances by involving someone else at this stage.

Fiona was now working as a downstairs maid in Ned Van Cormandt's house. She knew the routine of the household; she knew where the housekeeper kept her keys, and how heavily she slept at night. They fixed on the library as the perfect place for the blast; when Ned was in town he went there punctually every night at eleven to work for a few hours before retiring.

Lawrence left Chaim's rooms on Ludlow Street on a chilly April evening, adjusting his hat and scarf to cover his face. So far, he had limited his visits and always came at night. He covered his blond hair and kept his hat over his eyes, for his coloring made him stand out in this neighborhood.

He was so intent on keeping his head down that he almost missed it. Two women had paused ahead of him on the corner of Ludlow and Hester. They stayed in the shadow of a building, where the smaller one bent forward and kissed the other woman on the cheek. Something about the small, trim figure was familiar. The woman turned halfway, and Lawrence saw by the profile that it was Marguerite Corbeau.

He walked faster, keeping his head averted, as though he were looking for something in the market on Hester. But he came close enough to hear Marguerite laugh.

“Don't worry. Goodbye, Mama. I'll come again soon.”

“Goodbye, little one. Keep well.”

Marguerite turned and went down Hester Street. Lawrence crossed Hester, heading north; he did not want to take the chance of being seen. He felt exhilarated, lighter than air. The wind struck his cheeks, reminding him of the long scratch from her nails that had taken weeks to heal. He had had to make up a ridiculous story about a nasty cat for Bell.

He didn't know how what he'd seen would come in handy, but he knew it would. It was always helpful to know a secret about another. Marguerite had lied for a reason she thought important. She wouldn't want anyone to know what he saw. The little orphan had a mother. The little bitch was a Jew.

Bell had embraced a cause as well as a man. The sense of hopelessness that had dogged her days dropped away, and she found the exhilaration of purpose again. Anarchism brought together all the strands of her life and braided them into a coil of hard, steely joy.

Suddenly, everything made sense: what she'd read, what she'd seen, what she'd experienced. The way she'd been raised, her love of Thoreau, even the abuse she had suffered as a child. It all had a place in her new vision, and it all had a new meaning. She had a paradigm for looking at a cruel world that held out the possibility of beauty. She could even incorporate her religious faith, for what was anarchism grounded in but the belief in man's essential good? Of course, anarchists were atheists—the Jewish members even went so far as to pointedly sponsor a dance on the sacred holy day of Yom Kippur—so Bell kept her faith a secret from everyone, even Lawrence. She did not find Christianity incompatible with her politics, and she would not allow anyone to preach to her that she was inconsistent.

She hugged it to herself, this new faith. Her work with Columbine still seemed important, in terms of individual lives. Despite the slight distance between them which had sprung up, despite Lawrence's disapproval, Bell still felt happy there. One could not face that need every day and not feel necessary. She was still weak enough to need that. Lawrence claimed it was because she was weak in her faith.

Lawrence mightn't understand it, but Bell got an unexpected source of strength for her position from Emma Goldman. They met every now and then for coffee; Bell would not tell Lawrence until afterwards, because of his inexplicable dislike for Emma. She was not the easiest friend to have, but she enjoyed teaching Bell her views on anarchism and class struggle. Bell was aware that Emma saw her as a child, even though she was older. But her new friend's fierceness and wit kept Bell hungry for more. And Emma was strong enough to oppose Johann Most and work for the eight hour day. She also believed in Columbine's work, to a point.

“Safe Passage House is a good idea,” Emma had said over a glass of tea. “I've seen what goes on down here, all over. Don't listen to the men. We have to help our sisters, even as we fight for the revolution. Mrs. Nash might be cowardly in her politics, but I cannot say she doesn't have good ideas.”

But when Bell told Lawrence this, after supper, when they were reading by the fire, it only irritated him.

“It is reformist gibberish she talks,” he snapped. “I should tell her hero, Herr Most, what the Goldman woman is telling you.”

“She's not afraid of Johann Most, or of any man, I think,” Bell answered quietly. Her eyes returned to her book. She was studying Russian at night, at Lawrence's insistence. There were many papers he needed to read, hot off the presses, to be current, and he missed many important discussions because he could not speak it. She was also learning Yiddish from Emma, but she wanted to surprise Lawrence with this. She planned to compose a birthday card for him in Yiddish in the fall.

Her life was full, her love filled her heart. Despite their differences, she and Lawrence were working together in a common cause: they were comrades. With the coal fire warming her feet and Lawrence studying across the room, she felt that her life was at last complete.

Except for one thing. “Lawrence,” she said, looking up, “I really must tell Columbine about us. She should know. And it would make things so much easier for us. You could come to the house and not be afraid you'll betray us.”

“She will try and break us up Bell, I know it. She's a jealous woman. She's never forgiven me for spurning her.”

“She'll understand. She's with Mr. Reed now.” Lawrence said nothing, and Bell returned to her book. She read slowly, translating as she went. When he said her name, she was concentrating so hard it took her a moment to realize it.

Lawrence spoke again. “Bell?”

She put a finger in her book to mark her place and looked up. His head thrown back, his legs sprawled in front of him, he was watching her. His blond hair fell on his forehead, and his blue eyes were piercing. A pulse beat deep inside her, as it always did when his beauty struck her afresh.

“Yes, dear?” she asked affectionately.

“You must talk to Columbine tomorrow.”

“You think I should tell her about us, then.”

“You must talk to her,” he said deliberately, “and tell her that you are leaving. You will not participate in Safe Passage House.”

“But my darling, I can't do that. We're moving in a few weeks. Columbine can't run that house alone.”

“She'll find someone else. You have better things to do.”

“I don't think so. I'm needed there.”

She expected him to be angry, but he shook his head sadly. “I understand. When it comes down to a question of loyalties, I see now who wins. Not your cause, not your lover. That woman.”

“That's not true. But I have work there. And a paycheck,” she added dryly. “Don't forget that.”

“I can get you a job with Jacob Schimmer's wife.”

“In a factory?” Bell couldn't believe her ears. “I did that work once, Lawrence. I swore I would never return.”

“It's more fitting for an anarchist. Do you know how you'll embarrass me if you work at a settlement house?”

“It's not a settlement house,” she argued. “It's a place of refuge. No, I cannot work in a factory again. I cannot go back to that life.”

His hands tightened, but he crossed his legs indolently. “As you wish,” he said.

Bell felt her blood run out of her face. Her hands began to tremble. She knew that look. His face was closed to her, indifferent; he looked back at his papers. He would not speak to her for the rest of the night, or tomorrow, or the next day. It could last a week. She could come to his door, and he would let her in, let her cook for him, but he would not speak to her, no matter how she begged.

“Please don't punish me like this,” she said. “Please, Lawrence.”

But she got no answer. Her nerves screaming now, she returned her unseeing eyes to her book.

After Bell left that night, Lawrence saw his mistake. If Bell backed out of Safe Passage House, she would have to tell Columbine why. And if Columbine knew Bell had been converted to anarchism, she would naturally make the connection to him. Bell wouldn't be able to lie, damn her.

He should have kept his mouth shut, for a few more weeks at least. Lawrence wanted to kick himself. But as he drifted off to sleep he told himself that Columbine was bound to find out sooner or later. He'd have to face her wrath, and if Bell wasn't tied to him enough by now, she never would be.

He rose early the next morning and scrawled a quick note to Bell, telling her that he would prefer they both tell Columbine about their love. It was more honest that way, he wrote, and Columbine deserved that respect. He would be there at four o'clock, and they would tell her together. Frowning, he dispatched the note by messenger. Better he would be there to deflect any accusations. But it would still be a rocky meeting. Everything would depend on which way Bell jumped.

Columbine was just pouring her first cup of tea when Bell knocked on the parlor door. Bell opened the door and hesitated on the threshold.

“Bell, why did you knock? You're just in time for tea. Elijah was supposed to join me, but he had business to take care of. Well, come in for heaven's sake. Mrs. Brodge made a seed cake.”

Columbine nattered on while she poured milk in another cup and added hot tea. When she looked up, Lawrence Birch was there, standing next to Bell.

Columbine counted off a few slow seconds. She told herself to keep her voice level. “What is that man doing here?” she asked Bell, her tone low and vibrant. “He's not welcome in this house.”

“I'm in love with him, Columbine,” Bell said quietly. “That's what we came to tell you.”

She couldn't absorb the information at first; it was too enormous. “That's impossible,” she said numbly. “I don't … How could you—?”

“Columbine,” Lawrence said, “we don't know how ourselves.” He shrugged; the tenderness in his blue eyes nearly made Columbine gag. “I'm inclined to think I fell in love with her from the first moment she opened the door to me.” He glanced at Bell with a smile. “Who would not?”

Columbine's rage was a small, hard thing in the very center of her. It burned. Her voice shook with fury as she leveled her gaze on Lawrence. “How dare you come to this house. How dare you expect me to accept this? Bell,” she said, rising and coming toward her anxiously, “I didn't tell you this before. But—”

“Don't listen to her, Bell—”

“He tried to attack me, Bell He would have raped me I think. Right here, in this parlor, a month or so ago.”

Bell backed away. “I don't believe you.”

“Bell,” Columbine said desperately, “have I ever lied to you? Why would I lie to you?”

“I don't know myself,” Lawrence said sorrowfully. “I cannot believe that you, no matter how bereft or angry you might feel from my rejection, would invent such a story.”

“Rejection? My God.” Her hand to her mouth, Columbine saw that Lawrence was prepared for this, and that she was not. He was as cool as a cucumber, and the pitying look in his eyes was frightening to see.

Tearing her gaze away from him, she took Bell's icy hands in hers. Bell tore them away. “You must listen, Bell,” she said rapidly. “He is lying. He lost control one evening, right at this time it was, at teatime. Something happened to him, some violent streak was unloosed. Surely you must have seen intimations of this in him. Think, Bell.”

Bell cried out and dropped her face in her hands. She couldn't think of such a thing. Of any of it. Of Lawrence lying, of Columbine lying. Of Lawrence forcing Columbine… It was impossible. She loved him so much.