The Gilded Cage (32 page)

“No,” she sobbed. She looked at Lawrence beseechingly. “Please. Tell me the truth.

“All right,” Lawrence said quietly. “I'll tell you the truth. I've already told you that we were friends, Columbine and I. I didn't tell you the whole truth because I didn't want to hurt you. Columbine and I were lovers, for a very short time.”

“Bell, he's lying. We were not, you know we were not!”

“I saw you kissing,” Bell whispered.

“It was only one time—”

“No,” Lawrence said quickly. “It was more than once.” He rode over Columbine's denial; she did not seem to be aware that Bell had interpreted her words to mean that they had only been to bed once. Bell gave a low moan, as if she were in pain.

Lawrence went on hurriedly. “It was for a very short time, darling. I realized that it could not go on, and I told her that as gently as I could. But I suppose her nerves were strained, for she exploded with rage. I didn't know what to do, Bell! She tried to hit me—she scratched my cheek, remember that scratch?—and I pinned her arms at her sides. That is all, I swear it!”

“No, Bell!” Columbine cried. But her desperate hope died when she saw the look on Bell's face. She would lose her. She would lose her friend. Lawrence had gotten hold of her somehow. Even the closest woman friend could not compete with the mystery that lies between a woman and a man.

Then Columbine remembered. “Marguerite!” she said aloud, shooting a triumphant glance at Lawrence. “She saw! She helped me kick him out of the house. You can ask Marguerite, Bell.”

Bell looked at Lawrence. He nodded slowly, wanting to kick himself for telling her it had been Columbine who scratched him. That could trip him up. But he'd figure that out later. “Marguerite was there. If you feel you need confirmation of my story, you can ask her everything,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I insist on it.” Lord knew Marguerite would back him up. She was an opportunitistic little bitch, and scruples would not get in her way.

Columbine looked at Lawrence. What did he have up his sleeve? she wondered. Marguerite wouldn't lie to Bell. Or was his power strong enough that he knew Bell wouldn't approach her? Had he bound Bell to him that tightly, so tightly she could not step away and see him clearly?

“Bell, you have to believe me,” she repeated. She didn't know what else to say.

And then Bell smiled. The smile, so passive, so accepting, and so sorry for Columbine, struck her at the heart.

“Oh, Bell,” Columbine whispered. “No.”

Bell wanted to collapse with the joy of relief. The scene was over; it was all over. And she would never have to see Columbine again. The thought of Lawrence touching another woman made her want to scream. But she would never have to see Columbine again.

“I don't need to talk to Marguerite,” she said, turning to her lover. She knew she was saved now. For the first time in her life, she was able to trust completely. She felt exalted now, looking into Lawrence's blazing blue eyes. She was his forever.

With that new found strength, she was able to turn to Columbine without emotion. Her calmness was born of the shield that was her love. She felt enormously protected, for the first time in her life, standing next to her love.

“I'm sorry if Lawrence hurt you,” she said. “I assure you it was not deliberate on his part. And I also must tell you that I cannot go forward with the plans for Safe Passage House. I have more important work in the movement. I'm sorry; I know it will inconvenience you. I'm sure you can find someone else to take over my duties at the New Women Society. Ivy Moffat is a good worker, you might want to approach her.”

Columbine was frantic. She knew if Bell walked out the door she would never see her again. “All right, Bell. Whatever you want. But we have to stay friends. Promise me we'll still be friends.”

Bell's beautiful mouth curved in a gentle smile. “But Columbine, my life will be so different now. I don't think it's realistic for us to expect to go on as we were.”

Lawrence held out Bell's coat, and she slipped into it. She smiled over her shoulder at him and took her muff from his hands.

“Bell,” Columbine said desperately, “Please wait. You can't go with him. He'll destroy you.”

Bell put her hand on Lawrence's sleeve. Her smile was placid, benign. “Destroy me? Oh, Columbine. You always had a taste for melodrama. Don't you see?” she said in a such a bland, rational tone Columbine wondered if she was quite sane. “Lawrence has saved me.”

Elijah found her sitting with the lights out, the tea cold, at six o'clock. He slid into the armchair across from Columbine's and looked at her. She smiled wanly. The firelight flickered across her still face.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Bell's left,” she said, turning away to look at the fire. “We've been together for more than ten years.”

Cautiously, afraid of prodding her, he asked, “Why did she leave?”

“She's in love with Lawrence Birch. And she's an anarchist. She's given up reform.”

“She's in love with Birch?” he asked incredulously.

Columbine nodded. She wanted to confess everything to him; what Lawrence had said, what she had said, what Bell believed. But something stopped her. She loved Elijah with all her heart, but it was a careful love. If she confided all her hurts and joys to him, it would be harder to go on after he'd left. So she gave herself to him physically and she loved him without regrets, but she kept the everyday cares to herself. She would not grow to depend on him more than she could help.

Sensing that he'd heard half the story, Elijah looked away and stared at the fire. He wanted to press her, but he didn't. He wanted to ask why she seemed angry as well as sad, but he didn't. He sensed the deep, roiling emotion Bell's departure had stirred up, but if Columbine did not wish to tell him, he would not ask. In his experience with women, some had wound him into the fabric of their lives. Some had kept themselves aloof and mysterious, from the fear that if he knew them completely he would grow bored. And some were merely private, like Columbine. He wished, for a moment, staring at her brooding profile, that Columbine was not one of those women, for her life was varied and complex and interesting, and he would like to share it.

He wanted to share her sorrow, he realized. Her slant on her friendships. Her irritation and her amusement at the minutiae of her life. Everything.

He almost sat up with the enormity of the jolt this revelation gave him. Instead, he stretched out his legs. He was a slow thinker, and even slower to act. He wanted to chew on this new feeling for awhile, figure it out. Did he want something different from this, after all?

Columbine looked at Elijah. His leonine head was sunk a bit on his chest, and his sturdy legs were extended toward the fire. He could be asleep. If she had been a different kind of woman, she would have imagined that her troubles bored him. But she knew it was not boredom that led him to withdraw from her. It was that sense of privacy in him; it was the last barrier to complete intimacy between them. And it would never be breached.

She had to keep loving him, though. She had to take the companionship and the hard loving between them, and leave the dissatisfactions behind, for as long as she possibly could.

“Shall we have a sherry?” she asked.

He looked at her, and he saw such sadness. Her deep brown eyes were bright; was she close to tears? Elijah couldn't hold her gaze; he coughed and looked away. “Let's,” he said.

Lawrence had no way of finding Marguerite—he could hardly ask Columbine—so he waited a week. He stood on the opposite corner of Hester and Ludlow at the same time he'd seen Marguerite before. She did not appear that week, but the following one he saw her walking to the corner with the older woman in black. He waited until they separated, then trailed down Hester after Marguerite.

She was walking quickly, her spring green skirt swishing behind her below the dark gray of her three-quarter length coat. They were fine clothes, he noticed. And if she wore these to the East Side, she must have even grander ones at home. Lawrence flirted with the idea of extorting money instead of promises, but decided the promise was too important to risk.

“Miss Corbeau?” he called, when he was just a few paces behind her.

She stopped, but she didn't turn, not for a few slow seconds. Then she slowly twisted to look behind her. Her dark blue eyes were wary.

“Or should I say,” Lawrence said deliberately, “Miss Blum?”

Shock showed clearly in her face, but a moment later it was gone, replaced by a smooth, polite mask. She nodded shortly. “Mr. Birch.”

“May I walk with you?”

“I'm not going far, just a few blocks to the Bowery for a cab.”

“Perfect,” Lawrence said. “I'll accompany you. Young ladies are not safe on the Bowery these days.”

“I assure you, I—”

“Come,” Lawrence said, interrupting her and taking her arm. “I won't take no for an answer, Miss Blum.”

Marguerite extricated her arm and drew herself up. “I don't know why you continue to refer to me by that name.”

She started to walk again, at an even faster pace, and Lawrence swung into step beside her. Ignoring her last comment, he said in a conversational tone, “Such a fascinating neighborhood, don't you agree? Squalid, certainly. But such energy! You feel it hum around you like a giant machine.”

“Really, Mr. Birch. How fascinating,” Marguerite said icily.

“But the thing that impresses me,” Lawrence went on, “is the friendliness of the people. Why, I was in one of the worst tenements on Ludlow Street the other day, and I met a woman who couldn't have been nicer. Mrs. Schneiderman, her name was. She came right out to the stairwell as I came up, and we chatted for quite some time.”

Marguerite stopped. Her eyes flicked toward him. Her delicate upper lip curled slightly. “What do you want?” she asked.

“She told me about the Blum family upstairs. Russian Jews. The father is a peddler. He kicked the daughter out when she went bad. Mrs. Schneiderman had seen the daughter just the other day, all dressed to the nines, with fine boots.”

“Get to the point, Mr. Birch,” she said steadily.

He grasped her elbow and moved her forward, for people were beginning to notice them. “I do so admire the culture of the Jews,” he said, speaking in her ear. “It is a shame that they cannot mix in the best society. I think it terribly wrong. Of course, it's whispered that August Belmont is a Jew. Jay Gould. Just think, Miss Corbeau, if those men admitted to their heritage! Perhaps attitudes would be changed. For who could shut their door against August Belmont? He is so charming. Who would refuse to do business with Mr. Gould?”

Now they had reached the bright lights of the Bowery. Marguerite stopped again and resolved not to budge. “Pray go on, Mr. Birch.”

“Ah, you become interested, Miss Corbeau.”

“I very much doubt I would be able to stop you. Please hurry, for I'm late.”

“I'll take my time,” he said fiercely. “You'll do well to act polite, Miss
Blum
.”

“Just get on with it!” she snapped. “What do you want? Money?”

“Certainly not. Merely a promise that you may never even have to fulfill.”

Marguerite watched him warily. “What is this promise?”

“That if Miss Huxton ever comes to you with an explanation of what happened that night in Columbine's parlor, you will tell her the truth. That Columbine was wild with anger, that she lost control and I had to subdue her. She was upset about the fact that I ended our affair.”

Marguerite snorted. “That is hardly the truth.”

“It doesn't matter what you believe,” Lawrence said. His pale eyes gleamed in the lamplight with a menace that chilled Marguerite. “You will tell her that.”

She shook her head. She was frightened, but she would not let him know that. “I cannot lie about Columbine. I will not.”

“Would you like your lover to know that you're a Jew, Miss Blum? Do you think he will still keep you? Or do you want to marry him? Do you think the Stiers family would let a Jew taint their blood?”

She backed away. “You are an animal.”

He shrugged. “I am only a man. Like you, I have something I wish to conceal from my lover. Tell me how we are different.”

“Let me count the ways,” Marguerite spat out.

He laughed. “Do I have your promise then? It's an easy one to give, for I doubt Miss Huxton will approach you. She trusts me, you see.”

“God help her,” Marguerite muttered.

“Do I have your word, Miss Blum?”

Marguerite hesitated, though she already knew her answer; she wanted Lawrence Birch to sweat a little. What was this promise anyway? As he said, Bell probably wouldn't ask her. And if Bell actually believed this man, she deserved what she got. Anyone could see what a monster he was. No one would ever know, she told herself. And Edwin could not discover the truth; he could not, no one could. That would be the end of her.

“Yes,” she said finally. Her arm reached up to hail a hansom cab; she could not bring herself to look at Lawrence Birch again. “You have my word.”

D
RESSED ONLY IN
her lace-yoked corset cover and her drawers and stockings, Marguerite perched on Edwin's lap. She fiddled with a tiny curl by his ear. She had already finished her lunch, and she was bored. Edwin had insisted on setting up a table in the bedroom, so she couldn't even look out the window at the street to pass the time. Her bedroom overlooked the back.

“Must you go?” she asked.

Edwin took a bite of fish. “I must.”

“And can we go out to dinner tonight?”

“Not tonight. Perhaps on Monday.”

“Do you know,” Marguerite said in a bright tone, “that Toby told me you take me out on Mondays because that's the fashionable night for the opera—we won't run into any members of your family then.” She peeked at him, wondering how he'd take it.