The Gilded Cage (38 page)

Darcy greeted Marguerite cordially when she entered, but she could see immediately that the young girl was upset. Her dress and cloak were soaked and splattered with mud, and her hair was loose and hanging down her back in wet clumps.

“How do you do, Mrs. Statton—I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Finn. Please forgive me,” Marguerite said, summoning up dignity from somewhere, “it's just that I've walked far.”

“Please don't give it a thought, Miss Corbeau,” Darcy said. “And come closer to the fire, you're wet through.”

“Why don't you come upstairs, Marguerite, so you can take off your things and put on one of my dressing gowns?” Columbine suggested. “I must insist. You'll catch your death.”

“No, please,” Marguerite begged, sinking into an armchair. “I'll dry off soon, I promise. Let me just sit here for a moment.”

Columbine and Darcy exchanged looks over Marguerite's wet, dark head. Then Darcy gave an imperceptible shrug, as if to say that it would upset Marguerite more to insist. So she slipped her own cashmere shawl around Marguerite's thin shoulders.

“I have some packing to do upstairs,” Darcy said, for she sensed that Marguerite would only speak of her trouble if she was alone with Columbine. “If you'll excuse me, Miss Corbeau.”

Marguerite's earlier shaky poise had deserted her. She didn't seem to hear Darcy. She was staring into the fire, shivering violently now. With another worried glance at Columbine, Darcy left the room.

Columbine knelt by Marguerite's chair. She picked up one small, frozen hand, then the other, and chafed them. Then she stood and removed Marguerite's bedraggled hat. She coaxed her out of her three-quarter length coat and drew the shawl around her shoulders more firmly. Then she began to spread out Marguerite's thick hair so that it would dry. Through all of this, Marguerite stared into the fire, shaking. Finally, Columbine picked up Marguerite's hands again and rubbed them gently.

“Can you talk now, dear?” she asked tenderly.

Marguerite turned and looked at her. “I don't deserve your kindness,” she said. “But you said I could come to you. And I didn't,” she said, a sob breaking loose, “have anyplace to go.”

Columbine moved to embrace her, but Marguerite stiffened immediately. “Please don't,” she whispered. “I want to stop crying, and if you hold me I won't be able to.”

Columbine was unaccountably moved more by those words than anything else Marguerite might say. She looked so pathetic with her wet hair and still face, so lost. She had never seen Marguerite look lost.

“I hate my tears,” Marguerite said bitterly. “Everything was my fault, everything. I had two eyes to see with and two ears to hear and a brain, a working brain, and still I persisted in my folly. And I hate that my falling is so predictable!” she said, her two hands curling into fists. Her dark blue eyes were bright with tears, but they did not fall. “I can't forgive myself for that, either.”

“Has your lover left you?” Columbine asked timidly.

Marguerite nodded. “Of course. And I'm pregnant, how about that?”

Columbine nodded; she'd suspected something of the kind. First things first. “Are you certain?”

“Dizziness, fatigue, and this constant sickness. And I'm over three weeks late, I believe.”

“It sounds like it, then. But a doctor will be sure. And is there any chance the man might marry you?”

“No,” Marguerite answered flatly. “None.”

Columbine was used to counseling other young girls with the same problem. Briskness and practicality was usually a good approach, for they usually thought their situation hopeless. “I can help you,” she said to Marguerite. “We can take care of this, and no one will have to know. The New Women Society has a fund, as you know.” Columbine briefly thought of the fact that she had suspected Marguerite of stealing from the fund, but she pushed the thought away. “We can send you away, to a place in the country, and you can have your baby. Should you wish to keep it, we'll help you move to another city. I assure you, it's done all the time. Just invent a husband, nothing could be easier.”

Marguerite shook her head. “No. I want to get rid of it.”

Columbine sank back into the other armchair. This was another thing indeed. “I see,” she said.

“I'm not cut out for motherhood, Columbine. You might imagine that. And how could I bring a child into the world with that stain? I could not live with that. I could not live with the knowledge that I left my child in an orphanage with no hope, no money. I couldn't. I want to get rid of it. I want you to help me. Does Dr. Dana do abortions?” When Columbine hesitated, she said impatiently, “It doesn't matter if you don't tell me. There are other places to go.”

Columbine closed her eyes, thinking of the girls, bleeding, dying, she had seen before. Dr. Dana was not one of those butchers; she was a good doctor. She'd help Marguerite. “Yes,” she said reluctantly. “But only occasionally, if the mother is desperate, or the pregnancy will kill her. No one knows this, Marguerite.”

“I will keep the confidence,” Marguerite said.

“But Marguerite, I must urge you to think again. You have other options—”

“No, I do not. This child will kill me.” Marguerite's eyes were screaming a kind of hell Columbine did not understand. “And if I have to bear it, I will destroy myself. Don't you see?” she asked flatly. “Don't you see I have nothing? I have a bit of money he pressed into my hand. I have the clothes on my back. I have no home, no job, no friends.”

“You could live here—”

“No, I could not take the place of someone who needs to be here, Columbine. As soon as you open the house, people will be coming, and you know it.”

“Marguerite, no. There is room here for you for however long you need it.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Thank you. But I cannot.” How could she throw herself on Columbine's mercy, when she had promised Lawrence to betray her? And she had to keep that promise, for Lawrence could destroy any chance she had of a singing career. And she had to hold on to that, she had to believe that she would have a life, a chance, after this pregnancy was over.

“Let's sleep on it,” Columbine said. “You'll stay here tonight.” She rose, and for a moment she was struck with dizziness. She leaned on the back of the armchair, and it passed. “I'll prepare a room for you.”

She made one of the beds in the small upstairs room on the third floor. It was at the end of the hall, next to the bathroom, and Marguerite would have privacy there. She laid out a dressing gown and nightgown and some toilet articles, then brought Marguerite upstairs.

Marguerite undressed quickly, visited the bathroom, then slid immediately between the covers. Her dark hair fanned out against the pillow, and she looked wan and very young. Columbine kissed her forehead. Marguerite's eyes were already closing when she shut the door.

She went to Darcy's room, needing her friend's calmness. Darcy was reading in bed, and she put down her book and listened gravely to Columbine's account.

Columbine stretched out on the bed while she talked. “I must be having sympathy pangs, or something,” she said. “I feel absolutely exhausted, and I had a dizzy spell earlier.” She smiled. “Do you think pregnancy can be catching?”

Darcy smiled, but she gave a worried frown. “You have been tired lately, and it's not like you..Perhaps you should see Dr. Dana.”

“Oh, I'm fine,” Columbine said. “I
have
just moved, you know. I think fatigue is natural. And the queasiness in the mornings is just nerves, I'm sure.”

“You've been queasy in the mornings, as well?” Darcy asked, sitting up. “Columbine, could you be …”

Columbine shook her head, then stopped. “No. Oh, Darcy. This is impossible, ridiculous. It's only because of Marguerite … Oh, Darcy.” Her hand flew to her mouth.

“No, pregnancy is not contagious,” Darcy said dryly. “But you could have caught it in the same old way.”

Marguerite left early the next morning, before any of them were awake, and Columbine had no idea where she'd gone. She hoped that Marguerite would be back in touch after she had thought more about her predicament. But Columbine was drawn up in her own problem. She marched back to her room and climbed back underneath the covers to ponder. The thought of pregnancy filled her with her panic. She kept telling herself that it could not be true. She had used a pessary provided by Dr. Dana, and she'd been careful. Of course, Meredith had warned her that the womb barrier was not foolproof. And when Columbine thought of the deep, fierce loving she'd had with Elijah, she wondered how careful she could have been. They had made love so often, and if passion alone could assure pregnancy, she should give birth to triplets.

Darcy knocked firmly on her bedroom door at noon. “I've called Meredith,” she said, tossing a dressing gown at Columbine. “She'll see you tomorrow after her other patients, at five o'clock. Now get dressed. Tavish and I are going to take you to lunch. Pulling the covers over your head won't help matters. What you need is distraction.”

Columbine gave herself up to Darcy and Tavish, the two people she loved most in the world, with the exception of Elijah, who she didn't want to think about right now. She allowed herself to be taken to lunch, to tea, for a walk around Madison Square. They went to the theater that night and walked through Central Park the next day until Columbine was too tired to be nervous. Columbine pushed away the thoughts of what she would do if she
did
happen to be pregnant. She concentrated on praying that she was not.

So when Dr. Meredith Dana looked at her gravely and told her she was with child, she was not prepared. She didn't burst into tears, and she didn't smile. Her hands did not curve protectively over her belly, and she did not feel a secret satisfaction, knowing that she and the man she loved had conceived a child.

“How
do
you feel, Columbine?” Meredith asked, her blue eyes scanning her keenly. “Besides queasy, I mean.”

“Numb,” Columbine replied frankly. She stared down at her ringless left hand. “And terrified.”

Meredith switched on a light, for the room was growing dim in the gathering dusk. “There are many ways to go,” she said neutrally.

“I know,” Columbine said. “I never wanted children, you know. My life is not fashioned that way. And Elijah—I don't know what he thinks about it. What do you think, Meredith? Would the stigma be too awful for a child of mine, if I do not marry?”

Meredith shrugged. “You are already notorious, my friend. Already considered a radical in most circles. Other women in your position have had children. But no, it won't be easy. And your child will bear the scars. I can't paint a very rosy picture for you.” She patted Columbine's shoulder. “But you always seem to manage, Columbine. You have a remarkable ability not to care what people say.”

“For myself, yes,” Columbine said. She raised troubled brown eyes to Meredith. “But what of my child?”

“Would you marry Mr. Reed if he asked you?”

Columbine was struck dumb by the question, for she had never considered it. She could never imagine Elijah wanting to marry. “Yes, I would,” she confessed slowly. She was surprised to find that she would. “I was never opposed to a good marriage, a marriage made out of love and respect. I have Tavish before me as an example.” Tavish was also before her as another example; he was illegitimate. She knew how difficult life had been for him because of that. And he was a man. What horrors would a daughter be subjected to?

“But I don't think Elijah would feel the same,” Columbine went on. “And I would never want to marry simply because of a child. I suppose I could give it up,” she said reluctantly.

“Well, then. You have some thinking to do,” Meredith said briskly. “And I'll be here if you need me, you know that. Columbine, you're not young, so promise me you'll come and see me within a few days so we can discuss the pregnancy.”

“I promise. Thank you, Meredith.” Columbine slipped into her coat. She still didn't know what to do, or how to feel. She didn't feel pregnant; she felt empty. When she reached the street, she began to hail a cab for the ride downtown, but changed her mind and walked toward Fifth Avenue.

It was almost night. The sun had set, and the sky was a deep, dark blue. The air caressed her cheek as she headed down Fifth. People were rushing by her, hurrying home from work on a soft night in early spring, with the promise of summer in the air and an end to winter at last. Their faces seemed excited to Columbine, and happy to be alive. Tonight, there seemed to be no weariness in the world. And suddenly Columbine was happy to be alive, marveling at the cleverness of her body as it moved her through the streets, as her muscles flexed and her joints moved just so, as her heart beat and her cheeks flushed and her fingers tingled with new awareness. She was a miracle, they were all miracles, imperfect and striving, but miracles nonetheless, all walking under a benevolent sky.

She tilted her head back and she saw the first stars of evening. They twinkled in the midst of that vast mysterious blue, but she could think of no wish to whisper, for she felt complete at that moment, as complete as she had ever felt. The soft spring air and the enveloping night and the faces rushing past her vision, the sound of their heels clicking, it all sent a message to her, straight to her heart. She was part of miraculous life, and she knew, as that ecstatic moment flowed into another and another and another, that she had been given a gift. Before it was too late, before she was too old, before Elijah had left her. She would have part of the man she loved forever. Their blood, the links of their family lines would be joined, forged tightly into a new golden link, and they would create a new generation. A new miracle. A child.

Marguerite was waiting for her, a forlorn figure on the stairs. She stood when Columbine walked up.