The Gilded Cage (40 page)

Startled at the effrontery of the question, Elijah didn't answer, and after waiting a moment, Bell went on calmly. “But I do want children. So if I offer to take the child and raise it with Lawrence and myself, would you support me in this? You could persuade Columbine that it's the best thing, you see. Because it is. And this way you'd still have her.”

Bell's voice went on, steaming onward with the stately logic of an oceangoing vessel. Elijah stopped listening and tried to think. Bell talked on, embroidering her arguments calmly. In the middle of a sentence, he turned.

“How do you know the baby is his?”

She shrugged. “Because I do. The timing, you see.” Of course the baby was Lawrence's, the product of his virility. Elijah still looked doubtful, so she added, “Columbine told Marguerite that it was.” It was an exaggeration, but it didn't matter.

Elijah looked down. He nodded several times. He spoke without looking at her. “And why do you want to raise it?”

“Because it is Lawrence's,” she said serenely. “I could not bear that a child of his be raised by another woman. He is my husband, if not by law, then in fact.”

Elijah wondered for a moment if she was a little off, a little deranged. Surely no normal woman would have such composure under the circumstances. But there she sat, as beautiful as ever, not a trace of misery in those serene eyes.

“Well, Mr. Reed? Will you help me?”

Elijah went back to the chair and sat across from her. He leaned on his knees and stared at his clasped hands. “Let me explain, Miss Huxton. I cannot interfere in this. It is up to Columbine what to do about her child.”

“But you love her. So it's your decision, too.”

Annoyed, Elijah blew out an exasperated puff of air. “Miss Huxton, I don't want to discuss my relations with Mrs. Nash with you. And I must say that I feel this entire conversation is an invasion of her privacy.” He spread his hands. “I can't help you.”

Feeling herself dismissed, Bell rose. She was furious. “It will serve you right to lose her, with such an attitude,” she said. And then she swept out the door.

Elijah stood. He poured himself another cup of coffee but did not drink it. It sat cooling on the mantel while he stared at a letter on his desk, a letter he was going to answer today. Would this—should this—information change his decision? He didn't even know if Bell was correct. He didn't know anything.

Love was beside the point. Of course he loved Columbine. But she stood apart from him, from his life, and he from hers. Despite his yearnings to share more of her life, he fought the inclination and won. Columbine seemed to want it that way.

They had both led uncommon lives. He knew that she'd lived through hell. She'd been locked in an insane asylum for wanting to leave her husband. She'd been spat at in the streets. And he—well, he'd seen misery, too. For both of them, work was what had saved them. Work was what they clung to, work was what drove them, words on a page, ideas. Being wedded to ideas made them free and fluid in their personal lives. They could not, would not center their lives on the intransigence of flesh.

But he was entangled in her life, for he loved her. If he stayed, he would be entangled even further. He could be a part of the upbringing of another man's child. If the child was half Lawrence's, a man he distrusted, it was also half Columbine's.

He could open his heart and engage with life, taking his courage and his love in each fist and striding forth to meet it. He could cleave to flesh, to blood, to human love. Or he could pack up his books and have none of it.

Columbine had instructed Mrs. Haggerty to lay the good lace tablecloth down and set the table with the best china. She lit candles and put out the cut glass amethyst water glasses. She arranged violets in a crystal vase. Then she stepped back and surveyed the table. The table breathed of spring, she thought approvingly. What feeling could be more appropriate for this evening?

She felt like a young girl as she ran, humming softly, to dress. As she pulled out a pale yellow gown of mousseline de soie, she reflected that she'd never really had that first romance in her life, never that budding, dizzy sense of possibility. Her father had arranged her marriage to a man she detested and locked her in her room when she refused to obey. She had married Charles Edward Nash with none of the illusions of youth. And after having gone through hell to leave him, she had never been young again.

It was a miraculous rebirth, then, to feel this way, she thought, turning in front of the mirror. She fussed with the pale green velvet ribbons on the dress and adjusted the lace yoke. It was a pretty dress; Darcy had gone with her to the dressmaker for the fittings. And soon, Columbine thought with a grin, it would not fit.

Elijah arrived promptly at seven. He seemed discomfitted by her appearance as he came into the parlor. “You look very beautiful,” he said gruffly.

Columbine dimpled. “You seem to begrudge me my beauty this evening, Elijah.”

He smiled slightly and bent over to kiss her cheek. “On the contrary.”

When he was settled in his chair with a whiskey and Columbine had her glass of sherry, she realized nervously that for all her preparations, she had not prepared how to broach the subject of her pregnancy. It was hardly something she could tell him flat out, just like that. But how did one ease into such a topic?

“So tell me,” Elijah said. “Did Mr. and Mrs. Finn get off with a minimum of trouble?”

Relieved for the reprieve, Columbine smiled. “Oh, yes. They left yesterday. Perfect sailing weather, and they believe they'll have a good crossing. Of course the boat is very crowded, since it's the beginning of the season in Paris. All the crème de la crème were there. It was highly amusing to all of us, since we could not decide which of us they were trying to snub—me, or Darcy.”

Elijah smiled and took a large sip of whiskey. It wasn't a very good opening, but it was an opening. And he had to tell her now, before he sat down and ate her dinner. “Perhaps I shall see them in Paris,” he said lightly.

Columbine's face changed, but so imperceptibly one who didn't love her would not have noticed. “Oh, are you going abroad?”

“I received a letter a couple of days ago. A friend of mine, a writer, is making an extended trip to the United States. He's offered me his apartment in Paris for a year, possibly more if he decides to stay here. So I could book passage for next week, if I wanted to go. He'll be traveling here.”

“How amusing,” Columbine said brightly. “You could wave to each other across the Atlantic from your separate ships.”

“I thought I would go, Columbine,” he said gently.

“I can see that,” she said. A sob formed in her throat and she swallowed hard. It was plain that he was to go alone.

So here it was. She was caught. She had no ties to this man other than those of love. He had warned her, she told herself desperately. He had told her, right at the beginning. She had listened. But she had not understood.

“What about your articles for the
Century
?” she asked. She would ask about details, because she could not ask about reasons.

“They would be glad to take my last article for City of Souls, and then I could start a new series in Paris, if I wished,” Elijah answered. “But I think I will not. That's what I wanted to tell you, that's why I'm going. I have a place to stay for a year. I want to start the Andersonville novel, Columbine. You were right. I need to write it. I don't know what form it will take. It won't be strictly autobiographical. But I do know that somehow I'll be writing about what happened to all of us. To Benjamin Pollard. It's because of you.”

The irony almost destroyed her. That day, the day he'd talked of Andersonville, she'd made love to him without protection. She'd always assumed that that encounter had been the one. And she'd been glad, thinking of that; the love had been searing, she'd never felt closer to him. For the first time, she'd felt part of him, and he of her. She'd felt his tears on her skin, and she'd known that she'd held love in her hands that day, that she'd had everything from him. And that was the day she'd sealed her fate.

You've got to tell him, Darcy had said. Marriage isn't so bad, Columbine. It's quite wonderful, actually.

“Elijah.” His name came out cracked and uncertain, and Columbine swallowed and began again. “I don't want you to go.”

“I know, Columbine. But we can write. And you can visit. I'm keeping my house here, so I'll be back. Do you see, I need this solititude. And I need to be away from this country so I can write about it. I need a clear eye, I can't explain it better than that.”

“You don't understand,” she said. “I need you.” She was afraid to look at him. The admission hurt her. She'd never made it before, to anyone. That word, need. How she'd always hated it. But now such words made sense to her. Need. Belong. You belong to me. I belong to you. And you shall cleave unto me, and I unto you. We are one flesh. With my body I thee worship …

It all made sense to her. So late.
Too
late …

“I'm sorry,” Elijah said. He put down his whiskey glass. He couldn't look at her. In a dress of silk and lace, pale as the first buttercup, her gold hair shining, her skin glowing and exquisite, she was all that was fresh and exciting to him. But he knew he would fail her, should she ask for his help. And if he let her ask for his help and he refused, she would never forgive him.

She would be all right, he told himself. She was strong, she never let her head be turned by anyone. She had many friends, many strong women to help her. And she moved in a society that would not condemn her should she keep the child. Perhaps she would give it to Bell. She would find a way.

“Elijah,” she began again. “You don't understand.”

He rose swiftly, without thought, and knelt by her chair. His eyes were dark, darker than midnight, and full of pain. “I do,” he said. “I understand everything. But I'm doing the best thing for both of us.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered. “Can it be good for us to be apart?” Her mouth twisted, and she looked away. “The best thing for you, I think.”

“Best for both of us,” he said firmly. “I would not be good company, Columbine. This book is burning me. I must do it. Perhaps in a year's time, things will be different. We can come together again.”

She began to cry softly, with her head still turned away. “Please go, Elijah.”

Suddenly, Elijah felt unsure of his decision. He was being unkind. Perhaps she needed him, needed a man to help her. Perhaps she'd counted on that. “Do you want to talk to me?” he asked. “Tell me what I don't understand?”

It took several long moments before she turned back to him. The tears had stopped, but they still marked her cheeks. Her face was full of grief. But the emotion had drained out of her eyes, and they were cold. “No, you were right. You understand everything. So do I. So go.”

Ned Van Cormandt had extended his trip to Washington, but he returned on a Thursday. Fiona sent a message to Lawrence, and they met by the stables that night. She had thrown a coat over her nightdress, and she was shivering, for the nights were still cool. Her fiery hair was loose and he ran his fingers along its waves.

“Tomorrow night,” Lawrence said. “You remember everything?”

“Everything.”

He grabbed her to him, and they kissed to seal their pact. Perhaps it would be the last time, Lawrence reflected. Fiona's connection to the injured man at Ambrose Hartley's house could come out, though Lawrence was counting on the police overlooking it. Never had he felt more excited by Fiona's cool lips against his own than tonight, thinking of the morrow. In twenty-four hours, Ned Van Cormandt would be dead. Lawrence would leak his part in the
attentat
to only one man: Johann Most. He would keep his secret, but a bond would be forged with the great man to last a lifetime.

He pushed her up against the stable wall, grinding against her. He tried to lift the skirt of her nightdress.

“Lawrence, love, no. We can't. We cannot risk it.”

He didn't answer. It was a risk, Fiona was correct, it was a great risk. But blood pounded in his ears, and he was harder than he'd ever been. It wouldn't take long. He tore at her drawers, and now she was helping him, excited by his roughness. He pushed inside her, and her head went back, her throat white and straining in the moonlight. He grunted as he thrust, one, two, three, and then he had his release, felt warmth spill out of him, warm seed, and he wondered if he had begat a child. He wouldn't mind. Fiona would take care of things, Jimmy would think it was his, but Lawrence would have that secret satisfaction of knowing his son was in the world.

She quickly pulled down her skirts. “I must go.”

He grabbed her arm before she could move away. “Don't fail me.

Her mouth was slightly swollen from his rough kisses, and her eyes were full of a fire that sent a spark across the space between them, making it nothing. They were together in this; she would not fail.

Lawrence did the final assembly of the bomb in his bedroom the next day, while Bell was at the corset factory. He planned to go uptown and meet Fiona for only a moment. He would pass the package through an open window in the summer parlor. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked, and he had to pause to wipe it away. He knew the danger of working with explosives, and he was careful, but the thing was tricky. You never knew. He was nervous at the thought of transporting it uptown.

He was startled when he heard the sound of footsteps heading for the door, and he paused, listening. A key was thrust into the lock, and he quickly slid the apparatus underneath the bed. He walked into the other room just as Bell closed the door behind her.

Fear turned immediately to anger. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. He thrust his hands in his pockets so she wouldn't see them shaking.