The Gilded Cage (43 page)

Life was meant to be lived, it was as simple as that, and Ned had always known it. Elijah's way was only a half-life, Columbine thought. Ned had wanted everything. Olive was right, in a way, for it was Ned's strength that was in this room, and it was awesome. He clung to a thread while the doctors shook their heads. He wanted to live.

Columbine dreamily began to count the things that Ned loved, the things that anchored him to life. When she was alone in the room, she would whisper them to him. Kensett landscapes. Newport. Parsnips. Women's gowns. Guy de Maupassant. Mozart. Vermeer. Peach cobbler. Veuve Cliquot. Lenox, Massachusetts. Paris. Her gold gown.

Olive's whisper broke into her silent chant. “Don't you see, Columbine,” she said, “that he can't possibly die?”

“Yes,” Columbine answered. “He can't possibly die.” Cognac. Cigars. Bicycles. Central Park. The new Turkey rug in your bedroom ….

Hours later, Olive went for a walk, and the doctor called Columbine into the waiting room. “I'm worried about Miss Van Cormandt,” he said gravely. “I think it would be better if she faced things, Mrs. Nash. Perhaps there is some way you could help her prepare for her brother's death.”

“Are you so certain, Dr. Temple?” Columbine asked.

“I'm afraid so. He won't last the night.”

Her knees gave way, and she sank into a chair. “I see.”

His hand came down on her shoulder, and he patted it gently. “I'm sorry. I see that you and Miss Van Cormandt are devoted to him. But these things must be faced. He's nearing the end.” He left, gently closing the door behind him.

Columbine sat staring at the walls, wondering how she would tell Olive. And would Olive brush this away, along with everything else Dr. Temple had said?

It was only a few minutes later that Olive came in the room quietly. Columbine looked up; she could see immediately that something was wrong.

She rose shakily. “Is it Ned?”

Olive shook her head quickly. Her hands were cold as she grasped Columbine's. “No, no. There's no change. It's something else. Columbine, sit down.”

Columbine sat like a child. “Please tell me.”

“The police have made an arrest.”

“Yes?”

“They've arrested Bell Huxton.”

Columbine stared into Olive's eyes, absorbing the knowledge. “Bell? That's impossible! She liked Ned, they were friends—I don't believe it.”

“She took a package to his house on Friday afternoon. The maid confirms it. She put it in the library. Ned must have opened it.”

Columbine's hands flew to her mouth. “No.”

“She's converted to anarchism, you know. It's possible.”

“Is she admitting she did the deed?”

“She will only say that she acted alone. The police have solid evidence, it's said.” Olive saw Columbine's expression, and she took her by the shoulders. “You have no responsibility for this, Columbine. Do you hear me?”

Columbine nodded, but hell was in her eyes. “I hear you,” she said numbly. “Let's get back to Ned.”

Ned regained consciousness that evening. He was in terrible pain, and did not recognize them. He was given morphia and relapsed into a fitful sleep.

At two in the morning, while Columbine was nodding in her chair, Olive touched her shoulder briefly. “Would you like some tea?” she whispered. At Columbine's grateful nod, she said, “I'll see if I can get that dragon of a nurse to let me make some. That bilge she serves is hardly fit for consumption. I brought some Earl Grey from home this afternoon.”

Olive rustled out, and Columbine, fully awake now, rose for a turn around the room. The moon was full; pale, silvery light flooded the room. The moon seemed tangled in the high branches of the crabapple tree outside the window. Columbine could make out the delicate blossoms, faintly pink in the light. She and Ned had first met in the spring.

“Columbine.”

His voice made her jump. She turned, and saw the one eye that wasn't bandaged was open. “Ned,” she breathed, hurrying toward him. “Oh, Ned.”

“For a moment,” he said with difficulty, “I thought I was in our house.”

“Yes,” she said. There was an apple tree outside the bedroom window at the Tenth Street house. “The apple tree,” she said, smiling softly. “It's in bloom now.”

“I rather think I'm dying, Columbine,” he said groggily.

“No. Don't say that.” Tears began to slip down her cheeks. “Don't, Ned.”

“I wanted to tell you that I loved you.”

“And I love you. I should get the doctor—”

“No, don't go. Take my hand.”

She slipped her hand into his. He grasped her fingers feebly.

Columbine swallowed. “You have to live, Ned. We've been sitting here, Olive and I, waiting for you to come back to us.”

“It's funny,” Ned said. “I remember everything so clearly. I was working, I couldn't concentrate. I was thinking of you. I was thinking …” A small grunt escaped him.

“Ned, let me get the doctor.”

“No, not yet. I want to talk to you, just for a minute. I was thinking what it would be like, to live my whole life without you. How I would ever come to find joy in things again. Do you know?”

Columbine nodded, thinking of Elijah. “I know.”

“And I got up from the desk, thinking it useless to work. I would pour another cognac and go upstairs and think of you, I decided. Give myself up to it. To memory. That's when it happened. So you see, you almost saved my life. I was moving away toward the door. I should have been … quicker.”

“Oh, Ned.”

“But that isn't what I wanted to say at all. Damn. I was thinking, I was thinking—what if it isn't over? What if a year from now she'll come to you? What if she could make a life with you after all? And now I'm wondering, were those foolish thoughts, Columbine? Is there really no hope for me?”

Columbine's breath went out of her. Ned was dying, she could see it in his eyes. And it was through her that it had happened. She had brought him heartbreak and she had introduced his killer to him. But she could do one last thing for him now.

“There's hope for you, Ned,” she said. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I'm here, aren't I? I've been here every day.”

“If I asked again—”

“I would marry you. Ned, perhaps we're meant to be together after all.” And at that moment, Columbine believed it.

He closed his eyes. “My love,” he said.

“Ned?” Columbine pressed his hand. “Ned?”

The door opened, and Olive came in, following by the nurse carrying a tray of tea things. She took the situation in with a glance and put down the tray immediately.

“What is it?” Olive asked frantically.

Columbine stepped back from the bed. The nurse bent over Ned, checking his pulse, his pupils.

“I'll get the doctor,” she said, turning away.

“Nurse!” Olive's voice was panicked. “Is he worse? Is he dead?”

The nurse smiled under the white veil. “No, my dear. I think he may be quite a bit better.”

Elijah had been packing his books when he heard the news about the bombing. He stopped packing. He went to Columbine's and discovered from Mrs. Haggerty that she was spending all her time at the hospital. He left his card and went back to his own parlor.

He sat in his parlor for a week while his trunks went unpacked and his letters unsent. He must have taken meals, slept, tried to read. But to Elijah, whenever he thought of those seven days, he thought of himself, sitting heavily in his chair, not moving. Thinking, in a way he knew was slow and ponderous, almost confused, about who he was and the decisions he had made.

It wasn't merely that death could strike some surprising evening over cognac and a cigar in one's own study. It wasn't only that Ned was a good man and an inexplicable target for any anarchist. It wasn't just the awfulness of the crime, or his own friendly feeling for Ned. It was all of those things, and it was more. It was Columbine.

It was how fiercely he wanted to go to her. It was how desperately he wanted to see her face. It was how piercingly he wanted to share her pain. It was how deeply and irrevocably he loved her. Great tragedy had done its work. It had brought so freshly home to him how important life was. Elijah would have despised himself for succumbing to such a cliché, but he was too puzzled.

His body trembled as he sat, thinking these things. There had been a worm in the center of his love, and he hadn't examined it before. The worm was Lawrence Birch. It was how secretly, in his heart, Elijah had despised Columbine for loving, however briefly, that man. How could someone like Columbine not see through such a man? He had pushed the question away, not wanting to answer it. Now, he looked at the question, and he also looked at the arrogance of the man who had asked it. What right did he have to judge?

But now, what must she be thinking? Elijah felt sure that Lawrence Birch must have been involved in the bombing plot. As he remembered Bell's visit, went over it in his mind, he saw that her mind was possibly unbalanced; at the very least, it showed an alarming susceptibility to Lawrence's direction. Had Lawrence used that to suggest such a course? It was possible. And if Elijah was thinking these things, surely Columbine was as well. Could she bear it, knowing that Lawrence had possibly been instrumental in the attack on Ned?

He saw culpability there, but he did not care. The question was, could he offer himself to her and wipe the slate clean?

Should she choose to keep the child, could he raise it? Should she want to marry him, would he do it? Should she tell him that she loved him irrevocably, could he answer truthfully that he felt the same?

It took him seven days to realize that the answer was yes.

Elijah arrived at it in no blinding moment of clarity, no spinning, dizzying revelation. It was just there, quietly in front of him, as he stirred his coffee on the last morning. He loved this woman, and suddenly, that love was enough for anything.

He read in the paper that Ned Van Cormandt had turned a corner, that he was sitting up, receiving a few visitors, though he was still in great pain. Dr. Temple was hailed as a savior. The Van Cormandt family was donating a wing in his name to the new St. Luke's hospital which would be built on Morningside Heights.

Elijah put on his hat and went out. Columbine was at the hospital, Mrs. Haggerty told him when he rang the bell. He caught a horsecar going up Fifth and got off at Fifty-Fourth.

He left his card at the desk and in a few minutes the nurse came back to tell him Ned Van Cormandt would be happy to see him. He followed her upstairs and through passageways and down a long corridor. Elijah was not at his best in hospitals; he'd spent long months recuperating in one, after the war. He came to a corner room with relief, and the nurse pushed the door open.

The window was open, and sun was streaming in through lace curtains. A group of chairs was clustered around a small table with a silver tea service. Apparently the Van Cormandt money could buy amenities, even in a hospital, Elijah thought. And then he looked at the bed and wished Ned Van Cormandt all the silver tea services in the world.

He was thin, and bandages covered much of his body. He'd lost most of his hair. In silk pajamas and a paisley dressing gown, he appeared the height of sartorial elegance, but Elijah could see immediately in what great ways Ned had changed. It wasn't only his injuries, and his bandages. Great pain had marked his face. Even though the smile was still as generous, the eyes had changed.

“How good of you to come, Mr. Reed,” Ned said.

“I heard you were receiving visitors, so I took the liberty,” Elijah said. “It's good to see you back among us, Mr. Van Cormandt.”

“It's good to be back.”

“I see that Miss Huxton hasn't been formally charged as of yet.”

Ned frowned. “Yes, there is some uncertainty still. They thought I had unwrapped a package, but I did not. The bomb suddenly went off, so they think now that a fuse was set and the bomb was detonated outside. There was a window open in the summer parlor. And the remnant of the papers which Miss Huxton brought were found with the evening mail, though of course they were unreadable. The only discrepancy was that I had not asked for any of Columbine's papers. Miss Huxton volunteered that she'd often brought me articles of Columbine's she'd thought would be of interest, which is true, though she hasn't done so since … well, for some time.”

“Puzzling,” Elijah said. “And how are you feeling?”

“Well, I'd rather be bicycling in the park,” Ned said, flashing an unsteady grin. “I have my bad periods, I must admit, but I'll be back on my feet in no time. And, may I add, I have the best nurse in the world. Columbine has been here every day. She'll be sorry to miss you, she just went for a walk on the grounds.”

At that, the door opened, and Columbine walked in. When she saw Elijah, she blushed deeply. She was wearing a summer dress in a light blue and white pattern with lace at the throat and wrists, and her hair was drawn back simply in a bun. Elijah drank in the sight of her.

He bowed. “Mrs. Nash.”

“Mr. Reed.” She closed the door behind her. “It's kind of you to come and see Ned.”

“Come, Columbine.” Ned held out his good hand, and she took it slowly. “I was just about to tell Mr. Reed the good news.”

Foreboding snaked through Elijah. Something about the way Ned reached for her hand. Something proprietary in that. It was not merely the clasp of friendship. “Yes?”

“We're going to be married. At the hospital chapel next week. We hope you can be there.”

It was probably three seconds, but it felt like three hours, before he was able to reply. Columbine had looked away, out the window, and he couldn't see her eyes. She was staring fixedly at a crabapple tree. “I'm sorry,” Elijah found himself saying pleasantly, “but I won't be able to. I leave for Paris at the end of the week. But do let me offer my very best wishes to both of you.”