The Gilded Cage (45 page)

Quietly, Marguerite ended her song, the last note held until it was scarcely a whisper. She stood there, waiting. She did not peer out into the audience or duck her head shyly or take even one step backward. She didn't do any of the obvious things. She would never be obvious.

Willie was reluctant to speak. As soon as he spoke, he would begin to lose her. She would begin to believe in her talent, and she would begin to change. She would begin to be corrupted. He would have to be careful. She couldn't know yet. She had to be hungry enough to work.

Marguerite stood, waiting. She was totally at ease in the middle of the stage, underneath the lights. She looked enraptured, not bored, not nervous.

“Miss Corbeau,” Willie said brusquely, “raise your skirt, please.”

It was obvious that he shocked her, but she hesitated a bare fraction of a second. She lifted her skirt to her calves.

Good ankles, Willie thought. Not too skinny. Good. “Higher,” he ordered.

Her lips tightened, but she raised her skirts to her knees. Good calves as well, nicely rounded. Thank God she didn't have skinny legs. Her stocking had a hole in it. He liked that. He could see her on stage as a waif, a naif, with a hole in her stocking. “Thank you,” he said, and she dropped her skirts.

“I'm sorry, I've forgotten your first name,” he said.

“Marguerite,” she answered.

Not Marguerite, he thought. Daisy. She would be Daisy Corbeau. And he would always dress her in blue.

He returned his attention to her face. Pretty and impudent, and mysterious, too. Dark blue eyes, a slightly puffy upper lip, perfect skin, a dark, curling abundance of hair. He thought her perfect. He'd been waiting all his life for her. He wanted to fall on his knees before her, for he knew that at this moment she was an angel to him. It would not last. But the next important thing in his life had begun.

On Columbine's wedding day, she woke and stared her mistake in the face. The amazing thing was that she rose anyway and dressed in her wedding dress, a two-piece suit of French faille in soft ivory with pink velvet bands running down the skirt and Irish guipure lace on the bodice and sleeves. Ivy Moffat helped her into it, cooing softly at how lovely it was, and Columbine saw dispassionately that it was true, and that she didn't care.

The incredible thing was that with this heavy knowledge in her heart she still took up her small bouquet of pink and ivory roses and got in the Van Cormandt carriage with Olive, in her best navy silk, for the ride to the hospital. Olive, in a touching gesture that was quite unlike her, held Columbine's icy hand all the way there.

In a dream, Columbine waited in the small anteroom off the chapel. She heard the noise of the small organ. Ned's uncle Thomas arrived to give her away. She glanced at him as though he were a stranger, then took his arm.

She found herself walking down the aisle, thinking, this is so silly, I really should tell them I've changed my mind. She somehow managed to smile uncertainly at Ned, who looked horribly pale and ready to fall down. She wanted to laugh at her pathetic wedding, but Ned took her hand and she felt his desperate grasp and she didn't. She turned toward the priest, and he began.

And the most unbelievable thing of all was that she found herself repeating vows for the second time in her life, vows that she wasn't sure she could believe in. She felt a ring slipped on her finger. The priest said something, and Ned turned to her, and they kissed. And then they were turning, and Olive was crying, and she was heading down the aisle with Ned. It was as though there were cotton in her ears, for she could not hear what anyone was saying. There was something she was trying desperately to remember and could not. And then there was a noise like a ship's horn, but it was the organ, not a ship, and she remembered, walking out of the chapel with Ned into the sunny side garden of the hospital, resplendent with roses, that Elijah was sailing that day.

Bell waited in her cell in the Tombs for a trial, and for Lawrence. She'd been waiting since she'd been arrested. He had not come, but she continued to wait confidently. He would know when it was safe.

Columbine had spoken up for her at the hearing. She did not believe that Bell could be involved in the bombing plot. Bell hadn't quite been able to look at Columbine, for she could see that Columbine was putting on weight. Or maybe she imagined it. At any rate, the thought of Columbine pregnant while Bell was in jail was so awful she couldn't face it, and she certainly couldn't face Columbine. She had refused to allow Columbine to see her, and then, embarrassed, had sent word that she would receive no visitors at all, except Lawrence.

Jail wasn't bad. Bell had met prostitutes before, since Columbine had helped a few through the New Women Society. But those were a higher class of prostitute, not these tough streetwalkers and pickpockets. They jeered at her, but one day she offered to sew one girl's torn skirt, and another brought her a hem going down, and Bell demanded needle and thread and got it. She sewed and listened placidly to their troubles, and she was accepted.

Columbine had found a lawyer for her, a Mr. Chandler Ross. He was young and earnest and horribly worried about her situation. Her placidity annoyed him, she could tell. He was all on fire to defend an anarchist, and he'd expected more passion from her. Nellie Bly had asked for an interview, and when Bell refused Mr. Ross had been furious. What she needed was publicity, he said. This case, he said, would be tried on the streets of New York, and it was important for the public to like her. It was obvious that he didn't believe her story and thought she was guilty; she knew he suspected Lawrence was her accomplice.

“The only thing you have going for you,” Mr. Ross said, “is that there is absolutely no evidence. But that's not much at all. You must tell me everything, Miss Huxton. I'm very much afraid you're going to jail.”

But Bell said nothing. She smiled her serene smile, and she waited for Lawrence to come.

When Fiona could stand Lawrence's silence no longer, she sent him a note asking him to meet her. She waited in Central Park, in a wild stretch called The Ramble. Under the shelter of trees, it was quite cool, and Fiona tilted back her hat to feel the breeze against the drops of perspiration on her forehead. It had been a long, hot walk from the Van Cormandt house, but she could not think of a safe place to meet and could not risk asking Lawrence to send back a message with a meeting plan in it. So perhaps he would not be able to come.

She leaned against a tree tiredly. It felt good to be out, smelling God's good earth again. The strain of the past weeks was getting to her. She didn't realize how hard it would be. She was trapped in the Van Cormandt house with that awful old maid sister of Van Cormandt. Olive had moved in and taken over the running of the place. And Mr. Van Cormandt's new wife, that baggage Columbine Nash, would be moving in when Ned got out of the hospital. Fiona was already looking for another place. That is, if she didn't end up in jail.

She heard footsteps along the path coming toward her, and Lawrence strode into view around the bend. He looked extremely cross, and he did not even smile when he saw her.

“That was dangerous, sending me that note,” he burst out as soon as he was close enough. “I told you to let me make the arrangements.”

“I would have waited forever, then,” Fiona shot back tartly. “I have things to tell you, things you should know. And I can't stand that house anymore, Lawrence. I've got to get away. Can you find me a place somewhere? You have to find me a place.”

“How can I find you a place?” he asked irritably. “I don't know any swells, for God's sake.” He did not like this new view of Fiona, vulnerable and demanding. She reminded him too much of Bell, and he did not like to be reminded of Bell these days.

Fiona saw the digust in his face. Her green eyes hardened. “To hell with you then,” she said. “It's every man for himself, is it? Fine with me.” She turned in a whirl of black skirts, and Lawrence's fingers were on her arm in a moment.

“Don't go,” he said. “I'm sorry. Tell me what you came to tell me.”

Still turned away from him, she relaxed against his body. “They're asking questions,” she said in a rush, relieved to have someone to talk to at last. “They finally put my name together with what happened at the Hartleys. They're asking how I came to work there and why. And they asked about when I cleaned the summer parlor. I'm scared out of my wits, Lawrence. And they've questioned Jimmy, too. They've been to my house, Lawrence!”

He waited, barely noticing the weight of her body against him. He had to think.

“Lawrence, what are we—”

“Shut your mouth!” he snapped. “I must think.”

Fiona stiffened and moved away, but she was quiet. Footsteps were heading toward them, and without another word, Lawrence took her arm and began to walk. “Turn your head as they come up,” he whispered. Within another second, a young man appeared. He was carrying binoculars and a notebook, and appeared to be just what he was, an eager bird watcher. But Lawrence had already turned slightly and was saying to Fiona, “Yes, I believe it's a Siberian elm,” and she was looking at the trees blindly, nodding, so the friendly bird watcher did not bother saying good day.

As soon as he was past, Fiona tried to draw her arm away, but Lawrence held it against him. “Just let me think,” he murmured, and she looked into his set face and nodded.

It was five minutes or more before Lawrence felt ready to speak. He catalogued his thoughts and dealt with them one by one. First, he had to put away his anger at Fiona for disobeying him. Then, he had to subdue his panic at the knowledge that the police had put together the connection. Then, he had to wonder why they hadn't been on him yet. They had questioned him a few times, but he knew it was merely for background information about Bell. They hadn't linked him with Fiona, thank God. They weren't looking at him as a suspect, for some reason. Suddenly, Lawrence's steps slowed. He was not a suspect because they already thought they knew who did it, he realized.

“What did they ask you about the summer parlor?” he demanded.

“They asked me if I opened a window. The window that you climbed in that night, Lawrence. They found it unlocked the next day, you know.”

“They were supposed to,” he said irritably. “I didn't want suspicion on anyone in the house.”

“I know that,” Fiona answered, just as irritable now. “The point is, they suspect me of opening it in the first place. And they asked me why I cleaned the parlor that day, out of the cleaning rotation. And why that window was open, because under it is a carriage block hidden in the bushes there. Apparently the stable was moved, it used to be where the parlor is now. That wing was added later.”

Lawrence remembered the carriage block; he'd struck it with his foot. It had been an unexpected boon, giving him excellent leverage to hoist himself over the windowsill. It had been child's play. Even a man with only one arm could have climbed in that window …

Lawrence stopped completely, jerking Fiona's arm. “Jimmy,” he said.

“Yes, they've been at him, too.”

“They suspect him,” Lawrence said. “They suspect it was him that planted the bomb. And they think you opened the window for him, Fiona.”

“No,” Fiona said, shaking her head wildly. “Not Jimmy.”

“But it's obvious, don't you see that?”

“He only has one arm!”

“You don't need two for this work,” Lawrence said.

“And he's a drunkard. He can't even tie his own shoes half the time, everyone knows that. The doctor told him he'll be dead in six months and he keeps on drinking.”

“Dutch courage.” Lawrence began to feel excited indeed. “Where was Jimmy that night, Fiona?”

“Where he always is, drunk in his bed.”

“And your sister? Was she watching him?”

“Colleen is living somewhere else now, you know that. It wouldn't be proper for her to be there with me living at the Van Cormandt house.”

“So he was alone,” Lawrence said. “You're sure of that?”

Fiona nodded. “He's not one for company these days. And there's no one who'd sit with him anyway. Yes, he was alone.”

“They think it's him, Fiona, I know it. Now there's one thing for you to do. You have to confess.”

“Confess? Are you daft?”

“No,” he said. He reached out and grasped her hands. “This can save us. Say he asked you to open the window. That you thought he was coming to see you that night. They won't blame you, Fiona.”

A chill ran through Fiona. She searched Lawrence's face with agitated eyes. “Are you asking me to put my husband in jail for a crime I committed?”

“I'm asking you to save us,” Lawrence replied. He gripped her hands more tightly. “That's all.”

She broke away. “That's all!”

“It's everything, I know,” Lawrence said desperately. She had to do this; it was the only way. Even though no one would ever know that it was Lawrence who struck the daring blow. He couldn't tell Most if Jimmy Devlin went to jail for the crime. That would seem cowardly of him, sending a one-armed laborer to jail in his place. But Lawrence didn't belong in jail; he was too fine for jail. Fiona had to listen.

“But what happens if you don't tell them about Jimmy? They're just words, Fiona. You can find a way to say them. And then we'll be free.”

“And Miss Huxton?” she asked fiercely, turning back. She saw Lawrence's face change. “Oh, yes, Lawrence, I know about your woman. You're asking me to do this so you can go back to living with her!”

“No,” he said. “No, that's not it. It's you I love, Fiona.” He grasped her around the waist and pulled her to him roughly. “Only you. I want you to save us, not her.”

Fiona hesitated. She didn't know whether to believe Lawrence. He was most likely lying. But still, she'd always known that he lied. And she also knew that he didn't realize yet how completely they were bound together, man and woman. He still thought he controlled her. He didn't know that they had given up control the first night they'd lain together.