The Gilded Cage (49 page)

“I don't know, Lev,” she finally said. “I—”

“Don't say no,” he urged her. “Everyone is going, and we'll miss you.”

“Well, perhaps just for a cup of coffee,” Bell said, smiling at Lev's eagerness. If she got home early enough, Lawrence wouldn't know.

She was barely in the door when he spoke. He was hunched over the newspaper, his back to her. “You're late.”

“Not so very,” Bell said, taking off her coat and hat. “I had some extra work at the office.”

“It couldn't wait until tomorrow, I suppose. Well, all right. I was fine here, I suppose.”

“I'll just start dinner,” Bell said. She crossed to the small kitchen and whipped an apron around her waist. Her salary from the journal was barely enough to keep them in food and coal. Lawrence's money had long ago run out, and he couldn't seem to hold a job. Bell sliced bread and spread a little precious butter on it. She took out the cabbage soup she'd made the day before and emptied it into the pot. With a few boiled potatoes, it would make a good enough meal, filling, at any rate.

While she was peeling the potatoes, Lawrence walked in the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Bell said.

Lawrence took a sip from the one glass of whiskey he allowed himself each evening. “Have you heard the latest about Schwab's?” he asked.

The knife slipped, and Bell nicked her finger. The potato fell to the floor and rolled underneath the table.

“Jesus, Bell, that was clumsy. We can't afford to waste food.” Lawrence took another slug of whiskey and made no move to retrieve the potato.

She bent down and picked it up, then went to the sink to wash it off, as well as her bloody finger. “What about Schwab's?” she asked, with her back to him. Could Lawrence have found out how often she went there after work?

“Justus might as well change the name to Goldman's,” Lawrence said bitterly. His pale blue eyes gleamed as he wiped his mouth. He hadn't shaved that day, and the blond stubble on his face looked rough. Once, Lawrence would not have been caught dead unshaven. He was not nearly the elegant man he'd been. “The little bitch has made up business cards with the address of the saloon on it. She's treating it as her private office.”

Bell sighed. Lawrence's hatred of Emma Goldman had grown more fierce over the years. It was simply unfair, he claimed, that a woman anarchist should get all the press, when the men were doing all the work. He darkly accused her of being an informer in the case of her friend Alexander Berkman, who had tried unsuccessfully to assassinate Henry Clay Frick four years before and was currently serving a harsh sentence. And he would never forgive her for publicly horsewhipping his hero, Johann Most, when the anarchist leader refused to support Berkman's
attentat
.

“Mr. Schwab doesn't mind, I hear,” she said, returning to the table. “He's fond of Emma.”

Lawrence snorted. “How one can be fond of a viper, I don't know. A woman's place is by her man, making his home pleasant so he can think.”

Bell put the potatoes on to boil. She hated when Lawrence talked this way. She had spent so much of her life resisting such ideas.

“Speaking of which, come make home more pleasant,” Lawrence said. He took her hand and pulled her to him. Bell sat on his lap. She brushed the hair off his forehead and kissed his whiskey-scented mouth. As always, her pulse quickened at the taste and smell of him. It was out of her control, her lust, and she gave herself up to it again, every day, helplessly.

“Oh, I just remembered,” she said, sliding an arm around his neck. “Lev says he'll look at your article. We have some space in the next issue.”

“You call him Lev?” Lawrence asked, frowning.

Bell's heart skipped a beat. “We're very informal in the office,” she said. “We're comrades, you know.”

“Does he call you by your Christian name, then?”

His whole body was stiff, the earlier relaxation gone. Bell cursed herself for her slip. She got up and fussed with the soup. “Well, he called me Mrs. Birch for a year,” she said. Seizing on that familiar wound, she turned. “Sometimes it's embarrassing for me, Lawrence. To call myself Mrs. Birch when they know very well I'm not married to you.”

“Embarrassing?” Lawrence said, striking the table with his open hand. “For an anarchist? Ridiculous.”

“No, it's not. I'm living in the world, Lawrence.” Bell crossed to his side and knelt by his chair. “But it's not only that. I want to be your wife so much.”

“You are my wife,” he said. “In my eyes you are my wife. It is the individual that matters.”

“I want to have your name. What if we should have a child? Lawrence—”

“You're trying to compromise my ideals as always! How like a woman.” He seemed to rap out the charge mechanically.

“I'm only trying to be as much a part of you as I feel,” Bell said softly. “In the eyes of the world, I mean.”

“Bell, we've had this discussion before.” He touched her hair softly. “You are my wife, my love.” He leaned over and kissed her. His mouth opened, and he captured her tongue. Bell's insides melted, and she leaned into the kiss, feeling Lawrence's arms steal around her and grasp her to him.

“There, we are together,” he murmured. “Turn off the soup, and let's go to bed.”

Bell turned off the soup and the potatoes. He led her to the bed. Already, she was excited. He undressed her slowly, his hands lingering on her nipples. He left himself fully clothed, but he unbuttoned his fly. When she was naked, he pushed her down on the bed.

“Lawrence,” she said dreamily.

“Don't speak. Lie down,” he ordered. “No, on your stomach tonight.”

She heard the slap of his belt as he opened it, and she gripped the pillow in the agony and delirium of waiting.

I
T WAS
O
LIVE
who forced Columbine to go to the Social Reform Gala. It was the event of the season for socialists, writers, settlement workers, and the society folks who supported them, an attempt to unite all the classes working for the same goal for one memorable evening. All of Columbine's old friends would be there—Ivy Moffat, now a force to be reckoned with in the taboo area of domestic violence, Florence Kelley and Lillian Wald from the Henry Street Settlement, Horatio Jones, Leonora O'Reilly, Josephine Shaw Lowell and Mrs. Russell Sage, who had worked so tirelessly in the suffrage movement. Even Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who left her apartment infrequently these days, was planning to attend. Olive couldn't understand Columbine's reluctance, especially since Elijah Reed was going to speak. Hadn't Columbine loved
Andersonville,
his novel about the Civil War?

There was nothing for it but to agree to go, even despite Ned's frown. He would not forbid Columbine to go, but he did not like it, and he made that plain.

Columbine dressed for the gala in her best gown, a shimmering green silk so deep it was almost black. Cream-colored lace edged the sleeves, and intricate black crystal beading embroidered the bodice. The dress was so pretty that she felt almost beautiful as Fiona helped her into it. When she looked into the mirror hopefully, her hands faltered as she fastened the small emerald earrings in her ears.

“Oh,” she said, more an exhalation of breath than a word. Dull disappointment thudded through her. She hadn't cared about her appearance in a long time. Dressing like this, with her nerves in a flutter, had put her mind to the past, to six years before, when she was unmarried. She had somehow expected to meet the same face in the glass, a thirty-five-year-old woman fully in control of her power. But a forty-one-year-old matron looked back. Elijah would find her greatly changed. Columbine touched her hair, which seemed to have lost its brightness. She noted the fullness at her hips and the lines around her mouth. She looked at her hands, the hands of a mother and a nurse, capable, yes, but no longer slender and white. She shouldn't be ashamed of her hands; she was going to a gala where factory workers and settlement workers and nurses would be the guests. It was vain of her to bother about her hands. But she was bothered nonetheless.

“What is it, ma'am?” Fiona asked, adjusting the lace on a sleeve. “Don't you like the gown? I think it's lovely.”

“Oh, Fiona.” Columbine sighed. “The gown is lovely. But the woman in it looks so careworn.”

What Columbine liked so much about Fiona was that, even in her capacity as a lady's maid, she was able to be deliberate and honest. Another maid would have fussed and flattered; not Fiona. She looked in the mirror with Columbine and gravely considered her appearance with narrowed green eyes.

“I don't agree, ma'am,” she said finally. “Look at the sum, not the parts, if you know what I mean. You're a beautiful lady, Mrs. Van Cormandt. Now don't insult me by saying you're not.”

Columbine had to smile. “Thank you, Fiona.”

“Here, let me get your gloves.”

That was one thing, at least a lady could wear gloves. No one would see the blister on her third finger from where Ned had spilled his tea, or the broken nail from playing with Hawthorn. Columbine buttoned up her long kid gloves and reached for her new fan of dark green silk. She took another look in the mirror. Maybe it wasn't so bad.

There was a knock at the door, and Olive swept in, dressed in her usual navy silk with the lace jabot. “The carriage is downstairs, Columbine. You look splendid. It's rather cold tonight, I'd wear your warmest wrap.”

Columbine hid her smile as she slipped into her evening wrap, a heavy cloak trimmed with fur. Even when giving a compliment, Olive was completely matter-of-fact.

As they walked down the front stairs, Olive asked, “Do you want to say good night to Ned? I'll wait in the carriage.”

“Yes, I should do that,” Columbine agreed, though she would prefer not to. Ned had been so angry earlier this evening when she'd left him to dress. She suspected that he'd read in the paper that Elijah Reed was the featured speaker at the preceding dinner. They had not mentioned Elijah's name since their wedding day.

She entered his room hesitantly. He was sitting up in bed, a copy of the
McClure's
open on his lap. He barely took in her dress before he looked away.

“I've come to say good night, Ned.”

“How kind of you,” he said sarcastically, “to make my evening.”

“Ned,” Columbine said helplessly, “Olive insisted on my going to this.”

He nodded shortly.

“I'll be home early.”

“Don't bother,” he said, turning away to lie on his side. “I'll be asleep.”

Columbine stood for another moment, but Ned kept his back to her. Her silk skirts rustling, she turned away.

“Enjoy the dancing,” he flung after her as she closed the door. Columbine leaned her forehead against it for an instant.

When she turned, she saw Fiona standing in the hall. The maid had heard everything, that was obvious. But Fiona didn't lower her eyes and scurry past Columbine. Some spark of empathy, some flashing accord, woman to woman, leaped from Fiona's eyes to hers. In that instant, Columbine remembered what she too often forgot—that Fiona's husband, too, had been injured in an awful blast, that he had remained an invalid for months before the attempt on Ned. James Devlin had died in prison within nine months of entering it. She wondered what Fiona's feelings were about her husband, though of course Columbine could not ask. Fiona had let her know years ago how painful it was for her to discuss James Devlin. It had taken the combined efforts of Columbine, Olive, and Ned to persuade Fiona that she was welcome to remain in the house, that they did not hold her in any way responsible for what her husband had done.

All of this went through Columbine's mind as she exchanged that short look with Fiona. She knew that Fiona had known guilt and suffering and how inextricably the two could be linked to make a particularly anguishing chain. She had heard the querulous voice, the jealous rage, the anguish of the bedridden, once vital man. She had known all of these things, her extraordinary green eyes told Columbine, and she understood.

He hoped she would be there, and yet he did not want to see her. Elijah straightened his tie for the thousandth time that evening, cleared his throat, and looked toward the door. He was supposed to be carrying on a conversation with Horatio Jones, but his responses were purely automatic. He was thinking of Columbine. Of course she must come, Columbine Nash belonged here tonight. Columbine Van Cormandt, he corrected himself hastily. He had never seen her, talked to her, as a married woman, and he did not think he particularly wanted to.

Not that he still thought about her in that way. The years had managed to reduce Columbine Nash to a burnished might-have-been studded with ifs.
If
he hadn't been the kind of man he was,
if
she'd hadn't been pregnant with Lawrence Birch's child,
if
he had had the courage at the end to beg her not to marry Van Cormandt, then, well, things would have been different, Elijah supposed. But he'd never spent time worrying about ifs and buts. He had devoted himself to his writing in a way he hadn't since he was twenty-three, writing
Look Away
in a fever. He had been heartsick and lonely and raging, and it had taken a while before those feelings dropped away, but they had. Paris seemed to intensify his feelings, but Elijah knew Paris, in all its melancholy, splendid beauty, was still a better place for him than New York. It had taken him six years to feel ready to return.

He looked over the head of Horatio Jones and there she was. Elijah's heart squeezed with pain, a pain so shockingly fresh he turned away for a moment to catch his breath. Columbine had been immediately surrounded by several women—he'd heard she did not go out much in society anymore—and she was flushed and laughing, kissing one woman after the other, squeezing their hands, and laughing again, somewhat taken aback at their pleasure at seeing her.