The Gilded Cage (5 page)

She felt on fire, pure as a sword forged in a heat too intense for earth. She felt an angel, white and glowing hot, her hair rippling, glorious in her nakedness and her purity. Her hands again stole down her body to touch her breasts, her legs, her arms. She was pure. She was perfect, a fortress. Her thighs were strong and white. They were soft. They were locked, muscles straining, trembling. She would conquer herself. She—

Bell's head jerked up, her neck muscles straining. It took her a moment to recognize the sound. Knocking downstairs, soft but insistent, on the front door. It was after two in the morning. Who would come to their door at this hour? Perhaps Ned or Horatio had returned, to apologize, to be contrite. How tiresome of them, and how unlike them.

Bell rose on unsteady legs and fumbled herself into her dressing gown. Thinking hard, she decided neither one of those proud men would be downstairs. It could be anyone, really—a woman in trouble, perhaps thrown out of her apartment by her landlord. She would find her way to Columbine's door, for help would be there, bracing advice, and a little money, as much as Columbine could spare.

Her long hair flew behind her as she reached the top of the stairs and started down. She could hear noises from Columbine's room as Columbine most likely roused herself from bed to come downstairs as well. They would need strong tea and a good fire.

She could hear hail pattering against the windows as she walked with quick steps through the front hall. She peered through the long narrow window to the left of the door.

It was a man. He was wet through, and it was hard to distinguish his features underneath his hat and dripping mustache. Bell hesitated only a moment before sliding back the bolt and opening the door.

“Can I help you?” she asked, raising her voice in order to be heard over the moaning wind. She saw small pellets of icy rain bounce off the man's broad shoulders. A drop trickled through his rough cheeks and caught in the mustache over his full upper lip.

“Lawrence Birch,” the man said shortly. He blinked back the rain in his eyelashes. “I'm sorry to disturb you. Mrs. Nash?”

She shook her head.

“I've been sent by Tavish Finn,” the man said.

Columbine's half-brother in San Francisco. Bell opened the door wider. “Come in,” she said.

He came inside the door, and she stepped back, closing the door after he moved forward into the hall. As she turned, Lawrence Birch removed his hat. Water had collected on the brim, and a few drops splashed on her face and neck as he snapped it to his side. Bell recoiled from the shock of the cold water. She felt it on her cheeks, her lips.

“I beg your pardon,” Lawrence Birch said. “That was clumsy.”

He reached out as if to brush away the drops, but Bell backed up and wiped them from her mouth with the back of her hand. “It's all right,” she said quickly, without thinking. “I was thirsty.”

He looked startled, then he laughed. Now she saw how handsome he was. His teeth were white and even, and his wet hair was probably blond in the sun. His eyes were ice-blue, an otherworldy color, too pale, perhaps, to be engaging. More odd than beautiful. And his coloring wasn't fair, as you'd expect with a light-haired man. His skin was brown, as if he spent time outdoors.

Suddenly, Bell was aware of her naked legs underneath her dressing gown, and of her hair's wild disarray. Mr. Birch seemed very aware of it, too.

“I'm afraid I've disturbed you,” he said. His expression was unreadable, but Bell found herself flushing. It was as though he knew of her struggle upstairs, of her fear, of her secrets. It was as though he could smell her passionate struggle upstairs on her body. Her thighs, her hands.

“Come into the parlor,” she said. “I'll fetch Mrs. Nash.”

He followed her inside, and she busied herself with building up the fire. By the time she had it blazing again, Columbine was downstairs in her most elegant brocade dressing gown and was holding her hand out to Mr. Birch as though it was four o'clock in the afternoon and he had arrived punctually to tea.

“If Tavish Finn sends you, you are welcome, Mr. Birch. Please sit down. Bell, would you mind fetching some tea? Mr. Birch looks chilled. Perhaps a few sandwiches as well. Thank you.”

Bell nodded distantly and hurried from the room. Obviously, Mr. Birch must be in trouble of some sort. Probably political trouble, or Tavish Finn wouldn't have sent him to Columbine. But whatever had brought him to their door, it was no concern of Bell's. It was her job to make tea and sandwiches. But first, Bell took the time to climb the stairs to her room and button herself into her most conservative brown wool dress. Then she twisted her hair into a bun so tight it made her head ache. Only then did she return downstairs to make tea for Lawrence Birch.

Lawrence Birch moved like a gentleman. He tucked his gloves into his hat and laid it on a windowsill, as a gentleman should; his pale, ice-blue eyes were polite, almost bland. He hardly looked the sort of man who would arrive at one's doorstep at two o'clock in the morning.

Columbine wondered uneasily what Lawrence Birch had done as she sank into her armchair and motioned him to do the same. He was far too handsome to have done much of anything. He had an elegant figure, tall and lean, with almost perfect features that were given character by a beautifully curved mouth. His hands were well shaped, and his clothes, though not grand, were impeccable.

“I must apologize again for intruding so late,” Mr. Birch said. “If Mr. Finn had not led me to hope of your kind reception, I would never have dared. But I only just arrived, and I didn't know where else to go.”

“Are you wanted by the law, Mr. Birch?” Columbine asked imperturbably. She dearly hoped her brother would not send an escaped convict or some such to her, but with Tavish, one never knew.

“No, no, nothing of that sort. But I'm afraid my political activities in San Francisco made things uncomfortable for me there. I was publishing an anarchist newspaper.”

Another anarchist. Columbine sighed. “Ah.”

“I first met Mrs. Finn. She's one of the few reporters in San Francisco who solicit details of the anarchist position and actually publish them without condescension. She speaks very highly of you, by the way.”

“She's a dear friend,” Columbine murmured. Only a few people knew of her true relationship to Tavish; for years, they were thought to be lovers because of their intimacy. Not many English baronets recognized their illegitmate offspring, of course. She'd only formed a true friendship with her half-brother as an adult, after they'd both left England. “How is Mrs. Finn? I hope you found her well.”

“Very well. She's a remarkable lady.”

“Yes,” Columbine said quietly. “She is.” She missed her sister-inlaw. Brought up in the New York aristocracy, once married to the most horrific man Columbine had ever met—with perhaps the exception of Columbine's own ex-husband—Darcy had left it all behind in a scandalous flight to San Francisco with Tavish. And now they were married, and running a newspaper in San Francisco. Columbine had never imagined that Tavish was capable of falling in love so deeply and so happily.

“What is it that led you to leave San Francisco, Mr. Birch?” she asked, as Bell entered and set down the tea and sandwiches.

Lawrence Birch paused, reluctant to answer while Bell was in the room. His eyes coolly followed her progress to the door. He waited until it had shut, then turned to Columbine. “There is a wealthy industrialist in San Francisco, a famous man prominent in society. I heard through a source that a small group of workers were planning to bomb his office. Mrs. Finn had also heard the rumor, and came to me to ask about it. There was to be a secret meeting that evening. I went to it. The police did as well. Shots were fired, and one policeman went down. Two of the workers died. There is some question whether the police shot their own man as well.”

“I see,” Columbine murmured, pouring the tea.

“Those of us that escaped had to disappear. There is no charge against me, but Mr. Finn felt I would be better off in New York for awhile. However, I'm taking no chances. I would not want to endanger you, Mrs. Nash. If I had any other alternative, I would have—”

“No, don't think of it,” Columbine said decidedly. “There's a small room off the kitchen. It has a back entrance, and I'm afraid you'll have to be very discreet. The three of us here get enough tongues wagging.”

“Three of us?”

“Yes, three women, living alone. You met Miss Huxton at the door. I also have another boarder, Miss Corbeau. Cream?”

“Thank you. I'll be like a shadow, Mrs. Nash. And I assure you, I'll be on my way tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is New Year's Day. It will be difficult for you to find a place tomorrow. We'll have many callers, it's a New York custom, so perhaps we'll hear something about a room. If not, after New Year's I can find somewhere for you to go. Do you have any plans?”

Lawrence nodded. “I hope to meet Johann Most. I admire him a great deal. Perhaps I can get a position on
Die Freiheit
. Do you know where the office is?”

Johann Most was the publisher of the militant anarchist newpaper, and was a compelling speaker. Columbine had met him, and disliked him personally. She also felt uncomfortable with his ideas. But she had to concede he was a powerful speaker. “Yes,” she answered, offering the plate of sandwiches to Lawrence. “Downtown, on William Street. I'm afraid I'm not acquainted with HerrMost, not enough to introduce you, at least. But if you like, I can take you to Schwab's saloon on First Street. You'll be welcomed there.”

Justus Schwab's saloon was a famous center for radical politics in New York. Columbine was fond of Justus, who had a warmth and humor Johann Most completely lacked.

Lawrence sipped his tea and watched her. “I sense you're not sympathetic to anarchism,” he said.

Columbine took a long sip of tea. “I am primarily a worker for women's rights,” she answered carefully. “No, I don't agree with anarchist principles, especially the violent means that Bakunin proposes to demolish the state.”

“I don't agree with violent means either. But if the masses are to be galvanized, woken up ...”

“I don't believe,” Columbine said with a thin smile, “that the masses are ever galvanized by violence, Mr. Birch. I'm afraid it has just the opposite effect. It makes the government stronger, for it makes people simply afraid.”

“It has not been successful in the United States as of yet, Mrs. Nash. Not that I'm proposing it. But if the demolition of the state—by peaceful means—ensures the emancipation of women, surely you couldn't argue against it.”

“If I felt that anarchist men were any more interested in the emancipation of women, perhaps,” Columbine said pleasantly. “But Mr. Birch, I've learned something from traveling in your circles. Men are men. If there's any hope for emancipation, it lies with women.”

Lawrence sipped his tea, obviously too polite to prolong the argument. “It is a pleasure,” he said finally, “to find a woman who does at least consider these matters. I feel as though I've been drinking from a mountain spring, Mrs. Nash. San Francisco is rather a desert in that regard.”

“I find that difficult to believe.” Columbine sat erect. Nothing made her frostier than a man's attempt to flatter her by denigrating her sex.

He seemed to sense her disapproval, but he merely shrugged. “My fault, I'm sure, as well as my misfortune. In my experience, the formidable minds belonged to men.”

“Ask Justus to introduce you to young Emma Goldman,” Columbine said lightly. “There you will find a formidable mind.”

“I was speaking of San Francisco,” Lawrence said. “Of course in New York things will be different. They already are.” He flashed a smile at her. “Within five minutes I've found someone to argue with. That is always a grand discovery, almost as precious as finding a friend. It's at least as good for the intellect as the soul. And when that someone is the famous Columbine Nash, my good fortune is doubled. I've admired you for years, Mrs. Nash. You are a brave and true soul.”

“Thank you, Mr. Birch,” Columbine said confusedly.

Lawrence's smile held and his blue eyes warmed, and Columbine saw sensuality, and heat. The power of that smile was capable of stirring up a woman's wild heart. No wonder he was so careful not to deliver it too often. Good Lord, she thought. No wonder Tavish sent him to me. He probably wanted to get him away from his wife.

L
AWRENCE
B
IRCH SETTLED
into the small, cramped room off the kitchen as though it were a suite at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The lumpy mattress felt like the softest down, and the worn sheets like fine linen. He had come through danger and found paradise: He had landed into a household of women.

He was a man that had been often called charming, but never by men. It was always women, delicate, delicious, obliging women who characterized him so. Men might disparage him, ignore him, but women never did, never could. And now once again they would smooth the way.

Lawrence had been blessed since childhood with an extraordinary sensitivity. He found people as transparent as glass. He had learned, living in a household where blows were the usual form of scolding, how to interpret the nuances of voice and gesture to discover what people really meant, despite what they said. It allowed him to move before the blow, sometimes to forestall it completely with the right words. That sensitivity was his greatest gift, and it had gotten him far.

In just fifteen minutes with Columbine he'd learned much. He knew she was unhappy. How unhappy, he didn't know yet. That knowledge was important, but it wasn't the key.

The key
was what Lawrence privately termed the one fact about a woman he could turn on to ensure a seduction. Often it was flattery, but the key, the thing most men missed, was the
particular
form of flattery each woman needed. Some women tumbled for their beauty, some for their minds. Some women succumbed because they hated their husbands, some because they loved them. Some because they were bored, some because they were angry. Some because they had never understood sex, some because they understood it too well. Columbine might not be easy. But she was seducible. Lawrence loved celebrity, and she was too famous to resist.