The Gilded Cage (55 page)

She gave an almost imperceptible nod. He made the arrangements while she waited by the fire, and he led her upstairs to a small, sparsely furnished room. It was clean, though a bit cold. Fiona removed her hat but kept on her coat. Lawrence heaped more wood on the fireplace and the fire blazed more brightly. He hefted the thin mattress and laid it on the floor in front of the fireplace. Beckoning to Fiona, she came to him.

She knelt on the mattress and he knelt opposite her. Slowly, he unbuttoned her coat, smiling at her maid's uniform. He ran his hands over her breasts and her narrow waist, then ran them deliberately down her legs. Her head arched back and he saw her swallow. He placed his lips on her throat and kneaded her breasts through the wool of her dress. Fiona moaned and reached for him roughly. They kissed, their mouths wide open and moaning. They undressed quickly, breathing hard, watching each other. When they were naked, he pushed her down and covered her slight body with his own. Her red hair was a blaze against the white sheet, and her deep emerald eyes were wild. She looked feral, depraved, as she always looked during sex, the personification of the bad woman for him, of every perverse desire he'd ever had, and he loved her and hated her as he took her with a cry like an animal's cry.

Columbine smiled at her daughter. “But you already had Christmas, Hawthorn. And your birthday wasn't long ago. You can't ask for more presents, that would be greedy.”

Hawthorn shook back her blond curls and fixed her black eyes on her mother challengingly. “But what if I'm a greedy little girl, Mama?”

Columbine quickly changed a smile into a deep frown. “Well, then, you'd be a bad little girl, wouldn't you? And you'd probably be sent to your room so you could think of how to be better.”

Hawthorn nodded thoughtfully. “If I did that,” she ventured, “could I have a pony?”

“Certainly not,” Columbine replied. “If you came out of your room and asked for a pony, you didn't understand the lesson at all.”

Hawthorn leaned against her knee. “But why can't I have what I want, Mama? Is there a
reason
?”

Hawthorn's enormous dark eyes were serious; she was a little girl who was tremendously fond of reasons. Quicksilver in her moods, creative in her play, she was nonetheless fiercely interested in the logic of things. And when she wanted something, she wanted it passionately.

Columbine helplessly looked over Hawthorn's head at Ned. His green eyes were laughing at her, and he shrugged.

Resting her head on top of Hawthorn's lightly for a moment, Columbine considered her reply. Why
couldn't
Hawthorn have what she wanted? If her mother couldn't, couldn't she at least give her daughter her heart's desire?

“Because it's not fair if just a few people have everything they want, when so many have so little,” she answered automatically. “Remember when we went down to the East Side together? Remember how you said you didn't need as many dolls?”

Hawthorn nodded. “But I never said I'd give up a pony,” she answered logically. “Besides, where would any little girls downtown keep a pony? Their houses are so close together.” She ended on a triumphant note, and looked at Columbine expectantly.

Columbine gave up; sometimes, it was easier. She had a feeling that come spring Hawthorn would have her pony. Ned spoiled the girl. But then again, Columbine had had a pony when she was young, as well. Perhaps it would teach her daughter responsibility. “Didn't Aunt Olive want to read with you before tea, lovey?” she asked. “Why don't you go knock on her door? She's probably waiting for you.”

Reminded of this precious engagement, Hawthorn ran from the room. Columbine turned to Ned with a smile. “She gets the better of me sometimes,” she said.

Ned laughed. “She gets the better of all of us.”

He looked almost well when he laughed; almost like the old Ned. The pinched look left his mouth, and his green eyes were sharp, the way they used to be, before painkillers had dulled them. Ned had been terribly low lately, and seemed to be in more pain than usual.

“It's good to share a laugh together, Neddie,” she said in a sudden burst of affection.

Ned looked uncomfortable. “Yes, it is,” he said shortly. “So much so that I … hesitate to bring up a sore subject.”

“Oh, dear.”

“The Bradley-Martin Fancy Dress Fete. I notice we got an invitation this morning.”

“Oh, Ned. We're not going to argue about this, are we?”

“I dearly hope not. Are you planning to accept?”

Columbine sat up. “Accept? Surely you can't be serious. Ned, this is the most vulgar,
criminally
ostentatious affair I've ever heard of. Have you read the bulletins in the newspapers about the money they'll spend to transform the Waldorf into a replica of Versailles? The tapestries, the jewels, the flowers! The money they're spending on the orchids alone is staggering—five thousand orchids, Ned, think of it when so many are out of work! I can't go to such an affair. It would be against everything I stand for. Now, I went to that awful Christmas party at the Hartleys for you, I drank their punch and introduced Hawthorn to their horrid little girl, but this is too much.”

“It will be the most important event of the season,” Ned said soberly.

“But dear, it's not as though the Bradley-Martins are an old Knickerbocker family. If they were, they wouldn't be giving such a party.”

“But nevertheless, everyone is going.”

Columbine tried to control her temper. It was bad for Ned, but oh, this was infuriating! “Don't you value my reputation at all?” she asked him in a low, furious tone.

“That is precisely—”

“Not my reputation as Mrs. Ned Van Cormandt. My reputation as Columbine Nash. Ned, that's important to me. I won't be seen there. It would be morally repugnant for me to add my support. The whole thing makes me sick!”

“You must start going to these things, Columbine. You can't keep saying this about every large affair it's your duty to attend—”

“It's my duty to draw a line! It's my duty to hold to my convictions, not prostitute myself to gain my daughter points in a game of which I do not approve!”

“You've already done that,” Ned said in a sudden flash of hot anger. “You married me. Wasn't that prostitution? Why are you balking now?”

She stared at him for a moment, shocked at his words. “Oh Ned, what's become of us?” Columbine asked sadly. She turned and walked from the room.

She went upstairs, but she could not stand the solitude of her room, stuffy and warm from the fire. She needed to walk. She gathered her things and rushed out, not caring that they would wonder why she did not appear for tea. She couldn't stand them now, not Ned, not Olive, with her quiet agreement to forcing Columbine to bend to the yoke she surely must have anticipated would be placed upon her. It wasn't fair of her to resist, she raged as she walked quickly down Fifth Avenue in the cold afternoon. Hawthorn was a Van Cormandt. She was the latest in a long line of proper ladies and gentlemen, not the illegitimate daughter of a rebellious, radical novelist.

She wasn't surprised when she found herself hailing a hack and traveling downtown. She wasn't surprised when she found herself at Elijah's door. But she was surprised at the sight of him when he opened the door. It was just that his face had lived in her dreams for so many weeks that it was odd to see it, fresh and clear on a dusky afternoon.

“Come in,” he said.

“You're working.”

“No, I've finished. Columbine, will you come in,” he said with half-laughing impatience. “I'm freezing.”

She walked into the parlor and stood in the middle of the room the same way she'd done that first time she'd come. “You've kept the same house. I'm glad.”

“I'm glad you're here,” he said quietly. His dark eyes were so like Hawthorn's they made her want to weep.

“I don't know why I'm here,” she said, roaming about the room absently.

“I haven't called or come by because I did not think Ned would particularly want to see me. But I've thought of you every day.”

“And I've thought of you every day,” Columbine said, picking up a letter opener and putting it down again.

“I thought it was enough, just being able to think about you again,” Elijah said. “But now I see you here, and I know that it's not.”

Columbine stood at the window, looking out on quiet Eleventh Street. “I don't know what will happen with us.”

“Nor do I,” he said. “But I know what I want to happen.”

She stopped and looked at him. “What?” she asked, with all the ingenuousness of a child.

His smile was slow and certain. “What do you think?”

Desire rushed through her. She stood, simply staring at him. “Oh, Elijah. Oh, my dear.”

He took a step toward her and took her in his arms. His lips were very close to hers, and his eyes held the same passion.

“Don't,” she said breathlessly. “Please, don't.”

Another man would have kissed her. But Elijah let her move back in the circle of his arms. He kept his arms around her lightly, but even the suggestion of how they held her, could hold her, excited her.

“If you kiss me, I won't be able to stop,” Columbine said. “I know that better than I know my own name. But I also know,” she said painfully, “that I can't. I can't, not while I'm married to Ned. And I can't divorce him. So there we are,” she finished, looking him in the eye. “I suppose that's what I came to tell you. That I still love you dreadfully. And that there's no hope.”

“Where there's life, there's hope,” Elijah said gently. “Columbine, you've placed me in an impossible position. I want to be your lover. But this time, I also want to be your friend. Perhaps we should start there.”

They exchanged a rueful smile. “If we're going to start there,” she said weakly, “would you please release me? I never claimed to be a saint, you know.”

Marguerite woke at dawn. She lay alone in her bed and watched the light come up. She was wide awake, though usually it took her three cups of strong coffee to feel ready to leave her bed. In the first months of their marriage, when she'd woken in Willie's bed, he'd brought the coffee to her, padding out to the front room when the waiter knocked. He didn't want anyone to see her in the morning, he said. She was too beautiful, he said, too perfect. And he did not want her to dress for propriety's sake.

Marguerite closed her eyes, remembering the deep, languid morning love she and Willie had made. She pressed her legs together and turned over in bed, remembering. There had been such laughter and tenderness between them then. Color flooded her cheeks when she remembered Willie's words on Christmas Day: I wouldn't have you if you begged on your knees.

Abruptly, Marguerite threw back the covers and ran to the mirror. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, and she brushed it just enough to look becoming, though it still looked tousled from sleep. Then she quickly slipped out of her satin nightgown.

Naked and barefooted, she ran across the carpet and hesitated only a moment at the connecting door to his suite of rooms. Hearing no sign of movement, she pushed it open cautiously.

He was still asleep. Good. She padded across the carpet as softly as she could. His face turned away from her, bare to the waist and probably naked under the covers, he slept on the far side of the bed. Holding her breath, she slid underneath the covers and moved carefully toward him.

She slipped one bare arm around his side and nestled her head against his bare back. He stirred, just a bit. She slid her hand along his front until she found him, satiny and soft, and she stroked him in a whisper-soft movement. She pressed her lips against his back and touched his skin with her tongue. He groaned, still half-asleep, and he shifted so that he was more exposed to her. Carefully, Marguerite slid around his body so that she was facing him. She trailed her mouth down his chest. She licked and stroked as softly as a kitten.

“Marguerite,” he said thickly. “What—”

She didn't answer, but continued her movements. She touched him with love and great tenderness, and he swelled in her mouth and hands and surrendered to her with a groan, holding her head between his hands and whispering “damn you” through clenched teeth, finally bringing her up against his body so he could see her, feel her completely.

They made love with the old passion. She had him, Marguerite thought, delirious with her desire, her legs wrapped around him. Her husband, her man, she had him, he still must love her, he must, he must…. And then it was over, and she was limp and bathed in sweat, and she was kissing his shoulder, not even aware that he was lying slack on top of her, not reciprocating her kisses, his face turned toward the wall.

Marguerite managed to convince herself that her marriage had been renewed. It wasn't necessary to talk about it, she told herself. How she hated people who had to talk about things endlessly! Willie hated that too. They were in complete communion now; they knew that the lovemaking that morning had signalled a new beginning.

Marguerite considered the proof of this when Willie had agreed so readily to going together to the Bradley-Martin ball at the Waldorf. Lately, they had gone to affairs separately, as was perfectly proper these days. But this was such an extravagant, splashy affair, sure to be great fun. Like everyone else, Marguerite gossiped about the preparations avidly, discussing what everyone would wear and how many jewels they would sport. The guests were all supposed to come as figures from the French court, but that did not stop Mrs. Bradley-Martin from confiding her intention to impersonate Mary Stuart. Her bow to the French theme was a ruby necklace once worn by Marie Antoinette.

Marguerite enjoyed the delicious question of her costume for several days. She toyed with the idea of going as a simple peasant girl, but she longed to wear her new pearl choker. Willie was no help. He answered all her musings with the statement that she would be lovely no matter what she decided. His replies seemed rather wooden, but Marguerite knew he was busy these days deciding on a new show.