The Gilded Cage (6 page)

He picked up a ham sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. Columbine was the daughter of a duke, or a viscount—he could never keep track of English titles, but he knew she came from money. That was most likely why she knew Darcy Finn, who had thrown away her fortune to marry that blackguard Irishman with the threatening brows who had sent him packing. Thank God for the absurd delicacy of upper crust relations. Columbine would never know, he hoped, about his pursuit of Darcy Finn.

Lawrence put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling, picturing Columbine slipping out of her dressing gown. He smiled. If every bourgeois had his bomb, as the French anarchists sang, every woman had her key.

On New Year's Day, callers began to arrive at the house on Twenty-third Street in the early afternoon. Columbine, Bell, and Marguerite had been preparing since seven for the guests. Journalists, union organizers, poets, socialists, reformers, society folk, and a few extravagantly-clad ladies who were instantly recognizable as prostitutes, who stayed only a few minutes, to pay their respects to Columbine.

There was no stiff formality, but fast talk and quick laughter, an argument or two. Columbine floated through it all, her honeyblond hair gleaming as the fire caught it on this dark January day. She wore a velvet dress the color of cognac that was trimmed with beaded black passementerie. The tiny diamond earrings Ned had given her for Christmas winked and shimmered in her ears. But Ned himself did not show up.

Across the room, Marguerite saw the diamonds in Columbine's ears and banged down the tray of sugar cookies on a small table. Columbine lived like a pauper, but she still shimmered in diamonds and silks, was still considered one of the most beautiful women in New York. She had an enormously rich lover, and she enjoyed the fruits of those relations. Marguerite wondered if it might be more fun to be a mistress than a wife, but instantly banished those wicked thoughts. Columbine had been married already. It was easier to take a lover when you had Mrs. as your title.

As if her restless thoughts had brought him, Horatio Jones entered the parlor, his hat in his hand. His eyes didn't meet Marguerite's as he wished her an overly hearty New Year.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I hope the new year is good to you.” Marguerite smiled, deepening the dimple in her left cheek. “I hope you get everything you desire.”

Her words dripped with a vague but tantalizing private meaning, and Horatio glanced behind him. Bell was engaged in conversation with Lawrence Birch, and he looked back at Marguerite again. “I wish you the same, Miss Corbeau,” he said blandly. There was not a hint of fliration in his tone, Marguerite noted with disappointment. “Can you tell me, by any chance, who that gentleman with the light hair is? There, over by the fireplace. I've not seen him here before.”

Marguerite didn't need to turn. “Lawrence Birch,” she said dismissively. “A visitor from California.”

“An acquaintance of Mrs. Nash, then,” Horatio said, his casual tone barely concealing the relief in his voice. Could he really believe, Marguerite thought incredulously, that his problems with Bell had to do with a rival?

“That's right, Mr. Jones,” she answered, already bored with the subject. She'd met Mr. Birch at breakfast and was not impressed. He was too poor to tempt her, and she didn't trust his eyes.

“He's a well-looking man,” Horatio said. Now that he knew the man wasn't a rival, he could afford to be generous.

“I suppose,” Marguerite said with a shrug. “But I prefer a different sort altogether.”

“Yes, well,” Horatio said gruffly. “I see Mrs. Nash is free. I should pay my respects.” He bowed, and Marguerite gave him one last pretty smile. She frowned as she watched him cross the room. Perhaps it was time to step up her campaign. A blunt approach? Did she have the courage? Or, more to the point, would it work?

“So you work at the New Women Society with Mrs. Nash,” Lawrence said.

Bell nodded. “I started as a secretary, but now I'm in charge of the Emergency Fund. We reserve part of our budget to help women who are in dire need of funds—to pay rent, or buy food, or fuel…” Her voice trailed off as she became momentarily tangled in Lawrence's pale intent gaze. “I know what an anarchist would say,” she continued with sudden asperity. “A waste of time.”

“Yes, some would,” Lawrence agreed. “It sounds cruel, but the more reformers try to ameliorate the sufferings of the poor, the longer we shall have to wait for them to rise. Johann Most believes the eight hour day, for instance, will only serve to divert the workers, lull them into complacency for more killing years.”

“Perhaps you would not say that,” Bell said, “if you saw how they suffered.”

“Do you think me so removed, Miss Huxton? Do you think I have no heart?”

Confused, Bell looked away. “I don't know. I only speak of my own experience. The eight hour day can alleviate so much hardship for the working class. The drop in industrial accidents alone—”

“Will mean only more profits for the ruling class,” Lawrence interrupted easily.

Her eyes snapped to his face. “So what do a few hands, or fingers, or eyes, of the workers matter?”

Although he didn't answer, she saw now how hard his icy eyes could be. But then he smiled, and the eyes warmed, and she wondered what she'd seen. Still, the thought of the ruthlessness seemed to flood her with warmth, and strangely turned her mind to her struggles upstairs, fighting her flesh, succumbing to her flesh, and sinning. To her horror, Bell blushed.

Lawrence knew she would blush before she did. He'd seen something in her large amber eyes, something that momentarily excited her. Even though she despised him—for he could see by her face how repellent his words had been—she, for an instant, had wanted him. Interesting.

“Perhaps you can show me what you're talking about one day,” he said. “Show me Manhattan's working class. Take me to a factory. Or take me to your office, perhaps.”

“I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly. I'm very busy. If you'll excuse me.” Murmuring an apology, Bell turned away.

Lawrence sank into an armchair and, balancing his teacup, crossed his long legs. His first day in this house was going nicely. Bell was an intriguing puzzle, ice wrapped in a lush body and emotion trapped behind a bland facade. And Columbine … she was beautiful. He hadn't realized how very desirable she was.

He watched her without seeming to watch. She was deep in a friendly conversation with the photographer Jacob Riis and didn't notice when Ned Van Cormandt arrived with a companion, a bearlike man with coal-black hair threaded with gray. It hadn't taken Lawrence long to find out the financier was her lover. He felt nothing but scorn for Columbine's choice. It was true that women could have no real political commitment.

He had met Miss Corbeau at breakfast, and dismissed her almost immediately. Remarkably pretty but too slender, with a white face and a pointed chin. Her eyes were dark blue, studded with bristly black lashes. This morning, Marguerite Corbeau's stunning eyes had flicked over him, noted his face, his clothes, and his boots, and dismissed him. Lawrence smiled to himself. He recognized a fellow sexual adventurer when he saw one. He would have to steer clear of Marguerite.

He made his way over to Columbine, who was now trying to pour tea but slopping it in her saucer. Across the room, Ned was engaged in conversation with his companion, and Columbine was alternately frowning and looking at him, then trying not to look.

“I've met so many interesting people here, Mrs. Nash,” Lawrence said in a low tone. “Thank you.”

“Oh, I'm so glad,” Columbine said distractedly.

“You mentioned that you would introduce me to Mr. Schwab. Any time it's convenient for you.”

Columbine wrenched her eyes away from Ned. “I have a splendid idea, Mr. Birch. I have business downtown tomorrow. Would that suit you?”

Lawrence gave a short bow. “I am at your service, Mrs. Nash.” He moved away as Columbine gave up, put down her teacup, and went to greet Ned.

“Columbine, I'd like you to meet Elijah Reed. Mr. Reed, Mrs. Nash.”

Columbine looked up into a kind, weary face. The man was big and looked strong. It was as though the room was a window, and he was blocking her view of everything but the sky. She shook his hand, and his easily enveloped hers. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Reed. I'm an admirer of your work.”

Elijah Reed was a famous man, a novelist and social commentator who had achieved instant fame at the age of twenty-two with
Look Away,
his account of his Civil War experiences. He was the son of famous Boston abolitionists, and after his mother died he'd run away to join the war at the age of fifteen.

Columbine had met many famous men. But Elijah Reed was known for his intellect and his fire, and she hadn't expected such a tired, and, well,
old
man. He couldn't be more than forty-five, but he could be sixty, the resignation in his voice and posture was so deep.

He bowed slightly. “Then we are well matched, Mrs. Nash, for I admire yours.” She could see now the intelligence in the tired eyes. But still, where was the spark?

He surveyed the room with heavy-lidded eyes and grim-lined lips. Nothing seemed to interest him, nothing could possibly impress him. He didn't look bored, though, Columbine decided. Just projecting the kind of world-weariness that only the Germans could name.
Weltschmerz
.

“Elijah is here for an extended visit,” Ned said. “The
Century
is doing a serial.”

“I'll be sure to look for it,” Columbine said. She kept her eyes trained on Elijah Reed, for Ned was maintaining such a polite, formal tone with her that she wanted to hit him.

“If you'll excuse me,” Ned said. He bowed and moved away.

Elijah Reed watched him go, thoughtfulness in his dark eyes. Then he turned back to Columbine. “I understand that there was some excitement at the Hartley home last night,” he said.

“Yes, a man was horribly injured when some damaged fireworks went off,” Columbine answered. She shuddered, remembering. “It was an awful sight.”

“You were there, Mrs. Nash?”

“I was a guest, yes. I left after the accident.”

“And why was that?”

She gave him a keen look. “I should think the answer to that is obvious, Mr. Reed.”

“Not really,” he said. “For I hear that the dancing continued while the injured man was taken away—with no galloping horses or clanging bells to disturb the music. He lost a great deal of blood, I hear, and almost died.”

“I wasn't there to see,” Columbine said. Elijah Reed didn't strike her as a gossip, but the oddest men were. Ned, for example, always knew before she did what wife was unfaithful, what husband was making a fool of himself over an actress, and who had lost a fortune at Richard Canfield's gaming house.

“I called on the Hartley's earlier,” Elijah said. “They both seemed quite recovered from the shock. But it must have affected their memory, for they could not seem to remember the servant's name. He hadn't been there long, they said.”

“His name is Devlin,” Columbine said. “I believe he worked in the stables, poor man. I hope he doesn't lose that arm. I think Mr. Hartley's behavior was abominable, to continue the party that way.”

“It was Mr. Hartley who decided to begin the dancing?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Van Cormandt and I could not dissuade him. His lack of concern,” Columbine said, one corner of her mouth lifting, “was obvious.” Feeling she had said too much, she smiled her hostess smile at Elijah Reed. “Can I get you some punch, Mr. Reed, or some tea?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Nash,” Elijah Reed answered, and he watched her say goodbye and move away with imperturbable dark gray eyes, sad and wise and absolutely incapable of surprise at any degradations human nature might indulge in.

Ned stayed until the guests had gone and Marguerite and Bell had retreated upstairs for the night. Lawrence bid them good night and headed for his room off the kitchen. Ned played with an unlit cigar and stared into the flames of the fire. Behind him, he heard the rustle of Columbine's skirts as she nestled further into her armchair. “I've never felt so tired in my life,” she said. “Oh, I meant to ask you, Ned—did you find out where Devlin lives?”

“Yes, I talked to Ambrose this morning. It turns out that the red-headed woman he fired—Fiona—is Devlin's wife.”

Columbine gasped. “He fired her? But Ned, what will they do?”

“He won't rehire her, he was adamant about that. But he did agree to a settlement, and I hope he doesn't drag his heels. I sent them a note informing them of this, with Ambrose's permission. They live on Gansevoort, near the river. 145 Gansevoort.”

“That was very good of you, Ned. I'm glad. But Fiona will need another job, I fear.”

“Eventually. But her husband will need nursing. I'll keep an eye on them, Columbine. Now, can we discuss another topic?”