The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  By the end of her speech, Columbine imagined that each person in the crowd was leaning toward her. Their pale faces were upturned and rapt. No one coughed, and no one stirred.

  “Silence,” she said. “They tell us silence keeps us safe. With silence, we remain honorable wives, mothers, daughters. But what honor is this, and who defines it? Our husbands, our fathers. The same husbands and fathers who have raped us, have beaten us. The same uncles who have slipped their hands inside our bodices. The same brothers who have invaded our beds.” Another gasp went up, and Columbine charged on. “What happened to Sally Hoover is a crime. And that crime is added to a multitude of similiar crimes too horrific to conceive of. But when we add our silence to those crimes—that becomes our deepest shame. I hear the multitudes crying. I hear Sally Hoover’s voice crying. And she is crying ‘Shame.’”

  Columbine paused. She looked out into the crowd, and she caught Bell’s eye. Bell nodded at her encouragingly, and Columbine felt her palms grow damp. She’d discussed the ending of the speech over and over with Bell, and finally, she’d decided to go ahead with her plan. It could backfire, she knew. But now, Columbine let no trace of fear enter her voice. That was the point, wasn’t it?

  “What would happen,” she asked, leaning forward and looking from face to face of the women in the audience, “if we women told the truth about our lives? I say if we told the truth here, tonight, it would surge out of the doorways and run down the stairs in a coursing stream until it was a river of righteousness raging through the streets of our city and our nation.” Columbine held the eyes of the women in the first rows of the hall. “Stand up,” she said, and a thin-faced woman in the first row jumped. “If you yourself have been beaten, if you yourself have suffered abuse at the hands of your father, your uncle, your brother, your husband. Stand up. If you have a friend, a sister, a mother, an aunt who has suffered that abuse, stand up. Show us. Show this hall, show this city, show this nation how widespread this cancer is. For God’s sake—for women’s sake, stand up. You’ll notice,” Columbine added, her voice softer but still carrying to the farthest reaches of the hall, “that I am standing, too.”

  There was a pause. Then, as agreed, Bell stood. It took ten agonizing seconds before Ivy Moffat stood, a few rows away, as she’d promised to Columbine. She saw another woman stand, a stranger, near the back of the hall. Then another. And another. No one spoke, no one moved except the countless women, some dressed in fine hats and cloaks, some in the plain black of the working girl, who rose and stood, erect and silent, by their chairs. Tears burned behind Columbine’s eyes but still she waited, then waited longer, for more women kept standing until it seemed the great hall at Cooper Union was filled with women standing, giving silent testimony. When Columbine was sure that every woman who had the courage to stand had done so, she nodded. Then she turned away and walked off the stage. She had prepared a few more words, but this was the most eloquent conclusion she could reach.

  She stood trembling in the wings as the hall exploded with applause. Someone pushed her back toward the stage, and she stood for a moment, hearing their cheers, then quickly walked off again. She didn’t feel triumphant and exhiliarated, as she usually felt after a speech. It hadn’t turned out to be her speech at all. It was the speech of the hundred silent women who had stood in the end.

  Columbine reached out shakily to grab the edge of a dusty curtain to steady herself for a moment. Then people were rushing at her, women she worked with, people she didn’t know, people she knew. At first she could hardly distinguish the faces. She looked for Elijah Reed, but she didn’t see him, and she felt disappointed. Why she felt she needed that man’s approval she didn’t know. Again, Columbine felt irritated, and then was irritated at her irritation.

  She was led to small reception area, where she barely had time to drink a glass of water and catch her breath before they were on her again. Congratulations bubbled from every mouth. Everyone looked energized, excited. But the question was, would anything change? Would they risk embarrassment or anger to question the rights of a husband? Would they still even care a month from now?

  She looked over the bobbing heads for Lawrence, but she didn’t see him. He had told her he would be first backstage to greet her. Instead, Elijah Reed came forward. He was dressed in a dark suit, and for once, his shirt was pressed and starched.

  “It was an excellent speech,” he said quietly. “You said what needed to be said.”

  “Thank you,” Columbine murmured softly, to hide her pleasure at his words. “And thank you for giving me the chance. It was good of you to wait.”

  “I knew you would say yes,” he said imperturbably.

  She bristled. “Do you know me so well, Mr. Reed?”

  He looked at her appraisingly. “No,” he said seriously. “But I’m a good guesser.”

  She couldn’t help smiling at that. “Are you coming back to the house afterward? Bell is giving a little reception.”

  He bowed. “Of course. Miss Huxton has already asked me. I’ll see you there.”

  He moved away. Behind him, Columbine saw Ned moving toward her.

  “Oh, Ned, I’m so glad you came,” she said when he came up.

  “It was a wonderful success,” he said. He did not take her hand or kiss her cheek. “I was very moved.”

  “Thank you,” Columbine said. “How is your work in Washington? I see your name in the papers every other day, it seems.”

  “It keeps me busy. It’s a city of charlatans, Columbine. I’ve met some characters, let me tell you,” he said, laughing.

  How like old times it was, Columbine thought. Yet how not. Ned’s stories had kept her so amused. She’d forgotten that, how his bemusement at fools could make her laugh.

  But someone else came up to congratulate her, and Ned slipped away with a bow. She shook hands and chatted and when she looked around again, he was gone.

  Columbine began to wonder why Lawrence did not appear. She frowned. He had spoken so eagerly of seeing her speak tonight. Where was he?

  Though he hadn’t kissed her again, and she was quite sure she wouldn’t have allowed it if he had tried, she still found herself drawn to him strangely. They hadn’t discussed the kiss, but it lay between them, constricting her behavior now, making her a little shy with him. Lawrence had taken a room near Tompkins Square, but he seemed to be at the house almost as often. And he always seemed to arrive when she was frustrated or bored or needed a break, bringing kuchen from the local bakery near his house, or flowers, or whatever small thing struck his fancy on the way.

  A slender arm slid around her waist, and she turned to confront the quiet amber eyes of Bell. “It was a great success,” Bell said, kissing her cheek.

  “You were as much a part of that speech as I was,” Columbine told her. “Thank you for everything. Have you seen Lawrence, by the way?”

  Bell’s arm slipped off Columbine’s waist and fell to her side. “No, I haven’t.”

  Columbine hesitated, but she could see how Bell’s spine had stiffened. She knew that Bell wasn’t very fond of Lawrence. “I suppose we’ll see him back at the house.”

  “Yes,” Bell said quickly. “And perhaps we should think of leaving.”

  “Bell, are you all right?”

  “Of course. I’d better not monopolize your time. I’ll see about a carriage.”

  “All right.” Columbine watched Bell move through the crowd thoughtfully. Her head had been buried in her lecture for the past few weeks, that was clear. Bell seemed troubled by something. Ever since Sally Hoover’s death, she hadn’t been herself. Even little Marguerite had been scarce lately.

  Shaking her head, Columbine surveyed the crowd a bit impatiently. Fiery Leonora O’Reilly, who was working on founding a consumer’s society, had captured an intent Elijah Reed’s attention. Bell had disappeared. Marguerite hadn’t come at all. And where was Lawrence?

  Lawrence heard the first ten minutes of Columbine’s speech, but he felt no impetus to
remain. The speech would be another success in one long trail of successes for the notable Columbine Nash. Another speech that explored another issue that was completely beside the point. The world was crushing the spirit of honest men while Columbine and her girls fretted about a few women who had the misfortune to marry bad men. If the system were changed, those men would not need to resort to violence in their homes, they would be free. Columbine was, as usual, focusing on too narrow a vision.

  Lawrence was the man for expansive visions; it should have been him up there declaiming to a rapt audience. He hurried through Astor Place, crossing the dark streets, picturing the adulation, the notices in all the papers about his brilliance. It was time to demonstrate his commitment. It was past time.

  It was a long walk to the western edge of Greenwich Village, but Lawrence welcomed the cold air and the darkness. He had a rendezvous which demanded a cool head. He had perhaps an hour or so, no more, before Columbine would miss him. He would have to tell her how wonderful she had been. For a strong woman, Columbine was terribly in need of reassurance.

  He was tantalizing her. After that first kiss, he hadn’t touched her. He’d merely looked. And she was teetering oh-so delicately on the edge of her resistance. In another week, she would fall. Until then …

  Balancing carefully on the wooden board so as not to dirty his boots, Lawrence picked his way across the back yard toward the peeling maroon door. He knocked once, lightly. The door opened, and Fiona Devlin slipped out through a crack, adjusting a shawl over her head. Without a word, they started across the yard toward the street. But as soon as they reached the side of the house, Fiona pulled Lawrence to her passionately. Her rough, pale hands drew his face down toward hers. The callouses on her fingers excited him, as they always did.

  “I was waiting,” she whispered. “Too long.”

  Marguerite was bored. Now that she had Horatio, she didn’t know if she wanted him so terribly much. Since that moment when Bell had seen them together, Horatio’s sexual interest in her had waned. Marguerite could no longer tantalize him; she barely seemed to interest him. From the moment Bell had walked in that room, her fate had been sealed. Horatio would forever associate that escapade with Marguerite’s irresponsibility, and, being an essentially serious man—she had not realized how very serious was Horatio’s nature—he would recoil from her. Oh, he would continue to act in a gentlemanly fashion. He would squire her about, he would be solicitious for her comfort. But he would not slide any farther into love. And he would never marry her.

  Marguerite sighed and dangled her empty champagne glass from a negligent hand. She had begged prettily for Horatio to bring her to Rector’s champagne palace on Broadway, and finally, the lout had agreed. Horatio had wanted to attend Columbine’s address at Cooper Union. But Marguerite had had enough of politics. Her work at the New Women Society would succeed in sending her to a madhouse. If Horatio didn’t send her there first. Besides, it was better to avoid Bell these days, even if they were off the hook.

  She had waited for days for the ax to fall, for Bell to denounce her, for Columbine to disown her. But Bell merely avoided her. When Marguerite’s nerves threatened to crack, she’d had no choice but to seek out Bell herself. She had gone to Bell in her office—for she knew Bell’s room would have rather unpleasant connotations—and confessed that she was beside herself with remorse. That she’d fallen quite helplessly in love with Horatio, and she was sorry. Bell had patted her shoulder and said in a expressionless voice, “I’m glad.”

  So now that Marguerite could see Horatio without fear, the man fell apart on her. Lately, Horatio was a lump on a log. In the middle of glittering Rector’s, full of actors, actresses, society folk, society climbers, gamblers, journalists, senators, charlatans, and fools, he was bored! He stared down into his wonderful food as though it were fit only for his dog.

  At first, Marguerite had been thrilled just to be there. The headwaiter had bowed to them, and with an imperceptible glance at Marguerite’s blue velvet gown and glowing skin, seated them at a prominent table. But she waited in vain to converse brilliantly with the scores of famous people Horatio knew. Horatio was so morose that after a few jovial remarks, people drifted away from their table. Marguerite had never been so frustrated, including when she had been in bed with Horatio earlier.

  “Could I have a tiny bit more champagne?” she asked him, trying to hold on to a charming lilt while she wanted to screech at him.

  Before Horatio could answer, someone else intruded. “Certainly, you must,” came a voice from behind her chair. A deep baritone voice, an interesting voice. “Allow me.”

  She twisted in her seat to locate the source of that deep voice, and was immediately disappointed. The man had twinkling hazel eyes, true, and he was young, but he was too short. Not a very commanding presence. But at least he was a man. Marguerite flashed her dimples at him, hoping Horatio would be jealous.

  “Allow me to present Miss Marguerite Corbeau,” Horatio said. “Miss Corbeau, this is Mr. Toby Wells.”

  “Charmed.” He bent over her hand and kissed the air above it. Then he slid the champagne out of its silver bucket and refilled her glass with a flourish. “Not a drop spilled. Perhaps I missed my calling,” he said in an odd, mocking way. His eyes traveled over Marguerite with a rakishness that drove the boredom from her mind with a delicious, bracing shock.

  “I’d love to join you for a drink,” Toby Wells went on, pulling a chair over and sitting next to Marguerite. “How kind of you to ask me, Horatio.”

  Horatio looked annoyed. “Really, Wells.”

  “Yes, really, I would love to,” Toby continued, still staring at Marguerite. Then he returned his attention to Horatio. “I must tell you, old man, Felix Bartholemew Dillon is over in the corner hiding behind a very large palm. He’s wondering aloud why you haven’t come over to greet him. And he’s already consumed several bottles of champagne, and he’s in a, shall we say, expansive mood.”

  A spark of interest lit Horatio’s eyes. Felix Dillon was highly placed in state politics, and was currently involved in a minor scandal involving an Italian opera singer. He’d been avoiding journalists for weeks. “I suppose I should speak to him,” Horatio said, rising. “Will you—”

  “I’ll watch over Miss Corbeau, never fear,” Toby answered with a gay smile. As soon as Horatio was out of earshot, he turned back to Marguerite. “He’s an awfully dull fellow, your Horatio.”

  “My Horatio?”

  “Mmmm. So serious-minded. I’m surprised to see him here. And,” Toby added, after a sip of champagne, “I am especially surprised that he ordered such fine champagne. It must be a tribute to the lady at the table.”

  “You’re an awfully insolent gentleman,” Marguerite observed calmly.

  “Ah, you’re under the mistaken impression I’m a gentleman, then. We’ll have to remedy that. But we’d need more champagne, and I doubt Horatio will spring for another bottle.” Toby looked sad.

  Marguerite laughed. “What is it that you do, Mr. Wells?”

  “I’m an actor, of course. Couldn’t you tell?”

  “I’ve never met an actor before. What are his general characteristics?”

  “Well, let’s see. John Booth aside, we’re very placid creatures. Fond of comfort, very good company. And we love to invent ruses to get beautiful young ladies alone.”

  “Was that a ruse then?” Marguerite asked. “Poor Mr. Jones. He’ll be terribly embarrassed when Mr. Dillon refuses to acknowledge him.”

  Toby poured them both more champagne. “Oh, I have more faith in Horatio than that, don’t you? I’m hoping for ten minutes more with you, at least.”

  “And what will you do with your ten minutes, sir?” Exhilaration pulsed through Marguerite. She felt flushed, lovely, and witty. So this was what banter was, she thought. Horatio never bantered. His jokes were usually over her head, for she never read the newpapers or anything much at all. But everything Toby Wells said seemed designed to let her know t
hat he found her attractive. The words weren’t important, it was the eyes that spoke. Marguerite found his manner delightful. And could there be more men like this, she wondered, who could make her feel so beautiful, so alive? Better looking than Toby, and certainly richer?

  “Let me see. For the next ten minutes I will try to charm you completely, Miss Corbeau. I will try to intrigue you. And perhaps I will succeed in securing a promise from you that I may call on you again.”

  He looked at her with dancing eyes, and she couldn’t help smiling back. “Well?” she asked. “I’m waiting. Charm me.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “So I am not going to be indulged. I shall have to work for my pleasure.”

  “Most of us do,” Marguerite said.

  He stopped then, and moved closer to her. “That’s where you are wrong, Miss Corbeau,” he said in a confiding tone. “Most of us do not. At least in my world. If one has to work for pleasure, how fully can pleasure be enjoyed?”

  Suddenly, Marguerite grew vastly more interested in the dandy Toby Wells. “What is your world, Mr. Wells?” she asked, affecting unconcern as she smoothed the feathers on her fan.

  “But how can I tell you with words? I’m an actor, Miss Corbeau, and I know words can confuse, can exaggerate, can lie. Let me show you,” Toby cried, as if with sudden inspiration. “A friend of mine is giving a party Wednesday night. I’d like you to come.”

  “A dinner party?” She’d never been to a dinner party. She’d merely served at them.

  “Yes, a dinner party. A very special dinner party.”

  Marguerite thought it prudent to give a show of reluctance. “I hardly know you well enough, Mr. Wells,” she said primly.

  “Would you like to introduce me to your mother?” he asked gaily. “I would be honored, of course.”

  Marguerite’s face changed. “She’s no longer living.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry,” he said, but he didn’t seem sorry at all. “Perhaps I should explain about the party. Can you sing?”