“Can I—”
“Oh, bother, Horatio is coming back.” Toby quickly scribbled something on a small white card. “Here is the address. I’ll send a carriage, and a note with the details. You must come, Miss Corbeau. And I’ll show you a world,” he said earnestly, “where pleasure is not preceded by work. Only by more pleasure. Don’t fail me, Miss Corbeau.” He slipped the card underneath her napkin.
He rose just as Horatio came up. He bent over her hand again. This time, he kissed it. His mustache tickled her knuckle. “Adieu, Miss Corbeau.”
Horatio frowned as he watched Toby walk away with his lithe, bouncing step. “I hope Mr. Wells didn’t annoy you, Marguerite. He can be very impertinent.”
“He was impertinent,” she said slowly. “But I liked it.”
He looked at her sharply. “Did he say anything?”
“Nothing of importance,” Marguerite said. She slid the card from under her napkin and, underneath the tablecloth, slipped it into the tiny purse on her wrist. “Nothing at all.”
Lawrence made love to Fiona Devlin on an empty Hudson pier. There was no moon. Her back was against a piling, and her red hair was loose. Her face was taut and fierce; her thighs gripped his waist as he drove into her. She made no sound at all, but when she reached her climax her eyes flew open and looked into his. Pale green flecked with brown, a tiny triangle of yellow hovered in one corner. Her eyes had a customary wary look, but at that moment they looked preternatural, frightening. She was a woman who could do violence as easily as a man, he thought, and he came in a blinding flood.
He buttoned his trousers and she straightened her dark skirt. “I have to get back,” he said.
“Don’t I know that,” she answered. She twisted her hair into a bun. “Don’t worry, Larry, I won’t be wanting any kisses from you.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said, gripping her arm fiercely. Unfortunately, it was through her coat. It didn’t hurt.
She shook him off like a child. “All right. Let’s be going, then. At least I won’t have to listen to your political lectures.”
A dark shadow passed in front of them; a rat. Lawrence flinched. Without breaking stride, Fiona picked up a heavy piece of wood and threw it, and the rat skittered away. Fiona noticed Lawrence’s revulsion, and she laughed at him over her shoulder. “They’re always with me, the rats.” Her green eyes glinted at him. “One of them even lifts my skirt occasionally.”
She laughed softly again. She loved nothing more than to torment Lawrence Birch. For a blackguard, he could be very stiff—and she didn’t mean underneath his trousers. Fiona smiled with pleasure. It was more the dark moonless night that intoxicated her than the satisfying burn in her lower regions; more the freedom than the sex. Jimmy Devlin wasn’t a bad man, but the accident had left him mean. And who wouldn’t be, with only one arm? It was a sorry day, she thought, shivering, her pleasure suddenly gone, when a wife couldn’t bear her husband’s eyes.
“So where are you rushing off to tonight?” she asked, brushing the back of her coat.
“Mrs. Nash gave a speech at Cooper Union. I’m going to a reception afterward,” he said shortly.
“You’ll drink a toast to the bitch who won’t testify for me and Jimmy?” Fiona asked in a conversational tone. “She knows that Ambrose Hartley is a liar, and Lady Nash won’t say it. Honor among the upper classes.”
“So instead of you listening to my lectures, I listen to yours,” Lawrence said dryly. “Mrs. Nash has her uses, which you’ll soon see.” He slid a hand inside her open coat and squeezed her breast. “When will I see you again?”
“Not for a week, mind. I don’t want Jimmy to be wondering.” Fiona batted away his hand and buttoned her coat with fingers red with cold. The sex had driven out the chill, but it was seeping in again.
“I thought you said since the arm came off he drinks himself into a stupor every day.”
“Jimmy in a stupor is sharper than most men,” Fiona said flatly. “So next week. Besides, I don’t have need of it more than once a week.”
“How romantic you are, Fiona.”
She gave him a twisted smile. “And you are overcome with my charms, are you, boyo? We both know what this is. Now, I’ll be going. Jimmy will be waking soon.”
“Fiona,” he said, stopping her. “Wouldn’t you like to get back at him? Hartley?”
“Of course.” Fiona’s teeth gleamed. “My dreams about murdering him put a smile on my face every morning.”
She drew her shawl over her head and walked quickly away from him, not looking back for a final farewell, a final glimpse of her lover. Lawrence would be surprised if she had. He didn’t mind. He watched her straight back until she was swallowed up by the night.
Lawrence pulled on his gloves. Fiona had what he needed: desperation and hate. She would be the perfect instrument. All she lacked was direction, and he was just the man to provide it.
Eight
BELL OPENED THE door to Lawrence and did not smile. Her lovely eyes instantly slid away from his and concentrated on his coat, which he slipped out of and gave to her. He made sure his fingers brushed hers just to see her involuntary jerk away. Lawrence almost chuckled, but he didn’t. This was as close as he got to feeling omnipotent, having the trace of one woman on his thighs, about to meet the one he would seduce, but first stopping to fluster the one he would keep in reserve.
“A great night for all of us, Miss Huxton,” he said, as Bell folded his coat over her arm.
“Yes, Mr. Birch. I’ll have to put this in the back room. There’s no room in the hall. Everyone is in the parlor, sir,” she added pointedly.
He smiled and lingered. “Yes, I can hear the crowd. Pity you have to run to the door so often.”
“I don’t mind.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he said. “You do so much for her.”
Her eyes flashed a curious look at him. “And why shouldn’t I?”
Lawrence hesitated, a calculated hesitation. “Yes, why shouldn’t you,” he said slowly. She turned to go, but he put a hand on her arm. “I’ve been hoping you’d accept another invitation from me, Miss Huxton. Was our last experience so disagreeable?”
She shook her head. “No, but—”
“But?” He was fascinated by the struggle visible on her face.
“Don’t ask me again,” she said. “Just stop asking me. Please.”
“But why—”
She put her hand over his briefly. “If you’re a gentleman, sir, don’t ask me again. I can’t—”
Elijah Reed walked into the hall, and she backed away quickly.
“I’m sorry,” Elijah said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Reed,” Bell said briskly. “I was just greeting Mr. Birch.”
Lawrence nodded at Elijah. “Good evening, Mr. Reed.”
Bell took the opportunity to turn without a word and head for the back of the house with his coat. Elijah looked after her. “She’s a brave woman,” he mused, more to himself than Lawrence. “It took great courage to do what she did tonight.” He looked at Lawrence. “Don’t you agree?”
Lawrence was confused. Obviously, he’d missed an event of some consequence. Why would Bell have been brave? Had she pushed Columbine out of the path of a streetcar after the lecture? Surely it couldn’t be something so dramatic. Mr. Reed, being a novelist, was most likely exaggerating something. Well, he’d give the old coot a thrill and feign interest in the story. “Oh?” he asked. “What happened?”
Elijah looked at him curiously. “At Columbine’s speech, I mean.”
“Oh,” Lawrence said quickly. “Of course. Yes. Great courage indeed.”
Elijah looked at the younger man, and Lawrence was suddenly uncomfortable under the acuity of those dark, impenetrable eyes.
“Shall we go in?” he asked smoothly.
Elijah followed him into the parlor. He had a writer’s nose for hypocrisy, and he suspected Lawrence Birch. He recognized a smooth recovery, an ade
pt way with a lie. Lawrence had no idea what Elijah had referred to. He didn’t go to Columbine’s speech at all, Elijah thought.
Lawrence melted away as soon as they entered the parlor. He saw Columbine off in a corner, but he wasn’t ready to greet her as yet. Instead, he spoke to a woman Columbine had introduced him to before, a Miss Rosa Giannini from the New Women Society. Ms. Giannini was smart, plump, and prominent of mustache. “Did you enjoy the lecture, Mr. Birch?” she asked, sipping at her punch.
“Very much. Mrs. Nash is a powerful speaker. And Miss Huxton! She showed extraordinary courage.”
Miss Giannini nodded gravely. “I agree. To be the first to stand to such a challenge—my heart beat terribly fast for her. But Mrs. Nash made it easier for the women in the hall by adding that they merely had to know someone dear to them who had been attacked by a family member. So there was less shame, or should I say risk, involved.”
Marvelous. Now he knew everything. “Yes, that was very wise, I’m sure. Will you excuse me, Miss Giannini? I should pay Mrs. Nash my respects.”
“Of course.”
Lawrence hurried across the room. There was reproach in Columbine’s soft brown eyes when he reached her. “Mr. Birch,” she said with exaggerated charm. “How very kind of you to come.”
He felt the slap, and he smiled. “You were extraordinary,” he said.
“I looked for you afterward. Why didn’t you come back to see me?”
Of course, Columbine would be direct. Other women would merely hold a grudge; Columbine would ask. Lawrence moved a bit closer. He held her gaze, not wavering. “I’m rather ashamed to tell you,” he confessed.
“I wish you would, however.”
“I couldn’t bear to share you at such a moment,” Lawrence admitted with a smile. “I am embarrassed to report that I was a child. I wanted you to myself. Don’t be angry with me.”
Columbine’s eyes stayed on him gravely. “I hardly know how to feel.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have, Lawrence.”
“I haven’t thought of anything but that kiss.”
“Don’t.” Columbine spoke tersely; how could Lawrence speak of the kiss here, in this company? Elijah Reed was heading for them, and she didn’t want him to overhear.
As Elijah came up, Lawrence turned to him immediately. “I was just telling Mrs. Nash how moved I was by her speech.”
“I thought the end was particularly moving,” Elijah said. “What did you think of that technique, Mr. Birch?”
Lawrence could have laughed. So Mr. Reed had suspected him after all. But what a clumsy trap!
“I thought it was an excellent idea,” he said, turning immediately to Columbine. “You began so simply with the hospital report on that unfortunate girl. And to ensure that every member of the audience knew how widespread the horror is, you invite everyone who has been touched by that horror to stand. I was especially impressed with Miss Huxton. She showed extraordinary courage, to stand up first like that.”
Elijah raised a black eyebrow. “Excellent point, Mr. Birch.” He turned to Columbine. “I’m sorry to tell you that I’ve heard some bad news. Mr. Hartley had a heart attack earlier this evening.”
Columbine gasped, but it was Lawrence who looked the most shocked, Elijah noted. It was almost as if he were angry. A curious reaction for an anarchist.
“How unfortunate!” he said tightly.
Columbine’s eyes were anxious. “Is he expected to recover?”
“Yes, but he’ll be abed for quite some time,” Elijah said vaguely, still thinking of Lawrence’s odd reaction.
Lawrence had regained his composure, and he said, “I suppose there are two people in this city who will not be crushed by the news.”
“The Devlins, of course. Have you heard from them about my offer, Lawrence?” Columbine asked him.
Elijah started when he heard Columbine call the man by his Christian name. Exactly how intimate were they? he wondered. He’d told himself that Columbine could not possibly be Lawrence Birch’s mistress. He’d also told himself that it was none of his business.
“Yes, I’m afraid they will not pursue the matter through the courts,” Lawrence said. “They are very private people, like most of the Irish. And they do not think their chances of success are very great.”
“They’re probably correct. Still, I’m sorry to hear it,” Elijah said.
“How will they ever get along?” Columbine asked in distress.
“I understand they have a benefactor,” Lawrence said smoothly, “an anonymous one. The party has settled the medical bills and given them a loan.” It was a lie, but he couldn’t have Columbine interfering in the Devlins’ lives any more.
Ned, Columbine thought. “Thank goodness,” she said quietly.
“So that story is over, at least,” Lawrence said. “They will not need you to testify, Columbine.”
He smiled, and Elijah felt a pang of superstitious fear. Those odd, pale eyes were so frightening. Something nudged at Elijah, a nudge, as a writer, he had come to respect. Something is wrong here, he thought. On the spot, he decided to find out a few facts about the mysterious Mr. Birch.
At three in the morning, Columbine woke with a start.
“Not again,” she groaned into the blackness. She flipped over and drew the comforter up to her chin. She’d thought that tonight, of all nights, she’d sleep. By the time the last guests, Lawrence Birch and Elijah Reed, had left at midnight, she’d been exhausted. The two men had sat in her parlor like stones, as though waiting the other out. She wondered why Elijah Reed had stayed so long. Perhaps he was lonely, she mused. He was a widower, had been one for ten years. You’d think he’d have gotten used to his solitary state before now. He certainly seemed to be comfortable with it.
Sighing, Columbine flipped over again. She thought of Elijah’s watchful coal-black eyes. She liked the way his name moved on her tongue. E-li-jah.
Groaning, Columbine sat up. She hadn’t indulged in this sort of ridiculous behavior since she was a teenager, waiting for love and mooning over the local curate.
Well, she might as well give up. She pulled on a robe and padded downstairs softly. The parlor was cold, so she kindled the fire and poured herself a brandy. Gathering up a quilt, she deposited herself on the sofa and leaned against the padded side. She pulled the quilt over her, shivering in the cold, still room. She’d outmanuever her sleeplessness, she decided. She’d let sleep sneak up on her while she pretended not to care.
“Columbine, what are you doing awake?” Bell came in the parlor, her thick, lustrous hair loose on her shoulders.
“I could ask the same of you,” Columbine pointed out genially. “It seems my insomnia has returned.”
Bell hesitated. “Would you mind some company?”
“Not at all. Pour yourself a brandy and grab hold of some of this quilt.”
Bell poured herself a small brandy and returned to recline on the sofa, leaning against the opposite end. She drew the quilt up to her chin. “It was a wonderful night,” she said. “You were wonderful. Did you see Ivy?”
“Yes.”
“She was very grateful.”
Columbine gave a deep sigh and looked into her brandy. “I expected her to resent me. When I first came to her and asked if I could tell Sally’s story, she was so grieved she could barely even comprehend what I was saying. I was afraid she would begin shrieking at me, throw me out of the house.”
“Why did you think that?” Bell asked softly.
“I felt guilty, Bell. Didn’t you?”
Bell shook her head. “No. We did everything in our power, Columbine. We gave her what she needed. Money.”
“But she needed safety,” Columbine said slowly. “And that we could not give. That’s what I keep thinking about, Bell. All those women, all those women who stood up in Cooper Union today, what have I done for them? Where can they go? It all keeps going around and around in my mind. You k
now I’ve been so dissatisfied lately with what I’ve been able to do. This is just further proof of it. I feel so terribly inadequate in the face of this.”
“You kept me safe once, Columbine.” Bell smiled. “Remember? You have to concentrate on individuals, or you want to lay down and give up. You helped me.”
Columbine reached out and touched her hand. “And you’ve helped me, many times over. What would I do without you?”
“But it’s not the same,” Bell said urgently. She leaned toward Columbine. “I was trapped. I had no resources. I was abused, I was violated, I was beaten. I took it all as my due. Without you, I wouldn’t have known there was another way. Without you, I am quite certain I’d be dead.”
“Oh, Bell. No.”
Bell cupped her brandy thoughtfully. “I’m not trying to console you, or flatter you, Columbine. It’s a fact. I needed more than money, and you gave me what I needed. Ideas, for example. And the first one was that I was not at fault. That was a revolution, Columbine, perhaps a quieter one than is commonly discussed in history books, but it reverberated through my life, and it can reverberate through other women’s lives, and that is what will change things.”
“But until then, Bell. Until then, what are those women who stood tonight to do? What did you do?”
“I had you,” Bell said. “Maybe if they’re lucky they’ll find someone. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You took care of practicalities. I needed a place to sleep. You gave me that. Sometimes the whole world can change if you just have a place to sleep. A place where you are protected. A place where your body can be safe, can begin to heal.” Bell swirled the brandy she had yet to taste. “The mind is another matter,” she whispered.
Columbine didn’t hear the last whispered sentence. She was too busy thinking of what had come before. Bell had never talked about her earlier years, spoke of pain, or anguish, or frustration. She did her work, she was calm and friendly and resourceful. Sometimes Columbine wondered if Bell had any passions at all. She hadn’t thought in years of what it must have been like for sixteen-year-old Bell to have a place to go. Columbine had been almost a child herself then, twenty-one and already famous in England. But she hadn’t yet known how desperate the poor were, how they lived. She’d known misery, but she’d never known want. She hadn’t realized exactly how much her offer of safety and warmth had meant to Bell.
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