She met Horatio in Central Park. He looked miserable, his hat jammed down too far on his head. He must have walked all the way there, for his face was red with cold. She felt quite sorry for him. She greeted him with a cool nod, and they turned without a word and headed down a gravel walk.
“Why have you been avoiding me, Horatio?” she asked petulantly as soon as they were past a group of young girls with their nannies.
Shocked, Horatio looked into her still white face. “Me? Marguerite, my dear, how can you say such a thing to me? I’ve sent you a note every day, I’ve called—”
“Duty, merely,” she flung out. “You’ve bedded me, and so you’ll be a gentleman about it.” There was a flash of something across Horatio’s face, for she’d hit her mark, and she pressed on. “I knew I could never drive Bell out of your heart!” she cried.
“Marguerite, please, listen to me—”
“No,” she said, walking more rapidly, “Every word cuts me to the heart, Horatio. You will never love me, I know that now.”
“But, Marguerite—” Horatio tried. He wanted to tell her that he could love her, that though Bell would always be part of him, it was time to go on. He felt foolish and callow continuing to yearn for a woman who didn’t want him. He wanted to lose himself in Marguerite.
But Marguerite interrupted him again. “Please don’t continue,” she said. She stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “It’s my fault as well as yours, Horatio. I pursued you shamelessly. I let my heart run away with me.”
“It is to your credit that you did so, dear,” he said gently. “I never blamed you for that.”
She bit her lip. “I know, you were very kind.” Suddenly, Marguerite felt exasperated. Horatio had been very kind. She was grateful to him. But he was in her way! She was terrified that he had begun to love her, now that she was sure that she would never possibly want him. “Horatio,” she began again, softly and reasonably, “I release you from your obligation to me. If I cannot be first in your heart, I don’t want to be there at all.”
He looked around him at the bare trees, confused. Didn’t she love him, after all? She had whispered so often of her love, her devotion. And she was giving him up? “But I cannot be with Bell,” he said. “She has made that clear. And with time, her image can be supplanted by another. Marguerite, I am being most sincere. I cannot lie to you. I will never lie to you. I was in love with Bell, and such feelings do not die away overnight. But I will be true to you.”
Marguerite gave an ironic smile, and suddenly she did not look as young as she usually did. “I have enough vanity to say that I could not wait for the day when you consider me first, Horatio.” She touched his arm, and he noticed how fine her glove was. He wondered, fleetingly, how she could have afforded such a fine kid glove, trimmed in sable. “I release you,” she said softly. “I will not be an obligation to you any longer.”
“But, Marguerite—”
She went up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips were cold. “Goodbye, dear Horatio. I’ll never forget you.”
And then she was gone, walking rapidly down the path the way they’d come. Horatio stared after her for a few minutes, then sank onto a bench and stared at his shoes. He felt dizzy, as though he’d been furiously waltzing in a bright ballroom for hours without a rest, whirling around and around and around, his vision growing blurred and his mind fevered, while a slight young body twisted and turned beneath him. Now his hands were empty, and he had nothing. He felt stunned, and he realized that it was very cold, and he was alone.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Van Cormandt,” Elijah Reed said.
Ned nodded. “Of course, Mr. Reed. How are you enjoying New York City?”
“Very much,” Elijah answered.
“I read your story in the Century,” Ned remarked pleasantly.
“Yes,” Elijah said, “and I understand it caused you some difficulty. I’m sorry for that.”
Ned waved a hand. “Nothing worth mentioning. I thought it was an excellent article, and I was happy to see the story printed, though little good it did,” he said with a grimace. “All New York, it seems, is enjoying clucking over the details of the Seraglio Dinner and exactly what shade of peacock blue the shawls were made of. Now, what can I do for you?”
Elijah shifted in his seat a bit. “This is rather awkward …” he began. Damn, he hated feeling uncomfortable. He never should have come. But he was here.
“Please don’t hesitate,” Ned said. His light green eyes were genial, warm. He was a good man, Elijah saw. “If I can help you with something, please be assured that I am at your disposal, Mr. Reed.”
“It’s about Mrs. Nash,” Elijah said, and he saw the other man start. Ned covered it by reaching for his cigar box. He offered it to Elijah, and he took one. While they went through the masculine ritual of lighting them, Ned regained his composure. His eyes were placid when they returned to Elijah’s face.
“Yes, Mr. Reed?”
“I’ve become acquainted with Mrs. Nash through the lecture series I’m arranging for Cooper Union.”
“Yes, yes, excellent series, I got a subscription ticket. Unfortunately, I’ll be making frequent trips to Washington, so I’ll miss a few of the talks.”
“I’ve noticed that she had made the acquaintance of a young man, about twenty-eight or so, a Mr. Lawrence Birch.”
Ned’s face darkened immediately. “I have met Mr. Birch.”
Elijah felt encouraged by Ned’s reaction. “I must be frank, Mr. Van Cormandt. I do not know Mrs. Nash very well, so I feel uneasy in interfering in her life, in suggesting that the lady might be taken advantage of by a man of whom she knows nothing. Nevertheless, I felt I had to act. I took the liberty of digging into the man’s past a bit.” Elijah cleared his throat, a sure sign that he was nervous. “I’ve done a little investigating, and I believe that Mr. Birch is unscrupulous, and possibly dangerous.”
“He’s an anarchist,” Ned said. He said it to stall; it was a technique of his to state a fact instead of offering an opinion.
“He claims to be, yes. But I know many anarchists in New York, Mr. Van Cormandt. And they themselves are leery of Mr. Birch. There was some trouble in San Francisco, you see. And the group out West sent back reports of Mr. Birch that suggested that he possibly might have been acting as an informer. He was playing a double game, and a profitable one it was. There was a bomb plot on a prominent financier. Lawrence came up with the plot, but the anarchists believe that he warned the man himself and was paid for it.”
Ned puffed on his cigar. “But they are not certain.”
“No, they are not. But the New York group is wary. It is apparent from what one called his vague and fatuous opinions that he is not grounded in anarchist literature and has but a generalized sense of their ideas. The group is wary, you see, for their cause unfortunately has a tendency to attract the unstable. They doubt his commitment. He seems to espouse the cause for the drama it gives him. These are opinions merely that I’m repeating, of course. I don’t wish to slander the man.”
“Of course not.”
“And I would have said nothing if other things did not come to light, other connections. … No one seems to know how he lives, Mr. Van Cormandt.”
“Yes, I’ve wondered about that myself.”
“Which gives credence to the point that he was an informer out West, and well paid for it. I cannot discover one fact about his background. But in the course of my story about the Hartleys I discovered something that I dismissed at the time. There was a stranger hanging about that night, this servant said. Everyone was busy with the great party, so security was lax. And this stranger was described as tall, and dressed well. The only specific thing the man could recall were his strange, pale eyes.”
“You’re suggesting it was Mr. Birch? That sounds like quite a leap, Mr. Reed. There could be many men who—”
“Yes,” Elijah interrupted, “I realize that. I didn’t make the leap at first. I could find no o
ther account of this stranger, so I forgot about it. I certainly didn’t think of it when I first met Mr. Birch. But I’ve discovered that Mr. Birch has a connection with Fiona Devlin. The wife of the injured man. Mr. Birch has been a go-between for Mrs. Nash with the Devlins. And I believe, Mr. Van Cormandt, that he has passed false information between them.”
Ned tapped the ashes on his cigar. “Pray continue, Mr. Reed.”
“He told Mrs. Nash that they have a benefactor, though I happen to know they are still living in the direst poverty. Mrs. Nash offered to testify on their behalf, but the Devlins believe that she has refused to do so.”
“But what would his object be in such a scheme?”
“I don’t know yet. I was told that the Devlins hate Mrs. Nash for this. I haven’t talked to them directly to correct their misapprehension. I wanted to speak with you first.”
“Is there more?”
“I’m afraid so. Mr. Birch told Mrs. Nash that he only arrived in New York the night of December thirty-first. I have information that he had actually arrived one week before and stayed in a hotel on the West Side.”
Ned gave a thin smile. “You have been busy, Mr. Reed.”
“It’s the writer’s disease, Mr. Van Cormandt. Obsession with unraveling a thread. And I’m also a journalist; you’d be surprised how full a city is of eyes and ears.”
Ned studied the end of his cigar. “May I ask why you have gone to such lengths for a lady you are, as you say, only briefly acquainted with?”
Elijah said nothing for a moment; he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure of his reasons, and he didn’t think he’d care to admit them even if he were. “May I claim chivalry as my motive, Mr. Van Cormandt?” he asked finally.
Ned studied the man for a moment. The air of gravity, the power that he exuded just sitting in a chair. Could it be that this wise man had no knowledge of his own heart? It was very obvious to Ned why Elijah Reed had become suddenly obsessed with unraveling a thread.
Things ran through Ned’s mind, things he could have said, for he liked and respected Elijah Reed. Things about Columbine’s independence, and her pride. That she claimed she would never marry again. That she was capable of breaking a man’s heart, for she was a woman who would not be possessed, and what man did not want to feel he possessed the woman that he loved?
But Ned said none of these things. If Elijah Reed was to be Columbine’s next lover—and it broke his heart to imagine this, but face it he must—he wouldn’t listen to Ned. And didn’t Ned owe it to Columbine, finally, to respect her views enough not to advise Elijah? He wouldn’t pass Columbine along to another man like a prize. For she would see it that way.
“You may claim whatever motive you wish,” he said at last. “But what is your motive in coming to me?”
“I can hardly repeat this to Mrs. Nash. I’m sure she would not listen.”
“I’m sure she would not,” Ned agreed.
Elijah leaned forward slightly. “But she would listen to you, Mr. Van Cormandt.”
Ned sighed. “I can hardly repeat gossip to Mrs. Nash, Mr. Reed. She would despise any attempt to slander Mr. Birch without proof. Columbine has been maligned and slandered herself. She gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. No, she would not listen to me either.”
“But you have nothing to lose,” Elijah pointed out. “She won’t ban you from her house if you take the liberty.”
Ned nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “You want Mr. Birch banished from Mrs. Nash’s house, but you do not want to take the chance of being banished yourself. You leave to me to be scorned, since I have been already.”
Elijah’s color rose. Ned had neatly placed a finger on the flaw in his good intentions, and he felt ashamed. “I assure you, sir, I did not come here for that reason,” he said painfully. “I would not want to tarnish your friendship with Mrs. Nash. If you feel that would be the outcome, I certainly would not wish you to undertake such a mission.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Reed, I’ll not hold a grudge. I understand. But I still am not sure if I can do any good.”
Elijah leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. He would have to play his last card, and he was reluctant. It was just a hunch, after all. “I think he might be planning something that could hurt her,” he said. “I cannot prove it. But neither can I leave her unwarned.”
“What makes you think this?”
“A few things,” Elijah said. “Let me start with California. I should tell you about the job Lawrence Birch had before he began his anarchist newspaper, which, in fact, he did not begin but took away from a man who was arrested.”
Ned puffed on his cigar. “What was Mr. Birch’s profession?”
“He worked for the railroads. He dynamited tunnels through rocks. He’s an expert in explosives, Mr. Van Cormandt.”
Ned slowly rose as the implications snaked through his brain. It could mean nothing at all, he told himself. But he looked into Elijah Reed’s sorrowful eyes, and he found himself nodding. “I’ll talk to her,” he said.
Lawrence saw Fiona that night, and, for the first time, he found the sex dull. She wanted him too much now. He tried to think of Columbine, but Bell kept floating into his thoughts. To his surprise, this excited him, and he seized on her image while he had Fiona against the pilings. He pictured Bell underneath him with that passivity, that inert quality, that sense of deadened sexuality. He pictured her not resisting, not joining, only allowing. And that excited him more.
When it was over, he cleaned himself with a handkerchief while Fiona straightened her clothes. “Soon it’ll be getting warmer,” she said. “Spring is coming. We’ll have to find a new place to go.”
“We have another month at least,” Lawrence said.
“I’ll be going. Next week, then?”
“Stay a minute, Fiona,” he said, and she leaned against the piling again, perhaps hoping for another time. She would be disappointed, though. He had done more than any man could tonight, God knew. What with this biting wind off the river, it was a wonder he was able to get hard at all.
“Did you hear the news? Ambrose Hartley had a heart attack.”
Her lip curled. “Heaven be praised, my prayers have been answered. I just might believe in the Lord again.”
Lawrence leaned against the piling, his head against hers. “So a vain, foolish, cruel man is felled. But the hypocrisy he is part of continues to flourish. The machine that crushed you and Jimmy.”
“I’m not crushed yet, Birch.”
He reached underneath her skirts and squeezed her bare, icy hand. “That’s why I admire you, Fiona. You’re cruel and fierce and fast. You can strike a blow that the city will never forget. Ambrose Hartley was not a good enough target for you, anyway.”
Slowly, she pushed herself off the pole and turned to face him. The moonlight caught her eyes, highlighting the golden patch in one corner. “What are you talking about?”
Lawrence stepped forward into the moonlight. He looked into her eyes, and he felt excited again. “Revenge,” he said.
Ten
COLUMBINE AND BELL collapsed on a bench in Washington Square Park. It had been a cold day, but there was brilliant, strong sun, and after leaving one of the brick houses on the square they’d turned without a word and crossed together to the park. They sank onto the first bench they came to. Morosely, they stared across the park at the Judson Memorial Church.
“I don’t know where to go anymore,” Columbine said. “Admiral Cole was my last resort. All my sources have dried up. We have no money to lease a house, let alone furnish it. I wish I had bought that house on Twenty-third Street instead of leasing it! Then we’d have some capital. Even considering what I can get from England, we come up way too short.”
Bell flexed a weary foot. “There must be someone else we can try.”
“I’ll think of someone. It’s odd, how difficult this fundraising has been. Usually we have more success.”
“Especially after all t
he publicity you received from your speech,” Bell said. “It is odd.”
Columbine sighed. “Maybe we should just concentrate on augmenting the Emergency Fund.”
“But we agreed that money isn’t enough. These women need a place to live,” Bell pointed out. “It’s the only way we can make a difference.”
“I know, I know. But—” Columbine stopped abruptly. “There’s no sense going over it again. I have a feeling this is somehow connected to the Hartley-Devlin incident. I’m persona non grata among the aristocrats these days.”
“Perhaps Horatio could help,” Bell said. “He could write an article about you, keep your name in the news.”
Columbine heard Bell finally speak the name she’d wanted to ask her about for weeks, and she immediately dropped her concerns about the Safe Passage House to focus on her friend. “And what about Horatio, Bell?” she asked. “I can’t help but notice that the two of you have had a rupture of some kind. Even though he calls constantly.”
“He calls to see Marguerite. She’s fallen in love with him.”
Columbine gasped. “I didn’t know.”
“She’s very discreet. I suppose she doesn’t want to hurt me. But I never loved Horatio. I’m glad he’s happy—if in fact he is. Somehow I’ve never been sure of Marguerite.”
“Yes, I’m fond of her, but—well. She’s very young.”
“Columbine, you always say that about Marguerite, as if it excused everything,” Bell said with sudden sharpness.
“I’m fond of Marguerite, I can’t help it. Even though I’m sure there are things we don’t know about her. She’s cultivating mystery these days. But Bell, you don’t seem hurt by Horatio’s desertion. Or are you? You’ve seemed so … spiritless lately. Every time I ask, you—”
The Gilded Cage Page 15
