The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  The irony almost destroyed her. That day, the day he’d talked of Andersonville, she’d made love to him without protection. She’d always assumed that that encounter had been the one. And she’d been glad, thinking of that; the love had been searing, she’d never felt closer to him. For the first time, she’d felt part of him, and he of her. She’d felt his tears on her skin, and she’d known that she’d held love in her hands that day, that she’d had everything from him. And that was the day she’d sealed her fate.

  You’ve got to tell him, Darcy had said. Marriage isn’t so bad, Columbine. It’s quite wonderful, actually.

  “Elijah.” His name came out cracked and uncertain, and Columbine swallowed and began again. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know, Columbine. But we can write. And you can visit. I’m keeping my house here, so I’ll be back. Do you see, I need this solititude. And I need to be away from this country so I can write about it. I need a clear eye, I can’t explain it better than that.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “I need you.” She was afraid to look at him. The admission hurt her. She’d never made it before, to anyone. That word, need. How she’d always hated it. But now such words made sense to her. Need. Belong. You belong to me. I belong to you. And you shall cleave unto me, and I unto you. We are one flesh. With my body I thee worship …

  It all made sense to her. So late. Too late …

  “I’m sorry,” Elijah said. He put down his whiskey glass. He couldn’t look at her. In a dress of silk and lace, pale as the first buttercup, her gold hair shining, her skin glowing and exquisite, she was all that was fresh and exciting to him. But he knew he would fail her, should she ask for his help. And if he let her ask for his help and he refused, she would never forgive him.

  She would be all right, he told himself. She was strong, she never let her head be turned by anyone. She had many friends, many strong women to help her. And she moved in a society that would not condemn her should she keep the child. Perhaps she would give it to Bell. She would find a way.

  “Elijah,” she began again. “You don’t understand.”

  He rose swiftly, without thought, and knelt by her chair. His eyes were dark, darker than midnight, and full of pain. “I do,” he said. “I understand everything. But I’m doing the best thing for both of us.”

  “What do you mean?” she whispered. “Can it be good for us to be apart?” Her mouth twisted, and she looked away. “The best thing for you, I think.”

  “Best for both of us,” he said firmly. “I would not be good company, Columbine. This book is burning me. I must do it. Perhaps in a year’s time, things will be different. We can come together again.”

  She began to cry softly, with her head still turned away. “Please go, Elijah.”

  Suddenly, Elijah felt unsure of his decision. He was being unkind. Perhaps she needed him, needed a man to help her. Perhaps she’d counted on that. “Do you want to talk to me?” he asked. “Tell me what I don’t understand?”

  It took several long moments before she turned back to him. The tears had stopped, but they still marked her cheeks. Her face was full of grief. But the emotion had drained out of her eyes, and they were cold. “No, you were right. You understand everything. So do I. So go.”

  Ned Van Cormandt had extended his trip to Washington, but he returned on a Thursday. Fiona sent a message to Lawrence, and they met by the stables that night. She had thrown a coat over her nightdress, and she was shivering, for the nights were still cool. Her fiery hair was loose and he ran his fingers along its waves.

  “Tomorrow night,” Lawrence said. “You remember everything?”

  “Everything.”

  He grabbed her to him, and they kissed to seal their pact. Perhaps it would be the last time, Lawrence reflected. Fiona’s connection to the injured man at Ambrose Hartley’s house could come out, though Lawrence was counting on the police overlooking it. Never had he felt more excited by Fiona’s cool lips against his own than tonight, thinking of the morrow. In twenty-four hours, Ned Van Cormandt would be dead. Lawrence would leak his part in the attentat to only one man: Johann Most. He would keep his secret, but a bond would be forged with the great man to last a lifetime.

  He pushed her up against the stable wall, grinding against her. He tried to lift the skirt of her nightdress.

  “Lawrence, love, no. We can’t. We cannot risk it.”

  He didn’t answer. It was a risk, Fiona was correct, it was a great risk. But blood pounded in his ears, and he was harder than he’d ever been. It wouldn’t take long. He tore at her drawers, and now she was helping him, excited by his roughness. He pushed inside her, and her head went back, her throat white and straining in the moonlight. He grunted as he thrust, one, two, three, and then he had his release, felt warmth spill out of him, warm seed, and he wondered if he had begat a child. He wouldn’t mind. Fiona would take care of things, Jimmy would think it was his, but Lawrence would have that secret satisfaction of knowing his son was in the world.

  She quickly pulled down her skirts. “I must go.”

  He grabbed her arm before she could move away. “Don’t fail me.

  Her mouth was slightly swollen from his rough kisses, and her eyes were full of a fire that sent a spark across the space between them, making it nothing. They were together in this; she would not fail.

  Lawrence did the final assembly of the bomb in his bedroom the next day, while Bell was at the corset factory. He planned to go uptown and meet Fiona for only a moment. He would pass the package through an open window in the summer parlor. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked, and he had to pause to wipe it away. He knew the danger of working with explosives, and he was careful, but the thing was tricky. You never knew. He was nervous at the thought of transporting it uptown.

  He was startled when he heard the sound of footsteps heading for the door, and he paused, listening. A key was thrust into the lock, and he quickly slid the apparatus underneath the bed. He walked into the other room just as Bell closed the door behind her.

  Fear turned immediately to anger. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. He thrust his hands in his pockets so she wouldn’t see them shaking.

  Bell’s hands paused as she reached up to remove her hat. “I was fired,” she said, removing the long hatpin.

  “Can’t you do anything right?” he exploded. “Was your sewing that bad?”

  “No,” she said. Her movements were awkward as she removed her hat, for Bell knew she would have to tell Lawrence why. He would find out eventually; he always found out everything. “For organizing,” she said.

  He wanted to strike her. He was so angry that he had to turn away to compose himself for a moment. Why did this always happen to him? His plans, the plans he’d brooded over, worried over, honed, perfected, would be ruined. “I told you,” he said evenly, “to let that reformist garbage alone. I told you how you’d compromise the movement.”

  “I wasn’t trying to organize a union, Lawrence,” Bell said quickly. “I just asked some girls to go to Union Square on May Day to hear the speeches, that’s all. And maybe I said a few things about anarchism. The foreman found out. He would have let me stay if I’d have slept with him,” she added. She wasn’t going to tell Lawrence that, but perhaps it would focus his anger on other things.

  “Why didn’t you?” he asked, turning away. “How do you expect me to support you, as well as myself?”

  “You don’t mean that,” Bell said.

  “You know how important my writing is,” he said. “You constantly work to sabotage me.”

  “No, Lawrence,” she said quickly. She touched his sleeve. “I’m proud of you,” she said softly. “I want to see you recognized, I do. I’ll get another job.”

  “Do you mean it?” he asked. “Do you really respect my work?”

  She smiled tenderly; this was when she loved him so, when he was like a boy. “Of course,” she said, stroking his shining hair gently.

 
“Then will you do something for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Ned Van Cormandt has asked for some copies of the articles I’ve written. He’s on that presidential committee—”

  “But you said it was rubbish.”

  Lawrence shrugged. “And it may well be. But it’s encouraging that he’s asked me for the anarchist position.”

  “I think it’s wonderful!” Bell exclaimed, her eyes shining. “But how can I help you?”

  “I have so much work to do, and a headache besides. Would you deliver the package for me?”

  “Of course, darling,” Bell said. “Of course.”

  Fiona was at the window at the appointed time, but Lawrence did not appear. She was hard put to keep returning there, since the housekeeper had suddenly become officious. Fiona had had to pretend to make a mistake that morning, for the summer parlor wasn’t due to be aired until the following week. Mrs. Campbell had sniffed and said she might as well continue with the cleaning, though she didn’t like to mess up the rotation, not one bit, and Mr. Granger would hear about it, sure as Fiona was standing there. The old bitch, Fiona thought savagely, stealing toward the window again.

  She had already placed the fuse as they’d planned. They were lucky, for Ned’s desk was close to the summer parlor door, for both rooms led into each other. His library had originally been built as a summer dining room, but Ned, on the death of his father, had changed its function. His father’s library remained, untouched, and Ned moved his books and his desk into the smaller room at the back of the house. He liked the sun during the afternoons, Mary had told her. And didn’t it drive Mrs. Campbell crazy, she said with a giggle; she seemed to consider it sinful to switch rooms around, making trouble for everyone.

  But it made things perfect for Fiona and Lawrence. The fuse could be run from the small parlor into Ned’s library with no trouble. Since the desk was close to the door, which was rarely used, the fuse was only exposed for a short distance, where it lay flat against the wall and was barely noticeable. Then it ran underneath the Turkey rug. Fiona would flip the rug a bit later tonight, counting on the fact that it was behind Ned’s back and he would not notice it. The bomb would be placed behind the heavy velvet curtains. Lawrence, next door in the parlor, would then light the fuse. He would have enough time to slip out the window and would be to the shadows of the stable by the time the bomb went off. With any luck. Fiona would be in her room, deliberately waking Mary so she would have an alibi.

  Fiona looked at the grandfather clock in the hall again and wondered if Lawrence had changed his mind. She would hardly believe it. She had finally found a man with the same bloodthirsty passion she possessed; he must not fail her now.

  The doorbell chimed, and she jumped. Mrs. Campbell hurried out from the kitchen a second later. “What are you waiting for, child?” she scolded. “You know Mr. Granger is down cellar, seeing to the wines. Answer the door. And straighten your cap, mind!” she hissed after her.

  Sighing, Fiona straightened her apron and cap. She hurried down the long hall and opened the door. A woman stood on the step. She was dressed like a working woman, but her figure was lush and elegant, and her beauty was astonishing. Long-lashed eyes of the purest amber held an expression that was as serene as that of the finest lady in New York.

  Fiona remembered to curtsey. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  The woman held out a brown package. “For Mr. Van Cormandt. From Mr. Birch.”

  Fiona had reached out her hands, but jerked them backward involuntarily. She knew what the package was. The woman stared at her, puzzled. Fiona took an imperceptible breath and reached for the package. Her hands closed on it. I’ll give it to him,” she said. Her breath was short, and her heart had begun to pound.

  “Thank you.” The woman turned, and Fiona saw her hair, the color of whiskey, lustrous and shining in the sun. She suddenly realized what she should have known immediately; this was the other woman in Lawrence’s life.

  “Would you like to leave a card?” she blurted, not thinking clearly, only wanting to see the woman’s face again, to find a flaw in that beauty.

  Bell turned. For the first time, she saw the features of the maid; the face had hardly registered before. She saw fierce green eyes, a determined jaw, improbable, fiery hair. Something about the woman sent a chill to her heart. Something about the way those eyes were watching her. “Oh, of course,” she said. She fished inside the reticule hanging from her wrist and extracted her card. She handed it to Fiona. “Good day.”

  Fiona watched the woman for a moment, but she was afraid that Mrs. Campbell might be spying on her, so she shut the door. She stared down at the small white card in her hand. Bell Huxton. So that was the woman Lawrence was keeping! She’d known for some time, but what could she say, when she was living with her husband? She had expected anything in the woman Lawrence had, things that Lawrence wanted that she did not possess—money, gaiety, lightness, tenderness. Any of those things. But she had not expected such serene, perfect beauty as that.

  Mrs. Campbell scuttled around the corner. “And do you have time to waste, standing there like that?”

  “A package,” Fiona said blindly. “Mr. Van Cormandt got a package.

  “Put it in the library then, with the mail. And put the card with the others on the tray, don’t you know any better? Hurry along now. And finish that summer parlor. You’ve been in there half the day.”

  Mrs. Campbell hurried off. Fiona pushed aside her jealousy, her burning heart. She would think about it later. Lawrence had warned her to handle the bomb gently, to put all her concentration on that. But he’d also assured her it could not explode until he armed it. So why should she have to handle it so gently? Fiona wondered for the first time.

  She unwrapped it carefully and placed it behind the curtains. When Ned went for his air on the terrace with his cigar, Lawrence would make the final adjustments. It was all in place. And she was the one, only she, who would be with him in this. The woman had no idea what she was carrying; nobody could have that kind of serenity carrying this thing. Only she knew. She had him. Even with her startling beauty, the other woman was nothing. Fiona’s lips curved. And after tonight, Lawrence would be bound to her with more than ties of love. She would have her revenge on those that maimed Jimmy. And she would have her man.

  Ned was thinking, as he too often thought, even still, of Columbine, as he walked to the library after his solitary dinner. He reached for a cigar from the silver box on his desk and lit it meditatively. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, but he had received a note from her, telling him that she’d reconsidered what he’d said about Lawrence Birch and was dropping the acquaintance. He’d been gratified by that, but it only made the urge to see her burn more in his heart. He missed her too much.

  Opening the French doors, Ned moved out to the interior terrace. He smoked and looked at the moon and thought of Columbine. Once he’d had a dinner party, and they’d stolen away from the guests and come outside for a kiss. Memory was strange. He could remember how her smell made him feel, he could remember her features, but he could not seem to put them together to recreate anything close to the living reality of her presence. He could ache for her, but he could not completely conjure up that lift in his heart when he saw her.

  Ned would be thirty-nine soon. He was a young man—or, at any rate, he had years ahead of him. It was not possible, he thought, that he would live those years alone, solitary, childless. There must be another woman in the world who he could love as dearly as the one he’d lost. Just because he could not imagine such a woman, could not form an image or a character in his mind, didn’t mean she couldn’t exist. How could he have ever imagined Columbine, before that first time he’d seen her?

  It had been at a large party at Delmonico’s. He’d been there with his wife, desperately unhappy, desperately bored. There was a frisson of titillation running through the crowd, for the gathering was large enough that it included those who didn’t “belong,” a few
notable writers, even an artist. And there was Columbine Nash. Ned had thought her beautiful, from across the room, in her ruby dress. Cora had refused to be introduced to her, of course, but Ned had made his way across the room to shake her hand, for his interest was piqued by her political work. And he had ended up angering his wife and shocking the company by lingering at her side, engrossed in conversation as he’d never been before, with man or woman. Forthright, intelligent, arch, sardonic, she was all of those things. He had been bewitched, and he had ceased, from that moment on, to be bored.

  Ned ground his cigar underneath his heel. He had started out trying to cheer himself, and he had wound up entangled in his memories again. He should get to work. He had a pile of reading to do.

  Ned pushed open the doors. Fiona was fussing with a curtain. He was surprised to see her; usually, by this time, the maids were in bed. “Fiona, it’s late,” he said. “You should be upstairs.”

  “Yes, Mr. Van Cormandt,” she said, her eyes downcast.

  He turned and went toward his desk. “Good night, then, Fiona.”

  “Good night, sir.” She moved out silently; he approved of a parlormaid who could move like a cat.

  Ned sat at his desk and reached for a report he’d been meaning to get to. He pushed aside regrets, memory, desire, and started to read.

  The work was done. There was nothing more to do. Shaking badly now, Fiona ran upstairs and wriggled out of her clothes, slipping into her nightgown, ripping the seam in her haste. She slid between the cool sheets. Immediately, she began to moan and thrash about. No response from the sleeping Mary. Nearly hysterical now, Fiona moaned louder. She heard Mary stir, and the young maid slipped out of her bed and padded over.

  “Fiona, love, wake up,” she called sleepily. She shook her arm. “Wake up.”

  Fiona shot up in bed. She didn’t have to manufacture the fright in her eyes, or her pounding pulse. “What is it?”

  “A dream, love,” Mary said. With a yawn, she perched on the edge of the bed. “It must have been something, eh?”