The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  Ned moved into a room on the first floor, attended by a nurse. The sound of hammering while the workers rebuilt the library disturbed him, so the men stopped their work and the room was closed off. The house was so large that Olive and Columbine could go for days on the second floor without seeing each other unless they made a habit of having tea together a few times a week, which they did. Her pregnancy was a difficult one, and Columbine had been ordered rest by Dr. Dana. She wasn’t allowed down to Safe Passage House more than once a week. Luckily, little Ivy Moffat took over like a whirlwind. Soon, Safe Passage House was a refuge for four women, six children, and one teenage girl.

  Ned grew better slowly. Columbine came to enjoy the slow summer days, while she read aloud in the garden with Ned stretched out beside her in his chaise. He was often in pain, and she was often tired, so they made a quaint, companionable couple, so unlike themselves in the old days that they often laughed, remembering their hectic juggling of schedules, their shouting matches, their long, hilarious dinners. Neither of them mentioned their combustive sexual relations, however. Looking at Ned, Columbine had to wonder if he would ever have the strength to make love again. And most days, she wondered if she’d ever want to herself.

  Autumn passed, and they now read in the cheerful, sunny morning room. Leaves drifted across the sere, small garden. Columbine grew large, and her ankles swelled. Dr. Dana ordered her to bed. One morning, she opened the paper to find that the newest star in New York’s musical theater was young Daisy Corbeau, currently appearing in William Miles Paradise’s Wait for Sally. And in the middle of December, on a night bitter with cold and brilliant with stars, Columbine went into labor. Twelve hours later, out of her mind with pain, exhausted, definitely resolved on never having sexual relations again in her life, and hating Elijah Reed with every ounce of her strength—such as it was—she gave birth to a girl.

  Dr. Dana cleaned them both up and combed Columbine’s matted hair. She helped her slip into a fresh nightgown, and she did not say a word about how Columbine had cursed Elijah Reed’s body and soul at the end. She allowed in Ned and Olive, who arrived on tiptoe, all smiles. Olive insinuated a little finger into the girl’s tiny palm and the small fingers closed around it.

  “Lovely,” Olive said. “Perfect.”

  Ned smiled. “Like you,” he said to Columbine.

  “You two are ridiculous,” Columbine said, smiling down at her red, wrinkled baby. “She’s hideous.”

  “Not at all,” Olive said, shocked. “Look, she has blond hair. And the Van Cormandt chin.”

  Columbine turned away and fussed with the blanket. She had argued with Ned about telling Olive the truth. Olive would understand, Columbine felt sure. But Ned insisted that he wanted everyone to think the baby was his.

  “And your mouth, Columbine,” Ned said.

  “I want to call her Hawthorn,” Columbine said. She looked around at her room in the Van Cormandt mansion, saw the two people, blinking back tears, at her bedside, and looked back down at her daughter. For the first time since Elijah left, she felt at peace.

  November, 1896 The Propaganda of the Deed

  Twenty-One

  COLUMBINE LOOKED OVER the edge of Bleak House at Ned. His head was thrown back, and his eyes were closed. She stopped reading aloud and closed the book.

  “Go on,” he said peevishly. “I’m not sleeping.”

  Columbine opened the book again and took up where she left off. While she read, she stole glances at Ned’s face. As soon as she thought he was really asleep, she would stop. She was so tired today. Gradually, she saw his facial muscles relax. His mouth opened slightly. He began to snore lightly. Columbine closed the book.

  Poor Ned. The doctors could not restore him to full health, and as the years passed he left his bed less and less. The internal injuries he’d suffered had marked him for life. He would never be completely free of pain. Constant pain had changed him; he was a different man than he had been. He was often querulous, and almost constantly depressed. The only person who could lift his spirits was Hawthorn, who looked at the fact that he remained in bed as an adventure along the lines of “The Land of Counterpane.” She brought her toys and books into bed with him and played for hours, while Ned alternately played with her, read his newspaper, or napped.

  The door opened quietly, and Olive stole in the room, checking Ned to see if he was asleep. When Columbine nodded, Olive beckoned, and Columbine followed her out, closing the door softly behind her. The years had marked Olive, too, marked them all. Olive’s hair was beginning to gray; she was forty-seven, and as forceful as ever.

  “Hawthorn will be home from the park soon,” Olive said in a low voice. “I thought you’d like to spend some time with her. I can take over with Ned.”

  Columbine leaned against the wall. “He’ll sleep for awhile, I think. He had a bad night.”

  “You look as though you could use a rest yourself,” Olive said sympathetically.

  “Yes, I’m very tired. Perhaps you could tell Hawthorn that I’ll come up and see her for dinner in the nursery.”

  It was clear that this displeased Olive, but she merely nodded. “I’ll tell Fiona to take your tea to your room today,” she said.

  “Thank you, Olive.” Columbine started to turn away wearily, but Olive put her hand on her arm.

  “Columbine, I must speak to you,” she said. “I know you’re tired. But will you come to my room for a moment?”

  Columbine nodded, biting her lip. A request to come to Olive’s room, except at teatime, always meant serious business. She followed her sister-in-law up the stairs and down the long hall to her bedroom and adjoining sitting room in the northeast corner of the house. The rooms were formerly occupied by Ned’s first wife, Cora, but Olive had cleared away all the Louis XV furniture, with its curving lines and decorative frills, removed the ormolu and the marquetry tables and the taffeta hangings and put in the plain American furniture of her mother and father. A desk sat in the corner by the window, piled with the correspondence of a busy woman.

  Columbine sat across from Olive in one of the comfortable velvet armchairs she’d installed. She felt rather like a niece who had been asked in for a “chat” to straighten her out about her propensity to overspend on her trousseau or to ignore her charitable responsibilities. Olive wore the identical expression of a disapproving concern not very well masked by an attempt at an air of disinterested friendliness.

  Olive put her hands in her lap and turned to Columbine. “I’m worried about you.”

  Columbine smiled thinly. “Again?”

  “Yes, again. You’ve been tired and spiritless. I know that Ned can be difficult, dear. But I hate to see you so affected.”

  “It’s difficult not to be when he’s so unhappy, Olive.”

  Olive nodded, her eyes troubled. “God knows, Columbine,” she said with a far-off look, “if I could have seen the future, I would never have let you marry him.”

  The comment roused Columbine from her weariness. “Olive!”

  “Let’s be honest with one another,” Olive said. “At last. You’ve been a good wife, Columbine, and I know you love Ned. But you lost your heart to someone else some time ago, that’s perfectly obvious. You married Ned out of sisterly affection, concern, maybe guilt. And maybe,” Olive said, a blush starting to stain her cheeks, “for a father for Hawthorn. No,” she said quickly, raising her hand, “I’m not judging you, and I’m sure you both did it with the best of motives. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Hawthorn is my niece no matter who her father is, that will never change.”

  Agitated, Columbine got up and went to the window. She pushed aside the curtains and looked out at the brilliant autumn leaves of the park. “Why are you saying this now, Olive?”

  “Because I care for you very much, Columbine,” Olive said. “You’ve truly become a sister to me. But part of me wonders how you can go on like this. You have been neglecting Hawthorn. Haven’t you noticed how quiet she’s been?”

  Co
lumbine didn’t answer. Guilt swept over her, and she gripped the curtains convulsively. She loved her daughter, but she had so little to give her. And there were times that looking at her was torture.

  Hawthorn’s hair had remained blond like her own, but as she developed into a toddler and then a child, it had become obvious that she had Elijah’s black eyes. And it wasn’t just the eyes; there were other things. The way she’d frown, or a particular look on her face when she was happy and worried at the same time … it pained Columbine to look at her at times.

  But that wasn’t why she withdrew from her. She loved Hawthorn with all her heart, but the child took so much from her. She was questioning and intelligent and into everything. Her questions were unending. Sometimes it was just easier to leave her to Olive and close the door.

  Columbine felt like a desert inside, wind blowing across a desiccated landscape. There was no joy springing forth anymore, no laughter. She had begun to feel pain in various parts of her body, little nervous tremors. She was turning into a neurasthenic upperclass woman, she knew, and she raged against it and despised herself for it and she remained trapped in her fears and her panics and her weariness. What kind of a mother did that make for Hawthorn?

  “I know, Olive,” she said finally. “She’s been playing by herself awfully much lately. But I’m no good with her right now. I’m impatient and irritable. I feel it’s better not to be around her.”

  “You need something,” Olive said. “Can’t you see that you need something other than this house? It’s so obvious to me.”

  “Perhaps another trip,” Columbine said haltingly. Two years ago, Olive had decided that Columbine should go to Europe alone. Ned protested, Hawthorn wailed, Columbine was terrified, but Olive insisted, and she got her way. Columbine had left for three months, months in which her weariness fell away and her depression lifted. She visited friends in London, she traveled to Vienna, she stayed for a month in Florence. The only place she did not go was Paris. She read new books and was electrified by Eleanora Duse and struggled through several lectures in Vienna by an amazing doctor called Freud. And then she returned to America, overjoyed to hold Hawthorn in her arms again, and within six months she felt the familiar dull pain stealing over her again.

  “No,” Olive said. “Not another trip. A nurse for Ned.”

  “Olive, you know perfectly well he’s refused a nurse—”

  “My brother is in pain, and God knows we can never know what it’s like to lie in his bed, Columbine. But he has also become selfish and demanding. We won’t use those words, you and I, but it’s time we did. And I will no longer sacrifice you for Ned. You have to get out.”

  Columbine turned, shocked. She stared at Olive, who nodded grimly. “I know,” she said softly. “You can’t believe I’m saying these things. But I’m afraid that soon I won’t recognize you, Columbine. The things I love about you are disappearing.”

  Tears gathered behind Columbine’s eyes. “I know,” she murmured. “I feel myself slipping away, too. I can’t seem to help it, Olive.”

  “Yes, you can,” Olive said briskly. She rose and came to her. “You’ve had your dark night of the soul, and it’s been long enough. You can’t leave Ned, I quite see that. But you could could leave this house once in awhile. You could even take a lover.”

  Columbine gasped. “Olive, really—”

  “You’re only forty years old. You’re still beautiful, even though you’re determined to lose your looks. Columbine, you have to do something.”

  “A rest cure?” Columbine asked. It was the common solution for depressed patients.

  Olive shook her head. “Certainly not. I’ve heard of these cures—Maud Hartley took one, and told me about it. Of course, she’s a silly woman, so she thinks it worked. All that would happen is that some doctor would tell you to find consolation in your home and your daughter. Bunk. Columbine, you’ve been a political speaker, a writer. You had ambition and intellect and drive. And now your biggest concern is which volume of Dickens to read to Ned. And the only thing you look forward to is when you can start Trollope!”

  Columbine had to smile at this picture of her days. “I have Hawthorn,” she said. “And you. That’s more than most women have.”

  A spasm of irritation crossed Olive’s face. “Will you listen to yourself?” she demanded. “Home was never enough for you, you’re not made that way. Why are you cramming yourself into such a narrow box? Columbine, resume your work, go back to Safe Passage House, more than twice a week. Every day if you must. You have to take an interest in things. You can’t satisfy your nature sitting here taking care of Ned. And the man that Ned used to be, the man you thought you married, wouldn’t have stood for it!”

  Columbine didn’t know what to say. She felt exhausted by Olive’s energy. “I want to help him,” she said. “He’s hurting so. His life is over, he believes.”

  “I know.” Olive saw that Columbine’s lips were shaking. “Oh, dear, don’t cry.” She crossed to a small table and poured a glass of water, then handed it to Columbine. “Drink this. And don’t cry, you know how I hate it.”

  Columbine obediently drank the water. “I’m sorry, Olive.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, stop apologizing and do something. When was the last time you went out of the house? It’s selfish of you not to be involved now, you know. The nation is in terrible shape, we’re still in a depression. There’s so much you could do.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Safe Passage would be a good place to start. And I’ve gotten you into a study group, I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s called the Social Reform Club. Lillian Wald is in it, and Felix Adler—they’re reading Dante now. They’d be delighted to welcome you.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “Yes, you could.”

  Columbine crossed to the sofa and sat down. Olive’s brisk good sense was tiring. It just wasn’t that easy, she knew. She rarely went out anymore; she couldn’t bear social life and Olive was right, her intellectual life had narrowed to newspapers and Dickens. Could she really return to the world, just like that?

  A newspaper was lying on the table in front of the sofa, and she absently placed her glass on it. “I don’t know, Olive,” she said. “I don’t have much energy these days.”

  “Just go through the motions,” Olive said. “That’s enough of a start.”

  Idly, Columbine’s gaze rested on the table while Olive’s words revolved in her head. The bottom of her glass had magnified the print of the paper. In large and wavering print she saw the name ELIJAH REED.

  A tiny jolt sent a rippling wave of anxiety through her body. She moved the glass and picked up the paper. The item said that Elijah Reed, whose most recent novel, Spencer’s Man, a most eloquent attack on Social Darwinism, had swept the country, was returning to New York City from Paris, where he had lived for the past six years, with time out to walk with Coxey’s army of the unemployed to the nation’s capital last year.

  Elijah was back. Color flooded her cheeks, and her hand shook when it placed the paper back on the table. He would be living in the same city again. If she’d had any inclination to follow Olive’s advice, it was squashed. She knew she did not have the strength to face Elijah Reed again.

  “You see?” Olive cried, crossing back and taking her hands, “I was right! You look better already!”

  “Tell me, Miss Daisy Corbeau,” Edward Ferdinand Clinton said in his clipped British accent, “what is it like to be the most feted American musical star of your generation?”

  “It is sometimes a trial, I must confess,” Marguerite sighed.

  “You have such a reputation for the feminine virtues,” he said, “faithfulness to your husband, pureheartedness, modesty—”

  Marguerite flipped over on the bed and pillowed her head on her naked arms. She raised one bare leg in the air. “All too true, Mr. Clinton. I’m afraid I’m an old-fashioned girl.” She ran her fingers along Teddy Clinton’s muscular leg, with its go
lden hair and smooth muscles.

  “And they tell me that the chef of Delmonico’s named a dish for you, some sort of blueberry pastry—”

  “He called it Daisy’s Cobbler. Monsieur Gilot is terribly sweet.”

  “And during the party that he presented it to you, I hear you pelted the streets below with the blueberries, isn’t that so?” Teddy reached under a pillow to fondle a small breast.

  “We were feeling so gay,” Marguerite said with a pout. “I thought it terribly unkind of the papers to suggest we were making light of the city’s hungry souls. I donated baskets and baskets of food the very next day.”

  He kissed the small of her back. “How wonderful you are, Miss Corbeau. A model of American womanhood,” he said with a lascivious grin. “A pearl.”

  “And you, sir, are a positive swine,” she said, sticking out her little red tongue.

  He slapped her on her bare backside lightly. “Come on, Miss Corbeau—”

  “That’s Mrs. Paradise to you, sir.”

  “Mrs. Paradise, Miss Corbeau, Daisy, come over here. We have plenty of time for another go before we have to get to the theater.”

  “No, we don’t,” Marguerite said, avoiding his questing hand adroitly and rolling over to slip into a satin brocade dressing gown. “At least, I don’t. I have an appointment, so you have to go, Teddy dear. I’ll see you at the theater later.”

  “You minx, you drive me mad. All right,” Teddy said with a sigh. “You’ve worn me out, anyway.” He wandered off to the adjoining dressing room to get his clothes. Teddy liked to dress in front of a full-length mirror so he could admire himself.

  He was an awful bore, really, Marguerite thought as she knotted her dressing gown and applied cologne to disguise the smell of sex. But he was so terribly good in bed. And she had gotten into the habit of seducing her co-stars. The show was winding down; Willie was looking for another show for her. She’d make sure she picked the male star this time. She was sure Willie had picked Teddy for his dullness more than his singing voice.