The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

Marguerite saw him. “Oh, my God,” she said under her breath. It was Toby. She closed her eyes for an instant. Please God, make him stop. He’s not a courageous man, so what is he doing, anyway?

  Columbine grasped Marguerite’s elbow and spoke in her ear. “When I tell you to run, run like mad, back the way we came,” she said. “It’s the only way.”

  Marguerite nodded, her blue eyes wide. If she ran, Toby would stop.

  And then everything seemed to happen all at once, and yet so slowly. Sergeant Malley, suddenly an authoritative figure, called out to Lawrence to put the bomb down and walk away. He drew his pistol, and the other policemen did the same. Fiona backed away; Columbine squeezed Marguerite’s arm, and she ran, but she ran in the wrong direction, toward the policemen and toward Toby, instead of back toward the Astoria. Not realizing Marguerite wasn’t behind her, Columbine ran in the opposite direction. Lawrence bent to put down the bomb, but Bell stepped in front of him to shield him, and Sergeant Malley’s arm went up. A loud explosion stunned them, but it was the gun, not the bomb, and Bell crumpled. Lawrence stood looking down at her stupidly, the bomb at his feet, and then another explosion happened, and the force of the bullet knocked him backward. He wasn’t dead, and he reached for Bell, and that’s when Fiona fired. Sergeant Malley fired again, and Toby, running for Marguerite, was caught in the crossfire, and was shot by one or the other, it didn’t matter which.

  The bomb did not go off. It had been a fake. Lawrence had planned to plant it merely to scare, to warn. He wouldn’t risk going to jail again. But only he and Fiona had known that.

  Dying, knowing she was dying, Bell crawled toward Lawrence. She saw at once that he was dead, and she lay her head on his shoulder and looked up at the wide black sky. She saw all her life, all the wrong and the pain and the mistakes, and she saw that she had loved a worthless man, and that she still, even now, took comfort from his body, and she knew that the long, hard road was finished, and she gave up with gladness and died.

  Columbine went toward her slowly. She looked down at Bell, who looked as serene as she always had. Her amber hair was loose, and it spilled over Lawrence’s shirt and was darkened with blood from his wound. Her lips seemed curved in a gentle smile, but Columbine knew that it was just the way Bell’s lips curved, so delicate, so serene. Slowly, Columbine knelt by Bell’s side. She adjusted the black cloak to cover her wound. And then she reached out and gently disengaged Bell from Lawrence so that she could lay alone.

  The police were swarming toward the bomb, swarming toward Bell and Lawrence, leading Fiona away, and Marguerite screamed at them to help Toby, to get a doctor, for God’s sake. She fell to the pavement on her knees before him. Toby looked up at her. She bent over him. She thought it was misting, but his face was wet from her tears.

  From behind them, Willie had left the hotel, planning to meet Toby for a cigar as they had arranged. The police stopped him, and all he could see was Marguerite on the pavement. His chest felt tight, and he pushed the policeman aside roughly. “It’s my wife,” he said.

  Marguerite cradled Toby’s head. “You were very foolish,” she said.

  “I’ve played so many heroes, I got confused,” Toby said, trying to smile.

  “Toby. Don’t die.”

  “I won’t. I refuse to die while I’m wearing these silly pumps.”

  Marguerite laughed; he couldn’t be dying if he could joke like that. “I didn’t make it up with you, didn’t tell you—”

  “It’s all right, petal. It’s all right.”

  “You’re always telling me its all right when it isn’t,” she said, tears dripping onto his lips.

  “Then why should I stop now, petal?” he asked. He tried to squeeze her hand, and he discovered to his surprise that he could not. Marguerite was fading. “How extraordinary,” he said, and then he felt himself slip back, back into a warm, black night, and he remembered to close his eyes, for he hated to think of them sightless, staring up at the starry sky. Such a tired device, he thought drowsily. I’m dreaming, I’m having my very last dream.

  “Toby?” Marguerite wanted to shake him, but she was afraid he’d bleed even more. “Toby!”

  A hand touched her shoulder with such tenderness she was finally able to look up. Through swimming eyes, she saw Willie.

  “Come, my love,” he said, and he raised her up, up, and clasped her in his arms.

  April, 1898 In a Warm Room

  Epilogue

  MARGUERITE WOULD NOT tell Willie where they were going, no matter how he pressed her. She simply could not tell him, too afraid of his anger, his pity—she wasn’t sure what, exactly. She would like to avoid taking him, but she had grown up in the past year, and she knew now that by turning away her eyes she could not make things disappear. And she had also learned in the past year a little bit of what it was to love. She had learned it was simple, after all. It was trust.

  Willie finally gave up his laughing questions when she grew more quiet and subdued as the carriage rattled through the streets. He began to see that this was no gay surprise outing, but something important she could not tell him. He was anxious, but he was also glad, for it seemed, perhaps, that Marguerite might finally let him in on a secret about her. And perhaps he’d get a clue to the piece that he’d always felt was missing at the heart of their marriage, no matter how satisfying it had been in the past year.

  As they went steadily east, her hand left his arm and dropped to her lap. He saw her fold her hands primly, and studiously avoid looking at him. As they clattered down Canal she seemed to shrink inside herself. Still, he said nothing.

  Silently, he paid off the driver. Silently, he followed her down a dank and depressing street called Ludlow. He knew where he was, of course, though he’d never been there. He saw the men in black and the lights burning in the windows, for it was almost sundown.

  She pushed open the door of a sorry-looking tenement and, not looking to see if he was even following, climbed the narrow stairs. He followed her up flight after flight, watching her neat little boots take the steps. And then they finally stopped and stood in front of a door. Marguerite knocked, and he noticed that her hand was trembling.

  An older, very pretty woman opened the door. Her hair was a faded blond, but he saw her eyes, as blue as cornflowers, and he knew.

  “This is my mother.” Marguerite’s contralto voice cracked. “Mrs. Edelstadt. Mama, this is William Paradise.”

  The woman shook his hand firmly, but he could see that she was nervous. “Please come in.”

  They walked directly into a small kitchen. The table was set for supper, but the candles were still unlit, and the room was dim. A large man with a black mustache sat at the table.

  “This is my husband, Roman Edelstadt,” Marguerite’s mother said. “He’s not Marguerite’s father. Jacob died last year.”

  Willie shook hands with the large man, feeling his own hand completely engulfed. The man’s smile was kind. “Welcome to our home,” he said.

  “Not for long, it won’t be,” Marguerite said nervously. She wanted Willie to know that she had finally persuaded her mother to let her buy a house for them.

  “Yes, we’ll be moving soon,” Sophie said.

  Willie had still not indicated, by a look or a word, what he was thinking. Marguerite thought of Lawrence Birch, the last awful night she’d seen him, how he hissed the words. You little Jew. She closed her eyes against the thought. Now she could not even look into Willie’s face for a hint.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Sophie asked her son-in-law. She was a bit in awe of him, with his fine clothes. “It’s the Sabbath. We’re just about to light the candles.”

  Willie took his place at the table. The soft light surrounded them, and the sky outside was a deep blue, the color of Marguerite’s eyes. He felt the smooth texture of the table, and the warmth of the kitchen, he smelled the smell of good things cooking, and he looked at the candles waiting to be lighted. He glanced at Marguerite’s mother across the table, still
lovely, smiling at her husband. At last, at last, he knew.

  Sophie stood to light the candles. And finally, Willie spoke:

  “Boruch atto adonoi elohenu melech ho’olom asher kidd’shonu b’mitzvosov v’tzivonu I’hadlik ner shel shaboos.”

  “Amen,” Roman Edelstadt said.

  The four of them looked at each other, and they all began to smile. And then Marguerite began to laugh. She laughed and laughed and could not stop, and the others laughed with her, not knowing why, but glad of the release of tension.

  “What is it, ma petite?” her mother asked, amusement in her blue eyes.

  “Who would have thought,” Marguerite said, smiling fondly at Willie, “that I would have found a nice Jewish boy at last?”

  Columbine poured the tea while Elijah frowned at the evening paper. The air was still cool in the evening, and they liked to sit in the rear study in Elijah’s house on East Eleventh Street, which held the warmth of the late afternoon sun. There was a small fire in the grate, burning cheerfully and taking any chill from the breeze coming from the half-open window. The sky was darkening to cobalt outside, and the grass was a deep foresty green.

  “The war fever is getting worse,” Elijah said, “and more and more ridiculous. Speaker Reed is the only voice of rationality in the whole Congress. We’re going to go to war with Spain, mark my words, Columbine, and for nothing but imperialism.”

  “Yes, I fear it may be so,” Columbine said. “America is changing. There was a time in the sixties and seventies that I felt so encouraged—that we were beginning to face our problems, to do something for our workers and our women. And I’ll fight with every last breath in my body for that. But for a nation, it’s much easier to look without than within, isn’t it.” She handed him his cup.

  “The last depression has marked us,” Elijah brooded. “And I see this war fever as a bad sign. It doesn’t bode well for the future. I don’t know if America will ever really get a sense of class consciousness. We’ll continue to exalt our individualism, and that’s what might defeat us in the end. We’re not a nation that understands community. We just want to elbow each other out of the way while we bluster about patriotism and grab for a piece of the pie.”

  “Elijah, I’m going to forbid you the paper before tea. Especially on a soft spring evening like this one. Can’t we talk of pleasanter things, like our wedding?”

  “I’m counting the days, love.”

  A shriek of laughter came through the window, and Columbine wandered over with her teacup. She looked out into the back yard and smiled. Hawthorn had somehow persuaded her aunt Olive to sit on the grass with her, and was earnestly telling her a story, her thin arms waving in the dusky light, her bright hair flying. Olive was listening gravely, chewing on a piece of grass.

  Columbine leaned against the sill, lost in the pleasure of her daughter’s happiness. It had taken Hawthorn awhile to come out from the shadow of Ned’s death, but lately the old look of mischievous mirth was back in her eyes. She’d found comfort in Elijah’s bearlike solidity, and she shouted with laughter at his sly jokes. Someday she would know that Elijah was her father, Columbine vowed.

  Elijah had taken up the paper again. “It’s that damn Hearst fanning the flames,” he grumbled. “And the president is of no use at all. We’re wasting time on a stupid war when we could be doing something here. What will the next century bring, I wonder. More foolishness, I suppose.”

  “Yes, darling,” Columbine said, hearing Hawthorn’s laughter as the cool spring air moved the curtains and she smelled the wet earth and the growing green shoots in the garden. “Tomorrow we’ll start all over again. But tonight, come look at our daughter.”