The Gilded Cage (11 page)

Elijah rubbed his eyes wearily. “I sincerely doubt it. Actually, I advised the Devlins to begin a lawsuit. But there's no way to prove Ambrose Hartley knew the fireworks were unsafe. His butler won't talk, of course. Apparently only Devlin and Hartley were together when the order was given. It's Devlin's word against Hartley, and we know who would win.”

“But I heard the butler tell Ambrose that Devlin said the fireworks were dangerous,” Columbine blurted.

“Did you? Perhaps you should inform the Devlins of this.”

“I doubt Fiona Devlin would even open the door to me again,” Columbine said tiredly. “But I'll try.”

“Good.” There was a knock at the door, and he went to answer it. He returned with a tray, a white napkin covering it. “My lunch,” he said. He placed it on top of the messy papers on his desk. “Mrs. Stein keeps me alive. She's a good soul.”

Columbine stood. “Thank you for your time,” she said mechanically.

“You don't have to leave, Mrs. Nash. It's only some sandwiches, it won't get cold. Or you could join me.” He almost smiled when he said it, but not quite.

“No, thank you. I really must go.” Suddenly, Columbine was exceedingly sorry she came. She couldn't imagine why she'd felt propelled to come here with such vague accusations. She was whirling around like a top, she thought, exasperated.

“Before you depart, Mrs. Nash, I must ask you something. I've been asked to coordinate a lecture series at Cooper Union. I have my choice of who to invite to speak. Would you be interested in participating?”

Columbine was taken aback. It was the last thing she'd expected from Elijah Reed. “I don't think so, Mr. Reed. I am honored that you asked, but no.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Why not?”

She hadn't expected a direct question. “Because,” she stammered, “I—I don't wish to give lectures anymore.”

“Why not?” he persisted.

“I don't have anything to say,” she blurted out suddenly.

To her surprise, he laughed. His face lit up with the smile, and he looked younger for a moment. She could see for the first time the traces of the young, fierce novelist he'd been. But she still didn't like his laugh.

She turned away. “I hardly think it's anything to laugh about, Mr. Reed.”

He stopped immediately. He touched her arm. “I'm sorry if I offended you. After your career, you have to admit it's a surprising admission. I mean,” he added gently, “no one could accuse you of not having opinions.”

She kept her face averted. “Things change.”

“In times such as these?”

“I felt I needed to rest for a bit,” she said, recalling Lawrence's words gratefully. They had made so much sense at the time.

“When did you last lecture, Mrs. Nash?”

“Three years ago. I addressed a women's club in Boston. Before that, my tour of 1884.”

“Then perhaps you've had enough of a rest. It's time you found something to care about again, Mrs. Nash. You were a fine speaker. I'd hate to see you stop that portion of your career. It reaches the people who don't read articles in magazines.”

“I know that,” she said, turning back to him. “But what am I to do? I have no subject.”

“Then I suggest you find one,” he said impatiently. “Why you think you can afford to sit back on your heels, I don't know. I'll hold a date open for you, Mrs. Nash. And now—”

And now?
Did Elijah Reed have a plan for her, a way to find her way out of this miasma she'd created?

“And now, I must eat my lunch.”

Columbine's mouth opened, then closed. She hadn't been dismissed this summarily since she'd been a wife. But somehow she wasn't put off—not much. She had a feeling that Elijah Reed was just as rude to the men of his acquaintance.

“Just don't pat me on the head on the way out the door,” she grumbled, and she closed the door on the sound of his soft laughter.

Columbine thought of Elijah Reed more than she cared to over the next few days. She liked the look of him; she liked the intelligence in his eyes. She liked the way his thick eyebrows descended when he frowned and how one corner of his mouth moved sideways in reluctant amusement. He wasn't very old, really. When she went back to check her copy of
Look Away,
she figured him to be forty-three. And, she had to admit, there was something about a man who gave no sensual heat that made one think about sex.

Sitting in her office at the New Women Society, she looked out the window and thought of Elijah telling her to find a subject. It was odd to find such faith in the eyes of a stranger. It was as though he had no doubt that she would find her way. And while she looked, he would be impatient. She wasn't sure she liked the weight of that. It irritated her, come to think of it.

Bell stood at her doorway carrying a box full of envelopes. “Have a minute?”

She spun her chair around briskly. “How nice of you to ask when you caught me woolgathering.”

Bell grinned. “You could have been planning your lecture for Elijah Reed.”

Columbine grimaced. “No chance of that, I'm afraid. Every day I compose a note telling him to give away my date, though I can't bear to send it off to him.”

“And why don't you?”

“I don't know. Perhaps I will today. You look worried, Bell. Is something the matter?”

Instead of answering, Bell dumped the box of envelopes on Columbine's desk. Columbine ran her hands through them. “What's this? These look like appeals to the emergency fund.”

“That's exactly what they are,” Bell said grimly. “I found them hidden in Marguerite's desk.”

“I don't understand.”

“She was supposed to help me with the emergency fund. She gave me a few priority cases, so I thought she was handling the rest—you know sometimes the requests are for things we don't need money for. Doctor referrals, jobs and such.” At Columbine's nod, Bell continued, “So I doled out the rest of the money for the month. I was encouraged—we almost had enough. I didn't know that Marguerite hadn't gone through all of these.”

Columbine stared down at the pile of letters. “Have you asked her about this?”

“I haven't had a chance. She hasn't been coming very regularly these past weeks. I didn't want to say anything to you until I had to.”

The letters ran through Columbine's fingers like water. There were so many. “Why? If she felt overburdened, why didn't she come to you, or me?”

Bell sighed. “It wasn't a case of being overburdened. Columbine, I know you
want
Marguerite to care. But you have to realize she doesn't have the same commitment we do. She's had a different life—difficult, yes, I know she's an orphan, but…” Bell gave up; although she'd lived side by side with the girl for two years, she had no idea what comprised Marguerite's character. “Some women—some people just don't have political minds, Columbine, no matter what you might hope, or want. Marguerite is interested in more worldly things, I think. And I believe she may be seeing someone, a sweetheart. Haven't you noticed the way she's been acting?”

“Well, no. But now that you mention it, she has looked rather blooming lately. And she keeps borrowing things from me—my cloak, or my gloves, and slipping them back in my room without telling me. I haven't said anything. I don't begrudge them to her, I know she likes pretty things.” Columbine sighed, looking down at the letters. “Yes, you're right. She is … worldly. And young.”

“And she's in love—good for her,” Bell said dryly. “But we have the letters. I've read through some. Some of the cases are emergencies. We have to deal with this. And we have no money. We should be getting that check from Maud Hartley next month—”

“I'm afraid we won't get it,” Columbine said. “Maud will hardly donate money to any cause of mine now.”

Bell sank down in the chair across from Columbine. “What are we going to do? We've worked so hard to establish credibility on the East Side. There are relief agencies down there, but they are tremendously overburdened. The women already don't trust us.”

“I know. We have to find someone who speaks Yiddish who will work with us…. Money again. Can't afford to pay, can't find anyone who can afford to volunteer. Oh, I'm sorry, Bell. I haven't been here enough lately, I know. I've put all this on your shoulders.”

Bell looked away. “It's all right.”

“No, it isn't. I'll get the money. I'll wire London.”

“Columbine, not your estate. You're not supposed to touch it. It's your security. It won't help anyone if you're penniless.”

“Nonsense,” Columbine said briskly. “I won't be penniless as long as I can write or speak. And I think that Mr. Soames is full of doom and gloom about my inheritance. He's conservative, like all Englishmen—that's why I came to the United States in the first place.”

“Columbine, I don't like this …”

There was a timid knock at Columbine's closed door, and Bell turned around, a bit irritated. “Yes?” she called impatiently.

The door opened a few inches. A small woman in her twenties came forward a tiny step. A mass of unruly sandy hair was topped by what was obviously her best bonnet, brown velveteen with rather worn trimming. Her plain, freckled face was pale, and she gripped her umbrella as though a high wind might snatch it away at any moment. “Miss Huxton?”

“Yes, can I help you?”

“It's Ivy Moffat, ma'am. I sent you a letter, ma'am.”

Bell was on her feet instantly, her impatience forgotten. “Please come in, Miss Moffat. It
is
Miss?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Ivy Moffat came a few steps forward into the room.

“I'm terribly sorry, I haven't read your letter,” Bell said kindly. “We had rather a backlog at the office.”

“That's fine, that's all right.”

“Please sit down, Miss Moffat,” Columbine said, coming around the desk. She pushed out the armchair reserved for nervous guests.

“Oh, Mrs. Nash, thank you. I knew you first thing, when I came in. I wasn't allowed to go to your lectures, my mam said … well, I wasn't allowed. But I read about the New Women Society, and I didn't know where else to go, so—”

“Sit down, please, Miss Moffat.”

“I'd rather stand, ma'am, my sister's waiting out by the door, so I can't be long.”

“Let's bring her in,” Bell said, starting toward the door.

“No!” Ivy Moffat's voice suddenly had strength, and it stopped Bell in her tracks. “I'd like to explain first, you see,” she went in her normal soft tone. “Sally is embarrassed, and … well.”

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Ivy,” Columbine said kindly.

The young woman nodded several times, as if to go over her story again before launching into it. “Sally is a bit older than me, two years. She married John Hoover over a year ago. He had a good job, a foreman in a shirtwaist factory. But he got laid off.” Ivy ground to a halt. She gripped her umbrella more tightly and stared at them, as if asking them to complete her story themselves to spare her the embarrassment.

Bell was used to that look. “You need a little to tide the family over,” she said gently. “Just tell me exactly what you think you'll—”

“No.” The strong voice came back, the indication that little Ivy Moffat had a backbone of steel. She paused again, but this time, Bell and Columbine waited. “At first Sally wouldn't tell me nothing,” she said, her voice very low. “She said she fell down the stairs, or tripped and the pot full of soup fell on her, scalding her. But she'd never been clumsy. Our dad used to say she could be a dancer on the stage, she was so graceful…” A solitary tear welled up in Ivy's left eye. She shook her head as though to send it flying.

Columbine exchanged glances with Bell. Sick at heart, they knew now why Ivy Moffat had come.

“He was beating her, you see. I guess I didn't want to know, at first. And she wouldn't admit it, either. But then finally she did.”

“Did she try to leave?”

Ivy nodded. “Six months ago. She came home, but our dad sent her back. She went back, and John threw her down the stairs. She was in the hospital then. So I told her that I'd find a way. I tried to save, and I have a little. But our dad won't take her in, so I have to find a place for us. My mam has a stepsister. She's a hard woman, but she'll do. She never liked my dad, so she doesn't care what he says. She says she'll take me and Sal if we pay rent and expenses. But I don't have enough, and Sal is in bad shape, so … I come here.”

Columbine went and placed her hand on Ivy Moffat's arm. “You've done right,” she said. “You tell us what you need, and we'll give it to you. We'll give you something today to tide you over, and you can have the rest next week.”

Ivy's face collapsed in relief, and a smile lit up her plain, fierce face. “I'll tell Sal.” She ran out and they could hear a whispered colloquy in the hall. Then two pairs of footsteps returned.

Sally Hoover looked very much like her sister, sandy-haired and freckled. Under any other circumstances one could see that she'd probably once had an amiable, friendly face. But now her face was closed, her eyes flat. Along one cheek ran a livid, yellow-green bruise, and one eye was swollen shut.

Columbine gasped and started forward, but Bell held her back with a quick, light touch on her arm. “I'm glad you came to us, Sally,” Bell said.

Sally looked at the floor. “I wanted to thank you,” she mumbled.

“We're here to help,” Columbine said.

“I'll pay you back,” Sally added.

“If you wish the money to be a loan,” Bell said, “you can pay us back a little at a time when you and your sister are back on your feet. Otherwise, it's a gift. You can think about it, and let us know.”