The Gilded Cage (20 page)

“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 other 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.

C
OLUMBINE AND
B
ELL
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 the 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—”

“Put you off, I know.” Bell sighed. She would never confide in anyone about her struggles, she knew. Especially not Columbine, for wouldn't Lawrence Birch be Columbine's next lover? For all she knew, they were already. “I don't know what it is, Columbine. I feel restless and unhappy without knowing the cause. It will pass.”

“You know that usually I do not propose this remedy,” Columbine said, “but you need a man, Bell. You need to open your heart to someone. I thought it would be Horatio, but since it's not, there are plenty of other candidates, and well you know it.”

Bell blushed furiously. To hide it, she ducked her head, glad for the felt brim of her hat, which shaded her face. “Really, Columbine.”

“Oh, Bell, don't be girlish. You're simpering like Maud Hartley. I'm telling you a truth.”

Bell sighed. “I do hate that imperious tone of yours.”

“Do I sound imperious? Oh, dear. But I
am
right.”

Bell decided it was high time to turn the tables. “And what about you and Lawrence Birch?” she asked. Mentioning the name made her blush even more. Luckily, Columbine had looked away to idly watch a baby toddling after his nurse.

“He is diverting, I own,” she admitted. “He's filled up some very empty hours. And he
is
the most attractive man I've ever seen, I think. Those blue eyes! But something pulls me back from Lawrence, I don't know what it is.”

“You would consider …” Bell stopped. She didn't know quite how to put it, even to frank Columbine.

“Being his lover? Well, I
consider
everything,” Columbine said with a laugh. “But no, I don't want Lawrence as a lover. He's too young, too volatile.”

Bell felt an enormous sense of relief. If Lawrence was Columbine's lover, he would be about the house even more than he was already. She didn't think she could bear that. Her nerves were already screaming from having him around as much as he was. So why had Columbine kissed him? she wondered. And had it been only one kiss, an isolated incident, a passing temptation? She wished she had the nerve to ask.