The Gilded Cage (21 page)

She tried a different tack. “Is it his politics that give you pause, then?”

Columbine lifted her shoulders. “No, not really. I met Prince Kropotkin in London, you know, and I was almost converted. He is so charming! But I'm opposed to anarchism. It's the violence I abhor. And it's a very naive ideology, and most naive ideologies are dangerous. I said that to Lawrence, of course, and he disagreed. But so charmingly! He talked of Emerson and Thoreau, of an indigeneous American hostility to government authority. He doesn't speak of Bakunin, he doesn't spout that ‘every bourgeois will have his bomb' rhetoric. Thank goodness. No, I think his politics are of the soap box variety. He's harmless in
that
way at least. He's been working on an article for
Die Freiheit
over the past few weeks. So I've been spared that test of my womanly virtue,” she said with a laugh. “It's easy enough to resist a charmer when he makes himself scarce.”

Marguerite approached Columbine before teatime. She had to seize the moment, even though Columbine was at work, for there always seemed to be people dropping in for tea. If nobody else, there would be the ever-present Lawrence Birch.

“May I have a word?” she asked tentatively, for Columbine was bent over papers, scribbling furiously.

Columbine removed the spectacles she wore for close work. “Of course. You know what we need, don't you, Marguerite?”

Marguerite masked her impatience under a quiet smile. “What, Columbine?”

“A girl who speaks Yiddish. We need to reach the East Side with this issue.”

Marguerite's eyes slid away from Columbine's. She smoothed her skirts.

“But you didn't come to speak about work, did you,” Columbine said. “I'm sorry. Sit down, dear.” Columbine pushed the papers away and turned her desk chair to face the small sofa. She noticed now how blooming Marguerite looked, how pretty in her new dress of Nile green silk with Irish guipure lace. Not for the first time, Columbine wondered how Marguerite was managing on her small salary. Lately she'd noticed new hats, fine lace, gloves lined with sable, and now she saw a tiny pair of emerald earrings in Marguerite's pretty ears. Horatio did not seem the type to shower his lover with gifts, though one never knew. But how could Horatio Jones afford emerald earrings? He came from a good family, but Columbine knew that he did not have such money to spend.

Marguerite sat in a rustle of fine silk. “Columbine, I'll always be grateful to you for taking me in. But it's time I went out on my own. I'll be moving into my own apartments. You see, I've been taking singing lessons, and my teacher thinks I have promise. He's told me, however, that I must practice all the time. I have to leave the New Women Society and devote myself entirely to my music.”

Columbine nodded slowly. Did Marguerite really expect her to believe this? Surely the girl was leaving something out, namely how she would finance such a life. Columbine could not imagine Horatio Jones setting up Marguerite in an apartment any more than she could imagine him buying her jewels. Something was not right. “I wish you well, Marguerite,” she said slowly, wondering how much she could ask. “I must tell you that Bell confided in me about Mr. Jones. She told me you're in love with him. Forgive me if I pry—it's only out of concern. Do you two plan to marry?”

Marguerite almost laughed. Horatio Jones seemed such a distant memory to her. Edwin Stiers had filled her days and nights for weeks. “Columbine, I haven't seen Horatio in ages. I thought I was in love with him, but it really was just an infatuation.”

“I see.” There was another man, then. By Marguerite's manner, Columbine knew that the subject was not open to discussion. But she felt responsible. Marguerite was her charge, in a way. The girl had no family. She couldn't stay silent. “Again, forgive me if I pry, Marguerite. But I don't want to see you become involved in a situation which—”

Marguerite stood abruptly. Her small, heart-shaped face was suddenly closed. “Please, Columbine. Please just wish me well. I no longer,” she said carefully, “wish to take direction from you. I want to stand on my own two feet.”

“And will you be standing on your own two feet in your new accommodations?” Columbine asked dryly.

Marguerite's mouth shut in a thin line. “So you condemn me.” Her eyes blazed. “How dare you condemn me? You're the one who taught me about free love.”

Columbine sighed. “I hope that I have also taught you about responsibility, Marguerite. The idea of free love was born because of all the women trapped in loveless marriages. It merely said sex should be tied to love, not property. It should be given freely, not forced or coerced. It does not mean license. The essential cornerstone is responsibility shared by two adults. And if you do choose to marry, I want you to marry for love. Not blind love, not passion, but love and friendship both.”

Marguerite made an impatient gesture. “That's fine for your articles and such. But Columbine, we're living
now
. You know that a woman needs a man. That her status is tied to him. Why shouldn't I marry for that, if I want it? Won't that better women's state too?”

Columbine looked weary, as she'd heard this argument many times before. “I believe that it's a sad thing if we limit ourselves in life to what things
are
. Why shouldn't our behavior be guided by what
should be
? It's the only way, as women, we can live fulfilling lives. Look at Dr. Dana.”

“But she's not married.”

“And yet she is happy, Marguerite, for she has work she believes in. Did you know that she
was
married? Her husband would not allow her to go to medical school. It was a very painful decision for Meredith, but she eventually left him.”

Marguerite said nothing. She didn't agree with Columbine at all. Dr. Dana seemed harried and half-killed most of the time. She hadn't bought a new dress in ages. How could Columbine miss the desperation in her friend's lives? Even the most fiercely political of them had trouble balancing their domestic lives. She couldn't think of one who was happy in love, not even Columbine. But she didn't want to argue.

Seeing Marguerite's face shut down, Columbine relented. “I just want you to be careful, Marguerite,” she said softly. “I care about you.”

“I'm obliged to you for that, Columbine, but I still have my own way of doing things.”

Columbine nodded. “And that is only right. Let me say one thing, and I'll have done. See Dr. Dana. She's only a few doors down. She has information on ways to prevent conception, and she can help you. Promise me you'll go, Marguerite,” she said softly.

But Edwin took care of all that! He said if a man utilized an Eastern method of control, a woman would not get pregnant. He had it on good authority. Still, it would make Columbine feel better if she thought Marguerite would follow her one last—thank God!—piece of advice. “I promise, Columbine,” Marguerite said. She bent down and kissed Columbine, for she was fond of her. She'd been more of a mother to her than her own these past two years. “And I'll come see you, often.”

Suddenly, Columbine felt sad at the thought of Marguerite leaving. Bell could be so reserved, and Marguerite had added shrieks and yes, sulks and emotion to the house. “Yes, you'll come often.”

Not really believing the sentiment, but wanting to, the two women kissed. Behind Marguerite, Columbine saw the parlor door open. Ned walked in. She hadn't seen him in three weeks.

She stood up abruptly, knocking her papers to the floor. “Ned.”

“Bell let me in,” he said. He stood in the middle of the room awkwardly. “Good afternoon, Miss Corbeau.”

Marguerite gave Ned her hand, then left quickly after a hurried glance at Columbine. She felt the tension between the couple, and she felt sorry for Columbine. Marguerite would never bungle things as Columbine had. Edwin might have half the brains of Ned, but at least as much of the money, and a sweetness she found endearing and irritating by turns. She could manage him. She could even love him.

The door closed quietly behind Marguerite, and Ned and Columbine looked at each other. She looked well, he saw. Those violet tinges underneath her eyes were gone.

“You look very well,” he said.

“Thank you. I'm actually sleeping through the night, these days. Won't you sit down?”

Ned seated himself in the armchair across from hers. “Bell told me you've had trouble raising funds for the Safe Passage House,” he said.

“Yes, I'm afraid so. I thought perhaps it was because of the article in the Century. Your friends seem to have closed ranks.”

He frowned, and she saw he was truly angry. “Please don't call them my friends.”

“I didn't mean it that way, Ned.”

“Well, at any rate, your suspicions are correct. Maud Hartley has put out the word. She's never forgiven you for that night, Columbine, and for other things. Capturing me, for starters,” he said with a twisted smile.

“So I should not bother attempting to raise funds on Fifth Avenue any longer,” Columbine said.

“Well, I'm sure there are some people who don't listen to Maud. You know who they are as well as I.”

“I read in the paper,” Columbine said, changing the subject, “that you've been busy.”

“Yes, my life is primarily in Washington.”

“I hope it's going well.”

“It has its frustrations, but yes.”

Columbine sat, trying to keep a pleasant expression on her face. She had no idea why Ned had come, but she would be damned if she made any more small talk.

Now, Ned looked uncomfortable. He shifted his position. He reached down and adjusted the angle of his gloves in his hat. “Columbine, I've come today for two reasons. I'll get to the second in a moment, but first, I want to make a proposition to you that I dearly hope you will accept.”

Columbine hid her apprehension under a smile. “I hope I can do so, Ned.”

Ned paused. He fumbled in his pocket and came up with a ring of keys, which he slid onto her desk. “I wanted to give you these.”

She picked up the keys, heavy in her palm. “And they are?”

“They are the keys to the house on West Tenth Street.”

Columbine gave him a startled glance, then looked at the keys.

“I bought it when I thought we might be married. Now I want to give it to you for the Safe Passage House.”

Stunned, Columbine continued to stare down at the keys in her hand. Her thoughts were moving so sluggishly.

“It's larger than you might think. We didn't use but that one bedroom,” Ned said without a blush. “Five bedrooms all together, but three floors, so there's plenty of space. And remember the attic studio, with that slanted ceiling and the skylight? I took you up there once, and you said it would make a beautiful room.”

“I remember, Ned,” Columbine said, looking down. They'd made love on a blanket on the floor, on a chilly spring day.

“It has four baths, one behind the kitchen. It's an odd house, full of angles and stairs, but there is a spacious feeling to it, I think.”

“Ned, I can't…. The house you wanted to be
our
house,” Columbine stumbled over the words.

“But don't you see that you must take it, just for that reason? Columbine, I can never live in that house. But
you
can. And it would give me great pleasure if you would use it for Safe Passage. It would honor me, and us, if that house was used for that purpose.”

“Ned—”

He reached out for the first time and touched her, closing his hand over hers. The keys bit into her palm. “You must allow me to do this. I couldn't bear to sell it. I'll be sending over an attorney to go over the details with you.” Ned relaxed his grip. She opened her hand, and he saw the red marks of the key on it.

“There's something else,” he said.

She looked at him with cloudy eyes, still not sure if she should refuse the gift. “Something else?”

Ned sat down again. “I need to talk to you about Lawrence Birch,” he said.

The blue eyes of Johann Most flicked over the manuscript in his hand. His deformed jaw, the result of a childhood accident, seemed to tighten. He was an ugly man, but a compelling one. It had taken Lawrence over a month to get up the nerve to attempt an article for his weekly, famed over the world.

Lawrence waited patiently. He had submitted the article three days ago, and had finally gotten up his nerve to come in to the offices of Die
Freiheit
. He'd only hoped to badger one of the assistants for information. But the great Most himself had called him back to his desk. “Yes, I've read your article,” he'd told Lawrence. Then he proceeded to ignore him and read it again.

Now, his eyes slowly lifted from the page. “I wanted to be sure,” he said in his heavy German accent. “I read it first when I was tired. So when it seemed like a worthless piece, I threw it aside.”