The Gilded Cage (33 page)

“That's ridiculous,” he mumbled. He cut another piece of fish and held it out to her on his fork. “Come on. You hardly ate anything today.”

Marguerite felt her stomach roll over at the smell. She was too full to take another bite. She rose. “Toby says I'm getting fat. That's because all we ever do, Edwin, is eat and make love.”

Edwin sighed and continued to eat. He waited, hoping this afternoon would not turn out like too many afternoons lately.

She went for her dressing gown. Wrapping herself in it moodily, she sat on the small couch upholstered in some old French tapestry. She crossed her legs and jiggled a foot. Marguerite felt irritated; a month ago, she had given Lawrence her promise. Bell had not come to her, but Marguerite was nervous about Lawrence's knowledge. There was no telling when he might return with more threats. She wanted to be married and safe.

Edwin took a sip of wine. “I have a present for you at my house,” he said. Presents always improved Marguerite's mood.

“Perhaps I should call there and pick it up,” she flung at him.

He sighed. “I have to get back to the office.”

Immediately Marguerite rose and ran to climb into his lap again, despite the fish. “I'm sorry I was cross, Edwin. It's just that I love you so. And you said we would be engaged by now.”

She smelled of powder and perfume, and she was so beautiful. Her heart-shaped face shone with adoration. Edwin picked up a raven curl and pressed his lips to it. “I know, dearest. But I also explained to you about father. The whole family knows to tread carefully with him. He has to get used to things. He's from the old school, you know.”

She pouted. “He sounds a perfect ogre.”

“No. He comes round eventually. As with my sister-in-law, Rosamond.” Edwin grinned. “He wouldn't hear of Albert's engagement for months. And now Rosamond is his pet. I believe he loves her better than his own family now.”

Marguerite laughed. “Do you think he'd like me?” she asked eagerly.

He gazed at her. Lately, Edwin had noticed that though he was still enthralled with her, he was able to see Marguerite more clearly. In the beginning, he had been simply besotted. He'd thought her beauty and freshness would win his father over. Now, he realized it would be harder than he'd anticipated, much harder. Perhaps impossible.

He kissed her soft cheek. “He'll adore you, my dear. Now, I really must go.”

Marguerite rose. “All right. Shall I expect you for dinner?”

“Of course. And we'll go out to dinner next week. You can wear your new gold dress. We'll go on Thursday.” He gave her a meaningful glance. “There's no opera that night.”

Marguerite started to smile, then stopped. Her audition with William Paradise was on Friday. She wouldn't want to stay out late; she'd be too tired the next day, and Toby would notice. He noticed everything. She'd been terribly tired lately; she never could seem to get enough sleep, and Toby had been sharp with her, saying she yawned her way through her lessons.

“Why not Wednesday?” she asked. “I don't want to wait so long.”

“I can't go any other night next week. Thursday it must be.” Edwin buttoned up his coat and set his hat on his head.

“All right, Edwin. Thursday.” She kissed him goodbye, then hurried to dress. On the way to her dressing table, she had to sink on the bed, she felt so dizzy. It was that fish; it stank so. She rang the bell furiously for Bridget to come and take it away.

The move to the Tenth Street house was harried and chaotic. Columbine had spent five years in the Twenty-Third Street house, and there were piles of papers and magazines and books and clothes to go through and give away, then pack the rest. The days were exhausting, but the fresh start was exhilarating.

She'd come to love the house even more as she supervised the move. It had a certain air of shabby elegance that she liked. A thick vine ran up one side which would bloom with red flowers in the spring. There was a large bow window in front with a curved windowseat, and a wrought-iron balcony at the top. The house was a weathered, dull red that seemed warm and welcoming to Columbine, though Ivy Moffat laughed and said it just needed a fresh coat of paint.

The housekeeper agreed to stay on, and Columbine moved into the back bedroom on the third floor. She decided her first project would be to transform the skylit attic into as cozy a space as she could make it. Ivy Moffat would move in next month, and the New Women Society would begin to refer women in a few weeks. The house had to be done by then.

“Everything is going well,” she told Elijah as they walked together on a chilly spring morning. One of the best things about the house was that it was a short two blocks to Elijah's. “Actually, it's lucky that the house is empty at present. Tavish and Darcy Finn arrive next week.”

“Old friends of yours?”

“Yes, I knew Tavish in England. He grew up on my father's estate.” Here was another example of how she kept herself apart from Elijah. She would not tell him that Tavish was her half-brother; that was a secret that very few knew, at Tavish's request. “I can't wait to see them,” she went on. “I've missed Bell very much this past month. Ivy is delightful, I'm glad she's moving in, but it's not the same. Darcy and I will talk for hours and hours.” She slipped her arm into Elijah's. “I want you to meet them.”

“I'm looking forward to it. I've heard of their newspaper from friends in Oakland. They tackle controversial issues with great courage, I hear.”

“Yes, they're doing splendidly.” Columbine felt Elijah stiffen underneath her hand. “What is it, Elijah?”

But he didn't answer. He was already raising his hat to a lady who looked to be in her sixties. She had a pleasant face with small bright eyes. Her bonnet was a bit old-fashioned, but her carriage was elegant, as though to say, yes, my clothes are a bit shabby, but who are you to judge me?

“Good day, Mrs. Pollard.”

“Mr. Reed! Well, what do you know. I was just thinking of you the other day. I read your article in the
Century
.”

“May I present Mrs. Nash.”

“How do you do.”

Columbine greeted Mrs. Pollard, but her thoughts were on Elijah. Something about this woman disturbed him. When they passed on, would they talk of the weather, or their work, as it was all too possible for them to do? Well, she would not. Not this time. She would ask for a change, she would pry if she must. Elijah was so stiff; it was obvious to her he was making a great effort.

“I'm just visiting a friend,” Mrs. Pollard was saying. “I live uptown, on the West Side. It's so nice to see you, Mr. Reed.”

He bowed. “It was lucky for me. I'm glad to see you looking so well.”

After a few more pleasantries, they said goodbye and moved on. “Who was she, Elijah?” Columbine asked, as soon as they were out of earshot. “You seem disturbed.”

“I knew her husband in the war. He died.”

“Oh. Were you close to him?”

“Yes, I suppose. In a way. He was older. Shall we turn back? I should be getting back to work.”

“Of course.” Columbine was silent for a few paces. “Were you in his company?” she asked timidly, for she knew that Elijah had closed the subject, and this was her signal to back off.

“No. We were at Andersonville together, near the end of the war.”

“Is this what you can't write about?” she guessed.

His face was stony. “Columbine—”

“Please tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it,” she said softly.

“Columbine, no.”

She stopped. His face was turned from her, and she touched his sleeve. “Please, Elijah.”

“Why must you know?” he asked roughly.

“Because I think you want to tell me,” Columbine said frankly. “And I think I would know you better if I knew. And I'm tired of
not
asking when I know these things.”

After a pause, Elijah began to walk. “It was near the end of the war, so things were especially bad. The Confederates could barely feed their own troops, it was no wonder there was no food for us. We had corn, the cob and husk ground together. Or sometimes if we were lucky we'd get some molasses. There was no shelter, not enough anyway. Thirty-five thousand men were in an enclosure of less than thirty acres. I know it can't have rained every day, but it seemed so. Some men went mad. All of us were starving. I didn't have a coat.”

“You were just a boy,” Columbine said. “Surely they should have sent you home.”

He shrugged. “There were other boys there. Transfers didn't happen that often. By the time I landed in the prison, they weren't doing it at all.”

“And Benjamin Pollard?”

“He was in his mid-thirties. He was from Massachusetts too, from Cambridge. He was an educated man, an officer. He'd heard of my parents—admired them for years—so he watched out for me. He went to get our food, so that no one would steal the food from me. He got me a pair of shoes and a blanket. He arranged a pool, you see, of the men in our section. When someone died, we'd draw lots for his effects, pitiable though they were. But a scrap of blanket could mean the difference between life and death. So Ben won the pool a few times, and always managed to get me something. Food, too. For a few days we could conceal the death and get the man's rations. Maybe Ben knew he was dying; I think he probably had tuberculosis, when I think back. I saw him cough up blood a few times, though he tried to hide it.” Elijah paused. “I was closer to him than I'd ever been to any man. I loved him.”

“And what happened? How did he die? From consumption?”

“No … I found out he was cheating. In the pool. We drew straws—actually they were sticks. We all trusted him completely, you see. But I found out that he was cheating. That he knew which was the shorter stick. He didn't take it himself that often. He bided his time.”

“But he gave you the blanket, and the boots.”

Elijah smiled thinly. “Precisely. But I was fifteen, and I was enraged. Or at least as angry as I could be, half-starved. What I thought of as ‘honor' was important to me then. Of course now I realize what Ben was doing—he devised a system to let the neediest profit. And he would also decide,” Elijah said painfully, “when a man was too weak to be able to benefit. Now I can see why such measures were so necessary. We could have murdered each other otherwise for a coat or a scarf. But I was fifteen, and I accused him of dishonor. I said terrible things.”

“And what did he do?”

“He was too weak to do much of anything. And he knew I would not listen, I suppose. He just told me that he knew it was important I survive. It was the oddest thing, Columbine. He was emaciated by this time. But on that rainy afternoon—it was so cold, so gray—his spirit seemed, this is difficult to explain, but it seemed that he had a foot in both worlds. His face was almost transparent. He told me that he
saw
something in me. He had to save me. I was worth saving.”

“What did you do?”

“I laughed. I told him he was trying to justify cheating, and there was no justification for that. But even I could see at that point how weak he was. And I was ready to fall down myself So I left. Later he deliberately crossed the ‘dead line,' and he was shot down. We didn't have a pool that night. He had willed me his coat, which I would never take from him before. Everyone respected the request. I took it. Winter was coming on; I wouldn't have survived without it. Later one of the other men there told me that Ben, all along, had been halving his rations and giving them to me. I never realized it. I just ate what he put in front of me. He was starving to death in front of my eyes, and I ate what he put in front of me.”

Columbine was silent. She didn't know what she could possibly say. Elijah's hands were shaking.

“Whitman said that the sight of the Union prisoners was worse than the bloodiest battlefield. That the real story of the war lay in its hospitals and its prison camps. I didn't understand that twenty years ago. The battles were what haunted me. But now when I wake up at night, I think of Andersonville.”

They had reached the front steps of Columbine's house, and they paused.

His eyes were dark and grave. “So now you know why it was painful for me to see Jessie Pollard. She was young once, in her late twenties when Benjamin was captured. He loved her, he spoke of her often. She never married again.”

“You were so young, Elijah,” Columbine murmured. “Somehow you have to forgive yourself. Somehow.”

He didn't respond. “I'll be going.” He turned away.

“No,” she said, and her voice stopped him in his tracks. “Come inside with me,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Columbine,” he said, shaking his head, “it's no good. Can't you see? I can't bear it.”

“No,” she said again.

She reached for him, her hand outstretched, and he took it. She grasped his hand, laced her fingers through his. “We can both bear it together,” she said, and she drew him up the stairs and into the cool stillness of the hall. They went up the stairs together and she took him into her bedroom. The morning sun was streaming through the freshly-washed curtains, and her dressing gown, ruby silk, was thrown across a gold armchair. The rose and gold satin coverlet was thrown across the large bed, and her pins lay scattered on the nightstand. Some sort of perfume seemed to rise from it all, Columbine's scent.

Elijah looked at the room and felt the possibility of healing there. He had never been one to go to a woman to heal, or to blot out the world in passion. But this was different; there was the strength of a woman here, softness and steel, backbone and a yielding art, and it could help him.

He brought her to him, and he kissed her, his mouth open, wanting to drink her in. She was all softness and fire underneath his hands. He undressed her hastily, needing her nakedness, and he threw off his own clothes, barely conscious of what he did, his eyes never leaving her body, her face, her eyes. He loved the daylight on her skin. Everything about her body was beautiful to him; the curve of her breast, the small mound of her belly, the way her hips flared. He kissed her again, more urgently, while he took the pins from her hair. She moaned into his mouth, and he felt her excitement propel him into a need for possession.