The Gilded Cage (39 page)

“Good evening.” Marguerite noted Columbine's flushed face, her shining eyes. Something good must have happened to her, she thought distantly.

Columbine hugged her. “I'm so glad to see you. We have to talk, because … well, because something's changed. You might say we're in the same boat, Marguerite.”

Marguerite didn't understand at first. Then she raised her eyebrows inquisitively at Columbine, and the older woman nodded.

“Yes,” Columbine said. “I am, too.”

Marguerite smiled thinly. “We're not in the same boat anymore, Columbine.”

She looked into Marguerite's face searchingly. “Already?” she breathed.

Marguerite nodded. “It was very simple, really. Dr. Dana didn't do it, but she told me about someone else. I've just come from—from there. I only have a little cramping. Otherwise, I'm fine.”

“You should lie down. Come upstairs.” Columbine linked her arm with Marguerite's.

“I've come to ask if you saved any of my old dresses,” Marguerite said as they climbed the stairs together. “I left quite a few.”

“Yes, I saved them for anyone who might need clothes. You can have them back, of course.”

“That blue velvet gown, too?” Marguerite asked, pausing as Columbine opened the front door.

“Yes, I think so. Come in, Marguerite.”

“I'll just get the clothes and go,” Marguerite said. Her face looked very pale, and her mouth was tight.

“Just stay one more night,” Columbine urged. “You don't look well.”

From the light in the hall, Marguerite could see Columbine's features more clearly. “You're happy, aren't you,” she said slowly. “You're happy about the baby.”

“Yes, I am,” Columbine admitted. “Not at first. But yes.”

“You must think I'm horrid, then.”

“Oh, dear, not at all,” Columbine said quickly. She touched Marguerite's arm, but the girl shrank back. “Not all women want to be mothers,” she said gently. “And I'm older than you; I have a little money. It's not the same for me. I think you are very brave, Marguerite. It was your decision, and you knew best. Now, come inside. We'll have a good dinner together, just you and I. Darcy and Tavish are going to a concert tonight.”

“I'll just get the gown,” Marguerite insisted stubbornly. She could not sit across a table with a pregnant Columbine, and she had already made her plans. “I have somewhere to go now,” she added.

Columbine saw the resistance, and the return of fierceness in Marguerite's expression. She would always set her chin and face the world alone. She would not let anyone in. A chill passed over Columbine's heart then, for she thought of Elijah.

“I'll be fine, Columbine,” Marguerite said.

Columbine nodded slowly. The exhilaration had faded from her face, and she looked weary. “Yes, I'm sure you shall,” she said.

Toby took her in; he had to. He had been frantic for two days, wondering where she was. He'd even tracked down Edwin at the Union Club, and was shocked to hear that Edwin had abandoned her. If he hadn't been such a coward, Toby would have horsewhipped him. But how could he handle a whip? He'd grown up on Fourteenth Street. Toby settled for calling him a callow ass, and left.

He put Marguerite to bed and fed her soup and sandwiches for two days and let her sleep. He took her to the abortionist and waited in the other room, perspiring madly. He gave her all his best handkerchiefs, for she'd caught a cold from walking in the rain. She was exhausted, and she didn't say much, and after the first day, she didn't cry. Toby fussed over her and worried about her and railed against Edwin.

“I should have horsewhipped him,” he said for the tenth time while he fixed her toast.

“Toby,” Marguerite said weakly, “I don't think you realize how much pain you give me by mentioning his name. I never want to hear it again, all right? It's all over with now. I have to think about the future, not the past.”

Toby was instantly contrite. “Of course, petal, I'm terribly sorry. It's just the thought of all those beautiful clothes… and the jewelry! It's just so déclassé, to say the least. A woman should always keep the jewelry and the clothes. And you'd think he would have offered to pay for the—”

“Toby! Please! Shut up!” Marguerite turned her face to the wall.

Toby wasn't hurt in the least by her sharpness. He set the toast aside and went to sit by her on the bed, stroking her hair until she fell asleep.

Toby was playing a Confederate soldier in a bad play that was in the final weeks of its run, so he was away every evening. Marguerite came to enjoy her solitary evenings, even as she looked forward to when Toby would arrive at one or two that morning, fresh from a dinner at Rectors or drinks at the Hoffman House, and full of jokes and stories. She would wait up for him, and then they would sleep into the late hours of the morning, Toby on the couch in the parlor. They knew the situation could not last, but Toby didn't dare ask Marguerite her plans, for fear she would think he wanted her to leave.

One evening, Marguerite sat, in Toby's silk paisley dressing gown, by the window, the latest issue of the
Century
open on her lap. Her gaze was unfocused as she flipped the pages. She was planning. Could one have a comeback if one had never been a success? she wondered with a thin smile.

A knock at the door surprised her, and the magazine slid from her lap. Marguerite debated whether to answer the door. It was a tiresome friend of Toby's, most likely. There was a sharper rapping on the door now, and, sighing, Marguerite got up to answer it. She padded across the floor in her bare feet, and opened the door to find Bell there.

Marguerite didn't say anything for a moment. She had been dreading this moment, and it was here. Bell had come for information, of course; it had only been a matter of time.

“Hello, Bell.”

“Good evening. I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. Do come in.”

Bell looked strained and pale, Marguerite noted. Her usually rosy complexion had changed to a pallor with a sallow tinge. Her hair was swept up any old way into a bun at the back of her head. But she was still beautiful, Marguerite thought with the same old envy, as Bell turned and looked at her. There would always be that surprising impact of her beauty that struck one at the heart.

“Please sit down,” Marguerite said. “I'm sorry I'm not dressed, I wasn't expecting anyone. If you'll excuse me, I can change.”

Bell gave a thin smile. “Please don't on my account. I've certainly seen you in a dressing gown before. No, I won't be staying long.”

“How did you know where I was?” Marguerite asked curiously.

“I asked Horatio. He said the only friend he knew you had was a man named Toby Wells. I came here expecting to ask him how I could find you.”

“Yes,” Marguerite said, embarrassed under the compassionate gaze of those amber eyes, “Mr. Wells has graciously allowed me to trespass on his kindness. I lost my home, you see.” She added briskly, before Bell could feel any sorrier for her, “What brings you here, Bell? Can I help you?”

Bell hesitated, and for the first time Marguerite realized what really was different about her. It wasn't the paleness, or the slightly shabbier clothes. The calmness was missing, the serenity in those wide, long-lashed eyes. What would being with a wolf like Lawrence Birch mean to a doe like Bell?

“I need to ask you something,” Bell said awkwardly. “It's about a night about six weeks ago or more, I'm not sure. You interrupted Mr. Birch and Columbine in the parlor.”

“Yes,” Marguerite said neutrally.

“And I was wondering,” Bell said, stammering slightly, “if you could tell me about that.” She twisted her hands together in her lap and wished passionately that she had not come. Aside from humiliating herself in front of Marguerite, she was committing the worse sin in Lawrence's view—she was questioning him. She wasn't believing in him. But she couldn't help it! She was tortured. Her bed was like a rack, as she lay next to Lawrence and imagined him attacking Columbine.
To
make things worse, she'd begun to suspect that he was seeing another woman. If he
hadn't
attacked Columbine, could he still be her lover? Bell knew the thought was insane, but stranger things had happened. Remembering her last meeting with Columbine, she could conjure up the disturbing sense that there was something running between Columbine and Lawrence, something obscure and dark. It wasn't attempted rape; it was passion.

Watching her, Marguerite pitied her. She could see the struggle and the desperate need to know. But that desperation was not for the truth, Marguerite saw, but only for confirmation. Despite her intelligence, her good judgment, Bell would stay with Lawrence. Even if Marguerite told her the truth, Bell wouldn't believe it. She would find some excuse not to. That made it so much easier to lie.

“Columbine told me that you and Mr. Birch are together now,” Marguerite said with the proper amount of hesitation. “I would hate to tell you anything that would cause you pain.”

“It's all right,” Bell said eagerly. “Pray, go on.”

“Columbine and Lawrence Birch were lovers for a short time. I gather that on that night he broke things off. You remember that Columbine was troubled during that period, often unhappy. I suppose she reacted badly, and when I walked in Mr. Birch was trying to restrain her. Columbine was hysterical,” Marguerite said calmly, watching the greedy relief in Bell's eyes. Yes, she was telling her what she wanted to hear. “He left. That is all I know.”

Her hands clasped at her breast, Bell closed her eyes. She wasn't even angry at Columbine for lying. If another woman had stolen Lawrence from her, Bell would have lied or cheated, too.

She stood. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Then she remembered her manners. “Are you well, Marguerite?”

Marguerite almost snorted. As if Bell cared. “I'm very well, thank you.”

Bell nodded and started toward the door. Halfway there she paused and turned back again. “And how is Columbine?” she asked shyly.

Anger filled Marguerite's heart. She hated Bell for her weakness, for her illusions, believing a bad story full of holes in order to clear a man who was obviously no good. “She's blooming,” she answered. “Extremely happy in Safe Passage House. And she's going to have a baby,” she added. Let Bell wonder.

Bell's face changed abruptly. “A baby? I didn't know.”

“She only just found out herself,” Marguerite said. “It's not very far along,” she added cruelly.

“I see.” Bell's steps faltered as she went to the door. Without another word, she opened it and went out.

A
baby
. Columbine was pregnant. Columbine was going to have Lawrence's child. With every step, the baby grew in Bell's mind into a monster. A living, growing thing, a fungus. Even as she walked home, the baby was getting bigger. It was growing inside Columbine.

And Columbine would tell Lawrence, and he would want her again. Or at least he would want the child. Lawrence wanted children. He said it was the highest role for women. Bell had secretly hoped to get pregnant herself, but nothing had happened yet. Columbine had beaten her to it.

She couldn't let it happen, couldn't let it happen. They were probably already seeing each other again, perhaps having relations again. Planning how to tell Bell. How to break it to her.

But she would forestall them. She would fight for Lawrence. Bell's steps slowed. And she had an ally she was just desperate enough to use. She had Elijah Reed.

T
HE NEXT DAY
was Sunday, and Bell left Lawrence sleeping and eased her way out of their rooms at eight o'clock. It was a short few blocks west from Tompkins Square to Elijah Reed's house on East Eleventh Street.

He was in his shirtsleeves and wearing his reading glasses when he opened the door, and he blinked at her in surprise for a split second before welcoming her inside. She saw that she had interrupted his breakfast. A small table was set up in the parlor, and newspapers were strewn about on the floor. She thought of what a perfect match Columbine and Elijah would be; the parlor looked very much like Columbine's on a Sunday morning. Lawrence would have a fit at the mess.

“Forgive the appearance of the room,” Elijah said comfortably, making no attempt to clear up any of the papers. “I'm slow to get started on Sundays.”

“You should be the one to forgive me for intruding like this,” Bell said, pushing aside a book of poetry to sit down on the couch.

“Not at all. Would you care for some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

Elijah pulled up an armchair. He looked slightly quizzical, but amiable. A strong, intelligent man, Bell thought. He was older, settled, and famous. Good for Columbine, better than Lawrence would be. So it wasn't really bad, what she was doing.

“What can I do for you, Miss Huxton?” he asked politely.

“I've come to you today because I believe we have an interest in common,” Bell began. “And I believe that you and I are the best people to work out a distressing situation. But it doesn't have to be distressing. We can make it… comfortable for all of us.”

“Miss Huxton, I must confess that you have me at a disadvantage. I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about Columbine and Lawrence,” Bell said, aggrieved. “You know that she is pregnant with his child, don't you?”

Elijah's knees jerked, and he rose and turned his back on Bell. He needed a moment of privacy to absorb this. Loss spilled in him, washed through him, loss and love, and unreasonable anger. He'd suspected the affair, knew it had been over for some time before he approached her. But a legacy from that affair—a child! It was monstrous.

“I'm not certain what they want to do,” Bell said to his back. “But I am certain that Lawrence will do right by the child. That's why I'm here. Why should we all be miserable because of this? I know Columbine never wanted children. Did you, Mr. Reed?”