The Gilded Cage (44 page)

When the door closed behind Elijah, Columbine heard the click, and her shoulders shook with a convulsive jerk.

“You were lovers, weren't you,” Ned said.

“Yes, Ned.”

“It's funny, I thought it in the cards at one time, and then I ceased to think about it. I wouldn't have told him that way if I'd known.”

“It's all right. It was over already.”

“For him, or for you?”

“For him,” Columbine admitted. “And Ned, there's something else. Something I haven't told you. The doctors tell us not to upset you, so I haven't, but I must before next week. Before we marry.”

“Don't listen to the doctors,” Ned said. “Tell me.”

They hadn't looked at each other. Columbine still stood by the head of the bed, holding his hand. “I'm pregnant,” she said. “It's Elijah's child.”

His hand tightened on hers, but Ned said nothing.

“I want the baby, Ned. And obviously, I'll understand if you want to call off the wedding. I've felt dishonorable, agreeing to marry you without telling you about it. But I was worried about your health. I thought, well, I thought you'd be a good father, if you could find it in your heart to take it on. It's a big decision, and I very much regret having to place it before you.”

Ned didn't speak for several minutes. She waited, still holding his hand. All of her future would be directed by this one moment, she knew. She didn't know what was right anymore, what she needed, what she should do. All she knew was that she wanted her child, she wanted Ned to get better, she wanted to get back to her life and her work. She wanted to give up her life to someone else to manage. She wanted someone to tell her what to do.

When he continued to be silent, Columbine tried to extricate her hand from his, but he grasped it more firmly. “I've been quiet,” he said, “not because I was reconsidering, but because I was considering you. Columbine, I would be happy to marry you and become a father to your child. But I also know what I'm honorbound to say. It's just that I find it so difficult, now that I have you at last…” Ned paused. “I release you from your promise, should you wish it.”

She looked at him searchingly. She saw that he was in pain; the drugs must be wearing off. How could she abandon him when it was because of her that he was here? Wasn't it time she brought Ned happiness instead of grief?

That idyllic, brief period when she had tasted true love was over. She would never feel that way again. But she had always loved Ned, could still love him. And there was a child to consider. Columbine honestly did not know how she could bring an illegitimate child into the world. That would be a sin to her, in these times. She reminded herself that she loved Ned, she loved his sister. She would create, at last, a family, not just a marriage. She would not live to please only herself any longer. That was a wrong way to live, and too narrow for her now. Ned would give her a direction. She felt as though she was poised between two high places, with a yawning chasm beneath. She put out her foot, and it slid along the outcropping rock, found a foothold, and she crossed over.

“No, Ned,” she said. “I don't want to be released.”

T
OBY HAD PLANNED
to go out for lunch with some friends to celebrate the closing of the show, saying it was his last chance for festivity for awhile. He did not say that after this, there were no prospects, though Marguerite knew, of course, that this was the case. Money would soon be even more of a problem for them. Already they were skimping on meals and coal. Toby had not mentioned an audition for her again. He was tender with her, waiting until he thought she'd regained her strength.

Toby was a puzzle to her, there was no doubt about it. He never implied, by word or touch, that he wanted to sleep with her. Still, why was he so kind? Marguerite turned this over in her mind as the days went by. She had never met with such kindness, and she waited every day for him to come to his senses and call her a slut or a tease, and throw her out of his house. She thought it quite remarkable that time went on with them remaining merely comrades, giggling like brother and sister together.

As soon as the door closed behind Toby that day, Marguerite sped to the closet. She reached for her blue velvet gown and shook it, smoothing out the creases. Once she had thought the gown sumptuous and elegant; the months with Edwin had shown her how plain it was. But still, Marguerite knew there was a simplicity to it that made it fresh and pretty. She hesitated, a pair of sharp scissors in her hand. She'd planned this, but she hated to ruin her only good dress. Sighing, she began to cut away at the simple lace on the yoke.

Within ten minutes, she had carefully cut away all the lace, leaving an even simpler, deeper neckline. While she worked, she ran a bath. Marguerite bathed quickly but carefully, washing her hair with the last of Toby's fine shampoo. She dried her hair by the coal stove and left it loose, tying it behind her with a blue velvet ribbon. Then she slipped into the dress and went to examine herself in the mirror.

She had lost weight over the past weeks, and she looked even more childlike than usual. But the low, dramatic neckline of the dress showed a slight swell of bosom, even without handkerchiefs stuffed in her chemise. Marguerite rubbed a tiny bit of Toby's rouge on her cheeks and put a touch of salve on her lips. She rubbed cream into the tops of her breasts and her shoulders. Then she put on her gray spring coat and hat and went out.

She didn't have enough money for a cab, so she took the horsecar to the theater. She knew that Willie P. always arrived at four, so she'd have a little while to wait. The side door to the theater was open, thank goodness, but there was no one in sight as she crossed the back of the theater toward the center aisle. As she started down the aisle, she heard voices raised in anger. A couple was arguing in the front of the theater, and before she had gone a few steps Marguerite saw that it was William Paradise and the gorgeous Mollie Todd.

Mollie's bright hair shone even in the dark theater, gleaming against her white face. She dropped her summer furs off the shoulders of her silk ensemble. “Don't tell me any more lies, Willie,” she spat out. Her voice, that cooing, seductive instrument, was hoarse with rage. “By God, you'd think I would have learned the first time.”

Willie leaned negligently against a theater seat. “Really, Mollie? But you know how long it takes for things to penetrate that beautiful head of yours. Think, for example, of how long it takes for you to learn your lines.”

Marguerite could hear the sharp, indrawn breath. She inched slowly backward until she was underneath the shadow of the balcony.

“So you're not going to deny it?” Mollie demanded.

“Why should I, when you have obviously appointed yourself judge and jury? Why don't you just tell me my punishment? A diamond necklace this time? Another fur piece?”

Mollie seemed to wilt. Her voice was barely audible now, low with sorrow. “You really are a bastard, Willie. You think that's what I wanted all along.”

“Well, you seem too well-outfitted to deny it, dear,” Willie answered in the same murmuring, bland tone.

In one stride she was on him, and she cracked her hand across his face. Then, Mollie burst into tears. “Damn you, Willie! I hate you so!”

“Mollie, this is tedious—”

“Damn you! It's the humiliation that's so unfair. Everyone knows. You took her to Rector's, to Tony Pastor's. You took her to my own dressmaker, for God's sake!” Mollie broke out into fresh sobs. Her furs fell off her shoulders and landed on the carpet. She buried her face in her hands.

“So it's that, then. You're embarrassed by Miss LeClerc. It's not the loss of my love, I fear.”

Mollie didn't answer. She was trying to regain control of herself now. Willie held out a handkerchief, but she ignored it and took out her own. Marguerite could see at least two inches of embroidered lace on the border.

“Well,” Willie continued, his voice lower now, but still perfectly audible to Marguerite, “perhaps now we should discuss the show. I don't want this to interfere with your performance, Mollie. You are still my star, you know. You're on the threshold of becoming great. Why should we spoil that part of our partnership?”

Mollie Todd raised her head. Her wide cat eyes glinted. “What partnership?”

Willie waited a beat. “You have a contract,” he said evenly.

“And you have a new mistress,” Mollie said with a toss of her head, fully in control now. She picked up her furs from where they lay and smoothed them over her shoulders. “I think she'll be perfect in the role. She sings like a banshee, I hear.” She flung one end of the fur around her throat and headed down the front toward the side door of the theater. She pushed the curtains aside in a grand gesture, and the door shut with a muffled thud.

Willie P.'s sigh was audible. He sank down in a front row seat with a groan and lit a cigar. Marguerite hesitated, wondering if he would hear her if she went out and came in again. Or perhaps she should come back tomorrow. This was not Willie P.'s day.

“Miss Corbeau?” The voice drifted back to her with cigar smoke. A hand lifted, beckoned her forward. A diamond ring caught the faint light and winked at her. She had never seen a diamond ring on a man before and she was fascinated.

Marguerite headed for Willie P.'s back in the front row seat. Her knees were trembling with fear. Now that she was here, she forgot all her rehearsed words, her sallies, her smiles. She stood in front of him and he squinted at her through the smoke.

“Well?” he said.

Her chance. Her last chance. He was sitting there, still simmering with barely-concealed anger, now doubly annoyed by her presence. Looking at her with cool hazel eyes. Almost laughing at her.

And suddenly, Marguerite lost her nervousness. It was simply gone, without any effort on her part. She unbuttoned her coat with sure fingers and lifted off her hat. She tossed them both on a chair. She didn't flinch or smile prettily as his gaze moved over her professionally.

“You want to audition again,” Willie said with another deep sigh. “God help me. Tell me, Miss Corbeau, why should I listen?”

“Last time I was Toby's creation,” Marguerite said. “Today I am only myself.” She gestured to her gown, her hair. “You see how simple I am. You can create me, Mr. Paradise.”

There was a pause that stretched out into an agonizing full minute. His eyes took her in, but gave no hint of what he thought. “Go ahead, Miss Corbeau,” he said finally. “But I'm afraid there is no accompanist for you today. I think I can manage the footlights.”

She nodded, knowing better than to show her fear when she heard she'd have to sing without a piano. She gathered her skirts and walked on stage. William Paradise disappeared and the lights flicked on.

Marguerite felt them again, those warming lights, like something physical, something sexual, moving inside her stomach, going lower, exciting her. Those lights. Taking his time, Willie P. walked down the side steps of the stage and headed down the side aisle. She lost sight of him in the dimness, with the lights in her eyes. She could not tell at first where in the theater he sat. She waited, standing there, until she felt the whole theater of empty seats looking at her. And then she sensed him. She knew somehow that he was in the middle of the theater, to her left.

Marguerite began, slowly, to hum the melody. Her voice came out sweet and low and perfectly on pitch. Encouraged, she began to vocalize, singing la, la, la, along the melody line instead of words. And then she began to sing.

She sang “A Bird in a Gilded Cage” again, and she sang it easily, letting her voice speak, leaving off the gestures Toby had planned for her. She had practiced night after night while Toby was at the theater, singing it her way. Toby had given her professionalism and strength, a knowledge of tricks other performers used, and breath control. Marguerite kept some of what he taught and threw away the rest. She gambled everything on being herself.

In the dark theater, William Paradise watched the girl sing. He'd been prepared for the same artificiality that had so bored him the time before. But this time the hairs on his arms rose, and he saw his future on the stage. The girl was an original, and she had something new. She was singing under the most difficult of circumstances, a cappella on a bare stage, and she was charming him.

As he usually did, he tried to get beyond his emotional response and analyze it. Somehow this girl managed to project a sense of youth and corruption at the same time. She sang of knowledge learned too early, of innocence forever gone, and yet one sensed she had relished every second of her slide into sin. She was half willing accomplice to her downfall, half innocent child. When she sang, he thought of desire and regret and innocence and sex all at once. Something about the combination of child and woman mixed in her to combust into fire. The sexuality was combined with just enough of the perverse, just a hint, so that the audience would not recognize it but know it was there. And there would be no threat in such sexuality, Willie saw, because she looked so sweetly childlike that it seemed indecent to look at her bosom and legs. But they would look.

The audience wouldn't be able to put their finger on Marguerite's attraction, and there would lie her power. They would take this slight girl to their hearts and make her a star, and countless words would be written trying to explain why. Women would seize on her sweetness, her boyishness; men on her suggestion of wantonness. The men would make her a star, Willie thought. Especially the men.

Marguerite lifted her childish arms and he nodded at the perfection of the gesture. Her quality murmured in his ear and sang in his blood and he knew he could take it and build a star around it.

He eased out of his seat and started down the aisle as she swung into the chorus. She was pretty, no doubt about that. And there was boldness in her as well as freshness. No virgin would wear a dress with that neckline. She had no bosom, but what she had was well shaped, the breast a Frenchman would call perfect, one that would fit in a champagne glass. He would like to see her legs.