The Gilded Cage (53 page)

Marguerite stared at her image, her hands arrested in the act of straightening a curl. I don't like my life, she thought. Toby is right, after all.

The knowledge cut her like a knife. She had told herself over and over that she was happy, for she had achieved everything she'd ever wanted, and it would be horrible of her not to be happy, almost as horrible as she really was inside.

Her success hadn't been without effort, of course, but it hadn't been very hard, either. She'd been in the theater long enough to have heard stories from other women of transgressions worse than what Edwin had done to her. She had simply been too naive, too blind to see the inevitable. And Edwin had been too weak. He was fat and married now, to Georgina Halstead. He had come backstage one night, sent roses to her for a week, and she had ignored him. Marguerite wondered briefly if Edwin were happy, then returned her attention to her own sudden, surprising pain.

If only she had Willie. If only she could go to him now, sink to her knees, and beg him to start their marriage over again. Toby, under pressure, had admitted that Willie's affair was common knowledge. That everyone was waiting to see what she'd do. That Mollie had said that she was damned if she'd give him up again for a woman who didn't love him. Marguerite had heard all these things as though Toby had stabbed her repeatedly with a knife. She moved about like a sleepwalker; for once in her life she could not form a plan to get what she wanted.

It was more than Willie, it was her lack of home, of child, of real friends other than Toby, of anything to anchor her life beyond the stage where she kicked her legs every night to roars of masculine approval. She missed Columbine, and sometimes she even missed Bell. If she had Willie, she could begin to plan those other things, a home, a child—maybe—a circle of friends who truly cared about her, not about Daisy Corbeau, but Marguerite. That night she had come home from Ludlow Street had changed her; she kept the picture of a home in her mind, a real building, with carpets and curtains and cushions.

And then she closed her eyes, an image rushing to the front of her consciousness. It was there always now, crowding out any other thoughts. It was how Willie had stood in the cold, hatless, coatless, and watched Mollie walk away. Mollie hadn't even realized her lover was still standing there. But he hadn't moved until the last flick of velvet cloak had vanished around the corner. Who did that but a man in love?

Then she heard, faintly, noise from the drawing room. Willie was tinkling at the piano. He was waiting for her. They would exchange Christmas gifts, gifts of guilt and propriety. Marguerite averted her gaze from the sight of her empty eyes and moved to her door. She went down the hall and pushed open the double doors to the drawing room. He was seated at the piano next to the tall, handsomely decorated tree, picking out “Silent Night” with a finger.

“A happy Christmas, darling,” Marguerite said, crossing to him and kissing his cheek.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Shall we have some eggnog, or some punch? They brought up both this morning.”

“Some punch, I think.”

Marguerite poured out two glasses of punch. She hadn't much use for Christmas. She had racked her brains for facts in the beginning, trying to remember what the Gentiles had done in France so she could invent family stories about past Christmases. But then she'd realized that her memories bored Willie, and she'd stopped. Now, the only good things about Christmas were the presents, and the opulent dinner with Toby afterwards.

“Come, sit by the fire,” she said to Willie. “Let me give you your presents first.”

He sat obligingly in the big brocade armchair while she piled presents around him. He opened them one at a time and thanked her dutifully for the cashmere dressing gown, the delicate gold dress watch, the softest linen handkerchiefs, the ruby stickpin and studs. Marguerite felt disappointed in his restrained reaction; finally, this year, she had taken time to pick the presents herself. Not since their first Christmas together had she spent so much time and effort.

“I thought the rubies especially fine,” she said, hoping for a bigger reaction. “I can't wait to see you in your evening clothes.”

“Everything is beautiful, Marguerite. Thank you.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. His lips were dry and cool. He reached into his inside pocket and took out a long, flat box. “Here, this is for you.”

Smiling uncertainly, Marguerite opened the unwrapped box. It was a pearl choker, five perfectly matched strands, with a sapphire and diamond clasp. The pearls were breathtaking, it was exactly what she would choose herself, but Marguerite felt tears start behind her eyes. “Thank you, they're magnificent,” she said in low voice, her face bent over the box. If only she could imagine Willie picking them out joyously, waiting hopefully to see her face. The way he'd been, half-shy, half-expectant, when he'd given her the sapphire engagement ring. Had he loved her once, then?

“I thought they suited you. Here, let me fasten them for you.”

Marguerite turned obediently and let Willie fasten the pearls around her lace collar. Was this her only present, then? she wondered. Of course, they were fabulously expensive, she was sure, but couldn't Willie have picked up a few other small things, just to show he'd actually cared enough to shop instead of wandering into his favorite jeweler and pointing to something expensive in a case?

“Oh, yes, and you also have a standing order at Worth's for a new opera cloak and gown,” Willie said. “You have only to choose what you want.”

Marguerite nodded. Now she really wanted to burst into tears. She could order an opera cloak any time she wanted, and Willie knew it. But perhaps she was being ungrateful. She wanted this Christmas to be real, to be happy.

“Try on your new dressing gown, darling,” she urged him. “I want to see it.”

She helped him out of the silk brocade gown he wore, and Willie slipped into the cashmere one. “Perfect,” Marguerite said approvingly. “You look very handsome.”

“I feel quite elegant,” Willie said. “Too bad I can't wear it to Christmas dinner. Can I get you more punch?”

“Yes, thank you.” Marguerite folded over the dressing gown in her hands jerkily, wondering why everything felt so stilted, like a bad play. She felt something bulky in the dressing gown pocket, and she slid her hand inside. She fished out a slender book of poetry.
The Love Poems of John Donne
was embossed in the red leather cover. She didn't know Willie read poetry. Curious, Marguerite opened the book, and written on the flyleaf in an unfamiliar hand was: W, The words may be another's, my darling, but the sentiments are wholly mine. All my love, M.

Rage almost lifted her from the floor. Her scalp prickled and her hands shook. Willie turned and saw her face, saw the open book in her hands. He looked alarmed for a moment, then merely watchful.

She closed the book with a snap. “‘All my love, M.' Well, I know it isn't me.”

“No,” he said evenly, “why would it be you?”

“Mollie Todd. Everybody knows about her, don't try to lie.”

“I told you I'd never lie to you, Marguerite.”

“Hah!” she spat. She shook the book at him. “And does this make you honest, Willie?” she taunted him. “Does this make you a good man, to be faithless but not to
lie
about it?”

Willie put down the two cups of punch. “Really, Marguerite, it's not as though your record is spotless.”

But I didn't love any of them! she wanted to cry. Then why had she done it? Vanity—perhaps. Boredom—sometimes. Why had this all started, this contest between them? If Willie blamed it on her, she blamed it on him, and what did that get them?

Willie turned away tiredly. “So, is this little scene done now? Toby should be here soon.”

“No, it's
not
done,” she shouted, and he turned back, startled. “Not in the least. How dare you bring this into my home? Mollie Todd, that has-been!” She was trembling now. “How dare you humiliate me, how dare you drag my name through the mud, how dare you—” A great sob choked her, and she flung the book into the fire.

Willie leaped across the room, rudely pushed her out of the way, and thrust his hand into the fire while she screamed. He grasped the book where it lay in the embers and pulled it out, dropping it on the hearth, where it lay, singed but still intact.

“How dare
you,
” he said, his face contorted with rage. He took a dangerous step toward her. “You silly, hard-hearted little bitch. You've been in every bed on Broadway. You've bedded every one of your leading men who would have you. What right do you have to say even one word of reproach?”

“It was different,” Marguerite sobbed. “Different—”

“Why?” he demanded. “Why?”

“Because I didn't love them!” she screamed. She swiped angrily at her cheeks and faced him, defiant, half-afraid. There, it was out. Now he would know everything. That she wanted him, that she wanted his love.

Willie burst out laughing. He leaned against the piano and laughed, a hard, cruel, mocking kind of laughter. Marguerite put her hands over her ears. She could not bear to hear it.

“Who are you to talk of love?” he asked contemptuously. “You've never loved anyone in your life.”

“That's not true. I love Toby,” Marguerite said, because she could not tell him that she loved him when he was laughing at her.

He laughed again. “Yes, you love Toby. He's your little pet, isn't he? You tell him your secrets and you buy him ties and you patronize him. Have you ever wondered how he lives, Marguerite? Who he sees, who he loves, what his passions are? Did you know he nursed his mother for two years and she died in his arms on Christmas Day two years ago? She was a great talent, fifty times better than you, and forgotten today—perhaps you might want to meditate on that. Did you know that Toby nursed a broken heart last year over that good-for-nothing Gregory Von Meter?”

“Why, he laughed about Gregory,” Marguerite said nervously. “He said it was just a sad
contretemps,
whatever that is.”

“He wouldn't tell you the truth,” Willie said quietly. “You don't want to know the truth. You only want to talk about yourself, and when you don't talk about yourself you want to hear something lively, something gay. You have no curiosity about anything but your own concerns, and you have no tenderness.”

“How dare you say such cruel things to me! Just because I won't sleep with you often enough,” she flung at him contemptuously. She wanted to hurt him now.

One corner of his mouth lifted, and his hazel eyes were hard. “I wouldn't have you if you begged me on your knees, Marguerite. You don't know the first thing about what can be between a man and a woman. You've never become a woman. Some necessary thing hasn't happened. You're a still a child.”

She tossed her head. “You didn't think so once.”

“I'm not talking about sex,” he said impatiently. “My God, can't you understand anything?”

“And Mollie Todd does, with her books of poetry and her inscriptions?”

He picked up the book with such tenderness she almost screamed at him again. “Yes, Mollie does. Perhaps it was best for her, not becoming a star. She had enough money to settle down in a little house. She took in her niece, a young girl, when her sister died. She is actually interested in things other than the theater, Marguerite. She talks well; she interests me. She knows about the theater, too, and not just what's a hot ticket on Broadway. She gave me Ibsen, she reads Shaw—you don't even know these people, do you?”

“Of course I do, damn you. And that Shaw play, Arms
and
Men, or whatever it was, barely ran two weeks last year, so who cares? Anyway, since when are you interested in bluestockings, Willie?”

Willie gave a thin smile. “Perhaps I'm growing older, I don't know.”

“So I'm not smart enough for you, is that it?” Marguerite asked bitterly. “So that gives you the right to stray.”

Now Willie only looked sad. She almost wished he would look angry again. “Marguerite, that's not what I mean. I wouldn't care if you never opened a book in your life if—” He stopped abruptly.

“If what?” she challenged him stoutly, but her voice shook. “If what, Willie? If I would let you do as you please? Well, I do let you do as you please, and look where it's got me. A box of pearls and humiliation.”

He cocked his head and studied her as though she were a specimen. “I thought our arrangement was satisfactory for you, Marguerite. What about Teddy Clinton?”

“I don't love Teddy Clinton!” she shouted. “And you love Mollie Todd!”

Willie looked honestly puzzled. “What do you want, then?”

“I want you to love me again,” she shot back. The words came out with no tenderness, only petulance and fury. She wanted to snatch them back. She put a hand to her mouth and bit on a knuckle.

Willie stood, staring, searching her face. The room seemed terribly still except for the sound of their breathing. “Did I ever say that I loved you?”

“I hoped that you did,” she whispered. “I want it back, whatever it was.”

“I'm sorry, Marguerite,” Willie said finally. “I don't think I can oblige you. I wasn't terribly good at being a lapdog.”

He spoke lightly, and she knew what her response should be. She should tell him that she didn't appreciate him once, that she didn't know. That he was right, that she was selfish and vain, and that she needed him to teach her how to love, in the way he'd taught her how to eat a formal dinner, or how to dress, or how to sing. Lightly, teasingly, sternly, lovingly, generously. She should ask him to hang on, just a little bit more. She should ask him to dredge up a little more faith, if he could. And most of all, she should tell him that she loved him.