The Gilded Cage (9 page)

He took off her glove, and pressed his lips to her cold palm. They were warm; his mustache tickled. Did she feel the faint, ghostly presence of his tongue for an instant? Impossible. But Columbine flushed, just from the thought of it.

“You're cold,” she noticed suddenly. “Oh, Mr. Birch, I'm sitting on your coat.” She stood up quickly and handed it to him. “We should walk.”

“Yes,” he said. “Let's walk. Take my arm, and show me your city. Show me what you love, and tell me what you believe in. We'll start from there.”

Columbine smiled, her full lips curving, her eyes clear. The key, Lawrence thought, slipping back into his coat. He held out his arm, and after hesitating just a moment, she took it. He held it lightly, carefully, as though it were a precious gift. He'd found it. She felt compromised, and she needed to be told which way to go. Then he would have her, the famous Columbine Nash. And it had only taken a day.

Marguerite stood in front of Horatio Jones's lodgings. She knew she could ruin everything, but she could not wait one more day. She had to force her hand. She had never been good at waiting.

She knew Horatio was home, for he'd written to Bell. Marguerite knew where Bell kept her correspondence, and made a habit of checking on Horatio's letters from time to time. Usually they were full of politics and literature, and insufferably dull. But this last letter had no mention of Prince Kropotkin or Edward Bellamy. It was an ultimatum. Come to me, or else.

Marguerite knew that Bell would not come. She had put on her brown dress and gone to the New Women Society, as usual. Marguerite had improvised quickly, feigning a bad headache. Bell had solicitously advised her, while putting on her hat, to stay in bed. As soon as she was gone, Marguerite changed into her best dress, a peacock blue velvet that matched her eyes. She borrowed Columbine's fur lined cloak and wore the gay beribboned hat that Bell had trimmed for her. She looked very young and pretty, and she hoped that Horatio would finally respond. At least he would be in the perfect state to receive her. Angry at Bell, frustrated. Alone.

Straightening her shoulders, she grasped the brass knob of the front door. She pushed it open cautiously, and saw with relief that the short hallway was empty. Prints were hung on beige wallpaper, and there was a small table to one side that was heaped with mail. It looked perfectly respectable—perhaps too respectable for a lone lady caller in the middle of the afternoon.

Marguerite knew Horatio's rooms were on the third floor, and she ran up the stairs quickly, afraid of meeting someone. That would be dreadfully embarrassing. She fervently hoped she would be able to get in and out of the building without being seen.

By the time she reached the third floor, her breath was coming quickly. She knocked tentatively, and she heard a chair scrape almost immediately, swift footsteps crossing the floor. He thought it was Bell.
To
forestall the look of disappointment she knew would be on his face, she called softly, “Mr. Jones, it's Miss Corbeau.”

After a small pause, Horatio opened the door. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his brown hair was rumpled. He looked very cross. “Miss Corbeau.”

She brushed past him quickly. The fool, standing there with the door open like that. “I know you expected Bell,” she said boldly, standing over to one side so that she was not visible to the hallway. “But I thought of you here, waiting, and the cruelty of it…” She bowed her head and fiddled with a button on her glove.

Horatio shut the door at last. “Bell isn't coming,” he said woodenly.

She shook her head.

“You know this?”

“I know everything,” Marguerite said delicately. “Bell has confided in me. And I find it so very difficult not to be angry at her.
To
turn you down, to turn you away—well, I don't understand it.
To
throw away her chance at happiness. She's had many suitors, of course …”

Horatio looked at her keenly. “Many suitors,” he repeated.

Marguerite made a helpless gesture. “I'm young, Mr. Jones, and unused to the kind of life that Columbine and Bell lead. It is very different. … I'm not sure I understand it. What I mean is,” she said, floundering, “that the marriage state is not at all repellent to me. And therefore my conduct changes accordingly. Unlike Bell who can … see gentlemen without compromising her morals.” Marguerite paused delicately. “If you see what I mean.”

He saw very well what she meant, despite her elliptical phrasing, her pauses. Bell had taken lovers before. Horatio felt as though he had been struck. He had never asked her, but she had led him to believe that she had not. That she espoused free love on principle, but she herself had not practiced it. It had given him something to wait for. He had felt enormously protective, willing to wait. And now others had been there before him.

Anger filled him. He considered himself a good man, a careful man. But he had been driven to madness by that woman. He had drowned in her lushness, her softness, and overlooked the steel beneath. He'd admired her intelligence without once honestly examining that curious chip of ice that lay embedded in Bell's heart. He'd never thought it would cut him, he'd never thought he would be her victim …

“Mr. Jones? Would you mind if I sat, just for a moment?”

Horatio wrenched his attention back to Marguerite. The girl was so pretty. Her eyes were a deep, mysterious blue, and her slenderness was refreshing next to the maternal bosoms that were so popular these days.

“Of course, Miss Corbeau. Please. And I'll make us some tea, if you wish.”

“You're very kind. Very kind to me. And I don't deserve such kindness.” Her last words faltered, and he saw her eyelashes tremble as she looked down.

Horatio crossed to the sofa where she sat. He pulled over an armchair and sat, leaning forward. “My dear Miss Corbeau, whatever do you mean? Why wouldn't you deserve kindness from anyone?”

“Not anyone,” she said in a rush, “only you.” She stared at him, horrified. “Oh, sir. Please forgive me, I don't know what I'm saying.” She pressed a lacy handkerchief to her mouth. “I shouldn't be here at all, I knew I should not have come. I should never have come to you,” she added in a whisper that throbbed with suppressed emotion.

Suddenly, Horatio began to understand. Why
had
she come? Why had she risked her reputation that way? Surely not from disinterest. “Miss Corbeau-Marguerite …”

At the sound of her name, her shoulders shook, as if he had stabbed her. “Please,” she murmured. “I should go.”

He put out a hand to stop her, and it landed on her knee. “Don't,” he said. He felt the curve of her leg underneath her skirts, and wondered what she was wearing beneath. A shock passed through his fingers, exciting him. He remembered that glimpse of her breast, and the knowing look in her eyes he'd convinced himself he'd imagined. But what if he hadn't imagined it?

Her chin still lowered, she looked up at him through her eyelashes. “You know my secret,” she breathed. “You can see it in my face. You know I am lost to you.”

“Miss Corbeau, I—”

Suddenly, she threw herself on her knees in front of him. “Don't turn me away,” she cried passionately. “I couldn't bear it.” Tears began to slide down her cheeks.

He brushed them away, feeling the wetness on his fingertips. Passion, and tears, and devotion. He was used to beauty that expressed itself in stillness, passivity, a heart that never beat fast. Now, emotion overflowed into his hands. Who could blame him if he claimed it for his own? What manner of man could turn away?

Before he could allow himself to think, he raised her to her feet. She was so sweetly willing. Her arms wound around his neck and he was kissing her before he could stop himself, feeling her mouth open underneath his as he coaxed it, her lips warm and slack, not tightening in disgust. And that drove him on, and his mouth opened wider, and they kissed, standing close together. Marguerite gave a small moan, more an exhalation of breath against his mouth.

He tore away. “This is wrong.”

“Is it wrong for me to love you?” she cried. She stepped toward him again, and he felt her breasts against him. With a cry, he raised his hands and touched them, and she didn't draw away.

Marguerite arched her back slightly. It felt good, a man's hands on her breasts. She had come here purely out of self-interest, but of a more material kind. How strange, she thought dreamily as she raised her mouth to Horatio's again, that she would like this.

I like it, she thought, kissing him. She wanted to go farther, she wanted him to want her, to forget everything but having her. She wanted to forget everything but having him. Her mother's warnings rose in her mind, but strangely, they had no force here. They were hazy, and they meant nothing next to this. No wonder she had been warned against this; it was powerful.

She'd never known, Marguerite thought, as she clasped Horatio to her, as she felt his hands move on her with delight. She had turned out to be that most despicable of creatures. A wanton. A voluptuary. And she did not care.

She did not expect it to be so childishly easy, to have it feel so good, to find her pretty dress pooled at her feet, her dark hair loose on her shoulders, and Horatio picking her up and carrying her to his bed.

He unbuttoned her chemise with a frown that told her he was concentrating on her completely. He had forgotten Bell, he had forgotten everything. She felt the delicious shock of skin against skin for the first time in her life, and she liked it.

Then, he was taking her, and her mouth opened in surprise. At first she was too shocked at the strange feeling of fullness, tightness, to know how to respond. But then she began to see that it could be pleasurable if she relaxed, if she moved. Experimentally, Marguerite moved her hips. Horatio lifted himself from her and compensated for her movement, withdrawing and plunging in again, letting her move against him, waiting for her. Both appalled and excited by this strange rhythm, Marguerite ran her hands along his hips to guide him. She felt not one whit of shame.

He was taking her, yes, but she was taking him. Now Marguerite used everything, knees, legs, toes, fingers, delighting in this new freedom of touch. When Horatio groaned in pleasure she continued more boldly. She felt unbearably, deliciously hot. She wound her legs around him, and her pelvis seemed to rise of its own accord against his hard body. She wanted all of it, she realized. She had never known she'd want it so much.

Lawrence waited that evening until Bell brought the tea things into the kitchen at ten o'clock. He stepped out of his room, and she jumped.

“I'm sorry, Miss Huxton, I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Not at all, Mr. Birch.”

“I was thinking about our conversation yesterday. It seems to me you possibly might have a distorted view of anarchistic principles.”

“I doubt that,” Bell said, stiffly washing out the teapot.

“But you admit,” Lawrence continued, lounging against the sink, “that the press does not report their doings with a neutral eye.”

“Of course,” Bell said, reaching for a teacup. “But I do not rely on the press for my information, Mr. Birch. I've read the anarchist journals, the writings of both Bakunin and Kropotkin.”

Lawrence moved closer. “So you're interested, then.”

“I am interested in politics in general,” Bell said smoothly, putting the cup in the drainer and reaching for another. “I am interested in theories of social change.”

“Then I would like to invite you to a meeting.”

“Thank you for your kind invitation, but—”

“Don't treat me like a suitor, Miss Huxton, and politely demur. I'm not Horatio Jones,” he said deliberately, and Bell flinched. “I'm interested in your mind.”

“You know nothing of my mind.” Bell's fingers trembled as they placed the cup to drain. She reached for a saucer.

“But I've seen your eyes,” Lawrence said softly. “And your soul is in them.”

She turned and found him closer than she'd thought. His face was near hers, and she stepped back awkwardly. The saucer slipped from her soapy fingers, but in a quick movement, he reached out and caught it. He handed it to her.

“You see what a team we are?” he said.

Bell felt caught up short. Ah, she thought. He flirts at last. She rinsed the plate and placed it to drain. Then she wiped her hands on the dishtowel and hung it to dry. Now, her clumsy fingers were quick and sure. She was almost relieved; Lawrence Birch had flirted with her. She found him less dangerous when he did that. She was used to that.

“Well?” he asked finally. Impatience had crept into his tone. He'd thought he'd disarmed her.

“Good night, Mr. Birch,” Bell said. She walked out of the kitchen, leaving him puzzled at her poise. But up in her room, alone, Bell undressed herself with trembling fingers that lingered, and her face burned with her shame.

J
ANUARY PASSED SWIFTLY
, one cold, snowy day after another. The days seemed especially short, as the clouds formed a dim gray expanse of sky that reduced the sun to only a hint of opalescence. Darkness came early on these gray days.

Columbine told herself that soon she would adjust to the loss of Ned and to her own unhappiness. She kept busy during the day, but then she had to face the nights. She became well-acquainted with three o'clock in the morning. She lay awake, half-missing Ned and half-glad he wasn't with her. She was spinning out of control in a fog of introspection. It was not easy, and it hurt.

Columbine lay awake and thought of her life, the things she had accomplished, and suddenly they seemed puny to her. Sometimes she would cry. If she were a religious woman, she would have prayed. But praying to a masculine God had grown more difficult for her over the years. Masculine patriarchs had a tendency to raise her ire, not soothe it. Recently Elizabeth Cady Stanton had told her that she prayed to Mother and Father God. Columbine tried that. But whoever was up there had no answers for her.