The Gilded Cage (46 page)

“You said the doctor told him he would die if he didn't stop drinking,” Lawrence said softly, insinuatingly in her ear. “You know he won't stop. He'll die out here. He won't get a harsh sentence, Fiona. Just a year or two. How can a jury be ruthless to a one-armed man? They'll understand. Revenge, they can understand. Anarchists, they hang. A man's life destroyed by Van Cormandt's best friend. And Van Cormandt dancing with Jimmy bleeding on the carpet. They'll say these things. The jury will hear them. It won't be bad. And he can't drink in jail. He could come out a better man, Fiona.”

“Don't feed me such lines,” she said. Her face was ashen. “You don't care a fig about Jimmy.”

“It's only us that matters,” Lawrence said. “Isn't it?”

He waited. He knew better than to push Fiona. He could taste victory, though, and sweet, blessed relief. He'd known fear these past weeks that had paralyzed him. He hadn't been able to go out of his rooms. For whole mornings, he'd stayed in bed. It would be his secret for the rest of his life, his cowardice. He knew he could not go to jail.

Fiona had run her fingers absently through her hair, and it had come loose from its pins. Tendrils waved around her thin face. Her thin, bloodless lips opened and closed. “He's my husband,” she whispered.

Lawrence took her hand again. “It comes down to this,” he said. “Him or us. Choose.”

The news reached Bell faintly, as if through a haze. She was thinking of Lawrence, and she didn't want to be distracted by Chandler Ross. She had a special way now to fill time. She would think of quiet times with Lawrence. Early mornings, when he lay behind her and combed her long hair with his fingers. He would do it for thirty minutes at a time. Bell was to the point where she could almost completely recapture that feeling of drowsy contentment, Lawrence's fingers in her hair, the pleasant tug on her scalp, the faint gray light.

“Did you hear me, Miss Huxton? They've arrested James Devlin, the man who was injured at the Hartley party.”

She blinked at him slowly. “I remember.” The news sank in. “Can I go, then?”

Mr. Ross coughed and shuffled his papers. “Unfortunately, there is another charge,” he said.

It seemed that the foreman of her old factory had shown up and accused her of rounding up the workers and bringing them to the May Day parade, inflaming them with anarchist rhetoric. He claimed that she had told them to seize the factory for themselves.

In court, Bell objected to this. What she had said was that one day workers would seize such a factory. She wouldn't have advocated such a thing, she told the court quietly, for she wouldn't expect anyone to follow her advice, and anyway she wouldn't want any of the girls to lose their jobs. Though, under questioning, Bell did admit that she believed in the demolition of the state, absolutely. The people would seize factories and banks and redistribute the wealth and privileges—someday. And she supposed there would be some violence involved in this, though she did not advocate it.

Bell was a beautiful, serene presence on the stand. But her serenity served as a burr under New York's collective saddle. Her likeness was on the front page of every city newspaper for two weeks running. They said that she claimed that James Devlin had done them all a good service. That she wished she'd thought of it. That she wished Ned Van Cormandt had lost an arm, like Devlin. The beautiful anarchist who lived with a man outside of marriage was said to have supported her lover by prostitution.

Mr. Ross told her he expected a verdict of innocent, for he found Bell impressive on the stand. But she was convicted of inciting to riot and sentenced to five years in jail. The unusual severity of the sentence was seen as just punishment for her other crimes, immorality and sedition.

Bell was sent to Blackwell's Island. Emma Goldman brought books, and Columbine sent a basket of food weekly, which Bell shared. Several other anarchists sent pamphlets and letters frequently, and Bell looked forward to novels sent by Ivy Moffat. The intellectual Alexander Berkman sent candy, which touched her. After the first hellish months, there was a kind of peace gained from being so close to Manhattan, yet not part of her life there. She was not forced to engage with people, she did not have to endure the thousand deaths she had died daily while living with Lawrence. The pains of love were replaced by a numb reliance on future joy.

Lawrence wrote, saying he would wait for her, but he could not visit her yet. Bell smiled, serene. One of them was a martyr for the cause; it did not signify which. Lawrence would wait for her. With good behavior, she could be out in two years.

The day after
Wait for Sally
opened and Marguerite had been proclaimed a star, Willie moved her into a suite of rooms at the Fifth Avenue Hotel on Madison Square. The rooms were grand, all pale satins and vivid velvets, and Willie added to the splendor by sending dozens and dozens of roses every day.

It had been inevitable that they sleep together; Marguerite had always been adept at spotting a man's lust for her, and she'd seen it in his eyes as she took her bows on opening night. But they did it the right way, waiting until after the glowing notices came and opening a bottle of very expensive Bollinger. Willie was compact and muscular and energetic, and Marguerite enjoyed him tremendously. They were giddy and silly with delight in their good fortune, and they were seriously lustful about each other's bodies. Afterwards, they lay on the living room rug completely naked, unself-conscious, and plotted her career.

Overnight, Marguerite's life took off. She was Daisy Corbeau now, and she was a star. She had a clever, immensely rich man for a lover. She lunched at the hotel in silks and velvets and extravagant hats; she bought Toby wonderful ties and beautiful handkerchiefs. She gave interviews by the dozens, and jewelers opened their shops on Sunday afternoons when they knew Miss Corbeau took her walk with the generous Willie P.

It happened fast, but Marguerite was not breathless. She was aware of every single second of her happiness. She lapped her success up like cream and clamored for more. She watched her money and her publicity and the attempt of her vain co-star, Errol Finley, to upstage her like a hawk. She kept her eye on Willie, too, for she was growing rather possessive of his attention, which was notoriously fluid. She knew all too well how devastated Mollie Todd had found his rejection and subsequent interest in Marguerite. Not to mention poor Lorena LeClerc, who had captured him so fleetingly and had only a ruby bracelet to remember him by. Marguerite felt rather fierce about Willie; if it wasn't love, it certainly was excessive fondness.

On Christmas Eve, they dined alone in her suite. This was a rare occurrence, and Marguerite found herself suddenly afraid she would bore her lover. Christmas was always a time of melancholy for her, a time where she pretended interest in trees and nativity scenes that held no charm or significance for her. She did not feel like chattering gaily or telling Willie some piece of salacious gossip. Willie loved gossip more than women or even Toby.

Willie picked at his pheasant, and his glass of champagne was untouched. Marguerite was halfway through her plate of food, which was delicious, when she noticed that Willie wasn't eating.

She put down her fork immediately. “What is it, darling?” she asked. She put her hand over his. “Is it Christmas? Do you miss your family?”

Willie's parents were dead. He'd grown up in Chicago, an only child, and he never spoke of his early years. Since Marguerite preferred to keep her own past a secret, she never pressed him.

Willie looked startled. “No.
To
tell you the truth,” he said with a laugh, “I was worrying about your Christmas present.”

She sat up immediately, her face flushing with pleasure. Marguerite had not become inured to presents in the least. She hoped Willie had gotten her something extravagant, something positively vulgar. “I'm sure I'll love whatever it is,” she said. She had bought him a diamond stickpin and matching cufflinks. They had cost a staggering amount, but Marguerite loved to give presents as much as she loved to receive them. And how could she give anything less than extravagant to such an extravagant man?

“I want to give it to you now,” Willie said. He knocked against the table as he rose. China clinked and her champagne glass wobbled alarmingly. It was the first graceless move she'd ever seen him make.

Fishing in his pocket, he walked around the table and held out a small velvet box. A ring, Marguerite thought, a bit disappointed. She would have preferred a necklace, or earrings. She thought rings called attention to the childishness of her small fingers.

With a soft smile up at him, she opened the box, prepared to squeal in delight. The biggest sapphire she'd ever seen flashed up at her. It caught the candlelight and flashed again. It was a deep, dark blue, thrown into relief by the diamonds that were clustered around either side. They winked up at her, too. Slowly, Marguerite realized that this was no ordinary gift.

“I thought maybe we'd marry,” Willie said in an offhand way.

Marguerite was afraid to look up. She stared down at the ring. “Marry?” she asked.

Willie fumbled for a cigar. He couldn't see her face, she was keeping her damned head down. He needed a cue to proceed, needed someone to feed him a line. He knew Marguerite didn't love him. But he was banking on the guess that she wouldn't
allow
herself to love him, that perhaps with care, and time, she would come to do so. All he knew was that he was possessed by her. A feeling had lifted him, buoyed him up during these past months. It was so new that it swept out any emotion he had ever felt in his life, any woman he had lusted for, any woman he'd wanted. Those feelings were completely inauthentic next to his feeling for Marguerite. This mixture of slyness and affection, of artifice and freshness, this woman who looked like a child. He realized that the mad lust of his time with Mollie Todd had been merely a taste of what would overwhelm him with Marguerite. Or it wasn't even a taste, for the two were as different as rotgut and champagne.

A rage for her was in his blood, but also a wish to protect. He felt the child in her, the hurt and the pain and the secrecy, and he recognized it. For the first time in his life, Willie wanted to hold something. He didn't want to let it go. He wanted to tell her that, but he didn't know how, so he waited.

Marguerite turned the box in her hands, watching the jewels catch the light. Willie's silence confused her. She knew that he didn't love her. Horatio had lusted for her, Edwin had been devoted for that brief time in his feeble way, but Willie's indifference, his casualness, told her that he was not smitten in the least. She was used to men out of their minds with passion, and she could not understand a man who could hide love under banter.

She was never sure of him. And when she
did
have him, he was all lightness and jokes, even in bed much of the time. So the question was, why did he want to marry her? Publicity? Come to think of it, the newspapers would go wild.

“Just think, Willie,” she said slowly. “We'd be in all the papers for at least a week. No news happens at Christmastime.” The thought had popped into her head just like that, and Marguerite was not used to censoring her conversation with Willie. That was what she loved about him; she could say anything. She looked up, her blue eyes shining, but she'd missed the look of pain in his face, for he was turning away.

“Exactly, my dear,” he said, lighting his cigar. “Box office receipts will double. And after our honeymoon—we'll have to wait until the show closes to marry, of course—we'll find a new play for you and you'll return in triumph. A good plan, don't you think?”

“New Yorkers love marriages,” Marguerite said. “And I guess this way you'll know I'll always appear in your plays. How clever of you. You'll never lose me.”

She dimpled up at him, and Willie felt his heart squeeze with pain. He'd lost her already, he supposed. Her marriage would be a business deal. “So I take it the answer is yes?” he asked lightly.

Marguerite gave what Willie called her pagan grin. “How could I refuse this?” she said, waggling the box at Willie.

She'd said it as a joke, he knew, but he turned away so that she wouldn't see how furious he was. He felt positively mad with anger. “We'll tell the press I picked it because it matched your eyes perfectly.” He had picked it for that reason.

“Perfect,” Marguerite said, slipping it onto her third finger. “Oh, I do love it, Willie. It's the prettiest ring I ever saw.” She skipped toward him and flung her slight arms around his neck. “The thing is,” she said hesitantly, “I was wondering …”

“Yes, darling?”

“If you loved me,” Marguerite said, peeking up at him.

Willie's hazel eyes were unreadable. “No,” he said. “But that's beside the point, isn't it?”

“Really, Willie,” Marguerite said, drawing away. “You could have lied.”

“That's one thing I won't do,” Willie answered seriously. Except for this, he thought. I will never tell you I love you. “That's one thing you can't do, either. You can't lie to me. Do you promise, Marguerite?”

Why should she lie? Willie saw all and accepted all. She was marrying the best possible man in the world for her. “I promise, Willie. You're the only man I've never lied to,” she said honestly. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

“Let's go to bed,” he said, his voice suddenly rough.

Marguerite smiled and turned her back so that Willie could begin with her tiny satin buttons. She looked at her engagement ring; it was so delightfully, preposterously
big
. “I think I'm going to be happy with you, Willie,” she murmured. “I think we'll be happy together.”

“I think we're going to give each other hell,” Willie said, and with a sigh he buried his mouth in her creamy shoulder.