The Gilded Cage (51 page)

“But you have to see that it's not you. It was never you. It was me. It's still me, no matter how it appears. He can't do without me, and he hates me, but he can't say the things to me he says to you. Until tonight.”

“But why does he hate you?” Marguerite asked, bewildered. “Why doesn't he hate that man?”

“Because of Roman Edelstadt,” Sophie answered. There was only the barest hesitation in her voice.

“Mr. Edelstadt?” Marguerite asked, confused. Roman Edelstadt was the new boarder, a tall, quiet man with an enormous black mustache. He was a printer, Marguerite dimly remembered. He was trying to save money for his own place; he'd only boarded with the Blums for a few months. “Your boarder? What do you mean?” Marguerite asked. Then light dawned. “You mean—”

“Yes, that's what I mean,” Sophie said. “We're together, Roman and I. And the only reason I'm telling you is that I don't want you to worry about your father anymore. Do you see why he said the things he did? Do you see that they have nothing to do with us? In the end, his suspicions were confirmed. I turned out to be a whore, after all.”

They had reached the Bowery, and the bright lights hit Marguerite's eyes, dazzling her. She could not begin to understand what Sophie had told her, or what Sophie meant. The information sat in her stomach like a lump of lead. Her mother was sleeping with another man with a black mustache and big, ink-stained hands? Her real father was some faceless Russian Christian who hated Jews?

Sophie touched her arm timidly. “I love Roman, Marguerite,” she said. “I never wanted Jacob to find out. But love is hard to hide.”

Marguerite turned to Sophie. She hadn't noticed that her mother was still young, forty-three, and that during the past months she had filled out again, that her cheeks were pale pink, that her blue eyes were brighter. She hadn't noticed any of these things. Now, looking at Sophie, she did, and the sight enraged her. She didn't blame Jacob so much as Sophie, and she didn't know why. She hated her mother suddenly, hated her with all the irrational passion of a child. She thought of her mother lying with Roman Edelstadt and she felt sick.

“I have to go,” she said. “I have to go.”

“Wait, Marguerite. We should talk a bit. I'll walk with you.” Sophie seemed desperate now, and she clutched at her daughter's sleeve.

“No, I have an appointment,” Marguerite answered automatically. “It's very important. I must go.” Raising her hand, she waved frantically at a hack, which clopped to a stop. Sophie still held her sleeve, and Marguerite brushed her off with a shudder.

“Don't touch me,” she hissed fiercely, and she leaped into the hack. She could not bear to see Sophie's pleading eyes. She could not stand to see her mother. She didn't know if she could ever stand to see her again.

Never introspective, Marguerite burst into angry tears at her own inability to understand this reaction. She huddled in a corner of the cab, crying convulsively. Harsh sobs were wrenched from her, and she thanked God that the noisy street covered up the sound. She knew she had to gain some control of herself however. There was the lobby of the Fifth Avenue Hotel ahead, all resplendent light and glittering people. For the first time, Marguerite longed for a house. Privacy had never been something she craved, but she craved it now with all the desperation in her heart. If only she could pull up in front of a house on a quiet street, and unlock her very own door! If only Willie could be waiting for her in a quiet parlor, a glass of whiskey at his elbow and a fire in the hearth!

And then the longing for a home transformed into a longing for Willie.
To
pillow her head on his chest and feel his heartbeat, to feel his soothing hands on her hair, how she needed that! Willie would not care a fig if she was the product of rape, if she was Jewish or half-Jewish or Russian or French! He would keep on loving her, for he knew her through and through and loved her anyway. Just like Toby. Maybe that was why Toby understood Willie's love in a way that she did not. Maybe Marguerite could learn how to love, too. She was selfish and greedy and conceited, but selfish people could learn how to love, couldn't they?

These thoughts managed to dry her tears in a way that stern admonishments to herself had not. Through the confusion of her thoughts, Marguerite knew that she wanted Willie, needed him to help her sort it out.

Despite the urgency of her feeling, Marguerite didn't throw her caution aside. She had the driver pull up on a side street, instead of directly in front of the hotel. She thrust money at the driver and waited until he had pulled away before heading toward the corner. Willie should be back from his luncheon by now, however long it was. The gray afternoon had turned to dusk, and Marguerite drew her fur collar up against her face and hurried, hoping no one would stop her.

She was almost to the side entrance of the hotel when the door opened. She stepped back and melted into the shadows, for a person was leaving, a woman. She was well-wrapped against the winter cold, but as she moved forward Marguerite saw the sheen of her hair under an exquisite hat, bright red-gold hair, and slowly, she recognized Mollie Todd. But why would Mollie leave by the side entrance? You'd think since her career had been eclipsed in the early eighteen-nineties, she'd crave all the limelight she could get. Why wasn't she sweeping through the lobby, showing off that beautiful hat?

The door banged open, and another figure ran out. “Mollie!”

Marguerite's hand fluttered to her throat. It was Willie.

He ran lightly toward Mollie and pressed something in her hand, a wisp of lace and satin. Marguerite heard Mollie's low, throaty laugh.

“Now don't go thinking I left it on purpose, Willie,” Mollie said, leaning toward him. “It's just that you make me forget things, darling.”

And then Willie smiled, and put his hands around her neck, and drew Mollie toward him for a swift, warm kiss that seemed full of affection. When he drew away, she took him by the tie and pulled him back to her, and they kissed again, half-laughing. Mollie turned away and walked quickly down the street, with Willie watching her go, and with Marguerite still standing there, hope, urgency, need, everything draining from her slowly as she watched Willie staring at another woman and realized for the first time how very much she loved her husband.

I
F
N
ED NOTICED
Columbine's better spirits, he did not mention it. Columbine did not make plans to see Elijah after that evening. It was enough that they had looked, and touched; they would see each other again. She resolutely set her mind no farther than that. With all her former notoriety as a scarlet woman, she did not think she could take a lover while Ned was an invalid. She could not find happiness that way. Perhaps seeing Elijah occasionally would be enough. But even that short meeting had given her energy. She became more involved in Safe Passage House, and she found that she enjoyed life again. She was better with Hawthorn, and she was more patient with an even more depressed Ned. Olive had been right, as usual.

With the end of December came heavy snows. Columbine was often unable to venture out of the house at all. She spent her time making up lost hours with Hawthorn, who was delighted to find her playful, high-spirited mother was back again. They had a festive birthday party for her with Olive and Ned, and then the Christmas preparations began. Columbine and Hawthorn plotted surprises and secrets, with Hawthorn carried away with the sweet knowledge of her own importance as she decided on the very best gifts for her father and her beloved Aunt Ollie.

The few weeks of tranquility ended abruptly with an invitation for a Christmas Eve open house at the Valentine-Hartleys. Columbine was going over the daily mail with Ned in the breakfast room while Olive was engrossed in the paper by the fire. She was about to put the invitation automatically in the “to be refused” pile when Ned stopped her.

“Wait a minute, Columbine. I think we should discuss this.”

Columbine looked over her spectacles at him. “Discuss it? Ned, you know I don't call on the Hartleys.”

“Exactly why this invitation is significant. They're making the first gesture at healing the breach. The Hartleys and the Van Cormandts have been close for generations. We have cousins in common. And Ambrose has changed since his heart attack.”

“And Maud has not,” Columbine said dryly. “She's still the silliest woman in New York, which is saying a great deal indeed.”

Ned sighed and pushed away his teacup. His thin face looked weary, as though he'd already had the argument in his mind with her and had been exhausted by it. “Columbine, I want you to think about Hawthorn for a moment. Next year she goes to school. There will be parties and affairs to attend. And later, there will be suitors to choose from.”

“Ned, she's six years old—”

“I'm thinking of her future, Columbine. She's a Van Cormandt. Sooner or later, she's going to realize what that implies. There are certain houses she'll be invited to, certain friends she'll make. And if she feels excluded from any of those houses, it will affect her. Do you see what I mean?”

“Why should she feel excluded from Maud Hartley's house? If she's worth her salt, Hawthorn will be flattered.”

“Columbine, we're talking about a young girl,” Ned said with asperity. “And Maud Hartley is a silly woman who happens to have a six-year-old daughter. Both of them could make things very difficult for Hawthorn. Do you want our daughter to be ostracized?”

“No, of course not. But I want her to recognize quality. She doesn't have to be welcome in every house in New York, Ned.”

“Yes, she does!” Ned raised his voice, and Olive looked up from her paper.

“Ned, please don't,” Columbine begged. She did not want to excite him; it tired him so these days.

“She's my daughter,” Ned continued in the same angry voice. “She's the last in the line of a very old family. She has responsibilities to that name, and a social place. You can't ignore that, Columbine, even should you wish to. Ignoring it will only cause trouble for her later.”

Columbine turned to Olive for support. “Olive, surely you agree with me. The Hartleys are such an awful example. We can pick and choose our friends.”

Olive sighed. “I'm afraid, since you asked my opinion, that I agree with Ned, Columbine.”

“Olive! I'm surprised,” Columbine said, confused. “You can't abide Maud Hartley.”

“But I see her,” Olive pointed out. “I make it a point to go to her teas occasionally and her large parties. We're on the same board at the museum; we belong to the same charities. Columbine, I simply can't ignore society, unless I drop out of it completely, and that's something I don't want to do. There are Maud Hartleys, yes, but there are also Amelia Seldens,” Olive said, naming a close friend who Columbine admired. “Society is a patchwork, not a monochrome.”

Columbine frowned. Words Darcy had said to her years and years ago floated into her mind. As a Snow and a Grace, Darcy had been the social equal of the Van Cormandts. When she had been ostracized after leaving her husband for Tavish, she had sadly said, The Four Hundred isn't just a block of society on a ridiculous list. It's made up of individuals, Columbine. Individuals I've grown up with and loved. Individuals who can break my heart.

“There are certain things that Hawthorn will have to do,” Olive continued calmly. “When she's older, she can choose her own life.”

“But I never thought—”

“Well, you must think,” Olive interrupted brusquely. “Think what it will be like when she goes to school, when she makes friends. Look where she lives, Columbine! We're not in Greenwich Village. We're on upper Fifth Avenue. This is your daughter's world.”

Columbine stared at the invitation in her lap, biting her lip. But I don't want this to be Hawthorn's world, she thought in anguish. “I understand what you're both telling me,” she said slowly. “And I will consider it. But I cannot go to this party. After that night, I swore I would never cross Ambrose Hartley's threshold again.”

“I'm afraid I must insist, Columbine,” Ned said.

At the steely tone in his voice, Columbine looked up sharply. “You're ordering me, Ned?” she asked. “What happened to your promises when I agreed to marry you?”

Olive stood, folding her paper. “If you'll excuse me,” she said quietly, “I have some letters to write.”

Ned waited until the door had closed behind his sister before he turned back to Columbine. “I must step in when I see you doing wrong,” he said. “Hawthorn is my daughter. I am still the master of this house—”

“The master of the house! Ned, you've never used such language to me.”

“I never needed to, Columbine. But I feel very strongly about this, and I must insist.”

Columbine's face was stony, and her hands were quiet in her lap. “I do not take well to orders, Ned.”

Relenting, Ned put his hand over hers. “Request, then. You need not stay long. But please go with Olive. Hawthorn is included in the invitation, you know. It would be good for her to meet other children. We are not enough for her, Columbine. Look at her party—just three of us old folks are not the best company for her.”

Columbine sighed, knowing Ned was right in that. But she felt trapped, half-angry, frustrated, unwilling. She wasn't sure what was right, and she trusted Olive's good sense. And thinking of all she owed Ned, how could she refuse? She needed to think of Hawthorn as his daughter, not Elijah Reed's. “All right, Ned,” she said. “I'll go.”

As a supposed atheist, Bell found her reaction to Christmas puzzling. Yearning swept over her when she glimpsed a lighted tree behind a window, and she felt like bursting into tears when she saw people rush by her, their arms full of packages. It helped to work on the East Side, where there were few Christians, but around Tompkins Square lived some Christian German families, and their holiday cheer depressed her.