The Gilded Cage (57 page)

“But why would you take Hawthorn?” Columbine asked, baffled.

“Because she's Lawrence's daughter,” Bell answered calmly.

Columbine stared at her. “Is that what you think? Is that what you've thought, all these years?” She reached out and grabbed the back of the sofa. “Oh, Bell.”

“Columbine, you needn't dissemble. It's all right, really.”

“Does Mr. Birch think this?”

Bell's mouth was a thin line. “We haven't discussed it.”

Columbine straightened. “Bell,” she said urgently, “Hawthorn is not Lawrence's child. I told you once that we never had an affair, and that's the truth. But even if you don't believe that, please believe that Hawthorn is not his. You've only to look at her to see it.”

“I hear she's blond,” Bell said tightly.

“So am I,” Columbine said.

“You can't tell me she's Ned's!”

Columbine hesitated. She had promised Ned to keep their secret. But she knew Bell would never believe her if she didn't tell her the truth. “Elijah Reed is her father.”

Bell looked into her eyes, and she saw that it was true. “Does he know?” she asked curiously.

Columbine shook her head. The pain in her face was so marked that Bell was taken aback. She saw that Columbine had a great, private pain that she held inside every day, never able to speak of it, never able to cry it aloud. Sympathy washed over Bell, and she reached out and pressed Columbine's hand.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

She left silently, closing the door gently. Columbine felt that her last tie to the happy past went with her.

Marguerite was wearing a heavy veil, and already the snow had melted into ice which weighed down the veil and slapped her cheeks with frigid insouciance every time a blast of wind headed down Lexington Avenue. It was a ridiculous day to be out and about, and if she ruined her throat she would have only herself to blame. But she was in trouble, and she needed Toby, and he absolutely refused to go out. He was nursing a cold, and he'd somehow managed to get invited to the Bradley-Martin fete, which he would die rather than miss. So he was staying home with steaming towels and the excuse to drink as much brandy and hot water as he wanted.

She knocked on his door and heard a croaking voice tell her to come in. Toby was lying on the couch in the mohair dressing gown she'd given him for Christmas last year, a piece of flannel around his throat and a look in his brown eyes that was positively lugubrious.

“Really, Toby,” Marguerite said, stripping off her soaking hat with relief, “if you didn't feel so sorry for yourself, you'd feel much better all round.”

“Fine for you to say,” Toby pronounced stuffily. “You're as healthy as a bloody horse.”

Laughing, she shook out her skirts in front of the fire. “Delicate Daisy Corbeau as healthy as a horse? Don't tell the papers.” She crossed to her things and took out a small paper parcel. “Look, I brought you lemons.”

“Oh, you
are
an angel.”

“I'll mix you a toddy, a nice strong one.”

Toby glanced at her warily, his handkerchief halfway to his nose. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“Just some gossip to cheer me up,” she said in a bright tone that didn't fool Toby a bit. “Now don't move, I'm going to make your toddy.”

“Are you sure you know how to boil water, petal?”

Marguerite laughed and went off to make the toddy. She poured in a generous amount of brandy, then added a bit more. When she gave it to him and he tasted it, Toby's eyes widened, and he gave her a look over the rim.

“Well, you have to be well for the ball,” Marguerite said placidly, smoothing a blanket over his knees. She perched on the chair next to the sofa and looked at him expectantly.

Toby took a gulp of the toddy. “What are you wearing?”

“Well, I can't quite decide between Madame Pompadour and a peasant girl.”

“Hmmmm. Why don't you go as both? Arrive as a peasant girl, then change your dress in a room upstairs, and come down as Pompadour. You'll be an absolute sensation.”

Marguerite clapped her hands together, delighted. “What an idea, Toby! I knew you'd think of the perfect thing.”

“But are you sure you want to come as Pompadour? Why not Marie Antoinette?”

Marguerite looked at him, her dark blue eyes shrewd. “I know why you're suggesting that, Toby, and I don't care.”

“I don't know what you mean,” he said loftily. “Oh, my head aches.”

“You think I'm so ignorant I don't know that Madame DuBarry and Madame Pompadour were both mistresses of Louis XV. And you think I never read the papers and that I don't know that Mollie Todd is coming as DuBarry. But I know both of those things. And I know what people will say, and I don't care. I'm married to Willie. I've got him.”

“Mmmm,” Toby said, sipping his toddy.

“Haven't I?” she asked the question lightly, but her eyes stayed on his face.

“Of course you do, petal,” he answered quickly. “Just as you say.”

“Toby.” She put a hand on his arm. “Please tell me. Is Willie really in love with her?”

“How should I know?” he asked crossly, fussing at the blanket.

“Because you know everything,” she answered calmly.

He gave her a sharp look. “That's why you came here today, isn't it. It wasn't to bring me lemons. You never come within a mile of me when I have a cold. You've come to harass me, to pump me, when I'm on my deathbed.”

“You're not on your deathbed, you have a cold. And Toby, I really want to know. Please tell me the truth.”

The cross look left his face and surprise came over it. “You're serious, aren't you. Marguerite, this isn't like you.”

Marguerite nodded. “I know.
I'm
not like me lately. Toby, I'm losing my life. I mean, I'm losing a life I didn't even know I wanted. Or rather, I'm losing the chance to make my life into something I want. Do you know what I mean?”

“No,” he said. “But if you're telling me that you've come to your senses, I'm all for it. Do you love Willie?”

“He told me that I had no idea of what can be between a man and a woman. He said I wasn't a woman, that I was still a child. He said terrible things.” Marguerite pressed her lips together. “And I thought, if I only, well, was nice to him—”

“You mean if you slept with him—”

Marguerite nodded, too upset to be embarrassed. “That he'd come back to me. But he didn't. So I need to know if he loves Mollie Todd. Because then I'll know what I'm fighting against, and I can fight harder.”

Toby looked at her, and there was something in his gaze that made her uneasy. He looked almost as if he pitied her.

“Well?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

Toby sighed. He wiped his nose. He put the toddy on the small table at his elbow. He did anything he could to delay speaking, for he did not wish to tell Marguerite the truth. The truth was too abstract for her, too slippery, too complicated, and that was the awful thing. Marguerite liked things simple; she could fight a simple truth, but she would struggle with a complicated one.

But maybe he was underestimating her. Maybe she really was changing.

“No, I don't think Willie's in love with her,” he said slowly.

Marguerite leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes. “Thank God. Oh, Toby, thank you.”

“Wait a minute,” he said sharply. “I'm not finished. Marguerite, I think it would be easier if he was.”

“Easier?” she asked blankly.

“He's still in love with you, I think,” Toby went on, struggling to find the right words. “Not that it helps you. It's depleted him, this love. It's worn him out. And Mollie understands that. She gives him something you can't, Marguerite. Peace. And that's all he wants, I think.”

Marguerite wanted to laugh. “Willie want peace? That's so silly, Toby. He likes drama and excitement and risk. If he still loves me, everything will be fine. I can win him back. Oh, I can give him peace and quiet, if he wants it, too,” she said, shrugging. “I was thinking it would be fun to buy a house. I'd sit by the fire with him. I used to embroider, I can do that.”

“Marguerite, it's not that kind of peace I mean. I mean—”

She stood up excitedly. “Oh, Toby, you don't know him. I know him. I'll buy all new gowns. I'll start at the Bradley-Martin ball—I'll wear such a gown! When he sees that everyone still stares at me, still wants me, he'll want me again!”

“No!” Toby shouted. “Listen to me. That's not the way, Marguerite. Why do you think that only jealousy excites love? Even if every man in the world wanted you, it wouldn't bring Willie back.”

“That's an awful thing to say.”

“Remember how you caught him the first time,” Toby said impatiently. “Remember?”

“Yes, of course I remember,” she said, matching his impatience with her own. “The play opened, and I was a hit. He bought me diamonds and roses, and we had champagne—”

“No,” Toby was shaking his head, and he winced, for he had an awful headache that was getting worse. “That's not when you captured him. Didn't he ever tell you when he fell in love with you? Don't you remember?”

“I just told you. It was opening night, when I became a star. He—”

“No, it was the day you sang for him in the blue velvet gown. That day.”

“That day …” Marguerite frowned. Why had Willie told Toby that, and not her? Why was he always confiding in Toby, and not her? But maybe Toby was making it up. He had a terribly romantic imagination, just like a woman's.

“That day you were yourself, Marguerite. Not Daisy.”

She stared at him a long time. Then she said, her voice shaking, “You don't want me to get him back.”

Toby reared back; he hadn't expected this. “What are you saying? What do you think I'm trying to do?”

“You love him. You love him better than me. You're jealous of me, and I never saw it.” Hot fury bubbled in Marguerite, and she felt deliciously self-righteous. Toby wouldn't be telling her these stupid things unless he wanted her to lose. “Don't bother to deny it, I should have seen it. You were always hanging around us. You probably wormed his affection away from me!”

She had expected Toby to leap up from the couch, furious. But he only looked at her pityingly. “What are you so afraid of?” he asked, shaking his head.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded hotly. “Don't change the subject. We're talking about your treachery—”

“It can't just be Edwin,” he said. “It must be something before. I know everything you've told me about your past is lies.”

“It is not—”

“So what was it? What marked you? What makes you hurt the people who love you, the people that you love?”

“Nobody loves me!” Marguerite screamed. Her voice was the shriek of a wild creature; it seemed to come out from a deep place she hadn't known existed, someplace savage and frightening. Her mouth was open, and a deep sob rose up from that place inside.

Now Toby did struggle to rise. “Marguerite, it's all right, I didn't mean to upset you—”

“I hate you,” she shouted with a face livid with rage. “I never, ever want to see you again, Toby Wells. I've shared everything with you—my money, my fame. And you never were a friend to me, never, never. You wanted my husband in your sick way, and you turned him against me out of spite.” She gathered her things jerkily.

“Marguerite!” he cried. He pushed away the blanket and stood, weaving slightly from brandy, sickness, and confusion. “I've always loved you.”

She stomped to the door, her arms full of coat and hat and scarf. “You're a liar,” she said cruelly, and she slammed the door on his gaping face. Just like Edwin, she thought as she ran down the stairs, triumph in her heart, tears streaming down her face. Just like Edwin.

Once Bell had decided, she began to make arrangements. Within a few days she had investigated fares, given her notice to Lev, and received lists of people to look up in Italy, comrades in the movement, socialists, writers, kind people who would help them get settled. It really seemed as though it would work. They could do it. They
were
doing it.

Lawrence spent much of his time making more abstract plans. Every day he decided a different city would be better than another. He argued with Bell about how much money to ask from Columbine, for Bell had made the mistake of telling him the loan was open-ended.

Lawrence had made the suggestion that morning off the top of his head, and he was surprised to find events rushing out of his control. Bell was full of purpose, and he knew that she saw this move as her salvation. Lawrence both resented and admired this; he had always looked to Fiona for purpose, but he saw that Bell could be just as fierce. But he was irritated at her officiousness, so he gave up his plans and retreated behind his newspaper whenever she went over her endless lists in that new brisk voice he'd begun to hate.

“We really should be married here, before we go,” Bell said, consulting her list. “At the end of this week, I should think.”

Lawrence ignored her. “Listen to this,” he said contemptuously. “These Bradley-Martins should be strung up. They're claiming they're doing the poor a favor by putting their money into circulation. Here's the latest—for the coachmen of the city, they're supplying four hundred carriages to bring their guests home. For the
coachmen,
they say. And now they're running lists of which decadent exploiter of the French peasants some fat American capitalist is going to portray, of how many diamond buttons will be on their coats and how much they will cost.” He read from the paper in a disgusted voice. “‘The beauteous Mollie Todd, who once graced the Broadway stage with that glorious presence that Titian would have begged on his knees to capture, will be appearing as Madame DuBarry in a gown of gold and a necklace of diamonds said to be a gift from an admirer of her great talent.' And people starving in the streets with this depression!” The paper crackled. “It's good we're leaving this place.”