The Gilded Cage (58 page)

“Yes,” Bell said. She hadn't told Lawrence, but Lev had asked her to participate in a protest line in front of the Waldorf that night. A coalition of anarchists and socialists would be there. Lev had asked her as a last gesture before she left, and she wanted to participate. But Lawrence, she knew, would not approve, mostly because he had not been invited to attend and would not want to go even if he had been.

But soon these kinds of petty problems would be over. Bell sighed and looked at her list again. She read over her tasks mechanically, and she remembered that there was one important task she had not committed to pen and paper. And since Lawrence seemed lost in the
World
she might as well take the opportunity now.

She rose and went for her coat. “I have to go out for a few minutes, Lawrence. Some errands. I'll bring back supper, all right?”

“All right.” Lawrence didn't drop the newspaper, and his voice was abstracted as he concentrated on the paper.

Good, Bell thought as she tied a scarf around her neck. He didn't ask any questions.

Lawrence was oblivious to Bell as she slipped into her coat, laced her walking boots, and put on her hat. He was reading over the account of the Bradley-Martin ball, and he was thinking hard. Again and again he read the same paragraph, then returned to the detailed engraving of the beautiful Mollie Todd. And as he looked he whispered the words which had first set his heart and mind aflame with purpose, a purpose the women in his life had leached out of him with the endless, yawning cavern of their needs.

The Propaganda of the Deed
.

It was so much the same situation of almost seven years before that they both must have thought of it, but if Elijah Reed did, he gave no indication. He was all politeness as he ushered Bell into his parlor like an honored guest, and he swept aside a pile of books to offer her the best place by the fire.

She sat, her gloved hands in her lap. “I'll get straight to the point, Mr. Reed. I'll be leaving for Europe for good next week. Before I go, there is something I must tell you. I'm afraid that I inadvertently gave you a false piece of information years ago, and I want to correct it.”

Nervously, Elijah rummaged through his pockets for a nonexistent cigar, for he'd quit smoking in Paris. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Birch?”

“My husband did not father Columbine's child,” Bell said with equanimity. “I know this for certain now.”

Elijah felt embarrassed, even more embarrassed than he'd been the first time a lady of short acquaintance discussed such a thing with him. “And why did you feel the need to come and tell me this?”

“Because I think I might have … damaged your relations with Columbine in some way,” Bell said slowly. “And I did not want that result, because I knew how much she loved you.”

“Mrs. Birch, really—”

“I know this is dreadfully frank of me, and impolite. But I'm leaving, you see. I have to make things right. Please just let me finish.” At Elijah's reluctant nod, Bell continued, “I think you should know that Hawthorn is your child, Mr. Reed.”

Elijah stood up and sat down again. “Excuse me?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to blurt it out like that. But I think you should know for certain. It would only take you a little while to start wondering, once I've left, who had fathered the child. And you would have to wonder if it were you, would you not? So I can't help it; I think you deserve to know.” Bell stood. “That's all.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Elijah forgot his manners. He sat in the chair, stunned, while Bell waited for a moment, then seeing he could not speak, simply took her umbrella and went out, closing the door behind her. She sent up a fervent prayer, the first she'd prayed in a long, long time, that she'd done the right thing at last.

It had been Columbine and Olive's custom for years now to take tea together up in Olive's private sitting room. Ned usually napped at this time and Columbine later took a second cup with him. The two women cherished their time together, a time where they could speak quietly of books they were reading and dreams they'd had and observations about Hawthorn or Ned, or simply chat about nonsense or gossip.

Today, as they waited for Fiona to bring the tea, they were talking of Bell. Without mentioning the loan, Columbine told Olive of her sad feeling after Bell's departure. Bell had been so close to her for so long, and so wide a gulf separated them now.

Fiona gave a short knock and came in with the tray as Columbine finished sadly.

“So she has a—friend, then,” Olive said, catching herself from saying “lover” just in time, for though they spoke freely in front of Fiona, there still were limits.

“Yes, I knew him quite well at one time. I don't trust him, and I don't believe he's good to her, but,” Columbine said, sighing, “she is nonetheless fixed on him. She believes that living in Italy will start them on a whole new life. I do hope he marries her at last. She said that he would.”

“This Mr. Birch, does he have a profession?”

Fiona knocked over the sugar as she placed it on the tea table between them. Her cheeks were scarlet. “Beg your pardon, missus …”

“It's all right, Fiona,” Columbine said. “Just scrape it back in the bowl, no harm done. He's a writer, Olive, though he doesn't seem to get published. I don't know how they live. Bell supports them, I suppose. But she says it's Lawrence's idea to move to Italy, so I suppose he's also involved in this idea of a grand new start for them. They leave next week, on the eleventh.”

Her hands shaking, Fiona scraped the sugar back in the bowl and replaced it on the table.

“Thank you, Fiona, I'll pour today,” Olive said, and Fiona walked out like a sleepwalker, unnoticed by the two women. The door closed softly behind her.

Olive poured a cup for Columbine, and she leaned back with it in her chair. “I've been waiting for this all day,” Columbine said, sipping at it. “It's been a horrendous week, hasn't it?”

“Yes, I've noticed the tension between you and Ned,” Olive said. She usually was not so bold, and Columbine looked over her teacup at her questioningly. “I don't mean to intrude, Columbine. But I presume you're still arguing about the Bradley-Martin ball.”

“Yes,” Columbine said. She took another sip of tea. “I don't understand him, Olive. He's become so hard. He's obsessed with Hawthorn's future. All the Christmas engagements I could normally refuse he was on me about. I had to go to this and that, and this again—oh, he's driving me mad. But on this issue I don't see how I can please him. I'm appalled by the waste, the indifference, the sheer amount of money it's taking to put on this fete. I don't care how many Astors and Rhinelanders and Van Cormandts are going.”

“I know,” Olive said. Her face was set and grave. Her teacup sat at her elbow, untouched. “But I think you should go anyway.”

Slowly, Columbine put down her teacup. “Oh, Olive. Not you, too. I could see your point about the Hartleys. But this?”

“Columbine,” Olive said clearly, her eyes never leaving her sister-in-law's face, “Ned is dying.”

Columbine remembered a tumble from her horse when she was a girl, when the breath had left her body and she hadn't been able to speak. She stared at Olive. “What are you saying?”

“Dr. Temple didn't want to tell you. But I've always thought him a fool. He's silly when it comes to wives, he thinks they should remain in the dark or they'll be hysterical. Ned has cancer. That's why he's been so bad lately. Dr. Temple says it has nothing to do with his injuries from the bomb.”

Columbine swallowed painfully. “Does Ned know?”

Olive nodded. “He knew without the doctor telling him. Dr. Temple confirmed his own suspicions.”

“You've both known….” Columbine turned away, pressing her face into the soft material of Olive's faded velvet armchair. “How long have you known?” she asked.

“Since before Christmas. Ned didn't want you to know, Columbine. He can't know that you know. He couldn't bear it, he said.”

“How long—”

“Does he have? A matter of months.”

“And this time you believe Dr. Temple.”

Olive nodded, her green eyes pained. “Yes, there's no doubt this time. I feel it as well as know it.”

Columbine nodded slowly. She wondered why she wasn't crying. Now she thought of Ned's increased use of drugs, his obvious pain, the slight grayish tinge to his skin, and she was ashamed. She should have known it went beyond his normal discomfort. She should have known! She thought of every careless remark she'd made over the past month, every argument, every small irritation, and nausea swept over her. “Oh, Olive, I've been so terrible to him,” she whispered.

Olive leaned forward urgently. “Now don't go feeling sorry for yourself. I didn't tell you so that you'd feel guilty. I told you because first of all, I think you've a right to know, no matter what Ned or the hallowed Dr. Temple thinks. And I also told you because you need to understand about Hawthorn. Ned needs to feel that Hawthorn will be a Van Cormandt, Columbine, that she will continue the family line. All of these engagements he's forcing on you are just a way for him to believe in that. He's afraid of Elijah Reed.”

Columbine started at the sound of the name. “Why would he fear Elijah Reed?”

“Because he's Hawthorn's father. Ned told me. And even if he didn't, I saw you and Mr. Reed at that gala and it was perfectly plain to me that you were in love with him.”

“I haven't—”

“I know you haven't. That's not the point. I'm thinking of Ned now.” Olive reached out and grasped Columbine's hand. “You've done so much for him. Can you do this last thing? Can you make him secure in the knowledge that he will leave something behind? Go to the ball, Columbine. Go late and leave early, I don't care. Let him know that his position is important to you because it is Hawthorn's position. I'm begging you,” she whispered, and there was a fine film of tears in her green eyes. Columbine hadn't seen Olive cry since Dr. Temple described Ned's injuries that first day in the hospital.

“Of course I shall go,” Columbine said. “I'll do the best I can, Olive, and I'll keep the promise, too. Hawthorn will be raised a Van Cormandt.”

Olive leaned forward and embraced her, and it was only then that Columbine began to weep.

O
LIVE HAD ORDERED
a costume for her, some sort of standard French royalty gown, all chiffon and velvet and a bodice encrusted with pearls. But the night of the Bradley-Martin ball Columbine looked at it laid out for her and knew she could not wear it. She took out her black silk instead.

Olive caught her. She knocked on the door and came in with a small glass of sherry and some biscuits and she found Columbine in her underclothes, holding the black silk with a guilty expression.

Composedly, Olive sat the tray down by Columbine's dressing table. “You're not going to a funeral yet,” she said acerbicly.

“I can't wear that,” Columbine said, pointing to the frothy gown. “I appreciate you ordering it for me, Olive, but I just cannot.”

“Where is Fiona? Isn't she helping you dress?”

“No one can seem to locate her,” Columbine said distractedly, looking from the black gown to her costume and back again. “Apparently Mrs. Plumb suspects a sweetheart. Don't tell Ned she's missing, I'm sure she'll return.” Columbine did not mention that her gold gown was also missing.

“Of course I won't. Columbine, you can't be serious about the black silk. It's a fancy dress ball!”

“Mrs. Astor is wearing her black gown, I read it in the paper,” Columbine said, feeling rather like Hawthorn.

Olive made a face. “Mrs. Astor doesn't dress up. You know she has not the slightest sense of fun, God help her, and she considers her personage too holy to desecrate. Besides, she already thinks of herself as royalty. Why bother dressing as a dead queen when she can impersonate herself?”

Columbine laughed. “Olive, you are too awful sometimes.”

Olive grew serious. “Columbine, what will Ned think if he sees you in your black silk? You only wear it for formal dinners with the very oldest Van Cormandts, and well he knows it.”

Columbine hesitated. “I just can't dress up,” she said finally. Olive could see that her jaw was set in that stubborn way. “I can't walk into the Waldorf dressed as a queen with people starving in the streets. I'll just tell Ned the truth. I'm wearing it in honor of the starving poor, and to hell with the Bradley-Martins if they don't like it. He'll believe that I'm that wicked, I'm sure.”

Olive's face lightened. “Yes, of course he will.”

“Well, you needn't agree so readily,” Columbine said grumpily, and two women had their best laugh in days.

Marguerite took two full hours to dress, even though her first costume was the simple one. Her dressmaker had worked like the devil to complete both in time, and Celeste was waiting at the Waldorf in an upstairs room with the real showpiece of the evening, which Marguerite would change into before the supper at midnight. That gown was a dazzling creation in the shade of deep blue Marguerite hoped someone, sometime, would name “Daisy's eyes” or something, and it had real diamonds sewn in the bodice, dozens of deep blue velvet roses, and seventy-five gilt tassels.

But for all the gown's magnificence, she preferred her peasant costume. She had cheated, of course. The simple, ankle-length gown was mousseline de soie of a fineness no peasant had ever touched, let alone worn. A deep rose satin belt was laced with a cunning strand of crystal beads. Just a drift of the palest peach chiffon covered her breasts over the low-cut satin bodice. Her slippers were peach satin, and they laced up her peach-stockinged ankles in a truly shocking fashion. She wore her hair loose and flowing, with only the hair ornament Willie had given her three years ago. It was sapphires cunningly fashioned into forget-me-nots, with sprays of diamonds as baby's breath, and it circled her hair like a wreath of flowers. She wanted to kiss the mirror when she was through.