The Gilded Cage (60 page)

Olive had gone off with a pack of the innumerable Van Cormandt cousins, and Columbine had been left talking to Converse Bowles, who had resisted Letitia Garth's clutches and was still a distinguished bachelor. He was charming, but Columbine wondered how soon she could leave. Then she saw Elijah Reed crossing the room toward her, and she forgot that she was bored and uncomfortable.

In a moment, Converse Bowles excused himself to head for the champagne, and they were alone. She sensed immediately that Elijah was different. There was some bit of awkwardness in his good evening, some odd stiltedness in the way he shook her hand.

“Is everything all right?” she asked him. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he answered, not very convincingly. “You look very beautiful.”

“I'm surprised to see you here.”

“I read your name among the list of guests, so I came.”

“Ned wanted me to come, and I—I couldn't refuse. He's concerned about Hawthorn. I have to do my duty as a Van Cormandt suddenly, you see.”

For some reason, this remark seemed to trouble Elijah. He nodded and looked away. “Elijah,” she said softly, “have I done something to upset you?”

“This isn't the place—”

“But if not here, where? We're never alone.”

“Is she my daughter, Columbine?”

The lights whirled around her, the music rebounded in her head. His eyes were dark and troubled, like Hawthorn's eyes …

“She is,” he said flatly.

“You're angry. Elijah, I couldn't tell you. You were going to Paris, dead set on it, and then Ned was injured—”

“Oh, God.” He didn't speak for a few moments. “Don't you think I've thought of all that?” he asked in a tone that vibrated with anger. “Don't you think I've gone over it again and again? I didn't leave you any choice. I was a coward. I was everything I despise in everyone else, I left you, not wanting to know…”

She saw that he was angry at himself, not at her, and she touched his arm. “Please, Elijah. It would pain me to know that you blame yourself. We all do what we feel we must do. The trick is to be able to start over if we wish it. Can't we start over, Elijah?”

“I've never seen her,” he said, and his voice broke.

“You shall,” Columbine promised. “Someday soon, not yet, but I'll arrange a meeting.” How awful this was, she thought despairingly, that her husband was dying, and she was able, standing here, to even think in the remotest way of her lover. But there it was. She loved Elijah. She wanted him to know his daughter. Ned couldn't know, it wouldn't help matters. She had promised Olive that Hawthorn would be raised a Van Cormandt, and she would. But Hawthorn would also know her father.

“I wish we could be alone,” she whispered. “I wish we could be together.”

“We are together,” he answered.

Columbine smiled, and just then she saw the most remarkable thing. She saw her dress, her gold gown, through the crowd, heading away from them. Puzzled, she looked over Elijah's shoulder. She could not see the woman who wore it, but she thought the gown disappeared into one of the small rooms that held refreshments. Fiona, she thought.

“Will you excuse me, Elijah?”

He bowed. “Of course. May I take you in to supper later?”

“I would like that very much.” She pressed his hand, and she moved away toward the refreshment room wonderingly. Why would Fiona steal a gown and come to this party? It didn't make sense.

She looked in the refreshment room, but Fiona wasn't there. Puzzled, Columbine came out and walked farther down the corridor. She didn't see anyone, but she kept going, past one turning, then the next, and she found Fiona standing with Lawrence Birch.

Their heads were together, and they were speaking together intimately. Columbine was so shocked she couldn't speak at first. Then Fiona looked up and saw her, and her face went white. She clutched Lawrence's arm.

He showed his surprise for only a moment. Then he smiled blandly. “Columbine! How lovely to see you again.”

“Good evening, Mr. Birch,” Columbine said coolly. “Fiona, what—”

“So you've found us out,” Lawrence interrupted. “We are like naughty children, I confess. We just had to come to the party.”

Columbine nodded, though she had trouble swallowing this. “I didn't know you were acquainted with Mr. Birch, Fiona.”

“We've been acquainted for some time, ma'am,” Fiona answered. She had regained the dignity that Columbine had always admired in her. “I'm sorry about the gown,” she added. “I didn't think you'd miss it.”

“I did,” Columbine answered shortly. “I assume you took my invitation as well. I thought Id misplaced it.”

Fiona nodded carefully. “It was just a game,” she said.

Columbine hesitated. “Fiona, I'm sorry, but I must say that it could be dangerous to play games with the likes of Mr. Birch.”

Fiona smiled, her eyes glittering. “Thank you for the warning, Mrs. Van Cormandt,” she said wickedly.

Lawrence gave her a triumphant look, and anger surged through Columbine. He would not do this again, stand there and demonstrate his power over a woman that she was fond of.

“How long have you known him, Fiona?” she asked quietly.

“Long enough to know him,” she replied, shrugging. “Eight years last December.”

“Eight years December,” Columbine said. She took a wild, crazy guess, daring to because of the strange light in Lawrence's eyes. “Right before the party at the Hartley's, then. Did you know he was there that night?”

Fiona's defiant look slipped, just a bit. “He wasn't there that night. We didn't meet that night. We met before, and after, but—”

“Not that night,” Columbine said. She shot a look at Lawrence; the triumphant gaze was gone. Fury was stealing over his face in a fascinating change. His cheekbones stood out prominently. The change in him reminded her of the night he'd attacked her. But Columbine wasn't afraid. She felt power surge through her, for she knew she was on the right track. She knew she was right.

“But I saw him there that night,” she said deliberately. “I saw him running away after the blast. And I believe he caused it.”

“You saw him…“

“I saw him, Fiona.”

“I came to see you,” Lawrence said to Fiona urgently. “Then I saw all the activity, and I left.”

“I told you we were having the fireworks, that I couldn't get away,” Fiona said. She was searching Lawrence's face, and suddenly the uncertainty left her eyes and her customary shrewdness returned. “That's why you asked me so much about them. You did it. You damaged them deliberately. And you knew—” Her hand flew to her mouth. “You knew that Jimmy was supposed to set them off.”

“It wasn't supposed to go that way,” Lawrence said. “I thought Hartley would be there.”

“But you knew Jimmy would be,” Fiona said through her fingers. “It's because of you he lost his arm.”

“For God's sake, Fiona, what does it matter? We sent him to jail didn't we? Why are you having scruples now?”

Lawrence's words seemed to take whole minutes to sift through Columbine's consciousness.
We sent him to jail didn't we?
Lawrence and Fiona, she thought. They were the ones. Not Bell. Lawrence. And Fiona had been his accomplice. She hadn't left the window open for Jimmy. She'd left it open for her lover. Had she known about the bomb? And if she had, what were the two of them doing here, tonight?

“Fiona,” Lawrence said, “aren't we running away together? Don't spoil this night, don't …” Lawrence moved toward her. He reached out for her. Columbine prayed she'd move away. But Fiona did not. And then Lawrence took out a gun, and pointed it at Columbine.

Outside, the protest had fizzled. No one knew the anarchists had dressed like Communards, for they did not look very much different from the ragged crowd who was oohing and ahhing over the display of jewels and costumes and coiffures instead of rising as one solid mass to condemn it.

Bell clutched the grip and sighed. She should just leave. She thought longingly of the hotel downtown. Lawrence could be there already. She could be dining with him at this very moment. He had declared that they would order room service, no matter what the cost. But in her position, at the very front of the barricade, she would seem a defector if she left so early.

Suddenly she saw a slight figure run out from the Waldorf, wearing a voluminious black velvet cape trimmed in peach satin. She recognized Marguerite as the hood fell back to reveal a white face and darting blue eyes.

“Bell!” Marguerite shouted, and she ran across the street to press against the barricade. “I knew you'd be out here, I heard there was an anarchist protest,” she said breathlessly.

Bell was taken aback; she hadn't seen Marguerite in seven years. Why this sudden friendliness?

“You must come inside,” Marguerite urged. “I'm sure it would interest you.”

“Why would I come inside?”

“Because it would interest you,” Marguerite repeated. In a low voice, she said, “Lawrence is at the ball. I saw him.”

“Lawrence? But that's impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible in life, don't you know that, Bell?” Marguerite asked gaily. She seemed in high spirits despite the cold wind whipping down Fifth.

A policeman came by, slapping his nightstick against a white-gloved palm. “You'd better move along, miss. The crowd can be dangerous.”

Marguerite shot him an impudent and highly flirtatious glance. “Don't you know who I am, Captain?”

“Why, you're Daisy Corbeau! Miss Corbeau, I didn't recognize you. All the more reason for you to move along, Miss Corbeau, ma'am.”

“But Captain, I must take my friend with me.” Marguerite held out her hand and pulled Bell's sleeve.

“She doesn't look like a guest, Miss Corbeau, if you don't mind my saying so, ma'am. And it's Sergeant Malley, ma'am.”

“But she's
my
guest, Sergeant Malley, you see how we're dressed alike.” Marguerite dimpled prettily at him.

The sergeant looked from Marguerite to Bell. True, both ladies were dressed in peasant garb. And he'd even seen an Indian tonight, so there was no telling what the swells were dressing as. And the lady behind the barricade
was
beautiful. She was another actress, most likely.

“Please, Sergeant Malley. Do you like the theater? I shall send you some tickets for you and your wife.”

“That would be kind of you ma'am …. All right, go ahead. I suppose it's all right.”

Taking Bell's hand, Marguerite tugged her forward, and Bell ducked underneath the barricade, hardly knowing why. “What are you doing?” she said underneath her breath to Marguerite as they ran toward the entrance.

Marguerite giggled. “I'm making something right, that's all. Something I did long ago.” When they reached the awning, she looked at Bell a moment. Then she slipped out of her long cape and swirled it around Bell's shoulders. “There, that's better. Come along. We've got a bit of searching to do. But I think I know exactly where to find him.”

Fiona had known that Lawrence had a gun, but she was nonetheless surprised when he took it out and pointed it at Columbine. “Let's go,” he said.

“Lawrence, don't be silly,” Columbine said. “This place is swarming with detectives.”

“Just move,” he said evenly.

With the gun hidden under a cape that was part of his costume, he led them away, down the hall toward the Astoria part of the hotel. This part of the hotel was quiet, deserted, and they moved quickly, almost running in response to Lawrence's hissed commands.

He took her down a dark corridor to an unfinished room in the Astoria side. Carpenters and wordcarvers had left some tools lying about, and there was scaffolding in a corner.

“What now?” Columbine asked.

“Now for the plan,” Lawrence said. He went to the corner and rooted underneath a cloth, taking out a small package.

Columbine's heart began to pound. “No,” she said.

“I'm afraid so,” Fiona said. Her voice sounded wooden, and she went to stand next to Lawrence.

“It will take me a few minutes to arm it,” Lawrence said. “And I wouldn't move, if I were you. I could make a mistake and blow us all to kingdom come.”

He laid the gun down at his feet, but Columbine did not feel sufficiently brave to try for it. He threw off his powdered wig.

“Now,” he said, “first, the detonator.”

But the door opened, and Bell and Marguerite walked in. Marguerite was surprised to see Columbine, but the more the merrier. She had never been good at reading the atmosphere in a room she entered, since she always planned to change it.

“You see, Bell, I told you he was here. Look, Lawrence, I found Bell. And oh, Bell, I don't know if you know Fiona or not.”

Bell stared from Lawrence to Fiona. She did not recognize Fiona as the maid she had met so briefly seven years before. “Lawrence?” she asked, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Christ, Marguerite! You'll pay for this, you little Jew.”

“He's here with his wife,” Marguerite flung out. “They crashed the party.”

“Wife?” Bell asked. “Wife?” she repeated stupidly.

“I'm Lawrence's wife,” Fiona said.

“Legal wife?” Bell asked.

“Under God and the law,” Fiona answered. She couldn't help feeling a tiny spurt of spite. At last she could claim it to Lawrence's doxy.

Lawrence screened them out. He bent over the bomb. There was nothing he could do now. His fate, as always, was in the hands of his women. How he would like to change that. He wanted to leave them both.

Bell's legs gave way, and she sat on the dusty floor. Everything fell away from her. She could not concentrate on anything but this information. She knew that as soon as she was able to feel, she would be torn apart by the pain. Believing in his reasons, she had waited for years. He had married someone else.