The Gilded Cage (8 page)

“When I see this,” he said finally, “I wonder why every person doesn't rise up.”

“When I see this,” Columbine said quietly, “I wonder why every person doesn't lie down and give up.”

He looked at her, startled. “I think you just might need an infusion of hope, Mrs. Nash,” he said lightly.

“And will you provide it, Mr. Birch?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Ah,” Columbine said with a smile, “there is no one more romantic than an anarchist.”

“Romantic?” He looked startled at the word.

“Don't you believe that after the state is demolished, all its citizens will equitably divide its resources, that all will take only what they need? That scarcities will be rationed, and all will obey this rationing with generous spirits?”

“Yes, of course. But that is human nature, Mrs. Nash. Someday it will be reality, not romance. It's the state that accounts for the depravity in human nature. Once man is liberated, his true soul will have a chance to emerge.”

Columbine was struck with how fervent his gaze was. She felt a pang; was he right, did she need an infusion of hope?

Lawrence glanced down a side street. “The docks look as dangerous in this city as in any other,” he observed.

“I suppose. But during the day, it's quite pleasant to be near the river. At least on a fine day, not today with this wind. We're very near the markets, as well. You might want to return and sample some oysters—they're shipped in from the harbor right here. But today after our stop we'll walk east toward First Street. It's a long walk, but an instructive one. Some fine houses around Washington Square, some tenements, factories, businesses, New York University. You'll see much of downtown.”

“I should like that,” Lawrence said.

Columbine led the way to 142 Gansevoort Street, finding her way with some difficulty, for she didn't know the area very well. They reached the address, and Columbine looked at the house dubiously. It seemed to sag with the weight of centuries; it was a wonder it didn't fall in on itself with her first step on the creaking porch. Columbine rang the bell.

An older woman answered. Gray whiskers sprouted from her chin in patches. She looked Columbine up and down suspiciously but said nothing.

“Good day. We're here to see Fiona Devlin,” Columbine said. “Would you tell her Columbine N—”

“Round back,” the woman said, and slammed the door.

“Thank you,” Columbine said to the door.

“Not a good beginning,” Lawrence said with a smile. It lightened his features, making his pale blue eyes warm.

“Perhaps they owe her some rent,” Columbine speculated.

Lawrence took her arm as they picked their way through a woodpile to a dirt alley running alongside the house. The ground was muddy and encrusted with ice, but a narrow walkway of boards had been set down for passage. Columbine balanced, still holding onto Lawrence's arm, for there were patches of ice on the boards as well. She could feel the bunch of steely muscles underneath his coat. The elegant Mr. Birch was burlier than he appeared.

Around back they found the rear of the building in even worse repair than the front. A dirt-packed yard was crisscrossed with clotheslines. There was a door with cracked, rust-colored paint that seemed to lead to a basement apartment. Columbine knocked at it. It opened almost immediately.

The small, red-headed woman stood, one hand on her hip. Her expression was less strained than the night of the accident, but it was not one whit less fierce. Wisps of red hair from an untidy bun waved around pale cheeks. A clean apron was tied over a plain black dress. If the old woman upstairs had a suspicious look, Fiona Devlin was positively murderous.

Columbine had never been slow to recognize hostility. She didn't smile, knowing it would only infuriate Fiona Devlin. “Mrs. Devlin, I was at the Hartley house the other night when your husband was injured. I've come to inquire about his health.”

Fiona Devlin said nothing. She continued to stare at Columbine with opaque green eyes. There was a golden patch in one corner with a dark spot in it. Lovely, hostile eyes.

“My name is Columbine Nash,” she continued determinedly. “And this is my friend Mr. Birch. Mrs. Devlin, I've come to see if there's anything I can do for you. I know Mr. Hartley will be forthcoming with assistance, but until then—”

A sneer lifted the corner of Fiona's thin upper lip. “Yes, he will be
forthcoming,
though I'll not be waiting,” she said, in an attempted imitation of Columbine's upper crust British accent. “Mrs. Nash,” she added. The name was like an insult. Columbine had heard her name pronounced in this way before. One could not advocate free love, family limitation, and votes for women and
not
hear it. But this woman was a master at it.

“If we could come in,” Columbine tried.

“My husband is sleeping. He has a fever, you see. The doctor is worried about gangrene, though he won't use that word to me.”

“Perhaps you need help with nursing—”

“My sister lives with us. And we have neighbors. Goodbye.”

Fiona began to shut the door. Columbine put her hand against it. Fiona's eyes flicked for one contemptuous second at her fine kid glove.

“I work with the New Women Society,” Columbine said. “We run an employment agency—for clerical work, mostly. If you need assistance, our office is on Fourteenth Street, at Union Square. And we also have a fund for cases such as yours, Mrs. Devlin.” With her other hand, she reached into her pocket and took out an envelope.

Fiona ignored it. Again, she merely stared at Columbine.

“Mr. Van Cormandt and I tried to talk Mr. Hartley into staying with your husband the other night,” Columbine said desperately. “I do not countenance his behavior. I am ashamed of his behavior. I—” Columbine stopped and collected herself. She was only making Fiona Devlin more contemptuous, she could see. “I want to help you,” she finished quietly. “I hope you will let me.” Again, she held out the envelope.

Fiona stared at it. Then she raised cool green eyes to Columbine. “And why would I be taking money from a slut?” she asked evenly.

The breath left Columbine's body. Her hand fell. “I beg your pardon.”

“Mrs. Devlin—” Lawrence began.

“I know about you,” Fiona said, raising a red hand to stop Lawrence and keeping her gaze on Columbine. “I know you're that rich man's mistress, Mrs. Nash. I've seen your fine gowns and your diamonds. And you come here expecting me to welcome you in, when it's your kind who done what they did to my Jimmy? Do you want me to give you a cuppa and cry on your shoulder?” Fiona began to shut the door, until only her white face was visible. “You're a slut, a liar, and an Englishwoman, Mrs. Nash, and I spit on you and your class.”

Lawrence stepped forward—to do what, he didn't know. Still, Fiona didn't shut the door. Waiting for the satisfaction of a reaction, perhaps. She looked at Lawrence, her green eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Mrs. Devlin—” Columbine started. But the second door of the day was slammed in her face, and she stared at peeling paint, her mouth still open. She closed it.

“I'm so dreadfully sorry,” Lawrence said. “She is obviously in great distress, but—”

“Please,” Columbine said. “Can we go?”

She was glad of Lawrence's arm as they navigated the wooden boards back to the sidewalk. Columbine felt unsteady. She'd been spoken of with contempt before, she'd been called names. But never so baldly. She'd been arrested, but she'd always had the protection of the police knowing her class. She'd been treated well. Never before had she seen herself so plainly, through the eyes of a working woman who did not want her help. The women who came to her door, who came to her lectures,
wanted
her help. Never before had she had to offer it to someone who flung her notions back in her face, who mocked her. Strange, Columbine thought. Strange that this had not happened to her before, in all her years of speaking and writing. Catcalls in a lecture auditorium and hostile questions are easy to deal with. Blood pumping from the righteousness of her cause, and words flying from her mouth, and the audience claps and screams at her cleverness. But alone, face to face, looking at the eyes of desperation and contempt, well. That was another thing entirely.

When they reached the street, Columbine began, unaccountably, to shake. She realized, horrified, that she was very close to tears. So strange, she thought again. I used to be so brave.

Lawrence felt her tremble underneath his arm. He saw that her face was white. “Mrs. Nash, you're faint. Let me help you.” Murmuring close to her ear, he buoyed her up. He led her to the closest and cleanest stoop, took off his coat, and laid it down for her. Columbine sank onto it and burst into tears.

She cried for some time into Lawrence's handkerchief, which he handed over without a word. “Oh, dear, oh,” she murmured as her sobs quieted. She wiped her cheeks. “I must apologize, Mr. Birch.”

“But it's only natural,” Lawrence said kindly. “Mrs. Devlin said some shocking, terribly cruel things. Words a lady should not hear. It was awful for you.”

“Yes. To hear truth is never pleasant,” Columbine said.

“Mrs. Nash!”

She sighed and looked down at her boots. “Not the names she called me,” she said softly. “Not that. But I saw truth in her eyes. I shouldn't have been at that party. I've lost my way, you see. It used to be so clear. I was using society for my own ends. I told myself that I needed the wealthy classes on my side, needed those women, and the way I dressed and the places I went made them feel comfortable, more inclined to listen and not be afraid. But was it just an excuse to indulge vanity and luxury? I told myself that my ideas became less shocking, you see, if I were wearing a silk gown and diamonds while I espoused them. I needed those women—their power, and their money.”

“But all of that is true,” Lawrence said insistently. “Look at what you've done.”

“But I didn't expect to become one of them. I thought I left that all behind in England.”

“You think you're one of them?”

“I don't know,” Columbine whispered. “Not to them—to them, I'm still an outsider because of my politics, tolerated because of my background and because of Ned. But what about to the people I want to help? My dream was, when I started, to cross class lines. My dream was that all women would see what they had in common. And today I saw contempt in Fiona Devlin's eyes. She is the woman I'm trying to reach. She is the reason I formed the New Women Society. She is the reason I lecture, the reason I write. But she doesn't read my articles, Mr. Birch. Do you know who does? Socialists, women's rights workers. Elizabeth Cady Stanton sends me letters of encouragement, not factory girls. I am preaching to the converted, I have been for two years now. I'm useless. And soon,” she said, her brown eyes pained, “I will be a joke.”

Lawrence felt shock crash down on him. Columbine Nash was a legend dating from her lectures in the 1880's. So young, so beautiful, so well-born. And speaking such words of rebellion in that clear English voice so that even the most revolutionary notions sounded like perfect common sense.

And she was
confused
. Lawrence had consorted with dogmatics for so long he had forgotten what it was like to be unsure. And this famous revolutionary was a woman, after all. Helpless, lost, needy.

An enormous sense of power swept over him. He realized that he had her now. Her nerves were fluttering like the wings of a sparrow, and her fine mind was blurred. Her senses were overwhelming her, and she was infinitely attractive, infinitely beautiful, at this moment. For the first time, he was truly attracted to her.

He almost smiled. He knew exactly what to say. Lawrence always knew exactly what to say to women.

“I can't let you feel this way,” he said gently. “I know the work you've done over the past two years, and I've seen, even in the little time I've spent with you, how many women you've helped. You've done so much. It's natural to lose your way for a time, or to think that you have. Discouragement is part of your life, isn't it?”

“Unfortunately, I can't seem to get away from it,” Columbine admitted. Her brown eyes held glints of green, they were full of tears, and she looked heartbreakingly lovely.

“You just need to rest for a bit. You've worked very hard, and very well, and now you're tired. You must not think this a failing, Mrs. Nash! You must look at what you've done, and see how good you really are. You must congratulate yourself. You must believe in yourself again, love yourself again.”

Columbine stared into pale blue eyes, vibrant, passionate with feeling. If only she could take some of that conviction and infuse it into her veins, be strong again. This young, handsome man beside her was everything she once was, everything she wanted to be again. She felt it impossible to go one more step forward into the life she had made for herself. She didn't have Ned any longer. That was frightening enough. What could she do without her conviction?

“I cannot,” she said falteringly. “Oh, Mr. Birch, I cannot.”

Lawrence took her hand. “You're the most courageous woman I've ever met. You can do anything.”

Columbine shivered, and she withdrew her hand from his. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry to impose on you, a stranger—”

“Please, don't say that. Say ‘friend.' Sometimes friends can be made in an instant. Something happens, some charge comes between two people, and bonds of steel are formed. I feel that way with us, Mrs. Nash.”

Confused, Columbine looked into Lawrence's face again. Bonds of steel? She didn't know. There was something, yes. She'd thought it was merely envy of his optimism. And she wanted to believe him. It was easier to find a way out having a guide. Or at least a friend. “Friend, then,” she said. “Thank you.”