“If you’ll look to the fire, I’ll make the tea,” Bell said softly to Horatio.
“I’ll be happy to,” Horatio said. “Hurry back.”
Perfect! Thank goodness Bell did not worry about propriety, not that anyone did, in this house. She would not give a second thought to entertaining Mr. Jones so late. They’d probably become involved in some boring political discussion that Bell wanted to continue. Marguerite waited a moment until Bell had rustled back toward the kitchen. She opened the library door, then hesitated, looking down at herself. Quickly, she wet her cold index finger and reached inside her chemise. She pinched both nipples hard until they pushed up against the filmy material. She wasn’t blessed with a generous bosom like Bell’s. Anything would help.
When she opened the parlor door, Horatio looked up. Disappointment flashed in his eyes for a split second, and Marguerite tamped down her annoyance. Of course he was looking forward to being alone with Bell. She brushed a tumbling lock of raven hair off her forehead and let her lips part in surprise.
“Mr. Jones. I didn’t know you were here.” Marguerite’s hand flew to her open robe, but instead of closing it securely, she merely pulled it together slightly. A full six inches of white throat and bosom were still exposed.
Horatio looked away, then looked back, his light brown eyes embarrassed. “Miss Corbeau. I’m sorry if we disturbed you. B—Miss Huxton is making some tea. She’ll return in a moment.”
“I was just searching for a book,” Marguerite said. She punctuated the remark by dropping it.
In the time it took her to hesitate slightly, then bend over, Horatio was in front of her, stooping for the book. His eyes came level with the curve of one small, perfect breast, and his hand froze on the spine of the book. Quickly, Marguerite stood erect, the picture of modesty, and let him retrieve the book for her. Her fingers slid against his for a second when she took it.
“Thank you.” Her eyes didn’t leave his face. Confused, Horatio looked away. Marguerite smiled slightly, just a curve of the lips. She felt a surge of delicious power as Horatio peeked back at her. Her mask of modesty clicked back in, and she dropped her eyes.
But Bell should be coming any moment, and this was all she had time for. Marguerite turned and ran from the room without a word. She mounted the stairs, inwardly exulting at her daring. She’d had so little practice, and her performance had been perfect! And it had been enough. Horatio would not forget what he’d seen, and he would wonder if he was being foolish by continuing to scrabble after Bell’s skirts. He would wonder. He would imagine. And one day soon, he would come.
In the parlor, Bell closed the door behind her. She noticed at once Horatio’s agitation. She put down the tray and came toward him, concerned.
“Horatio, what is it? Has something upset you?”
Suddenly, Horatio gripped her hands and squeezed them. “Bell, we must talk.”
“Horatio, you’re hurting me.” Bell extricated her hands and smoothed her skirt with trembling fingers. She knew what was coming; it was all too familiar to her.
Horatio saw the gesture and turned away angrily. Why did he bother? But how could he not? He turned back. This time, he clasped his hands together tightly. He would not touch her again, he vowed. He would not try.
“Bell, you know I am devoted to you. I love you dearly. I said I wouldn’t ask until I felt you were ready—”
“Yes, Horatio,” Bell said quietly. “You promised that.”
“But how can we go on like this?” Horatio burst out. “It is killing me, Bell. I love you so much. … Will you marry me? Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? I’ll treasure you, Bell. I’ll be your helpmate, your comrade, your friend—” Horatio paused. “I will even forbare being your lover, if you wish it.”
Bell collapsed into an armchair. “Oh, Horatio …”
“I mean it, Bell. I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever, if necessary.”
“You say this because you don’t believe it will be forever,” Bell murmured. “You will always expect…”
“There is no answer then, for us?” Horatio asked, his usually humorous face tight. When Bell was silent, he crossed to her side. He crouched by her chair and looked searchingly into her face.
“Perhaps I have no right to ask this, my dear,” he said tenderly. “But I know you’re not a cold woman. I’ve felt your warmth. Is there something—someone—in your past who’s hurt you, made you this way? I meant what I said, darling. I can wait. Perhaps I can even learn to do without the—the physical. But I have to know if it’s an impossibility for you, or if you need time …”
“I don’t know.” Bell startled herself, for she’d whispered the words aloud, the painful answer to the question she asked herself, over and over again.
How she’d hoped to fall in love with Horatio! He was handsome and intelligent and kind. He was committed to reform, as she was. His pieces on the suffragists were weighty and considered, free of the sly tone of so many others. Columbine had approved of him wholeheartedly. “Finally a man who writes of our struggle without a nudge or a wink,” she’d said.
And his hands were large and strong, his face alert and humorous, his mouth sensual. At first, she’d thought him dangerously attractive. More than once she had felt close to falling, to blotting out the world in his arms, as she’d heard it was possible to do. But time and again she was able to resist so easily. That had been the worst thing of all. To long for that abandonment, and yet to be relieved when it did not come.
Horatio saw her hesitation, and it gave him hope. He felt anger and heat flood him, and his frustration, fueled by the encounter with Marguerite, boiled over. Grasping her arms, he lifted Bell to her feet.
Her full, beautiful mouth parted in surprise. Her breath fanned his cheek, and he could smell her hair. Horatio was beyond thought now, as raging excitement raced through his blood. He placed his hand on her breast. It fitted against his palm, lush, full, exciting. Horatio made a low noise in his throat as fresh desire flooded him.
Bell tried to twist away, but he held her fast. “Stop it, Horatio. Stop—”
“No. His fingers played across where her nipple would be, underneath the bottle-green silk. “I want to feel your heart beating,” he murmured. His eyes glinted. “I want to feel if you have a heart to beat, Bell …” His mouth descended on hers, and she felt his rough mustache.
But this time, there was no gentle brush of soft lips. Horatio’s mouth was open! His tongue insinuated itself between her lips, tried to go deeper. Bell clamped her teeth down as a shudder ripped through her. Now she used all her strength to twist away.
“No!” She almost screamed it, loud enough so that Marguerite, listening intently at the top of the stairs, smiled. Bell put her hand against her mouth. Her body shook. “No,” she whispered. “No, Horatio.”
He sank down on the sofa. His head dropped into his hands. For long moments, they both said nothing.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said raggedly at last. “I want you to confide in me, Bell. Tell me. Is it the act that you fear? Don’t be ashamed. We’ve talked of free love in the abstract many times. Surely you know you can say anything to me.”
Bell walked away. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window fronting the street. Words were on her tongue, and again she clamped her jaw, this time to prevent them escaping.
She could never tell Horatio of her shame. Of the uncle who had visited her nightly when she was twelve, sliding into her bed and pressing himself inside her. Of the mother who had looked the other way, up to the heavens to God to protect them all. Bell’s father had died when she was ten, a factory worker worn out at forty. His brother had moved in with them, seeming their salvation. Her mother had wept, she was so grateful. And then Uncle Jack sent Bell’s brother Sam up to Massachusetts for factory work and had taken to Bell’s bed. And then when she was fourteen he had sold her to a “friend” he owed a gambling debt. Archie Taft had been no gentleman.
&nbs
p; Bell would never forget the day she had sneaked into a lecture hall to see the famous Columbine Nash speak. Columbine was only a few years older than Bell, and she was on her first lecture tour in America. She’d been brutalized in a marriage and her father had thrown her briefly into an asylum when she’d run away with her lover. The charge was insanity due to “over-education.” Columbine had escaped with the aid of her lover and then promptly left him when he’d forbidden her to discuss her experience publicly, saying that it would be unladylike to do so. She lectured and wrote and became instantly notorious in London, a scandalous woman who laughed at her critics and exhorted women to cross class lines and organize for their rights.
Bell had been shocked. Columbine was of the upper classes, her father was titled. And she had been brutalized too! Bell had listened hungrily. For the first time in her life she’d seen that ideas could be a form of comfort. Of strength. Columbine was right; women’s problems were unique, and they crossed class lines. Bell drew the ideas she heard around her like a cloak; it held protection as well as warmth. Even while Archie did vile things to her she could think of all women, all the downtrodden of the world and feel comforted. She was trapped in a machine not of her making. But according to Columbine Nash she did not have to be a victim. The only one who could make her a victim was herself. And that was when she began to change. That was when she began to hope. That was when she began to act.
Secretly, she’d written to Columbine, and Columbine had answered. She’d found work for Bell in an office of women working in Columbine’s New Women Society. Bell had quit her job at the collar factory that very day. The office was a place of hard work and laughter. Columbine was there every day, fundraising, writing, planning lectures. And when Archie Taft had found out and beaten Bell so badly she could not walk, Columbine had taken her in to her own home. “You will never have to lie with a man again if you don’t choose to,” Columbine had said to her fiercely, standing over her bed.
But what if I never choose to again? Bell cried out silently now, her lips against the glass. Over ten years had passed, and she was still chaste. She knew she was missing something essential. She could see it between Columbine and Ned, satisfaction and laughter and a closeness not measurable to outsiders. Ease and contentment. Passion.
Bell couldn’t bear the touch of a man. Her reputation for chastity was ill-deserved, for she had never once been tempted to lose it. When a man touched her, she didn’t feel revulsion; she just felt nothing, even from gentle, strong Horatio, whom she liked so well.
Bell’s cheeks flooded with heat at the thought of what this lack had driven her to do lately. Sin. Sin of the blackest and most depraved kind.
“Bell?” Horatio saw her rigid back, the way one hand gripped the faded curtains. He sighed. “I’m sorry I upset you. I’ll go.”
Bell spun, her honey-colored eyes worried. “You’ll come back?”
The question hung in the air while they heard the carriage outside. Hooves clattered to a halt, and Bell turned to look out the window. “It’s Ned and Columbine,” she said. “I didn’t expect her until the early hours of the morning.”
They were both silent as they waited for Ned and Columbine. Bell wanted to beg Horatio’s pardon, to ask for his patience. Horatio toyed with giving Bell an ultimatum, of threatening never to return to the house again. And then, fleetingly, Marguerite’s vivid blue eyes, young but so suggestive, flickered in his mind. He pushed away the image of the white breast, the small fingers with childishly bitten nails brushing against his. He felt himself stir again.
“Damn,” he said fiercely, and Bell looked at him, startled, just as Columbine swept into the room.
Her black velvet cloak whirled as she tossed it into a chair. “A fine start to the new year,” she said. “How do you do, Mr. Jones. Bell, how lovely you look. I hope your evening was pleasant, at least.”
“Very fine, Mrs. Nash,” Horatio said politely. His eyes were on Ned, who greeted them stiffly and crossed to the fireplace, his hands in his pockets. Usually, Ned Van Cormandt was the soul of graciousness.
“It’s beastly cold in here,” Ned observed tightly. “Bell, you’ll catch your death.”
Columbine looked at him sharply. She didn’t care for the omission of her own comfort. But then, they’d barely exchanged a word since they left the Hartleys and Columbine had refused to go downtown with him.
Horatio quickly crossed to the scuttle. “My fault, I’m afraid,” he said. “I was just about to rekindle the fire.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones, but Ned is perfectly capable of doing so.” Columbine gave her lover an eloquent look. “Mr. Jones, Bell, would you care for a brandy?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Nash, but I’ve stayed too long.” Horatio bowed stiffly to the company. “I’ll call tomorrow, if I may.”
“Of course,” Columbine said. “We always receive on New Year’s Day.”
“I’ll say good night as well,” Bell said gravely.
Ned said good night and shook hands with Horatio and returned to poke the fire. Bell walked Horatio to the door. Silently, they looked their goodbyes, for there was nothing to say.
In the parlor, Ned looked into the fire. Not turning, he said, “I would appreciate it if we could keep tonight out of the papers, Columbine.”
Angrily, she sat erect in the armchair. “Are you suggesting that I’ll tell Mr. Jones to make that tragedy a headline for all New York?”
“I don’t think it will do Devlin any good at all. Tomorrow I’ll ask Ambrose what he plans to do. If he refuses, I’ll see that Devlin gets a settlement.”
“That’s good of you, Ned.” Columbine sighed. “It’s been a very long night.”
“I’ll go now.” Still without looking at her, he picked up his hat.
Columbine stood. She wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what. Once, she would have felt the need to say something, anything so that Ned’s arms would go around her. But not anymore.
“We’re changing, Ned,” she said suddenly. “I don’t believe I like the way we’re changing.”
“I don’t believe I do, either, my dear Columbine,” Ned said, after a pause. “But there it is.”
Bell heard the front door close and Columbine mount the stairs. Her step sounded weary. Tomorrow she would have no chance to ask Columbine what was wrong, but she certainly would do so at the office on Monday.
Bell thought about confiding in Columbine herself. She’d never told her of how she could not respond to Horatio, and she wondered if Columbine guessed. For a household of women who believed in free love in principle, they were awfully private with each other.
Sighing, Bell began to undress. She’d wondered many times how long it would be before patient, mild Horatio was no longer able to hold onto his manners in the face of her refusals. Tonight she had seen it, the angry glare of a man too long held off. Bell was twenty-eight and beautiful. She’d seen the look before, with every man she’d allowed to walk out with her.
Sighing, Bell stepped out of her one good gown. It pooled at her feet, and she began on the small buttons on her chemise. Thank goodness Columbine had talked her into giving up corsets.
Her hands paused at her breasts. Why hadn’t her pulse quickened when Horatio had touched her tonight? Why did it quicken now?
She fell to her knees on the floor, naked. She loosened her heavy butterscotch hair, and it flowed down her back, caressing her bare skin with its softness. And her skin, too, was soft. Her arms, her breasts, her belly. Her fingertips could feel how it must feel for a man to stroke it, caress it, know every inch of its deep enfolding warmth …
Bell’s hands snapped up and locked together in prayer. She closed her eyes against the horror. Tears began to slip down her burning cheeks. She begged the Lord Jesus Christ to save her from herself. Thy skin was flayed, she prayed, her eyes tightly shut. What right have I to worship my own smooth skin? Thy mind was pure. What right have I to indulge my own baseness?
She felt on fire, pu
re as a sword forged in a heat too intense for earth. She felt an angel, white and glowing hot, her hair rippling, glorious in her nakedness and her purity. Her hands again stole down her body to touch her breasts, her legs, her arms. She was pure. She was perfect, a fortress. Her thighs were strong and white. They were soft. They were locked, muscles straining, trembling. She would conquer herself. She—
Bell’s head jerked up, her neck muscles straining. It took her a moment to recognize the sound. Knocking downstairs, soft but insistent, on the front door. It was after two in the morning. Who would come to their door at this hour? Perhaps Ned or Horatio had returned, to apologize, to be contrite. How tiresome of them, and how unlike them.
Bell rose on unsteady legs and fumbled herself into her dressing gown. Thinking hard, she decided neither one of those proud men would be downstairs. It could be anyone, really—a woman in trouble, perhaps thrown out of her apartment by her landlord. She would find her way to Columbine’s door, for help would be there, bracing advice, and a little money, as much as Columbine could spare.
Her long hair flew behind her as she reached the top of the stairs and started down. She could hear noises from Columbine’s room as Columbine most likely roused herself from bed to come downstairs as well. They would need strong tea and a good fire.
She could hear hail pattering against the windows as she walked with quick steps through the front hall. She peered through the long narrow window to the left of the door.
It was a man. He was wet through, and it was hard to distinguish his features underneath his hat and dripping mustache. Bell hesitated only a moment before sliding back the bolt and opening the door.
“Can I help you?” she asked, raising her voice in order to be heard over the moaning wind. She saw small pellets of icy rain bounce off the man’s broad shoulders. A drop trickled through his rough cheeks and caught in the mustache over his full upper lip.
“Lawrence Birch,” the man said shortly. He blinked back the rain in his eyelashes. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Mrs. Nash?”
The Gilded Cage Page 3