The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t possibly. I’m very busy. If you’ll excuse me.” Murmuring an apology, Bell turned away.

  Lawrence sank into an armchair and, balancing his teacup, crossed his long legs. His first day in this house was going nicely. Bell was an intriguing puzzle, ice wrapped in a lush body and emotion trapped behind a bland facade. And Columbine … she was beautiful. He hadn’t realized how very desirable she was.

  He watched her without seeming to watch. She was deep in a friendly conversation with the photographer Jacob Riis and didn’t notice when Ned Van Cormandt arrived with a companion, a bearlike man with coal-black hair threaded with gray. It hadn’t taken Lawrence long to find out the financier was her lover. He felt nothing but scorn for Columbine’s choice. It was true that women could have no real political commitment.

  He had met Miss Corbeau at breakfast, and dismissed her almost immediately. Remarkably pretty but too slender, with a white face and a pointed chin. Her eyes were dark blue, studded with bristly black lashes. This morning, Marguerite Corbeau’s stunning eyes had flicked over him, noted his face, his clothes, and his boots, and dismissed him. Lawrence smiled to himself. He recognized a fellow sexual adventurer when he saw one. He would have to steer clear of Marguerite.

  He made his way over to Columbine, who was now trying to pour tea but slopping it in her saucer. Across the room, Ned was engaged in conversation with his companion, and Columbine was alternately frowning and looking at him, then trying not to look.

  “I’ve met so many interesting people here, Mrs. Nash,” Lawrence said in a low tone. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” Columbine said distractedly.

  “You mentioned that you would introduce me to Mr. Schwab. Any time it’s convenient for you.”

  Columbine wrenched her eyes away from Ned. “I have a splendid idea, Mr. Birch. I have business downtown tomorrow. Would that suit you?”

  Lawrence gave a short bow. “I am at your service, Mrs. Nash.” He moved away as Columbine gave up, put down her teacup, and went to greet Ned.

  “Columbine, I’d like you to meet Elijah Reed. Mr. Reed, Mrs. Nash.”

  Columbine looked up into a kind, weary face. The man was big and looked strong. It was as though the room was a window, and he was blocking her view of everything but the sky. She shook his hand, and his easily enveloped hers. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Reed. I’m an admirer of your work.”

  Elijah Reed was a famous man, a novelist and social commentator who had achieved instant fame at the age of twenty-two with Look Away, his account of his Civil War experiences. He was the son of famous Boston abolitionists, and after his mother died he’d run away to join the war at the age of fifteen.

  Columbine had met many famous men. But Elijah Reed was known for his intellect and his fire, and she hadn’t expected such a tired, and, well, old man. He couldn’t be more than forty-five, but he could be sixty, the resignation in his voice and posture was so deep.

  He bowed slightly. “Then we are well matched, Mrs. Nash, for I admire yours.” She could see now the intelligence in the tired eyes. But still, where was the spark?

  He surveyed the room with heavy-lidded eyes and grim-lined lips. Nothing seemed to interest him, nothing could possibly impress him. He didn’t look bored, though, Columbine decided. Just projecting the kind of world-weariness that only the Germans could name. Weltschmerz.

  “Elijah is here for an extended visit,” Ned said. “The Century is doing a serial.”

  “I’ll be sure to look for it,” Columbine said. She kept her eyes trained on Elijah Reed, for Ned was maintaining such a polite, formal tone with her that she wanted to hit him.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Ned said. He bowed and moved away.

  Elijah Reed watched him go, thoughtfulness in his dark eyes. Then he turned back to Columbine. “I understand that there was some excitement at the Hartley home last night,” he said.

  “Yes, a man was horribly injured when some damaged fireworks went off,” Columbine answered. She shuddered, remembering. “It was an awful sight.”

  “You were there, Mrs. Nash?”

  “I was a guest, yes. I left after the accident.”

  “And why was that?”

  She gave him a keen look. “I should think the answer to that is obvious, Mr. Reed.”

  “Not really,” he said. “For I hear that the dancing continued while the injured man was taken away—with no galloping horses or clanging bells to disturb the music. He lost a great deal of blood, I hear, and almost died.”

  “I wasn’t there to see,” Columbine said. Elijah Reed didn’t strike her as a gossip, but the oddest men were. Ned, for example, always knew before she did what wife was unfaithful, what husband was making a fool of himself over an actress, and who had lost a fortune at Richard Canfield’s gaming house.

  “I called on the Hartley’s earlier,” Elijah said. “They both seemed quite recovered from the shock. But it must have affected their memory, for they could not seem to remember the servant’s name. He hadn’t been there long, they said.”

  “His name is Devlin,” Columbine said. “I believe he worked in the stables, poor man. I hope he doesn’t lose that arm. I think Mr. Hartley’s behavior was abominable, to continue the party that way.”

  “It was Mr. Hartley who decided to begin the dancing?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Van Cormandt and I could not dissuade him. His lack of concern,” Columbine said, one corner of her mouth lifting, “was obvious.” Feeling she had said too much, she smiled her hostess smile at Elijah Reed. “Can I get you some punch, Mr. Reed, or some tea?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Nash,” Elijah Reed answered, and he watched her say goodbye and move away with imperturbable dark gray eyes, sad and wise and absolutely incapable of surprise at any degradations human nature might indulge in.

  Ned stayed until the guests had gone and Marguerite and Bell had retreated upstairs for the night. Lawrence bid them good night and headed for his room off the kitchen. Ned played with an unlit cigar and stared into the flames of the fire. Behind him, he heard the rustle of Columbine’s skirts as she nestled further into her armchair. “I’ve never felt so tired in my life,” she said. “Oh, I meant to ask you, Ned—did you find out where Devlin lives?”

  “Yes, I talked to Ambrose this morning. It turns out that the red-headed woman he fired—Fiona—is Devlin’s wife.”

  Columbine gasped. “He fired her? But Ned, what will they do?”

  “He won’t rehire her, he was adamant about that. But he did agree to a settlement, and I hope he doesn’t drag his heels. I sent them a note informing them of this, with Ambrose’s permission. They live on Gansevoort, near the river. 145 Gansevoort.”

  “That was very good of you, Ned. I’m glad. But Fiona will need another job, I fear.”

  “Eventually. But her husband will need nursing. I’ll keep an eye on them, Columbine. Now, can we discuss another topic?”

  “What is that? How cruel you’ve been to me today?” she asked, giving him an impish smile.

  He almost grinned, but he didn’t. “Nonsense,” he said gruffly. “I try to save your reputation, and you call me cruel. I can’t very well fawn over you in public.”

  “No. But you could be civil.”

  “I was perfectly polite. Stop teasing me, Columbine,” he said when he saw her smile. “I want to discuss this strange young man you have in your back room. Who the devil is he?” He had to concentrate in order for his voice to come out smooth and unruffled. He was severely irked at the presence of Lawrence Birch in this house.

  “I told you who he is,” Columbine said, yawning. “He’ll find a room soon, Ned. Don’t make an issue of it.”

  That was too much for him. “Don’t you think I’m within my rights to make an issue of it? You are my lover. You have a man living in your house—”

  “He has nowhere else to turn. And he was sent by my brother, Ned.”

  “What do you know about him?
I hardly think Tavish meant for you to take the man to your bosom.”

  “Really, Ned—”

  “I don’t like him, Columbine. I don’t trust him. What does he live on, anyway?”

  “I have no idea,” Columbine said frostily. “It wouldn’t occur to me to ask.”

  “Oh, that British chilliness,” Ned said, turning his back to the fire and frowning at her. “You’re trying to suggest that I’m a blundering American boor, when I’m merely trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “My protection, I know. But I think you do. What the devil is wrong with that?”

  Columbine didn’t say anything for a moment. “Please. We’re tired. Let’s not discuss this now.”

  “We have to discuss things of this nature all the time,” Ned exploded. “Because you are too stubborn to consider the alternative to this madness.”

  “What madness?” she demanded, sitting up. “Having my own life?”

  “Yes!”

  “Ned, do not try me tonight.” Columbine relented, and spoke in a softer tone. “Please. I’m afraid when you talk this way. You told me last year that if you ever asked me that question again, it would be for the last time, and I couldn’t bear that.”

  Ned said nothing. He frowned at his cigar. “You ask too much,” he said finally. “You know if we married things would be less difficult for me.”

  “What a romantic proposal,” Columbine said lightly, hoping to tease him out of his seriousness. “Perhaps you should get on one knee when you tell me you wish to make me your devoted bride so that things could be ‘less difficult’ for you.”

  Ned waited a beat. “I have proposed to you on one knee, as you well know. I have proposed to you on both knees, sitting up, and lying down. And each time you have refused me.”

  “You know why,” Columbine murmured. “You know that I will never marry again. I cannot marry in a state where I become the property of my husband, where my rights are trampled—”

  “Please,” Ned said, “please, my dear, can we not discuss the politics of marriage this time?”

  “But politics are part of marriage, and it is men who make it so,” Columbine said stubbornly. “They made the laws, did they not? And I must say, Ned, I find it interesting that you choose this moment for your annual proposal. A moment when you are frustrated in your attempts to control who I see, and who I make a friend of. Could it be that you believe, despite everything you say, that if we married you would then be able to forbid someone like Lawrence Birch your house? For it would be your house, then, not mine, in the eyes of the law.”

  Ned sighed. “I find it extraordinary how you refuse to see that occasionally I might be right about something. That occasionally you might need protection, or advice.”

  “Ned, don’t exaggerate. Of course I know you are good and strong, and Lord knows I’ve never said—oh, do we have to discuss this when my feet hurt so much? Oof, that’s better.” Columbine slipped off her boots and waggled her stockinged toes.

  Ned closed his eyes in pain. It was having her like this that caused him such sorrow. He loved her casualness as much as her gaiety. He turned and smiled at the sight of her stocking feet, raised on a tufted stool. “You look comfortable in body, at least.”

  She smiled. “But not in mind, thanks to you.”

  Her smile was so pretty he almost relented. But the brief respite, the light words, had not managed to dispel the frustration in him. He never had enough of her, he was always fighting for more. Suddenly all the unanswered questions of the past months weighed on him. He had to know.

  He asked softly, “Do you love me, Columbine?”

  Her brown eyes widened. “Of course I—”

  He lifted a hand, and she stopped. “Wait. Don’t answer out of habit, or affection. You know what I’m asking. Do you love me, Columbine?”

  She was silent so long the fear took hold of him. Ned felt his stomach drop. He was falling away. He was a dead man without Columbine’s love, and he knew it. She had raised him from a life spent in the margins, looking on at other people, hardly engaged at all. She had made him care.

  “Please, Columbine.” He was surprised that his voice was so steady.

  “Yes, I love you, Ned,” she said slowly. “But lately I seem to have fallen away from you somehow. I don’t know when it happened, or why. … Or maybe something was supposed to happen, and didn’t.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” he said tersely. Then he bit his lip. “No, of course you are. Of course I know what you mean. God help me.”

  Columbine heard the pain in his voice and rose so swiftly she took him by surprise. She ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Ned, don’t be unhappy. I do love you, so much. You’re my best friend. I still want to be with you. I still can’t imagine being with anyone else.”

  She raised wet eyes to his, and the slender hope that had kept him going died. Her arms around him tortured him, the smell of her tortured him, but he didn’t have the strength to pull away. Why wasn’t what she offered enough anymore?

  Columbine saw the pain in his eyes and her heart twisted. “Oh, Ned, Neddie,” she whispered. “What is it? Why is this happening? All of a sudden, we’re so serious. This can’t happen. Let’s just say good night. Ned, you’re making me so afraid—”

  He had to keep going, had to know everything. “Columbine—”

  She put both hands up to stop him. Her eyes were wild. “No, no, don’t say it, Ned, don’t ask me, please. Not yet, not tonight. Don’t ask me …”

  He ignored the litany and grasped her hands instead. “I must. I have to. Will you marry me?”

  Columbine’s eyes filled with tears. “You said if you asked me again it would be for the last time—”

  He held her gaze steadily. “And it is.”

  Columbine broke away from him and walked to the window. “Don’t do this to us, Ned.”

  “I have to. Columbine, I’ve been thinking. I know you can’t be only Mrs. Ned Van Cormandt, with all that implies. The house, the family and social obligations are a full-time job, I know that. But what if we lived differently? I’ve been thinking of making my house into a public museum. The art collection is extensive, and I’ve received some support for the idea.”

  “Oh, Ned. You couldn’t. Not the Van Cormandt house.”

  “You mean that ostentatious pile of marble, that horrifying copy of a castle where some virgin queen was beheaded, that bad imitation of a medieval dungeon where hundreds of heathen were tortured, that shuddering approximation of a bloody feasting hall of Viking warriors? Yes, go ahead and smile, I remember your words perfectly, my dear. Lord knows, I agree. I can’t imagine you living there. Am I right?”

  She nodded.

  “All right, then. What if we lived in the Greenwich Village house? You love the house, as do I. It’s certainly large enough. I would like to live downtown—after all, I was born on Washington Square. And you could keep your name, you could have your own study.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but he missed her irony.

  “We could have a different kind of marriage, darling. And if you didn’t want children, we wouldn’t have them.”

  “But you want children.”

  “I want you more.”

  “What about my lecture tours? I’ve given them up lately, but I plan to return to them.”

  Ned struggled for a moment. “Of course. As long as they aren’t too long.” He grinned charmingly. “I couldn’t bear to be without you.”

  Columbine looked out into the night. She pictured the life Ned described, and she saw that it could please her. She could feel happiness tug at her, make a soft bed for her to lie down in, to breathe deeply and slowly. She would never wake up at three o’clock in the morning, gasping in panic at her life. She would sleep the sleep of the contented, next to her husband.

  Wearily, Columbine stopped the train of her thought. She’d been married. She knew it could not hold off despair, or uncerta
inty, or fear. She knew it could imprison. She knew it could bind. Perhaps Ned was right, perhaps they could forge a different kind of marriage. But the thing she most feared about marriage to Ned he could not guard against. Marriage would make her weak. Already, her life with Ned had made her soft. Where had all her anxiety come from during the past months, but the knowledge that she was less than she could be?

  “Ned, I’ve tried to explain this before,” she said. She couldn’t look at him, so she stared outside at the blackness. “You think I’m a strong woman. You don’t know how weak I am. Just in the past three years of being with you I’ve changed. I work less. I think less. There isn’t an edge to me anymore, Ned. I’ve grown soft. And it isn’t your fault, God knows. It’s me. I have a taste for luxury and sloth, for love and lightness, and I succumb.”

  “What’s wrong with those things?”

  “Nothing except that they should be balanced with hard work. And I haven’t been working very hard since I met you, Ned.”

  “It seems to me you’ve been working all the time,” he grumbled, and she had to laugh.

  Her smile slowly faded as she stared out the window. “Maybe to you, I was. Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “But I told you I would change my life. Then you, too, would change to meet it. We wouldn’t dine out, we would ignore society. I forced you to go to those awful dinners because I felt some kind of ridiculous responsibility to keep up the family name after my father died. I listened to pressure from my family when I shouldn’t have. But Columbine, I was wrong. Can’t you see that we can change?”

  She turned, her back to the sill. “Why can’t you change your life first, and then we’ll see? Why can’t we decide in a year, or six months? If you really mean it, Ned, if you really want your life to be different, then you’ll change it, not for me, but for yourself.”

  He was already shaking his head. “I can’t wait another year.”

  “And I can’t marry you now!” she cried. She raised her hands pleadingly. “I’m so sorry, Ned, but I can’t. Please understand.”

  He stared across the room at her, and his eyes filled. She looked so distraught, so beautiful, with her gold hair spilling out of her pins and her dark eyes soft with misery. “I’ll never love anyone but you,” he said. “But you’re killing me. It’s not enough for me anymore, Columbine. I want you at the head of my table. I want you in my bed. I want to go to sleep at night next to you. I can’t help that.”