His hand tightened on her hair. “All right. I promise,” he gasped. He raised his hips.
“Oh, Horatio.” Her lips curved into a smile, and she took him in her mouth. His gasp of pleasure surprised her with its intensity. Here was something new, some new power she didn’t know she had. Marguerite felt the power push her on, fuel her own excitement as her clever tongue and hands ensured her lover’s cooperation.
Ned stood when Columbine entered his office. His heart squeezed with pain. She hesitated at the doorway, then walked in and held out her hand. He shook it.
“Columbine, it’s a pleasure to see you. Please sit down.”
He waited until she was seated and had removed her gloves. Nervously, she smoothed her silver-willow skirt.
“I’m surprised you’d even receive me, Ned. I read the article in the Century. I was a few days behind everyone else, I fear.”
“Columbine, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t you read the article?”
“Yes, but I hardly know why I’d blame you for it.”
“Because I gave Elijah Reed the information. He came to my house as a friend, not a journalist. I didn’t know he’d use the story of what happened at the Hartley’s New Year’s Eve. I’m so sorry, Ned.” Columbine gazed at him, trying to discover if he was merely being polite or if he truly did not blame her.
Ned steepled his fingers in a lawyerlike way. “Columbine, set your mind at ease. It never occurred to me to blame you. Elijah Reed got his information from several sources, including the Devlins.”
“I gave him their name—”
“He could have gotten their name from many places.”
“I told him that Ambrose showed a complete lack of concern, that it was his decision to start the dancing—”
“It’s all right, Columbine. It is a story that should be told, isn’t it? Though I must admit that the results of the article are unfortunate, however. I wish Elijah Reed had showed it to me before printing it.”
She leaned forward. “What do you mean, Ned?”
He dropped his hands and grimaced, looking tired. “Ambrose is furious. Even though Mr. Reed did not mention him by name, there is no doubt to any reasonably aware New Yorker who the man is. Ambrose has refused to make the settlement to the Devlins.”
“Can’t you do anything?”
“I’m afraid not. Ambrose cut me at the Union Club yesterday. He blames me for the article. I’m afraid our friendship is over.”
“Ned, I’m so sorry.”
He waved a hand. “Oh, it was over on my part anyway. After that night… well, we saw a side to Ambrose we didn’t want to see, didn’t we.”
“But will he influence other friends of yours …”
“Yes, he’s already done so. I find I’m not welcome in certain homes. Columbine, please don’t fret about it. It will blow over, undoubtedly. I’ll be spending much of my time in Washington anyway.”
“Washington?”
“I’ve been appointed to a federal commission on labor.”
“Oh?” Columbine felt a pang, a little loss. It comforted her to know Ned was in New York. She was truly losing him. She shook off the feeling. “Congratulations, Ned.”
“Yes, well, perhaps I can do a bit of good.” Ned looked at her, trying to keep the yearning out of his eyes, but needing to imprint every feature, every line of her face into his memory. When would he see her again, this woman that he loved so dearly?
Columbine stood and put on her gloves. “I know you’ll make a difference, Ned. If anyone can, you can. And I’m sorry if I caused one particle of trouble for you.”
“Columbine,” Ned said softly, “I always welcomed your brand of trouble.”
She smiled faintly at him. “God bless you, Neddie,” she whispered, and walked out.
It hadn’t been at all difficult to discover Elijah Reed’s address. All her friends seemed to know. Everyone seemed to gather there in the evenings until he kicked them out. For a tired-looking man, Columbine thought dryly, he must have a great deal of energy.
She found the house on East Eleventh Street easily. She was surprised when Reed himself opened the door. He was wearing baggy corduroy trousers and a flannel shirt with a soft collar, and he was wearing small silver-rimmed glasses.
He looked over the top of his glasses at her. “Mrs. Nash.”
She nodded determinedly. “Mr. Reed.”
“I thought you were my neighbor, Mrs. Stein. She’s bringing over my lunch. I’m afraid I’m working now. I receive callers from four on.”
She was surprised at such bluntness. It was very close to being rude. “I need to see you, Mr. Reed. I’m sorry to report this is not a social call.”
He hesitated only a second. “Please come in, Mrs. Nash.”
He ushered her into a front parlor that was set up as an office. Crumpled papers were thrown on the floor around an old desk. Books were piled on a red sofa, and he quickly moved them off and stacked them on the floor. “Please sit down.”
She didn’t. “I won’t be staying long,” Columbine said. “I’ve come to ask what you expected to accomplish by exploiting the troubles of the Devlins for a magazine serial. And I’ve come to ask you what kind of journalist comes to a house as a friend and prints information that was given in confidence.”
His dark eyes were quizzical behind his glasses. “You didn’t tell me the story was confidential, Mrs. Nash.”
“You did not tell me you were a journalist, Mr. Reed. I thought you were serializing a new novel.”
Elijah Reed sighed and took off his glasses. “Let me understand this. Because of your misapprehension, you blame me for printing a story that is common knowledge around New York.”
“Mr. Hartley’s behavior downstairs was not common knowledge,” Columbine snapped. “And now it is.”
“I did not use Mr. Hartley’s name.”
“Mr. Reed, I assure you that there is no one in New York who doubts your character’s true identity.”
“No one? Sometimes I am convinced that generalizing is the disease of our times,” Elijah Reed said softly.
This infuriated Columbine. She felt she was being patronized, and that always caused bells to go off in her brain. “Sir, I did not come to hear how I happen to embody the failings of our age. If you want to philosophize I’m sure your editor will pay you even more money to do so.”
He gazed at her gravely. “Mrs. Nash, you are a reformer, are you not? A progressive. Then why, in heaven’s name, do you object to my article? At the risk of sounding grandiose—although I’m sure my editor would pay me to do that as well—I was trying to right a wrong. Factory workers are not the only oppressed workers in this city. Often the plight of the domestic worker is ignored.”
“I agree completely.”
“Then why are we arguing?” he asked mildly.
“If you had asked for my help, I would have given it,” Columbine said in a confused way. “But not at the expense of the Devlins, or of… someone who was hurt by your article.”
He took off his glasses. “You mean Ned Van Cormandt. I heard he was being blacklisted. But I’m sure the eminently intelligent Mr. Van Cormandt sees that those who would blacklist him would just as cheerfully stab him in the back for less enlightened reasons.”
“It’s easy for you to say,” Columbine answered evenly. “But Mr. Van Cormandt is of an old New York family. He takes his social position seriously. He would not want to embarrass an old friend, especially when he has managed to get that friend to do right by his servant. At least he had. As soon as Mr. Hartley read your article, he decided to withhold the settlement.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I must confess I had my doubts about that elusive settlement. The Devlins have yet to receive one penny from Mr. Hartley. He would not even settle their doctor’s bills. Fiona Devlin is a hard-headed woman. I think she never expected to see it, either. She worked for the man. And I’m sure Mr. Hartley is using my article�
�and Mr. Van Cormandt—as an excuse to bluster his way past his own culpability.”
Columbine sank down on the sofa. “You think he never intended to pay?”
Elijah rubbed his eyes wearily. “I sincerely doubt it. Actually, I advised the Devlins to begin a lawsuit. But there’s no way to prove Ambrose Hartley knew the fireworks were unsafe. His butler won’t talk, of course. Apparently only Devlin and Hartley were together when the order was given. It’s Devlin’s word against Hartley, and we know who would win.”
“But I heard the butler tell Ambrose that Devlin said the fireworks were dangerous,” Columbine blurted.
“Did you? Perhaps you should inform the Devlins of this.”
“I doubt Fiona Devlin would even open the door to me again,” Columbine said tiredly. “But I’ll try.”
“Good.” There was a knock at the door, and he went to answer it. He returned with a tray, a white napkin covering it. “My lunch,” he said. He placed it on top of the messy papers on his desk. “Mrs. Stein keeps me alive. She’s a good soul.”
Columbine stood. “Thank you for your time,” she said mechanically.
“You don’t have to leave, Mrs. Nash. It’s only some sandwiches, it won’t get cold. Or you could join me.” He almost smiled when he said it, but not quite.
“No, thank you. I really must go.” Suddenly, Columbine was exceedingly sorry she came. She couldn’t imagine why she’d felt propelled to come here with such vague accusations. She was whirling around like a top, she thought, exasperated.
“Before you depart, Mrs. Nash, I must ask you something. I’ve been asked to coordinate a lecture series at Cooper Union. I have my choice of who to invite to speak. Would you be interested in participating?”
Columbine was taken aback. It was the last thing she’d expected from Elijah Reed. “I don’t think so, Mr. Reed. I am honored that you asked, but no.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Why not?”
She hadn’t expected a direct question. “Because,” she stammered, “I—I don’t wish to give lectures anymore.”
“Why not?” he persisted.
“I don’t have anything to say,” she blurted out suddenly.
To her surprise, he laughed. His face lit up with the smile, and he looked younger for a moment. She could see for the first time the traces of the young, fierce novelist he’d been. But she still didn’t like his laugh.
She turned away. “I hardly think it’s anything to laugh about, Mr. Reed.”
He stopped immediately. He touched her arm. “I’m sorry if I offended you. After your career, you have to admit it’s a surprising admission. I mean,” he added gently, “no one could accuse you of not having opinions.”
She kept her face averted. “Things change.”
“In times such as these?”
“I felt I needed to rest for a bit,” she said, recalling Lawrence’s words gratefully. They had made so much sense at the time.
“When did you last lecture, Mrs. Nash?”
“Three years ago. I addressed a women’s club in Boston. Before that, my tour of 1884.”
“Then perhaps you’ve had enough of a rest. It’s time you found something to care about again, Mrs. Nash. You were a fine speaker. I’d hate to see you stop that portion of your career. It reaches the people who don’t read articles in magazines.”
“I know that,” she said, turning back to him. “But what am I to do? I have no subject.”
“Then I suggest you find one,” he said impatiently. “Why you think you can afford to sit back on your heels, I don’t know. I’ll hold a date open for you, Mrs. Nash. And now—”
And now? Did Elijah Reed have a plan for her, a way to find her way out of this miasma she’d created?
“And now, I must eat my lunch.”
Columbine’s mouth opened, then closed. She hadn’t been dismissed this summarily since she’d been a wife. But somehow she wasn’t put off—not much. She had a feeling that Elijah Reed was just as rude to the men of his acquaintance.
“Just don’t pat me on the head on the way out the door,” she grumbled, and she closed the door on the sound of his soft laughter.
Columbine thought of Elijah Reed more than she cared to over the next few days. She liked the look of him; she liked the intelligence in his eyes. She liked the way his thick eyebrows descended when he frowned and how one corner of his mouth moved sideways in reluctant amusement. He wasn’t very old, really. When she went back to check her copy of Look Away, she figured him to be forty-three. And, she had to admit, there was something about a man who gave no sensual heat that made one think about sex.
Sitting in her office at the New Women Society, she looked out the window and thought of Elijah telling her to find a subject. It was odd to find such faith in the eyes of a stranger. It was as though he had no doubt that she would find her way. And while she looked, he would be impatient. She wasn’t sure she liked the weight of that. It irritated her, come to think of it.
Bell stood at her doorway carrying a box full of envelopes. “Have a minute?”
She spun her chair around briskly. “How nice of you to ask when you caught me woolgathering.”
Bell grinned. “You could have been planning your lecture for Elijah Reed.”
Columbine grimaced. “No chance of that, I’m afraid. Every day I compose a note telling him to give away my date, though I can’t bear to send it off to him.”
“And why don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I will today. You look worried, Bell. Is something the matter?”
Instead of answering, Bell dumped the box of envelopes on Columbine’s desk. Columbine ran her hands through them. “What’s this? These look like appeals to the emergency fund.”
“That’s exactly what they are,” Bell said grimly. “I found them hidden in Marguerite’s desk.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She was supposed to help me with the emergency fund. She gave me a few priority cases, so I thought she was handling the rest—you know sometimes the requests are for things we don’t need money for. Doctor referrals, jobs and such.” At Columbine’s nod, Bell continued, “So I doled out the rest of the money for the month. I was encouraged—we almost had enough. I didn’t know that Marguerite hadn’t gone through all of these.”
Columbine stared down at the pile of letters. “Have you asked her about this?”
“I haven’t had a chance. She hasn’t been coming very regularly these past weeks. I didn’t want to say anything to you until I had to.”
The letters ran through Columbine’s fingers like water. There were so many. “Why? If she felt overburdened, why didn’t she come to you, or me?”
Bell sighed. “It wasn’t a case of being overburdened. Columbine, I know you want Marguerite to care. But you have to realize she doesn’t have the same commitment we do. She’s had a different life—difficult, yes, I know she’s an orphan, but…” Bell gave up; although she’d lived side by side with the girl for two years, she had no idea what comprised Marguerite’s character. “Some women—some people just don’t have political minds, Columbine, no matter what you might hope, or want. Marguerite is interested in more worldly things, I think. And I believe she may be seeing someone, a sweetheart. Haven’t you noticed the way she’s been acting?”
“Well, no. But now that you mention it, she has looked rather blooming lately. And she keeps borrowing things from me—my cloak, or my gloves, and slipping them back in my room without telling me. I haven’t said anything. I don’t begrudge them to her, I know she likes pretty things.” Columbine sighed, looking down at the letters. “Yes, you’re right. She is … worldly. And young.”
“And she’s in love—good for her,” Bell said dryly. “But we have the letters. I’ve read through some. Some of the cases are emergencies. We have to deal with this. And we have no money. We should be getting that check from Maud Hartley next month—”
“I’m afraid we won’t get it,” Columbine said
. “Maud will hardly donate money to any cause of mine now.”
Bell sank down in the chair across from Columbine. “What are we going to do? We’ve worked so hard to establish credibility on the East Side. There are relief agencies down there, but they are tremendously overburdened. The women already don’t trust us.”
“I know. We have to find someone who speaks Yiddish who will work with us…. Money again. Can’t afford to pay, can’t find anyone who can afford to volunteer. Oh, I’m sorry, Bell. I haven’t been here enough lately, I know. I’ve put all this on your shoulders.”
Bell looked away. “It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ll get the money. I’ll wire London.”
“Columbine, not your estate. You’re not supposed to touch it. It’s your security. It won’t help anyone if you’re penniless.”
“Nonsense,” Columbine said briskly. “I won’t be penniless as long as I can write or speak. And I think that Mr. Soames is full of doom and gloom about my inheritance. He’s conservative, like all Englishmen—that’s why I came to the United States in the first place.”
“Columbine, I don’t like this …”
There was a timid knock at Columbine’s closed door, and Bell turned around, a bit irritated. “Yes?” she called impatiently.
The door opened a few inches. A small woman in her twenties came forward a tiny step. A mass of unruly sandy hair was topped by what was obviously her best bonnet, brown velveteen with rather worn trimming. Her plain, freckled face was pale, and she gripped her umbrella as though a high wind might snatch it away at any moment. “Miss Huxton?”
“Yes, can I help you?”
“It’s Ivy Moffat, ma’am. I sent you a letter, ma’am.”
Bell was on her feet instantly, her impatience forgotten. “Please come in, Miss Moffat. It is Miss?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ivy Moffat came a few steps forward into the room.
“I’m terribly sorry, I haven’t read your letter,” Bell said kindly. “We had rather a backlog at the office.”
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