The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  “Awful,” Fiona whispered. Her ears strained, as though the blast would be a murmur on the air, instead of an explosion. She thought of the night the fireworks had exploded, of the terror that had struck her when she realized that Jimmy was out there setting them off. Her trembling grew more violent.

  “Fiona, you poor thing.” Mary’s eyes were soft with compassion. She was a dim soul, but she was kind. “Do you want me to get in bed with you? I used to with my sister Kate.”

  “Would you?” Fiona asked. She scooted over to make room, and Mary climbed in.

  “Why, you’re still wearing your stockings,” she said.

  “I was cold, getting to bed.”

  “Funny, I thought I remembered seeing you take them off. And you’re so cold! Here, I’ll warm you.” Mary began to rub her warm palms against Fiona’s arms. “Do you want to tell me your dream?” She yawned sleepily. “I could interpret it, me mam taught me.”

  Would she have to manufacture a dream now? Fiona wanted to scream. Thinking hard, she lay back against the pillows. “Oh, it was terrible,” she said. “I was walking along a field in Ireland, and—”

  And then the blast came. It was louder than she’d expected, and Fiona jumped as Mary shrieked and grasped her arm, hurting her. Her light brown eyes widened in fear. “Holy Mother of Jesus!” she cried.

  Fiona crossed herself. “God help us all,” she said.

  Panting, Lawrence crashed against the stable wall. He felt the explosion move against his skin. One light came on in the house, then another. He heard a cry.

  He wanted to see Ned Van Cormandt’s broken body, wanted to make sure he was dead. But he knew it would be madness. He would have to wait for his ultimate satisfaction. Exhilaration pushed him forward, and, keeping to the shadows, he ran.

  Nineteen

  COLUMBINE DRAGGED HER eyes open at seven that morning. She’d barely slept; misery had kept her awake and tossing. Pain lodged in her throat, felt heavy in her chest. Elijah was gone. She woke to a world without joy; she wondered dispassionately if and when she would get it back.

  Ivy Moffat would be arriving tomorrow, and there were things to do to make ready. Columbine splashed water on her face and did her hair without looking in the mirror. She pulled on a plain gown of light gray pongee. The weather was getting warmer. Soon it would be summer. She would no doubt be uncomfortable, as she would begin to put on weight. Perhaps she should try to escape to the shore for more than two weeks this summer.

  Columbine thought of these things, but she hardly connected them to herself. She could barely imagine the child inside her now. Her whole being was crouched over her anguish. She was afraid to examine it; it was like something that was glowing too brightly to look at directly. She had to sneak peripheral peeks at her pain; if she faced it dead on, she didn’t know if she could stand it. She took shallow breaths, closing her eyes, thinking of Elijah’s face.

  She moved downstairs to the parlor, deciding to make a list of tasks to be performed. The newspapers were ready at her desk; in another moment, Mrs. Haggerty would come in with her tea. She would have to tell Mrs. Haggerty about the baby soon. She hoped the good woman would not leave, but it was possible. Why should another woman live with shame? She should look for another place for Mrs. Haggerty, should she need it. That should go on the list.

  Columbine reached for the newspaper on the top. She spread it out on the desk, so as not to get ink on her skirt. She wasn’t really looking at it, so it took several slow seconds for the headline to penetrate her brain.

  She thought her heart would stop. She could not take this, too, she told herself. Ned. Not Ned.

  And then her hand was ringing the bell furiously, she was showing Mrs. Haggerty, who crossed herself as she listened to Columbine read the details in a shaking voice. Then Mrs. Haggerty ran to get Columbine’s things. Within ten minutes Columbine was in a hansom cab heading uptown to St. Luke’s Hospital on Fifty-Fourth Street. The streets, the people, the buildings were a blur. “Mr. Van Cormandt is not expected to live,” the paper had said.

  Mr. Van Cormandt is not expected to live.

  She ran into the hospital, looking around wildly as she sped through the doors. There was a stone-faced, white robed nurse at the desk. “Mr. Van Cormandt,” Columbine said breathlessly.

  The nurse looked at her. “No visitors.”

  “May I talk to his doctor, please?”

  The nurse gave her another bland look. “Are you a family member, Miss—?”

  “Nash. Mrs. Nash. I’m a friend. A family friend.” Tears sprang to Columbine’s eyes. “A very dear friend,” she added softly.

  The nurse who had seemed so inhuman softened a bit. “His sister is here. Should I send a note to her?”

  “Would you?” Columbine extracted a card from her silver case. She scrawled, Olive, may I see him? on the back.

  The nurse took the card and disappeared down a long hall. Within a few minutes she was back and beckoning to Columbine.

  Columbine followed her up what seemed to be endless stairs and down corridors and through passageways, past closed doors. The breakfast carts were going around, and trays and silver clinked softly as nurses distributed the food. The smell of the hospital was in her nostrils, only increasing Columbine’s anxiety. Carbolic would always remind her of the ten days she’d spent in the asylum in England.

  Olive Van Cormandt was waiting alone in a small, comfortably furnished room. She had obviously dressed hurriedly, as had Columbine; it was the first time Columbine had seen Olive without the cameo her mother had left her pinned to the front of her dress. There was a stain on the lace of her cuff, as though she had spilled tea from a shaking cup.

  Olive Van Cormandt had never married, but she had plenty of money, and she liked her own way. She had her own house on Madison Avenue, refusing to stay with Ned and Maud after the death of the elder Van Cormandts, as was the custom for mature unmarried ladies. In her matter-of-fact, unsentimental way, she kept track of the entire large Van Cormandt extended family. She always knew which of the many young Van Cormandt cousins were being courted and by whom, and which uncle was a drunkard and which niece was having trouble with her pregnancy. She was a spare, intelligent woman with a private life of which Ned or Columbine knew nothing. Sometimes they had speculated if she had a lover. After an initial period of hostility, she’d accepted Columbine, once she’d seen that Columbine loved Ned. She and Columbine had become friends, and Olive had donated large sums to set up Safe Passage House.

  Now, she stood erect, saying nothing. She moved slightly, and Columbine sensed what she wanted, and went to embrace her. Olive held her tightly for a moment, and her body gave one convulsive shudder.

  “The papers say there’s no hope,” Columbine whispered, drawing back to search Olive’s long, handsome face.

  Olive nodded. Her eyes were like Ned’s, light green, as green as a summer leaf. “That is what the doctors tell me.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “He’s not conscious. The doctors are with him now. I’ll ask them.” Olive pressed her hand. “Of course you can see him, Columbine.”

  “Thank you.”

  The two women sat down in the creaking brown leather chairs. “Why would anyone do this to Ned?” Columbine asked as she unbuttoned her jacket.

  “The police came this morning,” Olive said. “I couldn’t tell them anything. They suspect anarchists, but then they always do. Of course, Ned is on that presidential commission. There’s talk of him running for Congress. He’s become a public figure. So they could be right.”

  “Oh, God.” Foolishly, Columbine hadn’t thought of anarchists. She hadn’t thought at all. She thought fleetingly of Lawrence Birch, and of Bell. Perhaps they would know something, hear through the grapevine of who could have done this awful thing.

  The door opened quietly, and a doctor came in. He was older, with silver hair at his temples. His authoritative air and his kind eyes sent a tiny spurt of reassurance through Col
umbine.

  Olive stood. “Doctor Temple?”

  “He’s still unconscious, I’m afraid,” Dr. Temple said. “It’s a blessing, for if he comes to, he’ll be in great pain. He’s been badly injured. The bomb was packed with bullets.”

  Olive gave a soft cry and turned away to face the wall. Her shoulders shook, but she did not make another sound.

  “He was lucky that he wasn’t closer to the bomb. The window shattered. Apparently, his back was to it, and he was starting out of the room. But the bullets did their work. They penetrated his back. We were able to remove all of them, thank God, but he’s lost a great deal of blood. I’m sorry, Miss Van Cormandt.”

  Olive turned. Her face was wet, and she nodded at the doctor. Her voice was thick as she said, “This is Mrs. Nash, Doctor. She is a dear friend of the family. May she see Mr. Van Cormandt?”

  The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. But if he wakes, please let us know immediately. You may follow me, Mrs. Nash.”

  Columbine followed the doctor down the hall. She felt such a sense of unreality she thought she was almost capable of forgetting why she was there. A bomb, Ned, hospital. She could not seem to put the elements together and make something coherent that her mind could grasp.

  He paused at a corner room. “The injuries you can see are the superficial ones,” he said. “Some of the glass did cut his face, for the explosion twisted his body a bit.”

  Columbine bit her lip, her hand on the door. It was the first time she’d been able to picture the actual blast, Ned’s body propelled through the air. She gulped in air. The doctor hesitated, then slowly walked back the way he came.

  She pushed open the door. A man was lying in the bed. His face was bandaged, and he had only wisps of hair. His scalp, the parts that she could see, were a furious red. It seemed impossible that the man could be Ned, but as she inched closer to the bed, she saw that it was. One hand was outside of the sheet, and it seemed the only part of his body that was intact. But then she noticed there was no hair on his wrist or his fingers.

  It was the hand that undid her. Columbine began to cry helplessly. She could not control herself, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the noise. She turned from the body in the bed and went to the window, where she stared outside at the spring morning and told herself to shut up and get her courage back.

  In a few moments, she was able to turn and approach the bed. “Ned,” she murmured. “It’s Columbine, Neddie.” She was afraid to touch him, afraid anything would hurt him. She knew he was unconscious, but she had to tell him things; perhaps somewhere he would know, somehow. “I love you, Ned. I’m here. Olive’s here. We’re waiting for you, Ned.” She leaned over and touched his hand with her lips as lightly as she could. “Don’t die, Ned,” she whispered.

  When she went out into the hall again, the doctor was telling Olive that Ned would not last a week.

  New York erupted with the news. Anarchist papers were raided; Johann Most’s presses were smashed. Several cafes where anarchists were known to congregate were found with broken windows when their owners went to open up that morning. The President of the United States, Benjamin Harrison, sent a telegram to Ned Van Cormandt and made a statement deploring the action to the press.

  In fever pitch of anxiety, Lawrence debated what to do. He could visit Jersey City, or Boston. But that might serve to bring suspicion on him. He reminded himself that nothing linked him to the bombing, except Fiona. And Fiona would not talk. If he kept his head, he would be all right.

  Bell had given him a look when she opened the paper that first morning, but he hadn’t avoided her eyes, and he’d manifested the same amount of shock she did. He must have been convincing, for Bell didn’t question him. Luckily, she’d been sleeping soundly the night before, thanks to a sedative he’d provided in her tea, and had no idea he’d been gone.

  The first day seemed a year, with Lawrence jumping every time he heard heavy footsteps on the floorboards outside his door. He wanted desperately to see Fiona, but they’d agreed to wait two weeks before attempting a meeting. On the second day, as each edition of the newpapers screamed that Ned Van Cormandt was failing fast, he began to feel more confident. And on the morning of the third day, they came for him.

  They were eating breakfast, coffee and rolls. The knocks were loud, purposeful. Bell looked at him apprehensively. “Who could it be, calling at this hour?”

  Fear dropped in a clean plumb line down through him until it hit his bowels. Lawrence forced himself to sit, to nod at Bell to answer the door. When she turned her back, he closed his eyes and took shallow, quick breaths. So be it. If he was arrested, he would be notorious, famous. It wouldn’t be so bad. Herr Most had been arrested more than once, Bakunin, Kropotkin. A chill passed over him at the thought that if Ned Van Cormandt died, he would get the death penalty. That he could not accept. Lawrence glanced quickly at the window. Only four stories, perhaps not high enough. Why hadn’t he figured a plan to kill himself in the event of being arrested?

  All this passed through his mind as the two men came in. A uniformed man stayed outside in the hall. Lawrence could see that the two men were taken aback, for a moment, at Bell’s looks. It was clear they hadn’t expected to see a beautiful woman.

  The taller one spoke first. “Miss Huxton?”

  “I am Mrs. Birch,” Bell replied calmly. “May I help you?”

  “Miss Huxton,” the man said deliberately, and Bell flinched, “You are known to be an anarchist, miss, isn’t that true?”

  “May I ask your name, sir?”

  “All in good time, miss. Did you deliver a package to Mr. Ned Van Cormandt’s house on Friday last?”

  Behind Bell, Lawrence saw her spine snap to. Her hands clenched behind her back. Why were they questioning her, he wondered? Were they spinning out the suspense, wanting him to crack?

  “Yes,” Bell said, “I did.”

  “May I ask what was in that package, miss?” The detective’s voice was affable now.

  Bell didn’t hesitate. “Papers.”

  “Papers, miss?”

  Lawrence felt sweat break out everywhere on him; he was drowning in sweat. He wanted to tug at his collar, but he kept his hands at his sides. The other detective’s eyes flicked toward him and back to Bell.

  “Mr. Van Cormandt is on a presidential commission. I am the former secretary of Mrs. Columbine Nash. He asked me for copies of her speeches and articles. I delivered them. If that’s all, sir, may I return to my breakfast?”

  The detective’s eyes flicked over Lawrence. He looked from Bell to Lawrence and back again. “We’ll give you some tea at the station house, miss. If you’d get your things.”

  Ned lingered on, but the doctors still gave no hope. He did not regain consciousness, and Olive, for some perverse reason, saw that as a good sign.

  “It’s as though he’s gathering up his strength,” she whispered to Columbine as they sat by his bed. “He’s waiting until he knows he’ll be able to bear the pain.”

  Columbine felt herself at a loss. She admired Olive’s faith, but she did not want Olive to be destroyed when Ned finally slipped away. He was now fighting an infection, and his fever was shockingly high. Olive had remarked approvingly on the color in his face. “Olive,” she said gently, “Doctor Temple says—”

  “I don’t care what he says!” Olive cried vehemently. “I don’t like him. He wants us to give up on Ned. He wants the whole city to think him almost dead, so that when Ned lives, Dr. Temple will be the genius who snatched him from the jaws of death. Pah!” Olive snapped her fingers. “I give that for the famous Dr. Temple.”

  Columbine sighed and turned back to Ned. She was done with crying now. She only sat and looked at him, and waited. The long hours had given her time for reflection. She had thought of Ned, of course, but Elijah was never far from her thoughts. It struck a dagger in her heart to think that Elijah was willingly giving up love, when Ned was lying here, having wanted love so badly in his life.
Never had Columbine wanted so much to live as when she sat here at Ned’s bedside and watched him die. She once again felt connected to the child in her belly, and her hands curved around it for comfort during the long days.

  Life was meant to be lived, it was as simple as that, and Ned had always known it. Elijah’s way was only a half-life, Columbine thought. Ned had wanted everything. Olive was right, in a way, for it was Ned’s strength that was in this room, and it was awesome. He clung to a thread while the doctors shook their heads. He wanted to live.

  Columbine dreamily began to count the things that Ned loved, the things that anchored him to life. When she was alone in the room, she would whisper them to him. Kensett landscapes. Newport. Parsnips. Women’s gowns. Guy de Maupassant. Mozart. Vermeer. Peach cobbler. Veuve Cliquot. Lenox, Massachusetts. Paris. Her gold gown.

  Olive’s whisper broke into her silent chant. “Don’t you see, Columbine,” she said, “that he can’t possibly die?”

  “Yes,” Columbine answered. “He can’t possibly die.” Cognac. Cigars. Bicycles. Central Park. The new Turkey rug in your bedroom ….

  Hours later, Olive went for a walk, and the doctor called Columbine into the waiting room. “I’m worried about Miss Van Cormandt,” he said gravely. “I think it would be better if she faced things, Mrs. Nash. Perhaps there is some way you could help her prepare for her brother’s death.”

  “Are you so certain, Dr. Temple?” Columbine asked.

  “I’m afraid so. He won’t last the night.”

  Her knees gave way, and she sank into a chair. “I see.”

  His hand came down on her shoulder, and he patted it gently. “I’m sorry. I see that you and Miss Van Cormandt are devoted to him. But these things must be faced. He’s nearing the end.” He left, gently closing the door behind him.

  Columbine sat staring at the walls, wondering how she would tell Olive. And would Olive brush this away, along with everything else Dr. Temple had said?

  It was only a few minutes later that Olive came in the room quietly. Columbine looked up; she could see immediately that something was wrong.