The Gilded Cage

by Susannah Bamford

  Since her debut as the young cousin from Kansas City, Sally Perkins, in Wait for Sally, Marguerite had been in play after play, handpicked by Willie solely for the interest of the female lead. She’d been a cowgirl, a tomboy, a serving girl at the French court, an explorer, and a dance hall girl. She was currently a cabin boy on a pirate ship. In every play, she showed her legs, sang sweetly, and fell in love, and though some were hits and some were flops, she remained a star through them all. Daisy Corbeau, America’s Forget-Me-Not, married to the flamboyant William Miles Paradise, the couple all New York panted to read about. Their rows were legendary, as were their elaborate makings up, the diamonds they exchanged, the second and third honeymoons, the time Willie had bought out all of Delmonico’s for Daisy’s twenty-third birthday. And within the closed circle of the New York theatrical community, their adulteries were the stuff of legends.

  “I’m going, sweet,” Teddy said, coming back in the room and kissing her on the back of the neck. “My Daisy. Remember how I adore you.”

  She kissed him a swift goodbye; they both knew their minds were on other things now. One good thing about Teddy was that she knew he would forget her as easily as she’d forget him. He was too wrapped up in himself to make a scene when she broke it off. And there was a line of girls anxious to take her place, for Teddy was discreet, and no one knew for sure that he was her lover. Discretion was Teddy’s only virtue, but it was one that suited Marguerite perfectly.

  Marguerite sighed and began to run a brush through her unruly hair. She had been shocked, at first, at how easy it was to commit adultery. God knew Willie had found it so. She had begun to flirt with other men just to rile him, make him jealous, and it had flowered into an indiscretion so easily! Willie hadn’t seemed to mind. He had gone off with a chorus girl from The Merry Monarch. That had been within six months of their marriage.

  She heard the outer door open and close, and there was a rhythmic knock at her bedroom door. “Is that you, Toby?” she called.

  He stuck his head around the door. Toby was still handsome, beginning to gray a bit at the temples, but as gay as ever. “It’s me, petal.”

  “You know, I gave you that key for that one rainy afternoon so you could wait for me in comfort,” Marguerite said. “What thanks do I get? You keep the key and use it every time you visit me. And you’re always early! One of these days you’re going to embarrass me.

  “Nonsense, you are absolutely incapable of being embarrassed,” Toby said, bending over and kissing the top of her head.

  “Why are you early?” Marguerite asked crossly. “I thought you were having lunch with your latest conquest.”

  “He was dreadfully dull, no fun at all.” It had only taken a few months in the theater for Marguerite to realize that Toby was that dreaded word, homosexual, like the notorious Oscar Wilde. Toby had been a little afraid of her reaction, but she had felt a mixture of fascination, relief, and pique that she no longer had to worry about breaking his heart.

  “And how was your little escapade this afternoon?” Toby asked, waggling his eyebrows at her in the mirror.

  Marguerite slapped down her hairbrush. “What escapade? I declare, Toby, you think I lead a much more exciting life than I do.”

  Toby laughed. “Petal, really. The bed is mussed, you’re reeking of cologne—you always put on too much cologne after an escapade—and I just saw Teddy Clinton in the lobby. Do you expect me to be blind?”

  She met his eyes in the mirror. “Yes, Toby, I’d appreciate it,” she said dryly.

  Toby’s genial expression grew serious. “I wish I didn’t see some of the things you do,” he said.

  Marguerite began to pin up her hair. “Don’t start, Toby.”

  “You’re absolutely miserable, and you expect me to say nothing.”

  “Yes,” Marguerite said calmly, “because I’m not miserable.”

  “Yes you are, you don’t know it, that’s all. And how you could do this to Willie. He loves you, you know.”

  Marguerite sighed, exasperated. “Toby, do be quiet. Willie and I love each other, yes, but it’s a different sort of thing.”

  “You’re just trying to hurt him.”

  “Look, darling, I know you adore Willie, but he’s quite content. As am I.”

  “How do you know he’s content?” Toby bent over to sniff one of the roses Willie still sent to Marguerite every morning. He took it out and broke off the stem to slip it through his buttonhole. “One day he’ll be gone, and you’ll realize how stupid you were, playing with fire like this.”

  Marguerite ignored this. Toby had never been quite so blatant before, but she was in no mood to listen. “Toby, be a dear and order us some tea. I must eat a bit of something before I dress, and then come to the theater with me, will you?”

  “Of course,” Toby said. Reluctantly, he decided to drop the subject. “And where are you getting these British affectations from, pray tell? It must be from that fop, Teddy Clinton. ‘Do be a dear,’ indeed. I’ll have you know that Edward Ferdinand Clinton, gentleman actor, was born right here in Brooklyn.”

  “Oh, Toby, really? That’s marvelous. He told me he was from some little town in England named Clinton Hall.”

  And so the afternoon came to an end, as it usually did, with adultery, gossip, and tea. Marguerite hooted with laughter and teased Toby and put on her furs to sweep through the lobby tossing her head to the whispers and double takes. She sang and danced and received three standing ovations and an admirer sent an emerald necklace to her dressing room. But there was a shadow on Marguerite, a long shadow cast by Toby’s question. Did he know something? Is that why he had asked her about Willie while he sniffed a rose and tried to look offhand? How do you know he’s content?

  When was the last time Willie had made love to her? Marguerite wondered as she removed her stage makeup. Had her transitory lust for Teddy distracted her from the fact that Willie was feeling neglected? Perhaps she should look into it, Marguerite decided. Anyway, she thought, smiling at her pretty reflection in the glass, it only took her concentrated attention on him alone to make Willie come around. That would never change, she was certain.

  “Mrs. Birch?”

  Bell looked up. Lev Moiseev stood in front of her desk, holding a sheaf of papers. “I hate to disturb you,” he said.

  “Lev, I told you to call me Bell,” she said. “And you’re not disturbing me.” She smiled warmly at him; she was fond of Lev. Only twenty-three, brilliant and capable, an engineer by training, he was the editor of the monthly cultural and literary journal, Die Fraye Gezelshaft, or The Free Society. Her health nearly broken from her years in jail and the factory work she’d taken on after getting out, Bell considered Lev a savior for giving her a job as translator on the journal the year before. She’d spent her time on Blackwell’s Island perfecting her Russian and Yiddish, and with two years in a sweatshop, surrounded by Jewish workers, she was now fluent.

  “Bell,” he said, with an answering smile. “Would you mind looking at this? I needed to make some cuts, and it might have been too deep.”

  “Of course.” Bell’s position had expanded somewhat; occasionally, she did editorial work. They published the best of the Yiddish anarchist writers as well as Europeans such as Kropotkin and Sebastien Faure. She bent over the article Lev had asked her to look at and picked up her red pencil.

  Lev broke into her concentration. “Bell, a group of us are going to Schwab’s after work. There is talk that Kropotkin will come to America this next year. He’s been invited to a conference in Canada. We must begin to plan. Will you join us?”

  Bell hesitated. Lawrence would be furious if she was late again this week. Over the past year, Bell’s involvement with the Gezelshaft had placed her among the premier anarchist and socialist intellects on the East Side. Even though anarchism had experienced a decline since a spate of violent activity, the core group still tried to keep the flame alive. She’d actually spoken at a few large meetings, and had written three articles
which had been well received. She did this, however, in the face of Lawrence’s growing opposition. Lately, he had been even more difficult than usual.

  “I don’t know, Lev,” she finally said. “I—”

  “Don’t say no,” he urged her. “Everyone is going, and we’ll miss you.”

  “Well, perhaps just for a cup of coffee,” Bell said, smiling at Lev’s eagerness. If she got home early enough, Lawrence wouldn’t know.

  She was barely in the door when he spoke. He was hunched over the newspaper, his back to her. “You’re late.”

  “Not so very,” Bell said, taking off her coat and hat. “I had some extra work at the office.”

  “It couldn’t wait until tomorrow, I suppose. Well, all right. I was fine here, I suppose.”

  “I’ll just start dinner,” Bell said. She crossed to the small kitchen and whipped an apron around her waist. Her salary from the journal was barely enough to keep them in food and coal. Lawrence’s money had long ago run out, and he couldn’t seem to hold a job. Bell sliced bread and spread a little precious butter on it. She took out the cabbage soup she’d made the day before and emptied it into the pot. With a few boiled potatoes, it would make a good enough meal, filling, at any rate.

  While she was peeling the potatoes, Lawrence walked in the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Bell said.

  Lawrence took a sip from the one glass of whiskey he allowed himself each evening. “Have you heard the latest about Schwab’s?” he asked.

  The knife slipped, and Bell nicked her finger. The potato fell to the floor and rolled underneath the table.

  “Jesus, Bell, that was clumsy. We can’t afford to waste food.” Lawrence took another slug of whiskey and made no move to retrieve the potato.

  She bent down and picked it up, then went to the sink to wash it off, as well as her bloody finger. “What about Schwab’s?” she asked, with her back to him. Could Lawrence have found out how often she went there after work?

  “Justus might as well change the name to Goldman’s,” Lawrence said bitterly. His pale blue eyes gleamed as he wiped his mouth. He hadn’t shaved that day, and the blond stubble on his face looked rough. Once, Lawrence would not have been caught dead unshaven. He was not nearly the elegant man he’d been. “The little bitch has made up business cards with the address of the saloon on it. She’s treating it as her private office.”

  Bell sighed. Lawrence’s hatred of Emma Goldman had grown more fierce over the years. It was simply unfair, he claimed, that a woman anarchist should get all the press, when the men were doing all the work. He darkly accused her of being an informer in the case of her friend Alexander Berkman, who had tried unsuccessfully to assassinate Henry Clay Frick four years before and was currently serving a harsh sentence. And he would never forgive her for publicly horsewhipping his hero, Johann Most, when the anarchist leader refused to support Berkman’s attentat.

  “Mr. Schwab doesn’t mind, I hear,” she said, returning to the table. “He’s fond of Emma.”

  Lawrence snorted. “How one can be fond of a viper, I don’t know. A woman’s place is by her man, making his home pleasant so he can think.”

  Bell put the potatoes on to boil. She hated when Lawrence talked this way. She had spent so much of her life resisting such ideas.

  “Speaking of which, come make home more pleasant,” Lawrence said. He took her hand and pulled her to him. Bell sat on his lap. She brushed the hair off his forehead and kissed his whiskey-scented mouth. As always, her pulse quickened at the taste and smell of him. It was out of her control, her lust, and she gave herself up to it again, every day, helplessly.

  “Oh, I just remembered,” she said, sliding an arm around his neck. “Lev says he’ll look at your article. We have some space in the next issue.”

  “You call him Lev?” Lawrence asked, frowning.

  Bell’s heart skipped a beat. “We’re very informal in the office,” she said. “We’re comrades, you know.”

  “Does he call you by your Christian name, then?”

  His whole body was stiff, the earlier relaxation gone. Bell cursed herself for her slip. She got up and fussed with the soup. “Well, he called me Mrs. Birch for a year,” she said. Seizing on that familiar wound, she turned. “Sometimes it’s embarrassing for me, Lawrence. To call myself Mrs. Birch when they know very well I’m not married to you.”

  “Embarrassing?” Lawrence said, striking the table with his open hand. “For an anarchist? Ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m living in the world, Lawrence.” Bell crossed to his side and knelt by his chair. “But it’s not only that. I want to be your wife so much.”

  “You are my wife,” he said. “In my eyes you are my wife. It is the individual that matters.”

  “I want to have your name. What if we should have a child? Lawrence—”

  “You’re trying to compromise my ideals as always! How like a woman.” He seemed to rap out the charge mechanically.

  “I’m only trying to be as much a part of you as I feel,” Bell said softly. “In the eyes of the world, I mean.”

  “Bell, we’ve had this discussion before.” He touched her hair softly. “You are my wife, my love.” He leaned over and kissed her. His mouth opened, and he captured her tongue. Bell’s insides melted, and she leaned into the kiss, feeling Lawrence’s arms steal around her and grasp her to him.

  “There, we are together,” he murmured. “Turn off the soup, and let’s go to bed.”

  Bell turned off the soup and the potatoes. He led her to the bed. Already, she was excited. He undressed her slowly, his hands lingering on her nipples. He left himself fully clothed, but he unbuttoned his fly. When she was naked, he pushed her down on the bed.

  “Lawrence,” she said dreamily.

  “Don’t speak. Lie down,” he ordered. “No, on your stomach tonight.”

  She heard the slap of his belt as he opened it, and she gripped the pillow in the agony and delirium of waiting.

  Twenty-Two

  IT WAS OLIVE who forced Columbine to go to the Social Reform Gala. It was the event of the season for socialists, writers, settlement workers, and the society folks who supported them, an attempt to unite all the classes working for the same goal for one memorable evening. All of Columbine’s old friends would be there—Ivy Moffat, now a force to be reckoned with in the taboo area of domestic violence, Florence Kelley and Lillian Wald from the Henry Street Settlement, Horatio Jones, Leonora O’Reilly, Josephine Shaw Lowell and Mrs. Russell Sage, who had worked so tirelessly in the suffrage movement. Even Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who left her apartment infrequently these days, was planning to attend. Olive couldn’t understand Columbine’s reluctance, especially since Elijah Reed was going to speak. Hadn’t Columbine loved Andersonville, his novel about the Civil War?

  There was nothing for it but to agree to go, even despite Ned’s frown. He would not forbid Columbine to go, but he did not like it, and he made that plain.

  Columbine dressed for the gala in her best gown, a shimmering green silk so deep it was almost black. Cream-colored lace edged the sleeves, and intricate black crystal beading embroidered the bodice. The dress was so pretty that she felt almost beautiful as Fiona helped her into it. When she looked into the mirror hopefully, her hands faltered as she fastened the small emerald earrings in her ears.

  “Oh,” she said, more an exhalation of breath than a word. Dull disappointment thudded through her. She hadn’t cared about her appearance in a long time. Dressing like this, with her nerves in a flutter, had put her mind to the past, to six years before, when she was unmarried. She had somehow expected to meet the same face in the glass, a thirty-five-year-old woman fully in control of her power. But a forty-one-year-old matron looked back. Elijah would find her greatly changed. Columbine touched her hair, which seemed to have lost its brightness. She noted the fullness at her hips and the lines around her mouth. She looked at her hands, the hands of a mother and a nurse, capable, yes, b
ut no longer slender and white. She shouldn’t be ashamed of her hands; she was going to a gala where factory workers and settlement workers and nurses would be the guests. It was vain of her to bother about her hands. But she was bothered nonetheless.

  “What is it, ma’am?” Fiona asked, adjusting the lace on a sleeve. “Don’t you like the gown? I think it’s lovely.”

  “Oh, Fiona.” Columbine sighed. “The gown is lovely. But the woman in it looks so careworn.”

  What Columbine liked so much about Fiona was that, even in her capacity as a lady’s maid, she was able to be deliberate and honest. Another maid would have fussed and flattered; not Fiona. She looked in the mirror with Columbine and gravely considered her appearance with narrowed green eyes.

  “I don’t agree, ma’am,” she said finally. “Look at the sum, not the parts, if you know what I mean. You’re a beautiful lady, Mrs. Van Cormandt. Now don’t insult me by saying you’re not.”

  Columbine had to smile. “Thank you, Fiona.”

  “Here, let me get your gloves.”

  That was one thing, at least a lady could wear gloves. No one would see the blister on her third finger from where Ned had spilled his tea, or the broken nail from playing with Hawthorn. Columbine buttoned up her long kid gloves and reached for her new fan of dark green silk. She took another look in the mirror. Maybe it wasn’t so bad.

  There was a knock at the door, and Olive swept in, dressed in her usual navy silk with the lace jabot. “The carriage is downstairs, Columbine. You look splendid. It’s rather cold tonight, I’d wear your warmest wrap.”

  Columbine hid her smile as she slipped into her evening wrap, a heavy cloak trimmed with fur. Even when giving a compliment, Olive was completely matter-of-fact.