“This is lovely, Horatio,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Are you happy, Bell?” he asked suddenly. His gaze rested on her earnestly.
“Yes, of course,” she answered composedly. “I enjoy my work. And it’s good to be out of jail,” she added with a laugh. “Every day I wake up relieved to find I’m free again.”
“It was a long sentence,” Horatio said. “And the attempt on Frick didn’t help your parole any, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” Bell said distantly, “I was due for parole, and the country went crazy about anarchists, so I didn’t get out.” She still couldn’t speak of her disappointment without feeling that agony. She had lived for the day of her release, and it had been snatched away from her. She couldn’t think of it now. She remembered turning her face to the wall, lying on her cot, not able to speak for days.
She looked around at the pleasant, warm room, as if for reassurance. “I’m here, however,” she said. “It’s behind me now.”
“What about now?” Horatio asked. “Are you happy with him?”
The smile left her eyes. “Yes, of course I am. He’s a brilliant man.”
Horatio nodded; he did not point out that Lawrence Birch’s brilliance had managed to escape every major figure in the anarchist movement. “Tell me,” he said briskly in his reporter’s voice, “is it discouraging to be an anarchist these days? After Berkman’s attentat, the movement really slid into a decline in America. Especially since Fraye Arbeter Shtime closed,” he said, naming the former foremost anarchist weekly.
“Only temporarily, we hope,” Bell said. “But yes, it is somewhat discouraging. With the depression of ’94, people’s minds are on surviving, not ideology. But the seeds for renewal are planted, nonetheless. How can the people fail to see that the capitalist system is crushing them? That cooperation based on love is the only way economics makes sense for the many, and not the few?”
“You sound like a Nationalist, not an anarchist,” Horatio observed. “Actually, you sound like Columbine.”
“I take Edward Bellamy’s ideas and push them a necessary step further. That’s the anarchist ideal—cooperation, harmony, and peace. You’re smiling, Horatio, and I find it extremely annoying.”
“I can’t help it—I find utopias pleasant dreams, not achievable realities. Besides, I’m a newspaperman. That’s practically synonomous with cynic.”
Horatio smiled so charmingly she had to laugh. “Well, we’ll never agree on politics,” Bell said, “but I’m glad that we’re still friends.”
“As am I.” Her hand was on the table, and he wanted to cover it with his own. Horatio forced his attention back to her face. “When did you marry?” he asked. “I didn’t know about it. I suppose I should congratulate you.”
“We married last year,” Bell said quickly. She couldn’t tell Horatio that she wasn’t legally married to Lawrence. “And thank you.”
An awkwardness passed between them. Horatio drained his tiny sherry glass, and Bell sipped at hers. “Another?” he asked, though hers was still half full.
“No, thank you. I should be going—”
“Of course. Can I find you a cab?”
“No, I’ll just walk over to the El.”
Glad to be moving, Bell gathered her coat and scarf. The cold air hit them as they left the hotel, and a few flakes of snow fluttered down against the white sky.
“Have you made any plans for Christmas?” Horatio asked, pulling on his gloves.
“No, no. I told you, I don’t celebrate it any longer.”
“Of course.” They turned toward Cooper Square and began to walk. Two women walked by them, bags full of packages in their arms. The packages were wrapped and beribboned, and the women were murmuring excitedly. One of them said something, and the other laughed, a high, clear sound. “Do you remember Christmas at Columbine’s?” Horatio asked in a meditative tone. “I don’t think I’ve spent such a happy Christmas since. She always overdid the decorating, remember? That little parlor smelled like a pine forest. And all the food! I suppose it was her English Christmases. Oranges with cloves, apples, figs, gingerbread … and the three of you, Marguerite, you, Columbine—even in the lean years, giving such wonderful presents. Remember the year Columbine gave Marguerite that mauve cashmere shawl? She burst into tears.”
“That was the last year we were together,” Bell said.
“Was it? I suppose it was. How strange, I remember it as a happy time, and I was miserable, if I recall.”
“Yes, I made you miserable,” Bell said. “And it still pains me to think of it.”
“Does it, Bell? But you were only honest with me.”
“It pains me,” Bell said with difficulty, “because had I taken what you offered, I think somehow I would be a happier person today.”
He fumbled for her hand and pressed it quickly, then dropped it. “We can’t choose who we love,” he said. “I learned that.”
“Yes,” Bell said. “We can’t choose who we love. We can only choose our friends.”
“Perhaps we can be friends now,” Horatio said.
“Perhaps we can,” Bell said softly, knowing that it was impossible. Lawrence wouldn’t hear of it.
They came up to the steps of the El, and they stopped. Bell turned to him. She looked young and pretty, with color in her cheeks from the wind, some wisps of brandy-colored hair escaping her black hat, snow falling around her. The expression in her eyes was very sad when she looked at Horatio. He knew that he had never known, would never know, what really drove her. And he still loved her just the same.
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He took both of her hands in his. “Merry Christmas, Bell. And the happiest of New Years.”
She gave the slow, gentle smile that he loved. “Merry Christmas, Horatio.”
Columbine waited while the chattering guests filtered out of the Hartley’s second-floor salon toward the tables set with candies and sweets set up in the gallery amid the Rembrandts and the Courbets. She stood by the French doors, looking out at quiet Fifth Avenue. The sky was white; it had been threatening snow, and only a few stray flakes had fallen. The moon was a round yellow circle, slowly rising over the branches of the trees in Central Park. Something about the night reminded her of the last time she had stood in this room, so miserable on New Year’s Eve, in her fine gown and in the midst of all her confusion about Ned.
That night had begun everything, she knew now; she’d met Lawrence that night, she’d fought with Ned, and Elijah had come the next day. That night had precipitated the crack in her relations with Ned that had turned into a chasm. Funny how things could change, on just one night.
Things had not turned out as she’d expected. She had married Ned after all, and was now entwined in this aggravating role of New York society matron. She’d never expected that. Now Maud Hartley still simpered at her, but without the same superiority. Columbine was married, and somehow respectable in Maud’s eyes, and she would be polite, for all she did not like Columbine. She almost missed Maud’s acidity now, the tartness that had told her she did not belong.
Impulsively, Columbine opened the latch and walked out on the terrace for a moment. She remembered the horror of that night so many years ago, when the explosion had moved against their skin, the first explosion that had changed her life. Was this what the next century would bring, she wondered, such sudden, careless violence in the middle of plenty? If the world didn’t change, perhaps.
Now, standing on the terrace, Columbine remembered that night clearly for the first time. She remembered having a cashmere shawl around her shoulders, she remembered how Ned had tenderly kissed her fingers under the cover of darkness. And she remembered smoke, and an acrid smell in her nostrils, the panic when the explosion had happened, the screams of the women. A woman had run across the street, shrieking, and Columbine realized with a shock that of course the woman had been Fiona, her maid, running full tilt toward her husband. And then, for the first time since she’d th
ought about that night, Columbine suddenly remembered leaning over the railing and watching a tall man walk rapidly down Fifth. With a slow, rolling sense of shock, Columbine realized that the man had been Lawrence Birch.
It was impossible. It was a piece that didn’t fit. She must be remembering wrong. But Columbine closed her eyes and remembered the walk, the way the head was held on the neck, even the hat, and she was almost certain.
“Columbine?” Olive poked her head around the door. “What are you doing? It’s freezing out here. Come inside, Hawthorn is looking for you. She got a prize in the fruitcake.”
“Yes, Olive,” Columbine answered mechanically. She turned away, but she took one look back at the view of Fifth Avenue. The man she’d seen had been Lawrence Birch, she was sure of that now. But what she could do with such information, or what it meant, she had no idea.
Christmas Day was one of the few times Marguerite and Willie found themselves alone. Later, they would meet Toby at the Waldorf hotel, where they’d treat him to the most lavish Christmas dinner in the chefs power. There was always a slight edge of melancholy to Toby on Christmas Day, though Marguerite didn’t know why.
Christmas morning was a time for Marguerite and Willie to be together, a family, sharing tender tokens of affection. It was a time that called for pure hearts and unstudied generosity, and so it was a time of awkwardness for them both. But what would the papers say if they knew Mr. and Mrs. Paradise could not bear to be alone together, even on Christmas Day?
Marguerite pulled out a house gown of patterned velvet in a deep shade of sapphire blue. The high collar of Valenciennes lace framed her pretty pointed chin, and worn over the dress as a sort of cape was a caftan of white satin which came over her shoulders in front on either side to the floor, like flowing scarves. In back, a train heightened the drama. Marguerite wove blue velvet roses through her hair, which she left loose. She left her ears and wrists bare in expectation of the new jewels which would soon adorn them. She was the picture of feminine grace, ready to graciously preside over the family Christmas. If only she was going out on stage instead of into the drawing room of a hotel suite she called a home, to meet a husband in the midst of a torrid affair, under a Christmas tree that had been bought and decorated by hotel staff.
Marguerite stared at her image, her hands arrested in the act of straightening a curl. I don’t like my life, she thought. Toby is right, after all.
The knowledge cut her like a knife. She had told herself over and over that she was happy, for she had achieved everything she’d ever wanted, and it would be horrible of her not to be happy, almost as horrible as she really was inside.
Her success hadn’t been without effort, of course, but it hadn’t been very hard, either. She’d been in the theater long enough to have heard stories from other women of transgressions worse than what Edwin had done to her. She had simply been too naive, too blind to see the inevitable. And Edwin had been too weak. He was fat and married now, to Georgina Halstead. He had come backstage one night, sent roses to her for a week, and she had ignored him. Marguerite wondered briefly if Edwin were happy, then returned her attention to her own sudden, surprising pain.
If only she had Willie. If only she could go to him now, sink to her knees, and beg him to start their marriage over again. Toby, under pressure, had admitted that Willie’s affair was common knowledge. That everyone was waiting to see what she’d do. That Mollie had said that she was damned if she’d give him up again for a woman who didn’t love him. Marguerite had heard all these things as though Toby had stabbed her repeatedly with a knife. She moved about like a sleepwalker; for once in her life she could not form a plan to get what she wanted.
It was more than Willie, it was her lack of home, of child, of real friends other than Toby, of anything to anchor her life beyond the stage where she kicked her legs every night to roars of masculine approval. She missed Columbine, and sometimes she even missed Bell. If she had Willie, she could begin to plan those other things, a home, a child—maybe—a circle of friends who truly cared about her, not about Daisy Corbeau, but Marguerite. That night she had come home from Ludlow Street had changed her; she kept the picture of a home in her mind, a real building, with carpets and curtains and cushions.
And then she closed her eyes, an image rushing to the front of her consciousness. It was there always now, crowding out any other thoughts. It was how Willie had stood in the cold, hatless, coatless, and watched Mollie walk away. Mollie hadn’t even realized her lover was still standing there. But he hadn’t moved until the last flick of velvet cloak had vanished around the corner. Who did that but a man in love?
Then she heard, faintly, noise from the drawing room. Willie was tinkling at the piano. He was waiting for her. They would exchange Christmas gifts, gifts of guilt and propriety. Marguerite averted her gaze from the sight of her empty eyes and moved to her door. She went down the hall and pushed open the double doors to the drawing room. He was seated at the piano next to the tall, handsomely decorated tree, picking out “Silent Night” with a finger.
“A happy Christmas, darling,” Marguerite said, crossing to him and kissing his cheek.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Shall we have some eggnog, or some punch? They brought up both this morning.”
“Some punch, I think.”
Marguerite poured out two glasses of punch. She hadn’t much use for Christmas. She had racked her brains for facts in the beginning, trying to remember what the Gentiles had done in France so she could invent family stories about past Christmases. But then she’d realized that her memories bored Willie, and she’d stopped. Now, the only good things about Christmas were the presents, and the opulent dinner with Toby afterwards.
“Come, sit by the fire,” she said to Willie. “Let me give you your presents first.”
He sat obligingly in the big brocade armchair while she piled presents around him. He opened them one at a time and thanked her dutifully for the cashmere dressing gown, the delicate gold dress watch, the softest linen handkerchiefs, the ruby stickpin and studs. Marguerite felt disappointed in his restrained reaction; finally, this year, she had taken time to pick the presents herself. Not since their first Christmas together had she spent so much time and effort.
“I thought the rubies especially fine,” she said, hoping for a bigger reaction. “I can’t wait to see you in your evening clothes.”
“Everything is beautiful, Marguerite. Thank you.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. His lips were dry and cool. He reached into his inside pocket and took out a long, flat box. “Here, this is for you.”
Smiling uncertainly, Marguerite opened the unwrapped box. It was a pearl choker, five perfectly matched strands, with a sapphire and diamond clasp. The pearls were breathtaking, it was exactly what she would choose herself, but Marguerite felt tears start behind her eyes. “Thank you, they’re magnificent,” she said in low voice, her face bent over the box. If only she could imagine Willie picking them out joyously, waiting hopefully to see her face. The way he’d been, half-shy, half-expectant, when he’d given her the sapphire engagement ring. Had he loved her once, then?
“I thought they suited you. Here, let me fasten them for you.”
Marguerite turned obediently and let Willie fasten the pearls around her lace collar. Was this her only present, then? she wondered. Of course, they were fabulously expensive, she was sure, but couldn’t Willie have picked up a few other small things, just to show he’d actually cared enough to shop instead of wandering into his favorite jeweler and pointing to something expensive in a case?
“Oh, yes, and you also have a standing order at Worth’s for a new opera cloak and gown,” Willie said. “You have only to choose what you want.”
Marguerite nodded. Now she really wanted to burst into tears. She could order an opera cloak any time she wanted, and Willie knew it. But perhaps she was being ungrateful. She wanted this Christmas to be real, to be happy.
“Try on yo
ur new dressing gown, darling,” she urged him. “I want to see it.”
She helped him out of the silk brocade gown he wore, and Willie slipped into the cashmere one. “Perfect,” Marguerite said approvingly. “You look very handsome.”
“I feel quite elegant,” Willie said. “Too bad I can’t wear it to Christmas dinner. Can I get you more punch?”
“Yes, thank you.” Marguerite folded over the dressing gown in her hands jerkily, wondering why everything felt so stilted, like a bad play. She felt something bulky in the dressing gown pocket, and she slid her hand inside. She fished out a slender book of poetry. The Love Poems of John Donne was embossed in the red leather cover. She didn’t know Willie read poetry. Curious, Marguerite opened the book, and written on the flyleaf in an unfamiliar hand was: W, The words may be another’s, my darling, but the sentiments are wholly mine. All my love, M.
Rage almost lifted her from the floor. Her scalp prickled and her hands shook. Willie turned and saw her face, saw the open book in her hands. He looked alarmed for a moment, then merely watchful.
She closed the book with a snap. “‘All my love, M.’ Well, I know it isn’t me.”
“No,” he said evenly, “why would it be you?”
“Mollie Todd. Everybody knows about her, don’t try to lie.”
“I told you I’d never lie to you, Marguerite.”
“Hah!” she spat. She shook the book at him. “And does this make you honest, Willie?” she taunted him. “Does this make you a good man, to be faithless but not to lie about it?”
Willie put down the two cups of punch. “Really, Marguerite, it’s not as though your record is spotless.”
But I didn’t love any of them! she wanted to cry. Then why had she done it? Vanity—perhaps. Boredom—sometimes. Why had this all started, this contest between them? If Willie blamed it on her, she blamed it on him, and what did that get them?
Willie turned away tiredly. “So, is this little scene done now? Toby should be here soon.”
“No, it’s not done,” she shouted, and he turned back, startled. “Not in the least. How dare you bring this into my home? Mollie Todd, that has-been!” She was trembling now. “How dare you humiliate me, how dare you drag my name through the mud, how dare you—” A great sob choked her, and she flung the book into the fire.
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