Willie leaped across the room, rudely pushed her out of the way, and thrust his hand into the fire while she screamed. He grasped the book where it lay in the embers and pulled it out, dropping it on the hearth, where it lay, singed but still intact.
“How dare you,” he said, his face contorted with rage. He took a dangerous step toward her. “You silly, hard-hearted little bitch. You’ve been in every bed on Broadway. You’ve bedded every one of your leading men who would have you. What right do you have to say even one word of reproach?”
“It was different,” Marguerite sobbed. “Different—”
“Why?” he demanded. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t love them!” she screamed. She swiped angrily at her cheeks and faced him, defiant, half-afraid. There, it was out. Now he would know everything. That she wanted him, that she wanted his love.
Willie burst out laughing. He leaned against the piano and laughed, a hard, cruel, mocking kind of laughter. Marguerite put her hands over her ears. She could not bear to hear it.
“Who are you to talk of love?” he asked contemptuously. “You’ve never loved anyone in your life.”
“That’s not true. I love Toby,” Marguerite said, because she could not tell him that she loved him when he was laughing at her.
He laughed again. “Yes, you love Toby. He’s your little pet, isn’t he? You tell him your secrets and you buy him ties and you patronize him. Have you ever wondered how he lives, Marguerite? Who he sees, who he loves, what his passions are? Did you know he nursed his mother for two years and she died in his arms on Christmas Day two years ago? She was a great talent, fifty times better than you, and forgotten today—perhaps you might want to meditate on that. Did you know that Toby nursed a broken heart last year over that good-for-nothing Gregory Von Meter?”
“Why, he laughed about Gregory,” Marguerite said nervously. “He said it was just a sad contretemps, whatever that is.”
“He wouldn’t tell you the truth,” Willie said quietly. “You don’t want to know the truth. You only want to talk about yourself, and when you don’t talk about yourself you want to hear something lively, something gay. You have no curiosity about anything but your own concerns, and you have no tenderness.”
“How dare you say such cruel things to me! Just because I won’t sleep with you often enough,” she flung at him contemptuously. She wanted to hurt him now.
One corner of his mouth lifted, and his hazel eyes were hard. “I wouldn’t have you if you begged me on your knees, Marguerite. You don’t know the first thing about what can be between a man and a woman. You’ve never become a woman. Some necessary thing hasn’t happened. You’re a still a child.”
She tossed her head. “You didn’t think so once.”
“I’m not talking about sex,” he said impatiently. “My God, can’t you understand anything?”
“And Mollie Todd does, with her books of poetry and her inscriptions?”
He picked up the book with such tenderness she almost screamed at him again. “Yes, Mollie does. Perhaps it was best for her, not becoming a star. She had enough money to settle down in a little house. She took in her niece, a young girl, when her sister died. She is actually interested in things other than the theater, Marguerite. She talks well; she interests me. She knows about the theater, too, and not just what’s a hot ticket on Broadway. She gave me Ibsen, she reads Shaw—you don’t even know these people, do you?”
“Of course I do, damn you. And that Shaw play, Arms and Men, or whatever it was, barely ran two weeks last year, so who cares? Anyway, since when are you interested in bluestockings, Willie?”
Willie gave a thin smile. “Perhaps I’m growing older, I don’t know.”
“So I’m not smart enough for you, is that it?” Marguerite asked bitterly. “So that gives you the right to stray.”
Now Willie only looked sad. She almost wished he would look angry again. “Marguerite, that’s not what I mean. I wouldn’t care if you never opened a book in your life if—” He stopped abruptly.
“If what?” she challenged him stoutly, but her voice shook. “If what, Willie? If I would let you do as you please? Well, I do let you do as you please, and look where it’s got me. A box of pearls and humiliation.”
He cocked his head and studied her as though she were a specimen. “I thought our arrangement was satisfactory for you, Marguerite. What about Teddy Clinton?”
“I don’t love Teddy Clinton!” she shouted. “And you love Mollie Todd!”
Willie looked honestly puzzled. “What do you want, then?”
“I want you to love me again,” she shot back. The words came out with no tenderness, only petulance and fury. She wanted to snatch them back. She put a hand to her mouth and bit on a knuckle.
Willie stood, staring, searching her face. The room seemed terribly still except for the sound of their breathing. “Did I ever say that I loved you?”
“I hoped that you did,” she whispered. “I want it back, whatever it was.”
“I’m sorry, Marguerite,” Willie said finally. “I don’t think I can oblige you. I wasn’t terribly good at being a lapdog.”
He spoke lightly, and she knew what her response should be. She should tell him that she didn’t appreciate him once, that she didn’t know. That he was right, that she was selfish and vain, and that she needed him to teach her how to love, in the way he’d taught her how to eat a formal dinner, or how to dress, or how to sing. Lightly, teasingly, sternly, lovingly, generously. She should ask him to hang on, just a little bit more. She should ask him to dredge up a little more faith, if he could. And most of all, she should tell him that she loved him.
But what if she told him and he laughed in her face?
Hesitation marked her face, and Willie turned away in disgust. And as he turned, the door banged open, and Toby lounged in.
“Merry and happy, everyone. I must warn you that I’m prepared to drink several bottles of champagne, all by myself.” He stopped, taking in Marguerite’s white face, the way Willie was resolutely looking away. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I knew this habit would get me into trouble. Perhaps I should go out and knock?”
Marguerite gathered herself up. She was an actress. She would be on stage today, after all. “Don’t be silly, Toby,” she said, turning toward him. Her voice sounded gay and slightly breathless. “It’s nothing important. You’ve saved us from a quarrel on Christmas Day, so you’re most blessedly welcome. Have some punch while I run and change. We’ll have the merriest Christmas ever!”
Twenty-Four
THOUGH LAWRENCE WOULDN’T celebrate Christmas, Bell talked him into an inexpensive dinner at a small local restaurant to quietly celebrate the new year. Under the influence of wine and a succulent roast chicken, the indefinable sense of distance between them melted, and Bell, peeking into his ice-blue eyes, was relieved to see relaxation there for the first time in a long while.
On his third glass of wine, Lawrence even grew somewhat expansive. “This restaurant reminds me of another,” he said, looking around at the cheerful fire, the small room, the checked curtains at the window. “It was in California. I went there with my mother. It was at a railroad stop.”
“How old were you?” Bell asked a neutral question, hoping that Lawrence would keep talking. He never mentioned his past, and questions about it were forbidden.
But Lawrence’s customary wariness of any attempt to pry into his past wasn’t there; instead, he frowned, thinking. “I suppose about ten or eleven,” he said.
Hardly daring to breathe, Bell asked, “What was your mother like?”
Lawrence took a bite of chicken. “I was a camp meeting child,” he said offhandedly. “Do you know what that is?” When Bell shook her head, he continued, “At a revival meeting, the product of the moaning and the writhing can be sometimes more than, shall we say, a personal commitment to God. It’s a rather more human connection, if you get my meaning, and voilà—a child is produced. That was me. My mother ho
oked up with this preacher, Herbert Thomas Bellows, something of a charlatan, as you might imagine. He advocated free sexuality, of course, at least for the men. When the Civil War started he took his followers into the Texas hills. He had several wives, including my mother. He believed that his children were the next tribe of Israel.”
“And what did your mother think?”
“My mother thought he was God. She thought I wasn’t good enough to be his son. She tried to mold me into his likeness with her fists.”
Shock snapped her spine straight. “Lawrence—”
“Oh, yes, her Larry was a great disappointment. And then one day Bellows took off in the middle of the night with all of the church’s money and one of his wives. Went back to California. My mother took me and followed him, but he didn’t want her. Said he couldn’t be sure I was his son. My mother,” he said, his mouth twisting strangely, “blamed me for it.”
“What happened? Did she—”
“Beat me? Yes, she did,” he said blandly. “Many, many times. We lived in the same town in northern California as my father. On the other side of town. He ignored us, told the town my mother was crazy. They all loved him, so they believed him. Funny thing is, she started to turn crazy then, if she wasn’t already. No one would talk to me. Not one person, isn’t that funny? Because my mother said such vile things about that nice Reverend Bellows. I left when I was fourteen. Went to San Francisco. Burned down my father’s house on the way.” He said this flatly, spearing a potato with his fork. “It was my first experience with the Propaganda of the Deed,” he said, chortling and almost choking on his potato. He took a long sip of wine.
“You never told me this,” Bell said slowly. She was thinking of Lawrence as a little boy, beaten by his mother, rejected by his father, living as an outcast in a small town. His childhood had been a horror, as hers had been. Sorrow and tenderness washed over her. “How awful it must have been,” she murmured.
“It wasn’t bad,” Lawrence said. “Shut up about it, Bell, will you?”
But she looked at him, clear-eyed. “It’s why you understand me, isn’t it. It’s why we belong together.”
“I suppose so. Eat your chicken, we can’t afford to waste this meal.”
Happily, Bell cut a piece of chicken and ate it. She felt close to Lawrence tonight, closer than she’d felt in years. For once she didn’t worry if he regretted staying with her, or if he loved her at all. The sweet afterglow of a lover’s confidence animated her, and she poured more wine for them and smiled at Lawrence lovingly.
He broke out into a soft smile. “How pretty you look tonight, Bell.” He put his hand over hers, and she felt its warmth like a thrill deep inside her. She was overjoyed to find her love renewed. The thoughts of Horatio that had tormented her with doubts flew away as though they’d never existed. She had actually wondered if she’d made a mistake, those years ago!
The bell on the door of the restaurant tinkled, and Bell looked up and saw Lev enter with another man she knew, Morris Steimer. Damn, she thought, exasperated. She should have gone farther afield to eat tonight. Why had she stayed on the East Side?
Lev’s dark face lit with pleasure when he saw her. He touched Morris’s arm and they moved toward them.
“Good evening, Mrs. Birch,” Lev said. At least Lev didn’t use her first name.
“Good evening, Mr. Moiseev, Mr. Steimer.” Bell wondered frantically if she must ask the two men to join them. “You know my husband, Lawrence Birch, do you not?”
Morris Steimer bowed. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”
Already in a good mood, Lawrence’s handsome face was full of welcome. He’d resented Bell’s acquaintance with these distinguished men. Of course he’d reviled them behind their backs, but perhaps they weren’t so bad after all. He shook hands with Steimer and Moiseev. “A pleasure,” he said. “Would you care to join us?”
Lev looked quickly at Bell, then shook his head. “That’s kind of you, but no. We have some things to discuss, and,” he added playfully, “I have a rule never to interrupt a couple at dinner.” He turned to Bell. “Actually, Mrs. Birch, we’re discussing Kropotkin’s visit to America. You’ve been so helpful with the plans. We wanted to ask you if you would sit on the dais with me, Edward Brady, a few others. Maybe say a few words? We remember your speech at the last meeting at Schwab’s so well.”
Bell didn’t dare look at Lawrence. “I don’t think so, but thank you,” she said quickly. Her eyes begged Lev to go away.
He bowed. “Of course, this is not the time to discuss it. I’ll see you at work on Monday. Good evening, Mr. Birch.”
Lawrence nodded stiffly. The two men moved off to the back room of the restaurant. Bell stared at the tablecloth, her shaking hands in her lap.
He leaned over the table. “Give me your hand,” he said.
She tore one hand out of the other and hesitantly put it in his, underneath the table. He squeezed it.
“So you are among the chosen, Bell, and I didn’t know it,” he said, squeezing her hand with increasing strength. “You give speeches at Schwab’s and you will be among the honored few to sit on the dais while the Prince himself speaks.”
“Lawrence, you’re hurting me,” she gasped. She thought he would break the bones in her hand if he went on. But the pressure only increased.
“And you didn’t tell me. That is the betrayal, my darling wife, that you kept things from me. I cannot trust you, and I cannot love whom I cannot trust.” His hand tightened even more on hers, and she bit her lip so that she wouldn’t cry out. Her head was down, almost to her plate now, as the steady pressure went on. Tears started from her eyes and dripped onto her chicken.
“I have given you chance after chance, and you’ve disappointed me,” he said. The pressure let up, just a bit, and his hold began to relax. Her hand was already throbbing. He dropped it abruptly and she brought it back to cradle it in her lap.
“You’re a lying whore,” he said. “You’re probably the mistress of all of them, for why else would you get that far?” He stood.
“Lawrence, please don’t go, please.” She was crying in earnest now, not caring who saw. “Please.”
“You look so ugly when you beg,” he said, and turned and left the restaurant.
Fiona heard the signal as she was putting together the tea things for after dinner. A low whistle, repeated every two minutes or so. Lawrence was outside, waiting. She checked the clock impatiently. She couldn’t possibly get away now.
Luckily, everyone was busy either serving or cooking, for the Van Cormandts were still at dinner. Not bothering to fetch a shawl, Fiona eased out of the kitchen door and, shivering with the blast of cold, she ran to the stable. She skirted the corner and there he was, sitting on the ground in all this cold.
She crouched beside him and touched his shoulder. “What is it, love?”
“You have to get away.”
“I can’t, we’ve only started dinner—”
“You have to!” he said coldly, and she smelled wine on his breath. “Tell them something, anything. Just run. Now!”
The force of his words sent her back to the house at a run. She stopped outside the door to compose her face, then went back inside. The cook was bending over the roast. Fiona had long ago nestled her way into the woman’s good books. Now, she would have to test how far her loyalty would go.
She staggered a bit and hit the table. Mrs. Plumb turned around. “What is it, Fiona?” she asked, turning back to the roast again.
Fiona came to her side. “I’ve had some very bad news,” she said rapidly in a whisper. “My brother-in-law just called outside to tell me my sister is very ill. She’s asking for me. Oh, Mrs. Plumb, she’s all I have left in the world, you know.”
“Maybe after dinner the master will let you go,” Mrs. Plumb said.
“But I can’t wait that long. My brother-in-law is leaving, and I’d be afraid to go downtown alone at this time of night. Mrs. Plumb, could you cover for me? Could you
tell Mrs. Campbell that I took sick and went upstairs? I’d only be gone a few hours, I promise. You know how afraid Mrs. Campbell is of catching sick, she’ll never come upstairs.” The older woman hesitated, and Fiona widened her deep green eyes and put a sob in her throat. “I’d be ever so grateful to you. You know how I feel about family,” she ended sorrowfully, for Mrs. Plumb had a large collection of sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews that she wrote to regularly.
“All right, dearie. I’ll leave the door off the latch for you. But be quick, now. And wrap up warmly when you go.”
“I will. Thank you.” Fiona pressed the cook’s meaty red hand for an instant, then ran from the kitchen.
In three minutes, she was out again by the stable, dressed in her warmest clothes. “Come,” Lawrence said.
It was too cold to stay outside, so they struck out across the snowy park to the West Side, where they knew a small tavern. Lawrence ordered brandies, and they found a seat by a large, roaring fire. Fiona held her cold fingers to the blaze.
Lawrence sat back in his chair, cradling the brandy between his legs. He watched the play of firelight on Fiona’s blazing hair, orange-gold on orange-gold. She turned, and the light caught that tiny triangle of gold in her left eye. Funny how Bell had faded, but Fiona had only grown more beautiful. She was a striking woman, Lawrence realized. Fiona was a good mimic; living in the Van Cormandt house had been a training ground for her. He could see how much more graceful she was in her movements now, more like a lady. Her posture and attitude defied her class now, and she had lost her angry defiance. Instead, she had copied something of Columbine’s combination of elegance and easiness.
“What is it, Lawrence? Why are you gazing at me so?”
Her lilting voice washed over him, ran through his veins like the warm brandy he was drinking, and Lawrence suddenly felt better. The raging fury he had felt at Bell was still there, deep in his gut, but Fiona was here, and that was a balm of sorts.
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