Read Online The Glass Orchid by Emma Barron - Free Book Online

Farber’s and Hollsworth’s excesses, right now he wanted nothing more than to be with them, far away from ledgers, bills of lading, and the specter of his father.
    Though he was not now physically present in the office, the elder Mr. Camden’s judgment and reproach seemed to inhabit the building like an angry ghost. Camden never felt fully free of him, and he knew his father wanted to make sure that was the case. Reminders of him were everywhere, from his tersely worded notes of instruction littering Camden’s office to his father’s portrait hanging on his walls. Even rendered in colored oils, his father appeared to be glaring at Camden, clearly communicating his ire. And like the beady-eyed paintings in a gothic novel, his father’s eyes seemed to follow him everywhere, noting — and inevitably disapproving of — his every movement.
    “You are still here. Good.”
    Camden looked toward the office doorway and thought grimly that the tired phrase “speak of the devil” had perhaps never been so apt. His father stood dressed entirely in black silk, as if in mourning — the death of all cheerfulness and enjoyment, most likely. Although it was still fashionable to allow one’s hair to fall in a few untamed curls or waves, Mr. Camden had wrestled his locks into meek submission and his hair stuck tightly to his scalp, as if the slightest hint of unruliness signaled an unstoppable march into pure decadence. Everything about the man was stiff, somber, and controlled.
    Camden straightened in his chair and self-consciously smoothed his own disheveled coif. “Yes, I’m still here. Just finishing the last of the day’s accounting.”
    “You have finished the receipts and filed the bills?
    “Yes,” Camden said, putting down his pen. His father sounded more gruff than usual, if that were possible, and Camden wondered what sort of dressing-down he was about to receive.
    “You have not been shirking any of your duties to the company, have you?”
    “No, of course not.”
    “You remember where your loyalties lie, do you not? To the company, to me, to the family.”
    Camden nodded and said nothing, though he wanted to demand what this interrogation was all about. He knew better than to open his mouth, however. One simply did not demand answers of George Camden. One waited until George Camden deigned to enlighten you.
    “You were at the theater a few nights ago, were you not?” His father walked into the room and stopped a few steps from Camden’s desk. He was not an overly tall man — in fact, he was several inches shorter than his son — but George Camden was so domineering, his stance so stiff and erect, his gaze so intense, that he seemed to inhabit far more space than what his physical self actually occupied.
    “Yes, I was at the theater,” Camden said. He began to suspect what had his father questioning him so aggressively.
    “Tell me, who accompanied you?”
    “A — friend,” Camden said carefully.
    “A friend?” His father said, and Camden heard the note of derision in the question, as he knew he was meant to.
    George took a few more steps forward and placed his hands on the desk. They were thick hands, roughened by work and struggle and ambition. Every callus was a map of a past marked by grinding poverty and stark deprivation. Every cut and bruise was a beacon of the grueling labor he undertook to elevate his fortunes. Every ink stain and smudge of grease was a promise of the even loftier position he hoped to one day attain. A position George expected his son to also strive for.
    Camden forced himself to bring his gaze from his father’s hands and meet his eyes. He would not let himself squirm like a naughty schoolboy awaiting his punishment. He would not stammer and blink as he tried to explain himself to a father who demanded repentance at the slightest perceived indiscretion but would never give understanding or absolution.
    George pushed back from the desk and walked over to the far wall,