Read Online The House of Velvet and Glass by Katherine Howe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katherine Howe
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on the doorknob. “You’re tight,” Sibyl said, voice measured and cold, and the judgment in her voice caused the muscle at his jaw to twitch. “No more of that, now. You’d best rest up. I’ve ordered supper for seven thirty.”
She cast her eye down his disheveled self and back up to meet his gaze. “Dressed.”
The door closed behind her with a click, and Harlan’s fist tightened around the glass until it cracked.
At precisely fifteen minutes before the dinner hour, but well after the dressing bell, Harlan peeked his head out from his bedroom door, looked left down the carpeted hallway to the main stair, looked right to the rear stair and the door to Sibyl’s rooms, and satisfied himself that she was still dressing. No sound stirred the halls of 138½ Beacon Street, save the distant ticking of an unseen clock. He eased one stockinged foot out the bedroom door, followed by the other. His hair was smoothed back, held in place with a combed sheen. His dinner jacket was brushed, with a fresh sprig of mint tucked, in daring defiance of fashion, into his buttonhole. His black silk tie was elegantly knotted, and his cheeks glowed pink with a fresh shave. One hand held a pair of evening pumps buffed to a high sheen, an overcoat draped over his arm, while the other eased closed the bedroom door.
One foot after the other, catlike, exaggerating with high steps of his knees for his own comic amusement, Harlan crept past Sibyl’s closed bedroom door. As he passed, the ball of his foot pressed on the joint between two floorboards, which let out a protesting creak. Harlan froze.
Inside, delicate humming stopped. Both parties on either side of the door held their breath, ears straining. No sound but that distant, placeless clock. In a moment the humming began again, the humming of hair arrangement, and Harlan exhaled in slow degrees before resuming his progress. He eased open the door to the rear service stair, slid through it, and closed it with a click.
Down the narrow service stair, silent, as when he was a boy, stalking through the house playing pirate, or Union spy on a raid behind Rebel lines. He’d loved to dress up, winding one of his mother’s scarves around his head for piracy, or in a wide sash at his waist to play at being a Zouave, with a cigar-box fez and an invisible cutlass. He’d creep on all fours through the shadows, spying on the kitchen girls, eavesdropping to collect intelligence for the general back at the base, or the pirate captain waiting on shipboard, thrilling at his secret rebellion. He’d write up his notes in a complex code of his own design, borrowed from ship log shorthand and algebraic notation. Harlan loved feeling concealed, on a noble mission, hidden from whatever his father might have wished for him to be doing.
Harlan sat on the bottom step of the service stair and bent to slip into his shoes.
“Oh!” a voice gasped.
His head snapped up, and he beheld the startled face of Betty Gallagher, her hands struggling not to drop a platter of roast chicken.
He leaped to his feet, stepping forward to slide both hands under the platter to help rescue the chickens. His pulse rose, enjoying that Betty Gallagher would now be in collusion with his plan.
“Mister Harlan!” Betty said when she had recovered herself. She took in his dinner jacket, the overcoat on his arm, and glanced at the door into the dining room. “But . . . supper’s not been ordered ’til seven thirty.”
Harlan, standing close as both their sets of hands supported the platter, gazed down into Betty’s face, with its wide eyes and wild hair. Her freckles were delectable. Most fellows didn’t care for freckles as a rule, thinking they were tough-looking. But Betty’s were appealing. Like cake batter you could wipe off with your thumb, buttery and sweet. He smiled out of one side of his mouth, wondering if she’d pull away, and coiled a tentative arm around Betty’s waist.
“Not for me, it isn’t,” he
She cast her eye down his disheveled self and back up to meet his gaze. “Dressed.”
The door closed behind her with a click, and Harlan’s fist tightened around the glass until it cracked.
At precisely fifteen minutes before the dinner hour, but well after the dressing bell, Harlan peeked his head out from his bedroom door, looked left down the carpeted hallway to the main stair, looked right to the rear stair and the door to Sibyl’s rooms, and satisfied himself that she was still dressing. No sound stirred the halls of 138½ Beacon Street, save the distant ticking of an unseen clock. He eased one stockinged foot out the bedroom door, followed by the other. His hair was smoothed back, held in place with a combed sheen. His dinner jacket was brushed, with a fresh sprig of mint tucked, in daring defiance of fashion, into his buttonhole. His black silk tie was elegantly knotted, and his cheeks glowed pink with a fresh shave. One hand held a pair of evening pumps buffed to a high sheen, an overcoat draped over his arm, while the other eased closed the bedroom door.
One foot after the other, catlike, exaggerating with high steps of his knees for his own comic amusement, Harlan crept past Sibyl’s closed bedroom door. As he passed, the ball of his foot pressed on the joint between two floorboards, which let out a protesting creak. Harlan froze.
Inside, delicate humming stopped. Both parties on either side of the door held their breath, ears straining. No sound but that distant, placeless clock. In a moment the humming began again, the humming of hair arrangement, and Harlan exhaled in slow degrees before resuming his progress. He eased open the door to the rear service stair, slid through it, and closed it with a click.
Down the narrow service stair, silent, as when he was a boy, stalking through the house playing pirate, or Union spy on a raid behind Rebel lines. He’d loved to dress up, winding one of his mother’s scarves around his head for piracy, or in a wide sash at his waist to play at being a Zouave, with a cigar-box fez and an invisible cutlass. He’d creep on all fours through the shadows, spying on the kitchen girls, eavesdropping to collect intelligence for the general back at the base, or the pirate captain waiting on shipboard, thrilling at his secret rebellion. He’d write up his notes in a complex code of his own design, borrowed from ship log shorthand and algebraic notation. Harlan loved feeling concealed, on a noble mission, hidden from whatever his father might have wished for him to be doing.
Harlan sat on the bottom step of the service stair and bent to slip into his shoes.
“Oh!” a voice gasped.
His head snapped up, and he beheld the startled face of Betty Gallagher, her hands struggling not to drop a platter of roast chicken.
He leaped to his feet, stepping forward to slide both hands under the platter to help rescue the chickens. His pulse rose, enjoying that Betty Gallagher would now be in collusion with his plan.
“Mister Harlan!” Betty said when she had recovered herself. She took in his dinner jacket, the overcoat on his arm, and glanced at the door into the dining room. “But . . . supper’s not been ordered ’til seven thirty.”
Harlan, standing close as both their sets of hands supported the platter, gazed down into Betty’s face, with its wide eyes and wild hair. Her freckles were delectable. Most fellows didn’t care for freckles as a rule, thinking they were tough-looking. But Betty’s were appealing. Like cake batter you could wipe off with your thumb, buttery and sweet. He smiled out of one side of his mouth, wondering if she’d pull away, and coiled a tentative arm around Betty’s waist.
“Not for me, it isn’t,” he
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