City of Light Read Online Free PDF

been born into one of Buffalo’s oldest and most prominent families, whereas Tom, although he was now the director of the hydroelectric power project at Niagara Falls, had endured poverty as a child in Ireland. Perhaps in part because of the difference in their backgrounds, Tom had adored Margaret, indeed worshipped her. After her death, he had retreated into himself. While still managing his business, he’d clearly wanted no visitors to his home during the time of mourning, and so I’d stayed away.
    But Tom wasn’t the only one devastated by Margaret’s loss. Grace and her mother had been unusually close, and for weeks Grace had seemed dazed, going through the motions of daily life with little awareness of the details around her. I too had felt desolate. Struggling with my own loss, with the emptiness inside me which once had been filled by Margaret’s warm, joyful laugh, I hadn’t been as precisely attuned to Grace as I would have been otherwise. I’d seen her at school, I’d invited her out on the weekends; observing her slowly regain her equanimity, I’d gone no further.
    That had been my mistake. Today I’d checked with Grace’s teachers, who reported her to be “sensitive.” I’d asked for specifics: abrupt shifts in mood, argumentativeness, a tendency to run away when challenged. Her teachers had responded to her actions with sympathy rather than strictness, as I myself would have reacted under the circumstances. Next I needed to consult with her father. This morning I’d sent Thomas Sinclair a note at his office, telling him to expect me at this hour. I opened the gate and made my way up the slippery flagstone path.
    Grace herself answered my knock. She filled the doorway like an angel, the brightness of the hall making a halo around her. She wore a costume of scarves and shawls draped over one of her mother’s tennis dresses.
    In a life like mine, there are not many people to love. I loved Grace Sinclair.
    “I raced from the third floor, Aunt Louisa.” Breathing deeply, she gave me a quick hug and then curtsied with a teasing smile. “Good evening, Miss Barrett,” she said in an Irish accent, acting out the role of an upper-class maid. “The master asks that you come upstairs to the library, if you please.”
    “Thank you,” I replied, playing along with her. She grinned and beckoned me inside.
    The hall was brilliant with a steady, glowing light. The sliding doors into the drawing room and dining room were open, and there too this odd light prevailed, revealing every detail: the classical pillars and coffered ceiling in the drawing room; the mahogany wainscoting and intricately carved mantelpiece in the dining room; and beyond, the willowy plantings and stone fountain of the glassed conservatory.
    But Grace was oblivious to the peculiar brilliance of the light and was already making her way up the wide, curving staircase. I hurried to follow, smiling as I always did at the delicate statue of Hebe, Greek goddess of youth, which stood in the nook on the landing. The Tiffany stained-glass window above the statue was dark at this hour, but I remembered its woodland landscape of greens and yellows and the stream meandering into distant hills.
    Suddenly, as I turned on the landing to begin the second flight of stairs, I realized how the house had changed. Instead of flickering gaslight, an electric glow as steady as day filled the rooms.
    I stopped, leaning against the banister to look. To gawk. I had never been in a house lit by electricity. The change was—miraculous. I’d heard that in cities like New York and Chicago, the rich had been showing off their wealth by installing steam generators and electrifying their homes for the sake of novelty. But here in Buffalo, the old families had no need for novelty, and the nouveaux riches emulated the old. Compared to this, the other homes I visited were shadowy and claustrophobic. Here the air itself seemed clear, vibrant, and somehow invigorating. All