Envy Read Online Free PDF Page B

had chaperoned, hadn’t yet made an appearance in the parlor that morning, either. “It would have been a lovely evening, and you might have danced some. Anyway, your sister cannot represent this family alone.”
    Elizabeth’s gaze rose slowly from the flames to her mother, who still held the folded broadsheet in her hand. In contrast to the orange hearth, she looked almost blue in that light of early day. Elizabeth opened her mouth, although not to speak. She knew that she had done the older lady much harm, for Mrs. Holland, who was born Louisa Gansevoort, had been a stern social arbiter before the series of tragedies that had begun to befall their family over a year ago. They had lost their patriarch and then their money, and soon after that Elizabeth had followed her heart—which had not been easy, given her impeccable training as a debutante—and run away with her father’s former valet. When she closed her eyes she could almost feel her face against Will’s clean, bare skin.
    “The Henry Schoonmakers would have been there, and you could have silenced everyone who wonders if you’re sourabout the match by seeming glad to see them for just a few moments,” her mother continued.
    Elizabeth put her hands into the lap of her off-white, thick cotton dress with its vertical navy stripes. The dress was narrow at the waist, but ballooned in the torso and the hips and in the arms, enveloping her small frame. She blinked, for these days tears were never far away, and silently wished that she could obey her mother. It would be so simple, and it would make the lady so happy. But Elizabeth had never felt a stronger instinct than the one that insisted she stay in the house, that she never go out, that she never again appear pretty or gay.
    It was her fault that Will had died, because he had been shot—suddenly, repeatedly, in a fusillade that caused the most horrendous sound she would ever hear on this earth—by men who thought they were protecting her. They would not have cared to protect her if they had not believed the illusion she had so carefully constructed: that she was a perfect, virginal society girl, possessed of impeccable manners and lavish gowns, and not in the least capable of leaving New York of her own volition, in pursuit of a coachman. She lowered her eyes, chastised but still silent.
    “Perhaps it’s too soon. After all, the events of New Year’s Eve…”
    Elizabeth turned toward Snowden, whom she was surprised to hear speak in contradiction of Mrs. Holland. Thenagain, he was the one who had married Will and Elizabeth, a few days before Will’s death, in the room across the hall, where the Hollands used to have parties, when they still did such things. Oh, to be a widow at eighteen…but Elizabeth could not think that way, for it was self-pitying, and she had other atonements to make.
    Mrs. Holland leaned forward and dropped the newspaper into the flames. Only when it shrank to ash did she let her obsidian eyes meet Snowden’s.
    “Perhaps you are right.” Elizabeth’s mother spoke in a clipped manner and went on looking into the eyes of her guest. She did not, however, marshal the full coldness that had famously been her response to anyone who caused her displeasure. But then, she could not have, even if she’d wanted to, as Elizabeth well knew, for Snowden had been very generous with them at a time when their inherited wealth had dwindled to nothing, and their bills had begun piling up. “But it is not her readiness that matters most, I am afraid. It is society, and what everyone will say. What they are already beginning to say. Unfortunately, the truth is not on our side, and we must be ever mindful of appearances.”
    “Elizabeth is very delicate now,” Snowden returned without pause. “I’m sorry to say it is quite evident.”
    The girl in question glanced from her mother to Snowden, and saw that there was kindness in his simple, blocklike features. His eyes, which were set far apart