The House of Velvet and Glass Read Online Free PDF Page B

confiscated.
    “Don’t bother with the hot water, if you like the river so much!” her mother’s admonishment followed her up the back stairs. Young ladies did not hunt for eels, she was reminded as the mud was scrubbed off her neck, leaving it reddened and raw. But later that night, her father confided that he saw her catch them out the window, and those were some fine eels indeed.
    Sibyl sighed as the sun sank deeper in the sky, and then she turned to the waiting kitchen door.
    “So you’re back, then,” barked a voice with a subtle burr as Sibyl closed the door, her eyes adjusting to the gloom of the rear hall. “Wipe your feet, or you’ll track in the wet.”
    The white hallway paint was stained with yellowish dinge, layers of smoke from coal fires, tobacco, and leaking fireplaces, and though the gas fixtures were all lit at dusk, the walls absorbed the light rather than reflecting it. Sibyl shrugged off her overcoat and handed it to the dour matron who awaited it, mustering her best impression of a lady arriving at a house she commanded. Her performance fooled neither of them.
    Clara Doherty, the housekeeper, was unchanging, a solid person in an old-fashioned peaked linen cap and long black dress. She might have been Sibyl’s age, had not the Allston family employed her since Sibyl was a child. Mrs. Doherty lingered on the periphery of family photographs for over two decades, holding a baby, or standing in the background of a holiday dinner, and through it all, as the people around her grew and changed, she stayed, arms straight at her sides, face unmoved. She was Irish, but she didn’t look it, or at least that’s what was always said of her. Her eyes were small, blue, and hard, her cheeks sunken. She wore her dark hair in a coil at the base of her neck, and though it must have been long enough to loop into place, Sibyl had trouble picturing what Clara Doherty might look like with her hair undone.
    Sibyl had a fantasy of what warm and friendly Irish maids might be like, drawn from novels and the households of her girlhood friends. They were called “Peg” or “Mary,” and they dispensed cakes and merriment in equal measure. They loved saints and little children, and they had amusing folk sayings that scarcely made sense. Sibyl sometimes yearned for one of these imaginary Irish maids. She cast a wary eye at Mrs. Doherty as she handed over her hat. The woman accepted it with a sniff of motherly disapproval, dusting it off with a few thumps of her hand.
    “Left your messages in the parlor,” Mrs. Doherty said. “Belgian relief committee, and it’s your turn to host the sewing circle, Mrs. Drew says. Do you want her to arrange for the flowers, et cetera, and she’s very keen that you call her back.”
    Sibyl’s shoulders sagged. Of course Mrs. Drew wanted to arrange the flowers. She wanted to arrange everything. And why couldn’t she host the meeting herself ? Sibyl wondered, as was her habit when confronted with Mrs. Drew and the sewing circle.
    “Thank you,” Sibyl said. The housekeeper shot her a reproving look that Sibyl was given to understand meant that other ladies of her standing usually employed a girl to see after the social schedule, rather than distracting the housekeeper with message-taking all day. It was an old argument. Sibyl knew that one day she would lose.
    “Mister Allston is at home, I take it?” Sibyl asked, attempting to sound authoritative.
    “So he is,” the housekeeper said over her shoulder. There was a pause, of instructions needing to be given. “You’ll be wanting to see young Mister Allston first, I wager.”
    “I beg your pardon?” Sibyl said.
    “Young Mister Allston’s t’home, these two hours ago.”
    “Harlan? He’s home?” Sibyl glanced upward, as if the layers of wood and plaster separating her from her brother could melt into transparency and demonstrate the truth of this unexpected piece of news. Her mouth twisted in a nervous twinge. “But what