The River of Souls Read Online Free PDF Page B

goddess. Her lustrous sable-brown hair was done up in what Matthew presumed was the latest Charles Town fashion, its curly ringlets arranged about her shoulders and decorated with green ribbons. She wore a sea-green gown and a choker of perfect white pearls, probably worth the packet boat Matthew had rolled in on. Her face was fit to make any artist into a master of beauty, if such could be captured on canvas. Which Matthew doubted, for Pandora’s serene loveliness would have unsettled the hand that held the brush and made the otherworldly into the commonplace, for her mouth, her cheekbones, the curve of her nose, the small dimples in her cheeks, the sleek arcs of her eyebrows and the violet coloring of the eyes…all would be too much for a brush to match. Matthew thought even Michelangelo might cry for his lack of talent in assigning the young woman’s features to the body of an angel. Indeed, he thought as he staggered a bit beneath her steady gaze and the heavy presence of Sir Richard, she might be the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. Yes, she was that much. And another glass of this rum and he would be surely undone, and what might issue from his mouth would not be the refinements of an escort from New York but the gibbering of the orphan boy he used to be. 
    “Mr. Matthew Corbett,” said Prisskitt, “meet my daughter Pandora.” 
    And the vision had risen from her seat at the spinet and offered him her soft hand. Opening a Chinese fan before her face she had batted her eyes at him, lowered her head and said in a voice as sweet as the honey crust on a cinnamon cake, “I am so enchanted , Mr. Corbett.” 
    In the two days to come before the ball, Matthew was the one who found himself enchanted by Pandora’s manners and presence. He did find it odd, however, that such a creature should be lacking for a local escort, but an afternoon’s ride along the river with Pandora’s father had cleared up the mystery. It seemed that Pandora was so beautiful she had no suitors. “Too striking for the local men!” said Sedgeworth. “Can you fathom that! Yes, it’s true! My daughter absolutely loves to attend the social events…and you do know it’s important for a young woman of her status to be seen at these gatherings…but, Matthew—may I call you Matthew, as I feel I know you so well?—she is never asked by anyone! That’s why I was forced to hire you. Yes, forced to hire a young gent all the way from New York, because no man in this town will ask my daughter to anything ! And it’s a shame on them, Matthew! Oh, I don’t understand this younger generation! Well…I mean… you are of the younger generation, but…of course…you’re a sophisticated sort, aren’t you? Listen to me prattling on! Why don’t we retire to the shaded porch, have us another glass—or two—of Sir Richard and relax as Pandora plays us a few hymns. Would that suit you, Matthew?” 
    “Oh, yes sir!” said the sophisticated sort, who didn’t realize the power of the Southern sun upon his noggin. “I am well-suited for a stirring hymn!” 
    “Indeed you are, my boy,” Prisskitt had replied, as he’d turned his horse back toward the stable. “Indeed you are .” 
    One of the tapers in a silver candelabra to Matthew’s left spat sparks, as above his head the breeze through the open garden door made the sword of Damocles sway back and forth…back and forth…
    “Death,” said Matthew, “can have many definitions as applied to the human condition, sir. For instance, there is the death of an idea. Or the death of hope. Do you agree that someone can be said to die of shame?” 
    “Of shame ? What are you goin’ on about? Either a man dies or he don’t!” 
    “Precisely so, but there can be the death of the spirit as well as of the body…may I call you Mr. Muldoon?” 
    “Reckon. What’s your name?” 
    “Matthew Corbett, at your service.” 
    “Pleased to meet you.” 
    “The same.” 
    “ Now listen