City of Ash by Megan Chance Read Free Book Online Page A

beginning. But I don’t rule out the possibility of government service.”
    “Excellent news,” said Mr. Brown, glancing unsubtlely at me. “Of course, circumspection is the order of the day in this city, as you’ve no doubt heard.”
    I felt myself flush.
    Nathan’s smile thinned. “Yes, of course. Well, I dislikemaking decisions precipitously. I expect it will take some time simply to become used to the rain.”
    The rest at the table laughed. “Oh, I think you will find it not so bad as that,” said Major Shields’s wife. “We’re in the worst of it now, but the summers will prove delightful for it.”
    The conversation went on in much the same vein for three more courses, all meant, said Mrs. Brown, to showcase Seattle’s bounty: a heavy salmon pie, oyster stew, and a dessert of jellied cream flavored with red currants. As we finished the last bites, Mrs. Brown rose, saying, “Shall we leave the gentlemen to their cigars, ladies?”
    It was a custom I hated and one I never adhered to in my own home, having long ago asserted that the men saved the more interesting conversation for after dinner. Many of my friends in Chicago had followed my lead. But I remembered my father’s admonitions and my resolve, so I restrained my tongue and followed the other women demurely into a parlor hardly big enough to accommodate us all. The furniture was pleasant enough, if all machine made and Jacobean in design, though there was a lovely rosewood table inlaid with ivory and set with a delicate opaline vase from which emerged the thin stems of two wax roses. A few paintings decorated the walls, mostly landscapes by artists I had no familiarity with.
    We milled about, some finding a chair, a few standing by the window that overlooked the street and darkness grayed by rain. Mrs. Brown poured tea from a graceful silver tea service. She handed a cup to a woman who sat on the chair opposite—Mrs. Porter, I remembered—and glanced at me.
    “Mrs. Langley, please, come talk with us awhile.” She patted the space beside her on the settee; when I went to it, she handed me a cup of tea as well.
    “You’re living at the old Post place, I hear,” Mrs. Porter said to me.
    “I do hope it’s to your liking,” Mrs. Brown interjected. “I wish we could have done more, but with such short notice … well, you understand.”
    The censure was in her words. I did not mistake it; I was an expert myself at scolds hidden in graciousness. “I think itremarkable that you managed to accomplish what you did,” I said courteously. “I could not have hoped for better.”
    “We are not lacking the more graceful aspects of life in Seattle. There are many shops downtown. If you’re looking for something in particular, I do hope you’ll look to me for guidance.” Again, the quick eyeing of my bodice. “We don’t lack excellent seamstresses either. I would be pleased to recommend one.”
    “Is there one trained in the French style?”
    “French? Like the one you wear now?”
    “Yes. It’s a Worth,” I said.
    “It’s quite beautiful,” Mrs. Porter said. “Is it the fashion in Chicago?”
    “Oh yes.”
    Mrs. Brown sighed. “You must realize, Mrs. Langley, that Seattle is not Chicago. As beautiful as the gown is, I think you’ll find that here you won’t have need for such … immoderation. We much prefer simple elegance.”
    I forced an answering smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Brown. I shall remember that.”
    “I understand you held a salon in Chicago.” Mrs. Porter offered this carefully, as if fearful of the landscape.
    There was a whisper, a titter, from somewhere over my shoulder. Someone else laughed. I was meant to hear both, but I ignored them completely. I grasped gratefully at the subject. “Yes. It was quite renowned. You must tell me, as I have no idea: Do authors ever visit Seattle? Or artists? My Thursday evenings had quite a following among actors as well.”
    It was too much, too fast; I knew it the moment Mrs.