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

Brown said, “I’m afraid no one would be much interested in a salon of that kind.”
    This place would require patience, I realized. It was my own fault; I could not blame them for wanting to see evidence of my humility. Still, I could not help my disappointment. I struggled to keep my smile. “Of course,” I said finally.
    We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence that lasted until someone said, “Did you see the new shipment of cloth at Schwabacher’s?” and they joined together in palpable relief to speak of silks and worsteds, and I drank my tea in silence.
    It was only later, when Nathan stopped at the doorway of the parlor to say he was fetching our coats, that Mrs. Brown said to me in a low voice, “I feel it only fair to warn you, Mrs. Langley, that there are those here who do not welcome your arrival. In fact”—a pause, as if it troubled her to say it—“there are some who have said already they won’t receive you.” Here she looked at me helplessly.
    “I understand,” I said softly, taking pity on her, wondering what it had cost her to host this supper, to introduce me to a society that had already measured me and found me wanting. “Thank you for being so forthright, Mrs. Brown. I am grateful.”
    Again, that short, firm nod, as if she had dispensed with a difficult duty and was back to the usual nonsense again. “I’ve promised my husband to help you get along until you settle yourself.”
    “I shall not trouble you unduly,” I promised, and I knew I was not imagining the relief in her expression.
    T hat night, I sat at the dressing table brushing my hair, thinking over the evening, which had been a disappointment, though, if nothing else, I’d gained a good idea of what I was up against. The furnishings, the clothing, the food, the talk … Those who passed for society in Seattle would barely have reached the lower rungs of the social ladder in Chicago. But I was at their mercy, and I saw my task clearly. They were so afraid of any indiscretion that they would band together to keep me out unless I showed myself above reproach in every way. I could win them over eventually, I knew, though it would take every ounce of my charm to do so.
    Just now, the thought made me weary. I stared into the mirror, which was old and wavery, flecked with spots, my reflection hard to see, nothing but the dark shadow of my hair, my eyes like black dots, and suddenly I was thinking of my last salon, the one before the exhibition had turned everything so impossible. I thought of Ambrose laughing, flushed as he drained his glass. Charles Furth saying,
“Yes, of course, Rivers, but I wonder sometimes if the world slows to a crawl for you alone. The rest of us see things in motion, details escape us. Which is why Gauguin’s vision is truer than Millais’s. Do you not agree, mydear Ginny?”
And my answer, as Claude stood beside me, smiling,
“The world moves in slow, does it not, Charles? I think it is we who move too fast. You cannot fault Ambrose for moving with the world.”
Furth’s laughter.
“She is your devotee as ever, Rivers. You’ve armored her with your Pre-Raphaelites and none of the rest of us can make a dent.”
The candlelight flickering, sending dancing shadows upon the walls, glancing across the fat rubies encircling my wrist.
    A movement in the mirror took me from the memory; I looked over my shoulder to see Nathan enter my bedroom.
    “They were kind tonight,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you think so?”
    I sighed and turned back to brushing my hair. “Was it kindness, do you think? I would venture to call it something else. I received a lecture on behavior along with my tea. When I mentioned to Mrs. Brown the possibility of starting a salon—”
    “Good God, Ginny, you didn’t.”
    “Don’t worry. Mrs. Brown made it quite clear how unacceptable they would find it.”
    “And you intend to heed her?” He sounded wary.
    “Oh, but of course,” I said with a bitter laugh. “For