Free The House of Velvet and Glass by Katherine Howe Page A

Petard,” Bickering said.
    Harlan stood, hooking his thumbs in his waistband and gazing down on the other men at the card table with a sultry look. “You certain you’d like to know?”
    “Her name!” clamored Rawlings, with Townsend and Bickering together.
    “Why, Rolly, don’t you know? I’d think your sister would’ve mentioned,” Harlan said, before tossing a peanut into his mouth and withdrawing from the table with an ironic salute, as the air seemed to rush out of the room.
    As Harlan paused in the door of the St. Swithin Club, pulling the collar of his overcoat up under his ears against the chill of late evening, he spotted the form of a man approaching at a laconic pace, streetlights casting his wavering shadow across the brick street. Cursing his luck, a twist of guilt in his belly, Harlan started at a quick clip down the steps, head down, jostling by the man as he started up the stairs to the club. Too late—the man caught his elbow.
    “Why, is that Harley Allston?” he said.
    “Benton,” Harlan said, injecting his voice with the necessary heartiness. “Good to see you. ’Fraid I must be going.”
    “Hold up a minute,” Benton Derby said, keeping a firm grasp on his elbow.
    “Wish I could, but I really can’t.” Harlan smiled, shrugging. “People waiting.”
    The young man released Harlan’s arm, brushing his coat jacket smooth. “All right,” he said. “You know, I’ve got office hours all during reading period. You’re welcome, any time.”
    “Right,” Harlan said, still with an uncomfortable smile on his face. “See you, then.”
    Harlan hurried down the street, hands thrust into his coat pockets, eyes on his shoes. He wished Benton hadn’t seen him. Benton must have heard the story by now. Harlan frowned, watching his feet stride down the cobblestones, sidestepping puddles. When he reached the Common he paused, glancing over his shoulder, and saw the silhouette of Benton Derby still standing under the awning of the St. Swithin Club, arms folded, watching him go.
    Turning away without a wave, Harlan jogged down the stairs from Beacon Street, enveloped by the anonymous darkness of the Common at night. Hidden in the darkness he felt the shame start to fall away. He crossed southeast, fog thickening around him. The damp created an eerie halo around each streetlight, and moisture beaded on his overcoat by the time he jogged across Charles Street into the Public Garden.
    Damn that Benton. Harlan scowled as he passed under the weeping willows by the pond, then through cobbled streets that grew narrower, darker, more clotted with animal waste. The deeper he moved into the center of the city, the more the grip of shame loosened. He paused at an intersection of withered eighteenth-century houses, peeling clapboards and leaning chimneys, places that the historical society ladies treasured without wanting to inhabit. A tiny boy sat in a ball on a stoop, in a pair of greasy boots that were too big for him. The shutters on his house were closed and insulated with wadded newspaper.
    “Excuse me,” Harlan said. “Would you say I’m nearly at Harrison Avenue?”
    The urchin nodded, and then held out a grubby hand.
    “Thought so.” Harlan smiled, pressing a nickel into the boy’s palm. Almost there.
    He rounded a corner at a trot, and with a leaping in his chest spotted a brightly lettered placard framed by cherry branches, translated in smaller type as boarding house. Beneath the sign stood a nondescript door. Harlan opened this door and stepped into a hallway whose major decorative element was wallpaper covered in bloodred cabbage roses, curling at the corners. A single electric bulb burned in a frosted glass sconce. He mounted the narrow stair, taking the steps two at a time, his footfalls muffled by worn carpeting.
    On the third floor Harlan moved down the hallway, a grin spreading across his face. He reached the door at the end, which he knew opened into the front gable garret facing