The Glass Orchid (7 page)

However strong the forces of attraction were that drew them together, the bonds of society that held them in place would always be stronger.

Camden sighed heavily as he ran an ink-stained hand through his hair and fought the urge to tear it out in chunks. The night grew late and the other employees had long since left the shipping offices, but he was still sitting at his lamp-lit desk going through the books. It was quiet, dark, and utterly still. Camden hadn’t seen or heard another individual in hours, and though he knew it was ridiculous, he felt as though every other person had ceased to exist and he would be here forever, alone in the world, sitting at his desk going numb from the tedium of the business accounts.

He wondered what Wittingham, Farber, and Hollsworth were doing while he sat there alone and bored. He imagined they were already in their cups, gambling away their money and chasing girls of easy virtue. He could almost hear Farber’s drunken laugh as he ribbed Hollsworth, and he could perfectly imagine Wittingham’s practiced disdain of their antics. Though he often grew tired of Farber’s and Hollsworth’s excesses, right now he wanted nothing more than to be with them, far away from ledgers, bills of lading, and the specter of his father.

Though he was not now physically present in the office, the elder Mr. Camden’s judgment and reproach seemed to inhabit the building like an angry ghost. Camden never felt fully free of him, and he knew his father wanted to make sure that was the case. Reminders of him were everywhere, from his tersely worded notes of instruction littering Camden’s office to his father’s portrait hanging on his walls. Even rendered in colored oils, his father appeared to be glaring at Camden, clearly communicating his ire. And like the beady-eyed paintings in a gothic novel, his father’s eyes seemed to follow him everywhere, noting — and inevitably disapproving of — his every movement.

“You are still here. Good.”

Camden looked toward the office doorway and thought grimly that the tired phrase “speak of the devil” had perhaps never been so apt. His father stood dressed entirely in black silk, as if in mourning — the death of all cheerfulness and enjoyment, most likely. Although it was still fashionable to allow one’s hair to fall in a few untamed curls or waves, Mr. Camden had wrestled his locks into meek submission and his hair stuck tightly to his scalp, as if the slightest hint of unruliness signaled an unstoppable march into pure decadence. Everything about the man was stiff, somber, and controlled.

Camden straightened in his chair and self-consciously smoothed his own disheveled coif. “Yes, I’m still here. Just finishing the last of the day’s accounting.”

“You have finished the receipts and filed the bills?

“Yes,” Camden said, putting down his pen. His father sounded more gruff than usual, if that were possible, and Camden wondered what sort of dressing-down he was about to receive.

“You have not been shirking any of your duties to the company, have you?”

“No, of course not.”

“You remember where your loyalties lie, do you not? To the company, to me, to the family.”

Camden nodded and said nothing, though he wanted to demand what this interrogation was all about. He knew better than to open his mouth, however. One simply did not demand answers of George Camden. One waited until George Camden deigned to enlighten you.

“You were at the theater a few nights ago, were you not?” His father walked into the room and stopped a few steps from Camden’s desk. He was not an overly tall man — in fact, he was several inches shorter than his son — but George Camden was so domineering, his stance so stiff and erect, his gaze so intense, that he seemed to inhabit far more space than what his physical self actually occupied.

“Yes, I was at the theater,” Camden said. He began to suspect what had his father questioning him so aggressively.

“Tell me, who accompanied you?”

“A — friend,” Camden said carefully.

“A friend?” His father said, and Camden heard the note of derision in the question, as he knew he was meant to.

George took a few more steps forward and placed his hands on the desk. They were thick hands, roughened by work and struggle and ambition. Every callus was a map of a past marked by grinding poverty and stark deprivation. Every cut and bruise was a beacon of the grueling labor he undertook to elevate his fortunes. Every ink stain and smudge of grease was a promise of the even loftier position he hoped to one day attain. A position George expected his son to also strive for.

Camden forced himself to bring his gaze from his father’s hands and meet his eyes. He would not let himself squirm like a naughty schoolboy awaiting his punishment. He would not stammer and blink as he tried to explain himself to a father who demanded repentance at the slightest perceived indiscretion but would never give understanding or absolution.

George pushed back from the desk and walked over to the far wall, inspecting the various portraits and framed documents hanging there, as if he were merely engaged in a friendly chat. “I went shooting the other day with William Hutchence,” he said, and Camden was not fooled by the air of casualness in the statement. “He is also a theater-goer, apparently.” He gave a slight emphasis to “theater-goer,” as if the activity were something vaguely distasteful.

Camden said nothing.

“He saw you there,” George continued, his back to his son. “With a woman.” He turned to face Camden, his hands clasped behind him. “You were seen with the same woman in the park at least twice. Once before the play and once just yesterday.”

“Are you having me followed?” Camden blurted before he could stop himself. He hadn’t meant to say more than necessary — no use providing any extra length of rope with which his father could hang him — but his father’s detailed knowledge of his whereabouts was a disconcerting surprise.

“Followed?” George scoffed. “No. It is not necessary to have you followed. I have told you again and again you must guard yourself at all times. There are always people watching, waiting for you to acquit yourself in a manner that belies your origins, that proves we are not worthy of moving beyond our humble station.” George began to pace the small office. Camden could see redness creeping up his father’s neck and knew he was becoming increasingly agitated.

“I don’t think — ”

George slammed his hands down on Camden’s desk, cutting him off. “Dammit, Rhys!” George said, the oath another indicator of his loss of composure. “After all I have done, after all the work and the sacrifice to achieve what we have! For you to just throw it away by appearing out in public — multiple times! — with that — that —
whore
!”

“She’s not — ”

“Do not try to deny it! I have been apprised of who and what she is. It is one thing to discreetly visit one in the darkness of night, if you must. But to be seen in general society with such a creature, to defile the family name this manner — I will not allow it.”

Camden’s instincts warred within him. He wanted to leap from his chair and come to Del’s defense. He wanted to yell that she wasn’t a whore or “creature” and he wasn’t defiling anything when he was with her. He wanted to command his father to leave him alone, to finally accept that his son was an adult and fully capable of living life without constant interference. But those impulses were tempered by years of being trained — by sharp glances, harsh words, or even a beating if necessary — to obey his father. George Camden demanded compliance in everything, great and small, and nothing was greater than his desire to achieve a level of social respectability to match his newly made wealth. Camden knew his father would abide nothing that threatened to quash his upward progress.

“Are you even listening to me?” George snapped, leaning over the desk. “You are not to do or say or even
think
anything that could endanger our reputation or your eligibility for a suitable marriage.”

“But I don’t want — ”

“This is not about what you want! We have more money than most of the blue-blood lords in this country — hell, half of them are indebted to me for more money than their crumbling estates can ever hope to repay — and yet still they balk at aligning their families with ours.”

Camden hated it when the subject of marriage came up, and it came up with alarming frequency ever since he’d turned of age. George was convinced the final step to social grace was his son marrying into one of the families — and there were many — who possessed the good name, breeding, title, and respect George desperately craved but who, perhaps through generations of peevish idleness and estate mismanagement, currently lacked the wealth the Camdens could provide. And so Camden was expected to enter into a marriage that amounted to little more than a business transaction. He would exchange money for respect and finally gain the entrance into the highest levels of society that had thus far been unattainable by George.

Camden knew what he must do, and yet the prospect of such a marriage, of such a cold and loveless life, filled him with dread. He had seen it first hand, had witnessed how decades of empty duty and barely veiled contempt of each spouse for the other had weakened and finally ravaged his mother, ultimately sending her to her grave a few years back.

He didn’t want that.

He wanted more, though he had never given himself leave to entertain what
more
would even look like.

“You are never to see that woman, nor any other person such as her, again.”

Camden opened his mouth to give the expected words of acquiescence, but then stopped himself. He was flooded with images of Del. Of her running through the darkened streets, breathless and mysterious and beautiful. Of her walking in the park with him, teasing him with jests and shocking him with honesty until he felt the mortifying blush of embarrassment flush his cheeks. Del at the theater, her lovely face softly lit by the glow from the footlights as she raptly watched the performance. How her entire countenance lit up with mirth as she laughed along with the crowd. How afterward she had surprised him with astute commentary on the social and gender implications of the play. He thought of all this, and he knew he couldn’t make any promises to his father.

He wouldn’t be able to stay away from her.

Camden brought his gaze to meet his father’s, saw how red and mottled his face had become. He knew there was a rage building in his father that would soon boil over, and still he couldn’t force himself to say the words that would stem the angry tide.

“What is wrong you, boy?” George’s voice cracked slightly and Camden knew he was barely hanging on to his control. “What possible charms could this whore possess that make you even think of defying me and destroying everything I have worked so hard to build?”

Though phrased as a question, Camden knew his father’s words were meant to be an accusation, not an inquiry. The man had no real interest in what made Del so intriguing, but Camden found himself wanting to try to explain it to him anyway. What could he say, though? How could he make his father understand what made Del so different? She was extremely intelligent, wholly independent, and so completely without pretense that it quite literally took his breath away at times. How could he phrase it so it would make sense to his father? Camden wasn’t sure George even understood the concepts of independence or disregard for social intrigue and machinations.

“She is — different from any person I have ever met,” Camden said.

George’s eyes bulged, and Camden knew he was both surprised and enraged that Camden had actually tried to explain himself. “Different?” George shouted. “
Different
? You would squander our fortunes and reputation on the childish notion that this whore is somehow
different
? Let me tell you something, boy, there is nothing special about her. Nothing. She is nothing more than a common whore that can be bought of any street of London.”

“She’s not a common whore,” Camden said as he began to rise from his seat. “She’s — ”

“
Enough!
” George yelled as he slammed his hands down on Camden’s desk. Camden instinctively sat back down, hardly aware of what he was doing. “I am through speaking with you on this matter. It is over. No more. You are not to see her again. Ever.”

Camden looked down at the papers scattered across his desk and said nothing.

“Do you understand? Never again. Hear me?”

“Yes,” Camden and though he was defiant, he was still not ready to give voice to his complete thought.
Yes, I hear you, but I make no such promises
.

George glared at him for several seconds, and Camden felt the heat and weight of it, as if his anger were a corporeal being ready to physically strike him. And then it was gone as George stalked out of the office, his father seemingly satisfied that he had procured a promise of obedience from his son. He had no reason to believe otherwise. Camden had thus far always done as he was told, behaved as he was expected. And parts of Camden wanted to do that now, wanted to stave off any further conflict by doing what his father ordered. He should cease all contact with Del and redouble his efforts at the shipping company. Then his father would be happy — or at least not overtly furious; Camden doubted his father was ever actually happy — and Camden could continue living his rote life in relative peace.

He just — couldn’t. There was something in him, some small spark that became a little more inflamed every time he thought of Del, which prevented him from meekly submitting to his father’s demands. Yes, he could avoid any contact with her and buy himself a reprieve from his father’s fury, but he was beginning to think the price he paid — had been paying his entire life — was becoming more than he could bear.

He stared down at his desk until the numbers in the ledgers blurred, and he knew he would get no more work done tonight. He rose abruptly, toppling his chair over and scattering papers, but he was too frustrated to care about setting his office back to rights. He grabbed his coat and left the shipping offices. He needed air, needed to move, needed time to think. He would walk the streets until he was calmer, and then he would return to his office to finish the accounting.