Neferet's Curse Page 6

  Still, I’d breathed a deep, satisfied breath, taking in the cool night air and feeling the comfort lent to me by the concealing shadows. I’d wanted to steal just a few moments for myself—a few moments here, in my special place, to think about Arthur Simpton.

  He’d shown me such special kindness! It had been so long since I’d laughed, and even though I’d had to stifle my giggles, I had still felt them! Arthur Simpton had transformed the evening I had so dreaded from a strange and frightening event to the most magical dinner I had ever experienced.

  I hadn’t wanted it to end. I still do not want it to end.

  I remember that I could not contain myself for another moment. I stood, and holding wide my arms I twirled around in the darkness within the curtain of willow boughs and laughed joyously until, exhausted by the unaccustomed rush of emotion, I sank to the young grass, breathing hard and brushing from my face the thick fall of hair that had escaped my chignon.

  “You should never stop laughing. When you do, your beauty changes from extraordinary to divine and you look like a goddess come to earth to tempt us with your untouchable loveliness.”

  I’d scrambled to my feet, more thrilled than shocked as Arthur Simpton parted the willow boughs and stepped within.

  “Mr. Simpton! I-I did not realize anyone was—”

  “Mr. Simpton?” He’d cut me off with a warm, contagious smile. “Surely even your father would agree we need not be so formal here.”

  My heart had been pounding so loudly that I believe it drowned out the sound of my good sense that was shouting at me to hold my words, smile, and return quickly inside, because instead of doing any of those three reasonable things, I’d blurted, “My father would not agree to us being alone in the garden together, no matter what I call you.”

  Arthur’s smile had instantly dimmed. “Does your father disapprove of me?”

  I shook my head. “No, no, it is nothing like that—or at least I don’t believe so. It is just that since Mother’s death, Father seems to disapprove of everything.”

  “I am sure that is because he has so recently lost his wife.”

  “As I have so recently lost my mother!” I’d had enough sense remaining to me to press my lips together in a tight line and stop my outburst. Beginning to feel nervous, and incredibly clumsy, I’d walked to the marble bench and sat, trying to tidy my escaping hair, as I’d continued, “Forgive me, Mr. Simpton. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

  “Why ever not! Can we not be friends, Emily?” He’d followed me to the bench, but did not sit beside me.

  “Yes,” I’d said softly, glad my errant hair hid my face. “I would like us to be friends.”

  “Then you must call me Arthur and feel free to speak to me as you would a friend, and I will have to be certain your father finds nothing at all to disapprove of about me. I won’t even mention to him that I discovered you in the garden.”

  My hands had instantly stilled and dropped from my hair. “Please, Arthur. If you are my friend, promise me you will not mention that you saw me after I left the dining room.”

  I thought I saw what might have been surprise in his deep blue eyes, but it was replaced too soon by a kind, reassuring smile for me to have been sure. “Emily, I will say nothing of tonight to your father except to repeat what a lovely hostess his daughter was.”

  “Thank you, Arthur.”

  He did sit beside me then. Not close, but his scent came to me—cigars and something that was almost sweet. Thinking back I realize that was foolish. How could a man smell of sweetness? But I didn’t know him well enough yet to understand that the absence of strong spirits and cigars on his breath seemed sweet after Father’s foul odor.

  “Do you come here often?” His question had seemed such an easy one to answer.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And your father doesn’t know you do?”

  I’d hesitated only a moment. His eyes were so kind—his gaze so honest—and he said he’d wanted to be my friend. Surely I could confide in him, but perhaps I should do so carefully. I’d shrugged nonchalantly and found an answer that was as truthful as it was vague. “Oh, Father is so busy with business that he rarely even notices the gardens.”

  “But you like them?”

  I’d nodded. “I do. They’re beautiful.”

  “At night? But it’s so dark and you are so very alone.”

  “Well, as you are my friend now I feel I can tell you a secret, even though it may not be very ladylike.” I’d smiled shyly up at him.

  Arthur grinned mischievously. “Is it your secret that isn’t ladylike, or the telling of it to me?”

  “I am afraid perhaps it is both.” My shyness had begun to evaporate, and I’d even dared to lower my lashes coquettishly.

  “Now I am intrigued. As your friend, I insist you tell me.” He’d leaned a little toward me.

  I’d met his eyes and trusted him with the truth. “I like the darkness. It’s friendly and comforting.”

  His smile had dimmed, and I’d worried that I truly had let my words reveal too much. But when he spoke his voice had lost none of his kindness. “Poor Emily, I can imagine you’ve needed to be comforted these past months, and if this garden comforts you, day or night, then I say it is a wondrous place indeed!”

  I’d felt a rush of relief, and of joy at his empathy. “Yes, you see, it is my escape and my oasis. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. You’ll forget that it’s night.”

  “Well, all right. I will.” He’d closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “What is that lovely scent? I didn’t notice it until now.”

  “It’s the stargazer lilies. They’ve just begun to bloom,” I’d explained happily. “No, keep your eyes closed. Now, listen. Tell me what you hear.”

  “Your voice, which sounds to me as sweet as the lilies smell.”

  His compliment made my head light, but I’d scolded him with mock seriousness. “Not me, Arthur. Listen to the silence and tell me what you hear within it.”

  He’d kept his eyes closed, tilted his head, and said, “Water. I hear the fountain.”

  “Exactly! I especially like sitting here, hidden under this willow. It is as if I have found my own world where I can hear the sound of the water rushing from the fountain and imagine that I’m riding my bicycle again beside the lake with the wind in my hair and no one and nothing catching me.”

  Arthur opened his eyes and met my gaze. “No one? No one at all? Not even a special friend?”

  My whole body had felt flushed and I’d said, “Perhaps now I could imagine a friend joining me, and I do remember how you love to bicycle.”

  He’d surprised me then by slapping his forehead. “Bicycle! That reminds me of how I found you here in the garden. I excused myself early so that I might return home to speak to Father before he goes to bed. I’d bicycled here, and was alone, mounting my bicycle to return home when I heard laughter.” He’d paused, and his voice had deepened. “It was the most beautiful laughter I had ever in my life heard. It seemed to be coming from the grounds behind the house. I saw the garden gate, opened it, and followed the sound to you.”

  “Oh.” I’d breathed the word on a happy sigh, my face feeling even warmer. I’d said, “I am glad my laughter brought you to me.”

  “Emily, your laughter didn’t simply bring me to you—it drew me to you.”

  “I have another secret I could tell you,” I’d heard myself saying.

  “Then that is another secret I will keep and treasure as my own,” he’d said.

  “When I was laughing, I was thinking about how happy I was that you had been at dinner. I had been so terribly nervous before you sat beside me.” I’d held my breath, hoping I had not been what Mother would have called too forward with him.

  “Well, then, I am very, very pleased to announce that I will be returning to your home for your dinner party Saturday, and that I will be escorting a lovely woman with whom I hope you will also become fast friends.”

  My h
eart, already so battered and bruised, ached at his words. But I was learning the lesson of hiding my feelings well, so I put on the same interested expression and soft voice I used with Father and said, “Oh, how nice. It will be good to see Camille again. You should know she and I are already friends.”

  “Camille?” He’d looked utterly baffled. And then I could see his expression shift to understanding. “Oh, you mean Samuel Elcott’s daughter, Camille.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” I’d said, but already my bruised heart was beating more easily.

  “Of course? Why do you say ‘of course’?”

  “I thought it was understood that you were interested in courting Camille,” I’d said, and then felt my heart become lighter and lighter as he shook his head and replied with an empathic, “I don’t know how something I have no knowledge of could be understood.”

  I’d felt as if I should say something in defense of what I knew would be poor Camille’s great embarrassment had she heard Arthur’s words. “I believe the understanding was something Mrs. Elcott was hoping for.”

  Arthur’s dark brows lifted, along with the corners of his lips. “Well, then let me make your understanding clear. I will be escorting my mother to your dinner party on Saturday. My father’s gout is plaguing him, but Mother wishes to attend your first true social event in support of you. She is the friend I was hoping you would make.”

  “So, you will not be courting Camille?” I’d asked boldly, though breathlessly.

  Arthur stood then and, smiling, bowed formally to me. In a voice filled with warmth and kindness, he’d announced, “Miss Emily Wheiler, I can assure you it is not Camille Elcott I will be courting. And now I must, reluctantly, bid you a good night until Saturday.”

  He’d turned and left me breathless with happiness and expectation, and it had seemed to me that even the shadows around me reflected my joy with their beautiful, concealing mantle of darkness.

  But I hadn’t spent many more moments reveling in the magical events of the night. Though my heart was filled by Arthur Simpton and I wanted to think of nothing but our wondrous conversation and that he had practically left me with a promise that it would be me he would be courting in the future, my mind was cataloging the other, less romantic information Arthur had just provided me. Though my hands shake with joy as, safely in my room, I relive through this journal my meeting with Arthur, and begin to imagine what a future with him could bring, I must remember to be very quiet when I come to my garden spot.

  I must not ever draw anyone else there.

  April 27th, 1893

  Emily Wheiler’s Journal

  I begin this journal entry with trepidation. I can feel myself changing. I hope the change is for the better, but I confess that I am not certain it is. Actually, if I am to write with complete honesty, I must admit that even hope has changed its meaning for me.

  I am so confused! And so very, very afraid.

  Of only one thing am I sure, and that is that I must escape Wheiler House by any means possible. Arthur Simpton has provided me a logical and safe escape, and I have accepted him.

  I am not the giddy child I was eight days ago, after that first night Arthur and I spoke. I still find him kind and charming and, of course, handsome. I believe I could love him. A beautiful future is within my grasp, so why is it that I feel a growing coldness within me? Has the fear and loathing I have for Father begun to taint me?

  I shudder at the thought.

  Perhaps as I review the events of the past days, I will find the answers to my questions.

  Arthur’s garden visit had, indeed, changed my world. Suddenly, the Saturday dinner party was no longer something I dreaded—it was something I counted down the hours to. I threw myself into the menu, the decorations, and every tiny detail of my gown.

  What was going to be a five-course dinner that I’d uncaringly told Cook to resurrect from one of Mother’s old party books utterly changed. Instead, I raked through my memories, wishing I had paid better attention—any attention really—when Mother and Father had discussed the especially sumptuous social dinners they’d attended in the year before she had had to withdraw from society because of her pregnancy. Finally, I recalled how even Father had praised a particular dinner at the University Club that had been sponsored by his bank and held in honor of the exposition architects. I sent Mary, whose sister was one of the University Club’s legion of cooks, to get a copy of the menu—and then I was pleasantly surprised when she actually did return with a list of not simply the courses, but the wines that should accompany them. Cook, who I believe until then had mostly pitied and humored my attempts at menu making, began to look at me with respect.

  Next, I changed the table settings and decorations. I wanted to bring the garden inside, to remind Arthur of our time together, so I supervised the gardeners in cutting bushels of fragrant stargazer lilies from our gardens—though not from around the fountain. I also ordered them to gather cattails from the marshy area around the lakeshore, as well as curtains of ivy. Then I set about filling vases and vases with lilies, cattails, and trailing ivy, hoping all the while that Arthur would notice.

  And while I was in the center of a whirlwind of activity of my own creation, I realized something incredibly interesting—the more demanding I became, the more the people about me complied. Where once I had tiptoed around Wheiler House, the timid ghost of the girl I used to be, now I strode purposefully, calling out commands with confidence.

  I continue to learn. This lesson is one I’m finding most important. There may be a better way of ordering the world around me than my mother’s way. She used her beauty and her soft, pleasing voice to coax, cajole, and get her way. I am discovering that I prefer a stronger approach.

  Is that wrong of me? Is that part of the coldness I feel spreading within me? How can gaining confidence and control be wrong?

  Whether right or wrong, I used my newly discovered knowledge when I chose my gown. Father had, of course, commanded me to wear one of Mother’s green velvet gowns again.

  I refused.

  Oh, I was not foolish enough to refuse him outright. I simply rejected every one of my mother’s green velvet dresses Mary offered me. Where before she would have insisted until I capitulated, my new attitude and bearing had her befuddled.

  “But, lass, you must wear one of your mother’s gowns. Your father has been quite firm about it,” she’d protested one last time.

  “I will follow Father’s request, but it will be on my own terms. I am the Lady of Wheiler House and not a child’s doll to be dressed up.” I’d gone to my armoire and pulled from the recesses of it the gown I had planned on wearing for my Presentation Ball. It was cream silk with cascades of embroidered green ivy decorating the skirt. The bodice, though modest, was full, as was the skirt, but the waist was synched tiny, so that my figure became a perfect hourglass. And my arms were left alluringly, though appropriately, bare. I handed the gown to Mary. “Take a green velvet sash and bow from one of Mother’s dresses. I’ll wrap the sash around my waist, and stitch the bow to the side of the bodice. And bring me one of her green velvet hair ribbons. I’ll wear it tied around my neck. If Father objects, I can truthfully tell him that I am, as he asked, wearing Mother’s green velvet.”

  Mary frowned and muttered to herself, but she did as I told her to do. Everyone did as I told them to do. Even Father was subdued when I refused to go to the GFWC on Friday, saying that I was simply too busy.

  “Well, Emily, tomorrow everything must be just so—just so. Skipping this week’s volunteer duties is certainly understandable. It is commendable to see you fulfilling your responsibilities as Lady of Wheiler House.”

  “Thank you, Father.” I’d answered him with the same words I used countless times before, but hadn’t softened my tone and dropped my head. Instead, I looked him directly in the eye, and added, “And I won’t be able to dine with you this evening. There is just too much for me to do and time is too short.”

  “Indeed, w
ell, indeed. Be quite certain you make good use of your time, Emily.”

  “Oh, do not worry, Father. I will.”

  Nodding to himself, Father hadn’t seemed to notice that I’d left the room before he’d dismissed me.

  It had been a delicious luxury to command George to bring a tray up to my sitting room Friday evening. I ate in perfect peace, sipped a small glass of wine, and recounted the gold-foiled RSVPs—all twenty invitations had, indeed, been accepted.

  I had placed the Simptons’ reply card on the top of the pile.

  Then I lounged on my daybed that sat before my small, third-floor balcony, and burned six pillared candlesticks while I leafed through the latest Montgomery Ward catalog. For the first time I began to believe I might enjoy being Lady of Wheiler House.

  * * *

  Excitement didn’t keep me from feeling a dizzying rush of nerves when Carson made his announcement Saturday evening that the guests were beginning to arrive. I’d taken one final look in the mirror while Mary tied the thin velvet ribbon around my neck.

  “You are a great beauty, lass,” Mary had told me. “You will be a success tonight.”

  I’d lifted my chin and spoke to my reflection, banishing the ghost of my mother. “Yes, I will.”

  When I’d reached the landing, Father’s back was to me. He was already engaged in an animated conversation with Mr. Pullman and Mr. Ryerson. Carson was opening the front door for several couples. Two women—one I recognized as the rather plump Mrs. Pullman, and the other, a taller, more handsome woman—were admiring the large central arrangement of lilies, cattails, and draping ivy I’d spent so many hours on. Raised in pleasure, their voices had carried easily to me.

  “Well, this is quite lovely and unusual,” Mrs. Pullman said.

  The taller woman had nodded appreciatively. “What an excellent choice to use these lilies. They have filled the foyer with an exquisite scent. It is as if we entered a fragrant indoor garden.”

  I hadn’t moved. I’d wanted to take a private moment of pleasure, so I’d imagined, just for an instant, that I was back on my bench in the garden, curtained by willows, cloaked by darkness, and sitting beside Arthur Simpton. I’d closed my eyes, drawn a deep breath, inhaling calm, and as I released it his voice had lifted to me, as if carried on the power of my imaginings.