Neferet's Curse

by P. C. Cast

  And still I did not allow myself to sleep until dawn lightened the sky and I heard the servants begin to stir.

  * * *

  Sunday, I awoke and did what would become my morning ritual: I dragged the chest of drawers from before my door. Then I avoided Father the entire day. I told Mary that I was exhausted from the excitement of the dinner party, and that I wished to remain in my room, resting. I’d been quite firm, and Mary did not question me. She left me to myself, and for that I was grateful. I did sleep, but I also planned.

  I am not mad. I am not hysterical. I do not know exactly what it is I see in my father’s gaze, but I do know that it is an unhealthy obsession and it only reinforces my determination to leave Wheiler House soon.

  I went to my looking glass, stepped out of my day dress, and studied my naked body, cataloging my attributes. I have high, firm breasts, a slim waist, and generous hips that have no inclination to fat. My hair is thick and falls almost to my waist. Like my mother’s was, it is an unusual color—dark, but touched by rich auburn highlights. My lips are full. My eyes, again like Mother’s, are undeniably striking. It is a true comparison to name them emerald in color.

  With an utter lack of vanity or emotion I acknowledged that I was beautiful, even more beautiful than my mother, and she had often been called the most handsome woman in Second City. I also realized that, even though it was an abomination for his feelings to be such, it was my body, my beauty that my father so obviously coveted.

  My mind and heart were still filled with Arthur Simpton, but they were also filled with a sense of desperation that frightened me. I needed Arthur to love me not only because he was handsome and kind and well positioned in the world. I needed Arthur to love me because he was my escape. Monday, I would visit his home. Staring into my looking glass I resolved to do anything to gain his vow and his troth.

  If I am to save my life, I must make him mine.

  * * *

  Sunday evening, I’d expected Mary to bring me a dinner tray. Instead, Carson knocked on my door.

  “Excuse me, Miss Wheiler. Your father requests that you join him for dinner.”

  “Please tell Father that I am still unwell,” I’d said.

  “Be pardon, Miss, but your father has had Cook make a healing stew. He said either you come to the dining room, or he will join you in your parlor here for dinner.”

  I’d felt a horrible sickness and had to clasp my hands together to keep from showing how I was trembling. “Very well, then. Tell Father I will join him for dinner.”

  With leaden feet I made my way to the dining room. Father was already seated at his place, with the Sunday paper open and a glass of red wine raised to his lips. He’d looked up as I entered the room.

  “Ah, Emily! There you are. George!” he’d bellowed. “Pour Emily some of this excellent wine. That and Cook’s stew will have her right as rain in no time—right as rain.”

  I sat without speaking. Father didn’t seem to notice my silence.

  “Now, you know, of course, that the opening of the Columbian Exposition is exactly one week from tomorrow, on May the first. After the success of your dinner party last night, Mrs. Ayer as well as Mrs. Burnham have taken an especial interest in you. The ladies have invited you to be included in their opening ceremony festivities, which will culminate in dinner at the University Club.”

  I gaped at him, not able to hide my surprise. The University Club was exclusive and opulent and not a place young, single girls were invited. Women were rarely allowed there at all, and those allowed were chaperoned by husbands.

  “Well, have you nothing to say? Will you just gape like a codfish?”

  I’d closed my mouth and lifted my chin. He wasn’t drunk yet, and sober Father was much less frightening. “I am flattered by the ladies’ attentions.”

  “Of course you are. You should be. Now, you must consider carefully what you will wear. First we will be going to the Midway, and then to the club. You should choose one of your mother’s more elaborate gowns, but not one with such decadence that it would be out of place during the opening ceremonies.”

  One small thought had my heart lightening, and I’d nodded somberly. “Yes, Father. I agree the gown is very important. When I call on Mrs. Simpton tomorrow, I must ask her to help me in the choosing, and perhaps even in the alterations of it. She is a lady of impeccable taste and I’m sure she will—”

  He’d waved his hand, cutting me off. “I have already had Carson send word to your mother’s dressmaker to come to the house tomorrow. You have no time for such social frivolities as gallivanting about town. I have sent your excuses to the Simptons, and assured them it would not be necessary for that son of theirs to collect you. Instead, I will make a call on Mr. Simpton Monday evening for after-dinner brandy so that we may discuss business matters. That gout of his has kept him absent too long from board meetings. If Simpton will not go to the board, the president of the board will go to Simpton.”

  “What?” I’d pressed my fingers against my forehead, trying to stop the pounding in my temples. “You canceled my visit to the Simpton house? Why ever would you do that?”

  Father’s hard gaze met mine. “You have been ill all day, hiding away in your room. Too much excitement is obviously not good for your constitution, Emily. You will remain home this entire week so you will be fit for Monday next and the University Club.”

  “Father, I was simply tired from the party. Tomorrow I will be quite well. I am feeling more like myself already.”

  “Perhaps had you felt more like yourself earlier I would give credence to your words, but as it is, I have decided what is best for you—and that is saving yourself for Monday next. Have I made myself clear, Emily?”

  I sent his hard gaze back at him, in my imagination filling it with the depth of my loathing. “Yes, you have made yourself clear.” My voice had been stone.

  Father’s smile had been self-satisfied and cruel. “Good. Even your mother bowed to my will.”

  “Yes, Father, I know she did.” I should have stopped there, but my anger allowed my words to be free. “But I am not my mother, nor would I ever desire to be.”

  “You could do no better in life than to be the Lady your mother was.”

  I’d let my voice mirror the coldness expanding within me. “Do you ever wonder, Father, what Mother would say if she could see us now?”

  His eyes had narrowed. “Your mother is never far from my thoughts.”

  George began to serve the stew then, and Father neatly changed the subject, launching into a monologue about the ridiculous expenditures of the Exposition—like bringing an entire tribe of African pigmies to the Midway—and I sat silently, planning, thinking, plotting, and above all hating him.

  * * *

  I did not dare visit my garden that night. I excused myself before Father poured the brandy, smoothly using his own words against him by saying that I realized, after all, that he had been correct—I really was completely fatigued and must rest and be prepared for Monday next.

  I dragged the heavy chest of drawers before the door, then sat atop it with my ear pressed against the cold wood, listening. Until well after moonrise I heard him pacing back and forth on his landing.

  I was filled with frustration all of Monday. I so needed to call on Arthur and his parents! My only condolence was the fact that I was certain Arthur would see through Father’s ruse. I had already warned him of Father’s possessiveness. This would be but one more piece of evidence to prove my words true.

  Surely the Simptons would at least attend the opening of the Columbian Exposition, if not the dinner at the University Club as well. I would see Arthur again Monday next—I must see Arthur again then. I would use all of my wits to find an opportunity to speak with him. It would be forward of me, but my circumstances were such that they demanded drastic actions. Arthur was kind and reasonable. He and his mother had paid me special interest. Surely, between the three of us we would find a way to get around Father’s draconian
behavior.

  Draconian behavior. I had thought for many hours about how I could explain Father’s unnatural possessiveness. I had learned from Camille’s reaction when I had attempted, ever so slightly, to confide in her my distress about Father. Her shock had been complete and then she had excused my fears. Even Arthur, that night under the willow tree, had waved aside Father’s behavior as that of a grieving widower who mourned the loss of his wife and was, therefore, understandably careful of his daughter. I knew better. I knew the truth. His increasing attentions to me were not simply overbearing and possessive, they were becoming horrifyingly inappropriate. It was an abomination, but I had come to suspect my father wanted me to take the place of my mother, in all ways. I had also come to believe that my suspicions could never be shared. So, instead of the truth I would paint a picture of a gruff, domineering father who frightened my delicate sensibilities. I would appeal to the gentleman within Arthur to rescue me.

  It would be absurd for Father to turn down an honorable marriage proposal from a family with the wealth and social status of the Simptons. The alliance with their money and power would be too tempting. All I need do would be to secure Arthur’s affections and convince him that my fear of Father’s domination was so great that my health was at risk, and that we must have a short engagement. Father himself had taught me that men wanted to believe in the fragility and hysteria of women. Though Arthur was kind and good, he was a man.

  The dressmaker arrived late Monday afternoon. It was decided that Mother’s most elegant emerald silk gown would be reworked to fit my figure. I was still being fitted and pinned when Father had burst into my third-floor parlor without introduction or warning.

  I could see the shock in the dressmaker’s eyes. I had to raise my hands to cover my half-bared breasts as she had been in the process of repinning the dress’s bodice.

  Father’s gaze had seared my body.

  “The silk—an excellent choice.” He’d nodded in approval as he’d paced a complete circle around me.

  “Yes, sir. I agree. It will be lovely on your daughter,” said the dressmaker, lowering her eyes.

  “The gold lace is vulgar, though, for one so young as my Emily,” Father had announced. “Remove it.”

  “I can do so, sir, but then the dress will be completely unadorned and, if you beg pardon for me saying so, sir, the occasion calls for something spectacular.”

  “I disagree.” Father had stroked his beard and continued to study me and speak as if I weren’t in the room, but only a soulless manikin. “Make the cut simple, but pleasing. The silk is the richest it was possible to acquire on this side of the world, and Emily’s innocence is adornment enough for the dress. Otherwise, I will look to her late mother’s jewels and, perhaps, find something appropriate for the evening.”

  “Very good, sir. It will be as you desire.”

  The dressmaker had been tucking and pinning, so she had not seen the heat in my father’s eyes when he responded with, “Yes. It will, indeed, be as I desire.”

  I’d said nothing.

  “Emily, I expect you to come down for dinner soon. Afterward, I will call on the Simptons so that you may go to your bed and rest. I want you in good health for Monday next.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  * * *

  Except for one slight exchange, I had been silent during dinner. In the middle of Father’s latest tirade about the excesses of the Exposition and his worry that he would, once again, be proved correct and the bank would lose money, he abruptly changed the subject.

  “Emily, are you enjoying the time you volunteer with the GFWC each week?”

  I am not sure what came over me. Perhaps it was how utterly exhausted I’d been by the subterfuge required to keep living a life wherein I had been forced to play the part of dutiful daughter to a man unworthy of the title of father. Perhaps it was because of the growing coldness within me, but I’d decided not to lie or evade Father’s question. I met his gaze and told the truth.

  “No. Mrs. Armour is a hypocritical old woman. The poor and homeless of Chicago stink and behave badly. Little wonder they have to live on the charity of others. No, Father. I do not enjoy volunteering at the GFWC. It is a charade and a waste of my time.”

  Humph! He’d made a noise through his nose followed by a guffaw of laughter. “You just spoke almost the exact words I used to your mother when she’d petitioned for the bank’s charitable support of the GFWC. Well done you for understanding so quickly what your mother did not comprehend at more than two decades your senior.”

  I’d held my words. I would not barter my soul to be the ally of a monster. In silence I’d continued to push my food around my plate. Father had watched me while he drank deeply of the wine I had not had an opportunity to water.

  “But contributing to a charity is of the utmost importance for those of our social and financial status. Let us imagine, for a moment, you could support a charity of your own inception. Tell me, Emily, what would that be?”

  I’d hesitated enough to consider whether there could be any negative ramifications to answering him honestly, and I’d quickly decided I might as well speak my mind. It was obvious that I was his toy, his doll, his diversion. Nothing I said had the least bit of meaning to him at all.

  “I would not support the lower stratus of humanity. I would uplift those who strive to reach beyond the bounds of the mundane. I have heard Mr. Ayer speak of his collection of fine Native art. I have heard Mr. Pullman discuss adding electricity to Central Station and his more exclusive cars. If it were within my power, I would create a Palace of Fine Arts, and perhaps even a Museum of Science and Industry, and I would nurture excellence rather than sloth.”

  “Ha!” Father had slapped the table so violently his wine had sloshed over the rim of his glass, and ran like blood into the fine linen tablecloth. “Well said! Well said! I am in complete agreement. I proclaim from here on you will no longer volunteer at the GFWC.” Then he’d leaned forward and captured my gaze. “You know, Alice, we could accomplish great things together, the two of us.”

  My whole body had gone to ice. “Father, my name is Emily. Alice, your wife, my mother, is dead.” Before he could respond I stood and, as George entered the room with the dessert, I’d pressed the back of my hand against my forehead and staggered, almost fainting.

  “Miss, are you unwell?” The Negro had asked, frowning in concern.

  “As Father said yesterday, I am still fatigued from Saturday night. Could you please call Mary so that she may escort me to my room?” I’d glanced at Father and added, “May I be excused, Father? I would not want my weakness to keep you from calling on the Simptons tonight.”

  “Very well. George, call for Mary. Emily, I expect your health to be better tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Carson!” He’d bellowed, pushing away the dessert George had left for him. “Bring the carriage around at once!” Without another glance at me, he’d stalked from the room.

  Mary had come in immediately thereafter, whispering about the fragility of my health and herding me to my bedchamber as if she were a hen and I her chick. I’d let her help me out of my day dress and into my nightgown, and then curled into bed, assuring her that I would be well if I could just rest. She’d left me quickly, though I could see that she was honestly concerned for me.

  What could I have told her? She’d seen the heat of Father’s eyes on me. She and George and Carson, and probably even Cook, had to know that he stalked and imprisoned me. Yet none of them had said so much as one word against him. None of them had offered their aid in planning my escape.

  No matter. I must be the vehicle of finding my salvation.

  But that night, at least for an hour or two, I could orchestrate an escape, if only one of miniscule proportions.

  Father would be gone to Simpton House, and would be ingratiating himself in the family and attempting to appear the concerned patriarch for his poor, frail daughter.

  Again, no matt
er. It only meant that I could flee to my garden!

  On silent feet I tiptoed down the broad stairway, around the foyer, and made my way out the servants’ exit. I was not discovered. The house was as I preferred it, dark and quiet.

  The April night was dark, as well. And I found a great ease in the concealing shadows. With no lights on in the rear of the house, and no moon risen as yet, it seemed as if the shadows had overtaken the walkway completely and, welcomingly, they caressed my feet. As I hurried to my willow, I imagined that I drew the shadows to me so that they cloaked my body in darkness so complete that it would never, ever, allow me to be discovered.

  I’d followed the music of the fountain to my willow, parted the boughs, and gone to my bench, where I sat with my feet curled beneath me and my eyes closed, breathing deeply and evenly and searching for the serenity I’d always found there.

  How long I was there I have no real recollection. I tried to keep time in mind. I knew I must leave my safe place well before Father might return, but I was drinking deeply of the night. I did not want to be parted from it.

  The latch of the side gate to the garden had not been oiled, and its protesting voice had my head lifting from my hand and my body trembling.

  Moments later a nearby twig on the garden path snapped and I was certain I could make out footsteps shuffling through the gravel of the walkway.

  It could not be Father! I’d reminded myself. He does not know I come to the garden!

  Or does he? Frantically, my mind had raced back to the conversations of Saturday night—the women complimenting me on my flower arrangements; Mrs. Elcott’s sarcasm regarding my regard for the garden.

  No. It had not been mentioned that I was spending time in the garden. No! Father could not know. Only Arthur knew. He’d been the only person who—

  “Emily? Are you there? Please be there.”