Neferet's Curse: A House of Night Novella (House of Night Novellas) (3 page)

I hadn’t said anything then. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Arthur had, quite often, looked our way, but the both of us knew it was my eyes he met when he tipped his hat, and my name he called a “Bright, good morning, Miss Emily” to.

I shook my head, feeling woozy and slow. I turned to Camille. “Arthur Simpton? He danced with you?”

“Most of the evening,” Mrs. Elcott had spoken for her daughter, nodding her head so quickly the feathers on her hat fluttered with disturbing violence, making her look even more henlike. “In truth Camille and I believe Arthur Simpton will approach Mr. Elcott soon and ask permission to formally court her.”

My stomach had felt terrible and hollow. How could he court Camille? Little over two months ago he hadn’t so much as spoken her name to wish her a good morning. Could such a short amount of time change him so drastically?

Yes, I’d decided silently and quickly. Yes, a short amount of time could change anyone drastically. It had certainly changed me.

I’d opened my mouth to speak, though I was still not sure what it was I was going to say, and Father had burst into the room, looking frazzled and wearing no jacket.

“Ah, Emily, here you are.” He’d nodded absently to Mrs. Elcott and Camille, saying, “Good afternoon, ladies.” Then he’d turned his full attention to me. “Emily, which waistcoat should I wear this evening? The black or the burgundy? The board is meeting again with those infernal architects, and I need to use a firm hand. The right tone must be set. Their budget is out of control and time is short. The fair must open May the first. They are simply not prepared. They climb too steep—too steep!”

I blinked, trying to focus on the bizarre scene. Arthur Simpton’s name linked with Camille’s had still been almost tangible in the air around us while Father stood there, his dress shirt untucked and only partially buttoned, a waistcoat in each hand, waving them about as if they were flags unfurled. Mrs. Elcott and Camille were staring at him as if he had lost his mind.

I was suddenly angry, and I’d automatically come to Father’s defense.

“Mother always said the black is more formal, but the burgundy is richer. Wear the burgundy, Father. The architects should see you as rich enough to control the money and, therefore, their futures.” I’d tried my best to pitch my voice softly to mimic my mother’s soothing tone.

Father had nodded. “Yes, yes, it should be as your mother said. The richer is the better. Yes, well done.” He’d bowed briskly to the other two women, wishing them a good day, and then he hurried out. Before the door closed, I could see his valet, Carson, joining him in the hallway and taking the discarded black waistcoat that was tossed his way.

When I turned back to the Elcott women, I lifted my chin. “As you can see, Father has been depending upon me.”

Mrs. Elcott had lifted a brow and sniffed. “I do see. Your father is a fortunate man, and the man to whom he eventually marries you will be fortunate, as well, to have such a well-trained wife.” Her gaze went to her daughter and then she smiled silkily as she’d continued, “Though I imagine your father won’t want to part with you for several years, so marriage is out of the question for your foreseeable future.”

“Marriage?” A jolt had gone through me at the word. Camille and I had talked about it, of course, but we had mostly whispered about the courting, the betrothal, the sumptuous wedding … and not the actual marriage itself. Mother’s voice had suddenly echoed from my memory:
Emily, you will not leave me … You should know what it is to be a wife and mother. You should not go blindly into it as did I.
I’d felt a shudder of panic and added, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly think about marriage now!”

“Of course you can’t think about marriage right now! Neither of us should—not really. We’re sixteen. That’s entirely too young. Isn’t that what you’ve always said, Mother?” Camille had sounded strained, almost frightened.

“Thinking about a thing and preparing for a thing are not one and the same, Camille. Opportunity should not be overlooked. And
that
is what I have always said.” Mrs. Elcott had peered down her long nose at me while she spoke with disdain.

“Well, I think it is a good thing that I am devoted to my father,” I’d responded, feeling horribly uncomfortable and unsure of what else to say.

“Oh, we are all in agreement about that!” Mrs. Elcott had said.

They hadn’t stayed long after Father’s appearance. Mrs. Elcott had rushed Camille off, not giving us even one small chance to speak to each other alone. It was as if she’d gotten what she’d come for and left satisfied.

And me? What had I gotten?

I’d hoped for validation. Even though the affection of the handsome young Arthur Simpton had turned from me to my friend, I’d believed it was my duty as a daughter to care for my father. I’d felt that Camille and her mother would see that I was doing my best to carry on after Mother—that in a little over two months I’d grown from girl to woman. I’d thought that somehow I could make the loss of Mother bearable.

But in the long, silent hours after their visit, my mind had begun to replay the events and to view their facets differently, and on retrospection I feel my second view to be more valid than my first. Mrs. Elcott had wanted substantiation of the gossip; she’d gotten her wish. She had also wanted to make it very clear that Arthur Simpton would not now be a part of my future and that no man—other than Father—would be a part of my foreseeable future. She had accomplished both tasks.

I’d sat up that night and waited for Father’s return. Even now, as I record what happened next, I cannot fault myself for my actions. As the Lady of Wheiler Mansion, it was my duty to see Father cared for—to be there with a tea or possibly a brandy for him—as I’d imagined Mother had often done upon his late return from work dinners. I had expected Father to be tired. I had expected him to be himself: aloof, gruff, and overbearing, yet polite and appreciative of my fidelity.

I had not expected him to be drunk.

I’d seen Father filled with wine. I had glimpsed him red nosed and effusive in his praise of Mother’s beauty as they went out in the evenings, dressed formally and trailing the scent of lavender, lemon, and cabernet. I cannot remember ever seeing them upon their return. Had I not been asleep in my bed, I would have been brushing my hair or embroidering the fine details of violets at the bodice of my newest day dress.

I realize now that Father and Mother had been to me like distant moons circling the self-absorption of my youth.

That night Father evolved from moon to burning sun.

He’d lurched inside the foyer, calling loudly for his valet, Carson. I’d been in Mother’s parlor, trying to keep my heavy eyes open by rereading Emily Brontë’s gothic novel,
Wuthering Heights.
At the sound of his voice, I’d put the book aside and hurried to him. His scent came to me before I saw him. I remember that I pressed a hand against my nose, flustered at the rankness of brandy, sweat, and cigars. As I write this, I am afraid that those three odors will for me, forever, be the scent of man, and the scent of nightmares.

I’d rushed to his side, pursing my lips at the thick reek of his breath, thinking that he must not be well.

“Father, are you ill? Shall I call the physician?”

“Physician? No, no, no! Right as rain. I’m right as rain. Just need some help getting to Alice’s room. Not as young as I used to be—not at all. But I can still do my duty. I’ll get her with a son yet!” Father swayed as he talked, and he’d put a heavy hand on my shoulder to steady himself.

I staggered under his weight, guiding him to the wide stairway, so worried that he was ill that I hardly comprehended what he was saying. “I’m here. I’ll help you,” was what I whispered over and over to him. He’d leaned even more heavily on me as we climbed clumsily up to the second floor and finally stopped outside his bedchamber. He’d shaken his head back and forth, mumbling, “This isn’t her room.”

“It is your bedchamber,” I’d said, wishing his valet or
anyone
would appear.

He’d squinted at me, as if he were having trouble focusing. Then his slack, drunken expression had changed. “Alice? So, you
are
willing to break your frigid rules and join my bed tonight.”

His hand had been hot and damp on the shoulder of my fine linen nightgown.

“Father, it’s me, Emily.”

“Father?” He’d blinked and brought his face down closer to mine. His breath had almost made me retch. “Emily. Indeed. It is you. Yes, you. I know you now. You cannot be Alice, she is dead.” His face still so very close to mine, he added, “You’re too thin, but you do have her eyes.” He’d reached out then and lifted a strand of the thick, auburn hair that had escaped my nightcap. “And her hair. You have her hair.” He’d rubbed my hair between his fingers and slurred, “You must eat more—shouldn’t be so thin.” Then, bellowing for Carson to attend him, Father let loose my hair, shoved me aside, and staggered into his room.

I should have retreated to my own bed then, but a terrible unease had come over me and I ran, allowing my feet to carry me where they willed. When I finally halted, gasping to catch my breath, I found my blind flight had taken me into the gardens that stretched for more than five acres in the rear of our house. There I collapsed on a stone bench that sat, concealed, under the curtain of a massive willow tree, and put my face in my hands and wept.

Then something magical happened. The warm night breeze lifted the willow branches and the clouds blew away, exposing the moon. Though only a slim crescent, it was almost silver in its brilliance, and it seemed to beam metallic light into the garden, setting aglow the huge white marble fountain that was its central feature. Within the fountain, spewing water from his open mouth, was the Greek god Zeus, in the form of the bull that had tricked and then abducted the maiden, Europa. The fountain had been a wedding gift from Father to Mother, and had been at the heart of Mother’s extensive garden since my earliest memories.

Perhaps it was because the fountain was Mother’s, or perhaps it was from envy for the musicality of the bubbling water, but my tears stopped as I studied it. Eventually, my heartbeat slowed and my breathing became normal. And, even when the moon became cloaked by clouds once again, I remained beneath the tree, listening to the water and allowing it, as well as the concealing willow shadows, to soothe me until I knew I could sleep. Then I slowly made my way up to my third-floor bedchamber. That night I dreamed I was Europa and the white bull was carrying me away to a beautiful meadow where no one ever died and where I was, eternally, young and carefree.

April 15th, 1893
Emily Wheiler’s Journal

I should have written
in my journal before now, but the months since my last entry have been so confusing—so difficult—that I have not been myself. Childishly, I thought that by not writing, not recording the events that have unfolded, I could make it seem as if they had not happened—would not continue to happen.

I was so very wrong.

Everything has changed, and I must use this journal as evidence. Even if I am losing my mind, it will show an unraveling of madness and, as I originally hoped, provide a path for my treatment. And if, as I am coming to suspect, I am not mad, a record of these events should be made and might, somehow, aid me if I must choose a new future.

Let me begin anew.

After that cold night in January when Father returned home drunk, I have never waited up for him again. I tried not to think much on it—tried not to remember his breath, the hot, heavy feel of his hand, and the things he’d said.

Instead, when he departed for late dinner meetings, I wished him a pleasant good evening, and said I would be sure Carson attended to him when he returned.

At first that stopped his burning looks. I was so busy with the running of Wheiler House that except for our dinners together, I saw Father very little.

But over the past months the dinners had changed. Rather, the dinners hadn’t changed—the amount of wine consumed by Father is what changed. The more Father drank, the more often his eyes burned into me as he bid me good night.

I began to carefully water his wine. He has not, yet, noticed.

And then I threw all of my attention into taking complete responsibility for the running of Wheiler House. Yes, of course, Mary and Carson helped me … advised me. The cook made grocer lists, but I approved the menus. As Mary had once commented, it was as if my mother’s spirit had taken me over, and I was a girl no more.

I tried to tell myself that was a good thing—a lovely compliment. The truth was then as it is today—I think I did my duty, and continue to do my duty—but I am not sure that is a good thing at all.

It is not simply the work of being Lady of Wheiler House that has so changed me. It is how people began to change in their treatment of me. Yes, at first I had been overwhelmed by the extent of Mother’s duties. I’d had no idea that she not only ran the household, instructed the servants, saw to every detail of Father’s routine, supervised me,
and
volunteered twice a week at the General Federation of Women’s Club, helping to feed and care for the homeless women and children of Chicago. Mother had been dead five months, and during that time I had completely dedicated myself to being Lady of Wheiler House. Thus when Evelyn Field and Camille called on me one mid-morning early last month, asking if I would like to join them in riding our bicycles to the shore and picnicking, I’d been justifiably overwhelmed with the joy the freedom of the moment provided, especially as I had thought that Father had already left for the bank.