Neferet's Curse: A House of Night Novella (House of Night Novellas) (5 page)

Perhaps I am having a bout of hysterics.

But I don’t lose my breath, or faint, or burst into flamboyant tears. So, is the coolness of my temperament more proof that I am mad? Or could how I feel be much like how any girl would feel whose mother’s death had so untimely come? Is Father’s hot gaze only a symptom of his widower’s grief? I do, indeed, have my mother’s eyes.

Whatever is true, I could not stay away from Camille and the life I missed so very much. This very afternoon I visited Camille again. We did not attempt to leave the Elcott home this time. It was an unspoken agreement between us that we knew our visit would end abruptly with Carson coming to escort me home. Camille embraced me and then called for tea in the old nursery that had been made over into a rose wallpapered parlor for the Elcott daughters. While we were alone Camille had grasped my hand.

“Emily, I am so very glad to see you! I’ve been worried! When I called on you last Wednesday, your father’s valet told me you were unavailable. That is exactly what he said the Friday before as well.”

“I was
unavailable
.” I curled my lip and empathized the word. “Both days I was at dreary Market Hall, being a servant to the homeless of Chicago.”

Camille’s smooth brow furrowed. “Then you haven’t been ill?”

I snorted. “Not ill of body, but ill of mind and heart. It is as if Father expects me to take Mother’s place in all things.”

Camille fanned herself with her delicate fingers. “I’m so relieved! I thought you might have been struck by the pneumonia. You know Evelyn died of it last week.”

I felt a shudder of shock. “I didn’t know. No one told me. How terrible … how very terrible.”

“Don’t be frightened. You look strong and as beautiful as ever.”

I shook my head. “Beautiful and strong? I feel as if I am one thousand years old, and that the whole world has passed me by. I miss you and I miss my old life so very much!”

“Mother says what you’re doing is more important than the girls’ games we used to play, and I know she must be right—being lady of a great house is very important.”

“But I’m
not
the Lady of a great house! I am more servant than anything else.” I felt as if I wanted to explode. “I’m not allowed to breathe one bit of freedom.”

Camille tried to put a cheery face on my changes. “It is the middle of April. In two weeks it will be six months since your mother’s death. Then you will be free of mourning and be able to rejoin society.”

“I don’t know if I can even bear two more weeks of everything being so very dreary and so very
boring
until then.” I’d chewed my lip at Camille’s surprised look, and hurried to explain. “Being the Lady of Wheiler House is a job—a terribly serious job. Everything must be just so—and just so means exactly how Father wants it, which is how Mother had it. I didn’t understand how hard and grim it is to be a wife.” I drew a deep breath and said, “She tried to tell me. That day. The day she died. That is why I was in the birthing room with her. Mother said she wanted me to know what it was to be a wife, and to not go blindly into it as she had. So I watched. Camille, I watched her die in a flood of blood, with no loving husband holding her hand and mourning at her side. That is what it is to be a wife—loneliness and death. Camille, we must never get married!”

Camille had been stirring her tea quite manically while I’d been unburdening myself of thoughts I’d been longing to share with someone. She dropped her spoon at my exclamation. I’d watched her gaze flick nervously to the closed parlor-room door, and then back to me. “Emily, I do not think it is good that you linger on thoughts of your mother’s death. It cannot be healthy.”

I understand now, as I record our conversation, that I had begun to say more than Camille could bear to hear and I should have ended the subject and kept my thoughts to myself and to this, my silent, nonjudgmental, journal. But then all I had wanted was someone to talk with—to share my growing fears and frustrations with, so I continued. “My thoughts
must
linger on her death. Mother herself wished it so. It was she who insisted I be there. She who wanted me to know the truth. I think, maybe, Mother knew her death was near and that she was trying to warn me—trying to show me that I should choose a different path than that of wife and mother.”

“A different path? Whatever can you mean? Religious work?”

Camille and I had curled our noses together, our minds completely alike in this aspect.

“Hardly! You should see the spinsters from the church who volunteer at the GFWC. They are so drawn and pathetic, like unfed sparrows pecking at the scraps of life. No, I’ve been thinking about the lovely little shops that have opened around the Loop. If I can run Wheiler House, certainly I can run a simple hat shop.”

“Your father would never allow that!”

“If I could make my own way, I would not need his permission,” I’d said firmly.

“Emily,” Camille had said, sounding worried and a little frightened. “You cannot be thinking of leaving home. All sorts of terrible things happen to girls with no family and no money.” She’d lowered her voice and leaned closer to me. “You know the vampyres just moved into their palace. They bought all of Grant Park for their terrible school!”

I’d shrugged dismissively. “Yes, yes, Father’s bank handled the transaction. He’s talked endlessly about them and their money. They call the school a House of Night. Father says it’s completely walled off from the rest of the city and guarded constantly by their own warriors.”

“But they drink blood! They are
vampyres
!”

I’d been thoroughly irritated that the subject of the miserable state of my life had been overshadowed by one of Father’s clients. “Camille, vampyres are rich. Everyone knows that. They have schools in many American cities as well as the capitals of Europe. They even helped to finance the building of the Eiffel Tower for Paris’s World’s Fair.”

“I heard Mother say vampyre women are in charge of their society,” Camille had whispered while she glanced at the parlor door again.

“If that is true I say good for them! Were I a vampyre, I could choose not to be trapped by my father into pretending to be my mother.”

Camille’s eyes had widened. I’d definitely found a way to turn the conversation back to my troubles. “Emily, he couldn’t want you to pretend to be your mother. That makes no sense.”

“Sense or no, that is how it seems to me.”

“You must look at it with different eyes, Emily. Your poor father simply needs your help through this difficult time.”

I’d felt as if the inside of me was beginning to boil, and I couldn’t stop my words. “I hate it, Camille. I hate trying to take Mother’s place.”

“Of course you would hate feeling like you must make up for your Mother’s absence. I can hardly imagine all that there is for you to do,” Camille had said, nodding somberly. “But when you are the great Lady of a house, there are also jewels to buy and dresses to be commissioned and brilliant parties to host.” She’d found her smile again as she’d poured more tea into my cup. “As soon as you’re out of mourning, all
that
will be your responsibility, too.” She’d giggled and I’d stared at her, realizing she had no understanding at all of what I was trying to tell her. When I didn’t speak, she went on, chattering happily, as if both of us were carefree girls. “The Columbian Exposition opens in two weeks, just in time for you to be out of mourning. Think of it! Your father will probably need you to host dinner parties for all sorts of foreign dignitaries.”

“Camille, Father won’t allow me to bicycle. He cuts short my visits with you. I cannot imagine him allowing me to host dinner parties for foreigners,” I’d tried to explain, to make her understand.

“But that is what your mother would do, and as you have said, he has made it clear that you inherited her place in the household.”

“He has made it clear that I am trapped to be his slave and his imaginary wife!” I’d shouted. “The only time for myself I can manage are the few minutes I steal with you, and the time I spend in Mother’s garden—and then only at night. During the daylight hours he has the servants spy on me and sends them after me if he’s displeased by where I’m going or what I’m doing. You know that! Even here they come fetch me as if I am an escaped prisoner. Being the Lady of a great house isn’t a fantasy come true—it is a waking nightmare.”

“Oh, Emily! I do hate seeing you so distraught. Remember what Mother said all those months ago—the care you’re taking of your father will make the man who becomes your husband very happy. I envy you, Emily.”

“Don’t envy me.” I saw that the coldness in my voice hurt her, but I could not help myself. “I have no mother, and I’m trapped with a man whose eyes burn me!” I broke off my words and pressed the back of my hand against my mouth.

I knew the instant her expression changed from concern to shock, and then to disbelief that I had made a dire mistake in speaking the truth.

“Emily, whatever do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” I’d assured her. “I’m tired, that’s all. I misspoke. And I shouldn’t be taking up all our time together just talking about me. I want to hear about you! So, tell me, has Arthur Simpton made his courtship of you formal yet?”

As I knew it would, mention of Arthur took away all other thoughts from Camille’s mind. Though he hadn’t spoken to her father yet, Camille had, several times, ridden side by side with him during the Hermes Club’s mid-morning lakeshore route. He’d even chatted with her the day before about how intrigued he was about the enormous Ferris wheel everyone could see being erected on the Midway of the exposition grounds.

I was going to tell Camille I was happy for her, and that I wished her well with Arthur, but the words wouldn’t form in my mouth. It wasn’t that I was being selfish or envious. It was simply that I could not stop thinking of the unalterable fact that should Arthur court Camille it would come to be one day, in the not too distance future, that my friend would find herself in servitude to him, waiting to die alone in a flood of blood …

“Beg pardon, Miss Elcott. Mr. Wheiler’s valet is here to collect Miss Wheiler.” When Camille’s maid had interrupted I realized I hadn’t been listening to what Camille had been saying for several minutes.

“Thank you,” I said, getting up quickly. “I really must get back.”

“Miss Wheiler, the valet asked that I give this note to you, and that you deliver it to Miss Elcott.”

“A note? For me? How exciting!” Camille had said. With a stomach filled with dread, I passed it to her eager fingers. She’d opened it quickly, read it, blinked twice, and then a radiant smile transformed her face from pretty to beautiful. “Oh, Emily, it’s from your father. Instead of your having to rush here whenever you can find time, he has invited me to call on you at Wheiler House and to visit with you in the formal parlor.” She’d squeezed my hands happily. “You won’t have to leave the house at all. See, it is just like you’re a great Lady! I’ll come straightaway next week. Perhaps Elizabeth Ryerson will join me.”

“That would be nice,” I’d said woodenly before following Carson to the black carriage that waited outside. When he closed the door behind me, I felt as if I couldn’t catch my breath. The entire ride back to Wheiler House, I had spent gasping for air, as would a fish held out of the water.

As I finish this, my first journal entry in months, I remind myself that I must never forget Camille’s response to my confidence. She reacted with shock and confusion, and then she reverted to our girlish dreams.

If I am mad, I must keep my thoughts to myself for fear no one else
can
understand them.

If I am not mad, but am truly as much a prisoner as I am coming to believe I am, I must keep my thoughts to myself for fear no one else
will
understand them.

In either scenario there is one constant—it is only upon myself I can rely and upon my own wits to devise a way to save myself, providing salvation for me exists at all.

No! I will not fall into melancholia. I live in a modern world. Young women can leave home and find new lives—different futures. I must use my wits and my wiles. I will find a way to be the conductor of my own life! I will!

Once again, I find myself recording my innermost thoughts in my journal as I await the rise of the moon and its heralding of the deepest darkness of night so that I may go to my one true escape—the shadows of the garden and the concealing comfort I find there. The night has become my security, my shield, and my comfort—let us hope that it doesn’t also become my shroud …

April 19th, 1893
Emily Wheiler’s Journal

My hands shake as I write.

I must make them stop! I must record all that has happened with accuracy. If I leave legible record of it, I shall be able to look back upon the events of the past several days when my mind is calmer, more rational, and I may then relive every bit of discovery and wonder, and not because I believe I could be mad! No, not at all! I wish to record my remembrances for a much different, a much more joyous reason. I have discovered the way to a new future! Or rather,
he
has discovered me! Someday I know I will wish to sift through the web of events that have caught me up, have carried me on a tide of surprise and joy and—
yes I will confess it here, perhaps even love!
Someday, when my own children are grown—
yes, I may indeed embrace the path of wife and mother—
I can reread this and tell them the story of my romance with their beloved father and how he saved me from bondage and fear.