imagery, and my favorite tree, the willow, inside tonight.”
“Oh, I see! The cattails evoke the presence of water,” Mrs. Simpton had said.
“And the trailing ivy is arranged much like the fronds of a willow,” Mrs. Ayer had said, nodding in obvious appreciation. “That was an excellent idea.”
“Emily, I haven’t known you to be particularly fond of the garden. I thought you and Camille were much more concerned with bicycling and the latest Gibson Girl styles than gardening.” Mrs. Elcott had spoken with the exact tone of condescension I had been dreading.
For a moment I said nothing. There had seemed to be a breathless silence in the room, as if the house itself awaited my response. Would I be a girl or a lady?
I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and met Mrs. Elcott’s patronizing gaze. “Indeed, Mrs. Elcott, I have enjoyed bicycling and Gibson Girl styles, but that was when my mother, your particular friend, was Lady of Wheiler House. She is dead. I have had to step into her role, and I find that I must be concerned with things that are not so girlish.” I’d heard clucks of concern and several of the women whispered
“Oh, you sweet girl.” Mrs. Simpton had patted my shoulder. “As your father said earlier, you are a credit to your family. Your mother and I were not well acquainted, but I am a mother with daughters of my own, so I feel confident when I say that she would be very proud of you, very proud indeed!”
Then each of the ladies, in turn, consoled me and assured me of their admiration. Each of the ladies except Mrs. and Miss Elcott. Camille and her mother said little for the rest of the evening, and were the first of my guests to leave.
An hour or so later, when the men came to collect their women, conversation flowed in my parlor as freely as brandy had obviously flowed in Father’s library. Our guests bade us effusive good nights, praising everything about the evening.
Arthur and his mother were the last to depart.
“Mr. Wheiler, it has been quite some time since I have had such an agreeable evening,” Mrs. Simpton told Father, as he bowed to her. “And I do so appreciate it, as I have been uncommonly worried about my good husband’s health. But your daughter was such an attentive hostess that I feel my spirits have been lifted.”
“Pleasantly said, pleasantly said,” Father had slurred, weaving a little as he stood beside me just within the foyer.
“Please, Madam, send Mr. Simpton my best wishes for a swift recovery,” I’d said, holding my breath in hopeful anticipation of her next words.
“Well, you must call on Mr. Simpton yourself!” Arthur’s mother had exclaimed, just as I’d wished her to. “You would be such a lovely diversion for him, especially as he desperately misses our two daughters. They are both married and remained in New York with their husbands’ families.”
“I would enjoy calling on you very much,” I’d said, touching Father’s arm and adding, “Father, do you not think it would be a kindness to visit Mr. and Mrs. Simpton, as he has been so unwell?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Father had said, nodding dismissively.
“Excellent. Then I shall send Arthur around with our carriage on Monday afternoon.”
“Arthur? The carriage? I do not—” Father had begun but Mrs. Simpton had interrupted, nodding her head as if she agreed with whatever edict he was getting ready to speak. “I do not like the current craze of young people bicycling everywhere, either. And those bloomers girls are wearing—atrocious!” Mrs. Simpton had leveled her gaze on her son. “Arthur, I know that you are fond of your bicycle, but Mr. Wheiler and I insist his daughter travels in a more civilized manner. Do we not, Mr. Wheiler?”
“Indeed,” Father had agreed. “Bicycles are not appropriate for ladies.”
“Precisely! So my son will take the carriage for Miss Wheiler on Monday afternoon. It is well decided. Good night!” Mrs. Simpton had taken her son’s arm. Arthur bowed formally to Father, bidding him good night. When he turned to me his bow was just as formal, but his gaze met mine and his quick wink was for me alone.
As soon as the door closed I went into action. I’d recognized Father’s weaving and slurring. My heart was too filled with the success of the evening and the obvious attentions being paid me by Arthur and his mother. I’d not wanted to take any chance that Father would ruin my happiness with his alcohol breath, his hot, heavy hands, and his burning gaze.
“I’ll wish you a good night now, Father,” I’d said with a quick curtsey. “I must see that everything is back in its proper place tonight, and it is already so late. Carson!” I’d called and then had breathed a great sigh of relief when Father’s valet hurried into the foyer. “Please help Father to his bedchamber.”
Then I’d turned and, with purposeful, confident strides, retreated from the room.
And Father hadn’t called me back!
I’d been so giddy with victory that I practically danced into the dining room where, just as I’d already directed, George was putting everything back to order.
“Leave the flower arrangements, George,” I’d directed him. “The scent really is spectacular.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Mary was tidying the parlor. “You can leave that for now. I’d rather have you help me out of this gown. I am exhausted.”
“Yes, Miss,” had been her response, as well.
Had I actually ended the night after Mary had helped me into my sleep chemise, I would be recording that as the most perfect evening of my life. Sadly, I was too restless for sleep—too restless to even write of the evening’s events in my journal. I’d craved the comfort of my sweet, familiar garden, and the soothing touch of the darkness that brought me a special sense of calm.
I’d wrapped my night robe around me and, on slippered feet I’d padded silently, swiftly, down the wide stairway. I heard the servants distantly in the kitchen, but no one saw me as I slipped from the house and into my gardens.
It had been late—much later than I usually ventured outside, but the moon was more than half full, and my feet knew their way. My willow awaited me. Under its curtained darkness I curled up on the marble bench, gazed at the fountain, and then, like each memory was a jewel, I sifted through the events of the evening.
Arthur Simpton’s mother had made it clear that she prefers me! It had even seemed that she and her son were in cahoots, and that they worked together to slip around Father’s possessive disapproval.
I’d wanted to stand and dance and laugh with joy, but Arthur had taught me a valuable lesson. I had no intention of anyone, not even one of the servants, discovering my special place, so I remained quietly on the bench and imagined myself dancing and laughing in joy under my willow tree, and I promised myself then that someday I would be Lady of my own great house, and my Lord and husband would have kind blue eyes and a warm smile.
As I write this, remembering the evening, I do not believe my manipulations malicious. Arthur and his mother had paid me special attention. Was it wrong that I wanted to use their affections to escape a situation I was finding more and more difficult to bear?
The answer I find is no. I would be good to Arthur. I would be close to his mother. I was not doing an evil act by encouraging the Simptons.
But I digress. I must continue to report the horrific events that followed.
That night, the comfortable shadows beneath my willow tree had worked their usual magic. My mind had ceased its whirring and I’d felt a lovely sleepiness come over me. Almost as if I was in a waking dream, I’d slowly, languidly, left the gardens and made my way back through the dark, silent house. I was yawning widely when I reached the second-floor landing. I’d covered my mouth to stifle the sound when Father stepped from the unlit hallway.
“What are you doing?” His words were rough, and came to me on a wave of brandy and garlic.
“I just wanted to be sure everything was set to rights before I went to sleep. All is well, though, so good night, Father.” I’d turned and tried to continue up the stairs when his heavy hand caught my arm.
“You should have a drink with me. It would be good for your hysteria.”
I’d stopped moving the instant he’d touched me, afraid if I began to struggle away from him, he would only grasp all the tighter to my arm. “Father, I do not have hysteria. I only have weariness. The dinner party has tired
