me greatly and I need to sleep now.”
Even on the dim landing I could see the intensity of his eyes as his hot gaze took in my loosened night robe and my free-falling hair. “Is that Alice’s robe you’re wearing?”
“No. This is my robe, Father.”
“You did not wear one of your mother’s dresses tonight.” His hand had tightened on my arm, and I knew there would be bruised shadows there the next day.
“I refashioned one of Mother’s dresses so that it fit me. That is probably why you didn’t recognize it,” I’d said quickly, sorry that I had been so stubborn—so vain—and that I had given him an excuse to focus his attention on me.
“Your figures are very similar, though.” He’d lurched toward me, closing the space between us and making it thick with alcohol fumes and sweat.
Panic lent my voice strength and I spoke more sharply than I have ever heard any woman speak to him. “Similar, but not the same! I am your daughter. Not your wife. I bid you to remember that, Father.”
He’d stopped moving toward me then and blinked, as if he couldn’t quite focus on me. I used his hesitation to pull my arm from his loosened grasp.
“What is it you’re saying?”
“I am saying good night, Father.” Before he could grab me again I’d turned, lifted my skirts, and raced up the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. I did not stop running until I closed the door to my bedchamber and leaned against it. My breath had been short and my heart had been beating frantically. I was sure, quite sure, that I heard his heavy feet following me, and I’d stood, trembling, afraid to move, even after all sounds outside my room went quiet.
My panic finally subsided, and I’d gone to my bed, pulling the coverlet around me, trying to still my thoughts and find the calm within me again. My eyelids had just begun to flutter when there was a heavy footstep outside my room. I burrowed farther down within my bed linens and watched, wide-eyed, as the doorknob slowly, silently turned. The door opened a crack and I squeezed my eyes closed, held my breath, and imagined with all of my mind that I was back on my bend under the willow tree, safely cloaked in the comforting shadows.
I know he entered my room. I am sure of it. I could smell him. But I remained perfectly silent, not moving, imagining I was hidden completely in darkness. It seemed a very long time, but I heard my door reclose. I’d opened my eyes to find my room empty, though scented with brandy, sweat, and my fear. Hastily I’d gotten out of bed. Barefoot, I used all of my strength to push and drag my heavy chest of drawers in front of my door, barring the entrance.
And still I did not allow myself to sleep until dawn lightened the sky and I heard the servants begin to stir.
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.
“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
“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?”
