Neferet's Curse

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