could respond I stood and, as George entered the room with the dessert, I’d pressed the back of my hand against my forehead and staggered, almost fainting.
“Miss, are you unwell?” The Negro had asked, frowning in concern.
“As Father said yesterday, I am still fatigued from Saturday night. Could you please call Mary so that she may escort me to my room?” I’d glanced at Father and added, “May I be excused, Father? I would not want my weakness to keep you from calling on the Simptons tonight.”
“Very well. George, call for Mary. Emily, I expect your health to be better tomorrow.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Carson!” He’d bellowed, pushing away the dessert George had left for him. “Bring the carriage around at once!” Without another glance at me, he’d stalked from the room.
Mary had come in immediately thereafter, whispering about the fragility of my health and herding me to my bedchamber as if she were a hen and I her chick. I’d let her help me out of my day dress and into my nightgown, and then curled into bed, assuring her that I would be well if I could just rest. She’d left me quickly, though I could see that she was honestly concerned for me.
What could I have told her? She’d seen the heat of Father’s eyes on me. She and George and Carson, and probably even Cook, had to know that he stalked and imprisoned me. Yet none of them had said so much as one word against him. None of them had offered their aid in planning my escape.
No matter. I must be the vehicle of finding my salvation.
But that night, at least for an hour or two, I could orchestrate an escape, if only one of miniscule proportions.
Father would be gone to Simpton House, and would be ingratiating himself in the family and attempting to appear the concerned patriarch for his poor, frail daughter.
Again, no matter. It only meant that I could flee to my garden!
On silent feet I tiptoed down the broad stairway, around the foyer, and made my way out the servants’ exit. I was not discovered. The house was as I preferred it, dark and quiet.
The April night was dark, as well. And I found a great ease in the concealing shadows. With no lights on in the rear of the house, and no moon risen as yet, it seemed as if the shadows had overtaken the walkway completely and, welcomingly, they caressed my feet. As I hurried to my willow, I imagined that I drew the shadows to me so that they cloaked my body in darkness so complete that it would never, ever, allow me to be discovered.
I’d followed the music of the fountain to my willow, parted the boughs, and gone to my bench, where I sat with my feet curled beneath me and my eyes closed, breathing deeply and evenly and searching for the serenity I’d always found there.
How long I was there I have no real recollection. I tried to keep time in mind. I knew I must leave my safe place well before Father might return, but I was drinking deeply of the night. I did not want to be parted from it.
The latch of the side gate to the garden had not been oiled, and its protesting voice had my head lifting from my hand and my body trembling.
Moments later a nearby twig on the garden path snapped and I was certain I could make out footsteps shuffling through the gravel of the walkway.
Or does he? Frantically, my mind had raced back to the conversations of Saturday night—the women complimenting me on my flower arrangements; Mrs. Elcott’s sarcasm regarding my regard for the garden.
No. It had not been mentioned that I was spending time in the garden. No! Father could not know. Only Arthur knew. He’d been the only person who—
“Emily? Are you there? Please be there.”
As if I’d conjured him, Arthur Simpton’s sweet voice preceded him and he’d parted the boughs and stepped through the willow curtain.
“Arthur! Yes, I’m here!” Without allowing myself time to think, I’d acted on instinct and rushed to him, hurling myself into his surprised embrace, weeping and laughing at the same time.
“Emily, my God! Are you truly as unwell as your father says?” Arthur had held me away from him, studying me with concern.
“No, no, no! Oh, Arthur I am perfectly well now!” I hadn’t stepped back into his embrace, his hesitance had warned me.
“Think nothing of it. We both were surprised. There is nothing to forgive,” he’d assured me in his calm, kind voice.
“Thank you, Arthur. Would you sit with me for a moment and tell me how you come to be here? I am so glad!” I’d not been able to stop myself from saying. “I’ve been so distraught at the thought of not visiting you and your family.”
Arthur had sat beside me. “At this very moment your father is sipping my father’s brandy and they are sharing cigars as well as banking stories. I come to be here because of my concern for you. Mother and I have both been dreadfully worried since receiving your Father’s note yesterday saying that you were too unwell to pay any social visits at all this week. Actually, it was Mother’s idea that I slip from the house and check on you tonight.”
“Did you tell her about the garden?” My voice had gone sharp and cold with fear.
There was enough light for me to see that he was frowning. “No, of course not. I would not betray your confidence, Emily. Mother simply suggested that I call on you. And if you truly could not receive visitors I should leave a note of condolence with your maid. That is exactly what I have done.”
“You spoke with Mary?”
“No, I believe it was your father’s valet who answered the door.”
I nodded impatiently. “Yes, Carson. What did he say?”
“I asked to be announced to you. He said you were indisposed. I said my parents and I were distressed to hear it, and asked that he give you our note of condolence tomorrow.” He paused and his frown had begun to tilt up in the expression that had already become so beloved by me. “Then your father’s man escorted me from the porch and watched me bicycle away down the street. When I was quite certain he was no longer watching, I circled back and entered through the gate as I did before, hoping that I might find you here.”
“And so you have! Arthur, you are so clever!” I’d placed my hand over his and squeezed. He’d smiled and squeezed my hand in return. I released him slowly, understanding that I must not offer too much too soon.
“So you have recovered? You are well?”
I’d drawn a deep breath. I knew I must tread carefully. My future—my safety—my salvation depended upon it.
“Oh, Arthur, this is so difficult for me to tell you. It-it makes me feel disloyal to Father to admit the truth.”
“You? Disloyal? I can hardly imagine it.”
“But I’m afraid if I speak the truth I
“Emily, I believe in truth. To tell it is to show a loyalty to God, and that is beyond any loyalty we hold to man. Besides, we are friends, and it is not disloyal to share a confidence with a friend.”
“As my friend, would you hold my hand as I tell you? I feel so frightened and alone.” I’d added a small, hiccupping sob.
“Of course, sweet Emily!” He’d captured my hand in his. I remember how wonderful it was to feel the strength and sureness of him, and what a stark contrast that was to Father’s hot, heavy touch.
“Then this is the truth. It seems as if Father is going mad. He wishes to control my every move. I was not unwell after Saturday night, but he suddenly refused to allow me to call on your parents. He has also forbidden me to continue my volunteer work that I have been doing weekly at the GFWC, and that cause was so important to my mother!” I’d stifled another sob and clung to Arthur’s hand. “He has said I may not leave Wheiler House until Monday next, and then I am only allowed to attend the opening of the Columbian Exposition and the University Club
