“
I must have made some small, wounded sound because Father’s eyes instantly flicked to my window seat. They narrowed, and for a moment it didn’t seem he recognized me. And then he shook himself, as if trying to shiver something uncomfortable from his skin.
“Emily, why are you here?” Father’s voice had sounded so angry that it seemed the question he’d meant to ask was much more than why I was in that room at that particular time.
“M-mother bade me s-stay,” I had stuttered.
“Your mother is dead,” he’d said, anger flattened to hard-edged truth.
“And this is no place for a young lady.” The doctor’s face had been flushed when he faced my father. “Beg pardon, Mr. Wheiler. I was too occupied with the birth to notice the girl there.”
“The fault was not yours, Doctor Fisher. My wife often did and said things that perplexed me. This is simply the last of them.” Father made a dismissive gesture that took in the doctor, the maids, and me. “Now leave me with Mrs. Wheiler, all of you.”
I wanted to run from the room—to escape as quickly as possible, but my feet had gone numb and cold from sitting unmoving for so long and as I passed Father I’d stumbled. His hand caught me under the elbow. I’d looked up, startled.
His expression had suddenly appeared to soften as he gazed down at me. “You have your mother’s eyes.”
“Yes.” Breathless and lightheaded, that was all I could say.
“That is as it should be. You are now the Lady of Wheiler House.” Then Father released me and walked slowly, heavily, to the bloody bed.
As I closed the door behind me, I heard him begin to weep.
Thereby also began my strange and lonely time of mourning. I moved numbly through the funeral and collapsed afterward. It was as if sleep had taken me over. I could not break free of it. For two full months I hardly left my bed. I did not care that I grew thin and pale. I did not care that the social condolence calls of my mother’s friends and their daughters were left unanswered. I did not notice that Christmas and a New Year came and went. Mary, my mother’s lady’s maid, whom I had inherited, begged, cajoled, and scolded. I cared not at all.
It was the fifth day of January when Father broke me free of sleep’s hold. My room had grown cold, so cold that my shivering had awakened me. The fire in my hearth had died and not been relit, so I pulled the sash attached to Mary’s summoning bell, which tinkled all the way down in the servants’ quarters in the bowels of the house, but she had not answered my call. I remember putting on my dressing gown, and thinking—briefly—how large it seemed and how very much it engulfed me. Making my way slowly from my third-floor bedchamber down the wide, wooden stairway, shivering, I searched for Mary. Father had emerged from his study as I came to the bottom of the stairs. When he first saw me his eyes were blank, then his expression registered surprise. Surprise followed by something I was almost certain was disgust.
“Emily, you look wretched! Thin and pale! Are you ill?”
Before I could answer, Mary was there, hurrying across the foyer toward us. “I told ye, Mr. Wheiler. She’s not been eating. I said she was doing nothin’ but sleepin’. Wastin’ away, she is.” Mary had spoken briskly, her soft Irish accent more pronounced than usual.
“Well, this behavior must end at once,” Father had said sternly. “Emily, you will leave your bed. You will eat. You will take daily walks in the gardens. I simply will not have you looking emaciated. You are, after all, the Lady of Wheiler House, and my lady cannot look as if she were a starving gutter waif.”
His eyes had been hard. His anger had been intimidating, especially as I realized Mother wouldn’t appear from her parlor, buzzing with distracting energy and shooing me away while pacifying Father with a smile and a touch.
I took an automatic step away from him, which only made his expression darker. “You have your mother’s look, but not her spunk. As irritating as it had been at times, I admired her spunk. I miss it.”
“I-I miss Mother, too,” I heard myself blurt.
“Of course ye do, dove,” Mary had soothed. “’Tis only been little over two months.”
“Then we have something in common after all.” Father had ignored Mary completely and spoken as if she hadn’t been there, nervously touching my hair, smoothing my dressing gown. “The loss of Alice Wheiler has created our commonality.” He’d turned his head then, studying me. “You do have her look.” Father stroked his dark beard and his gaze lost its hard, intimidating cast. “We shall have to make the best of her absence, you know.”
“Yes, Father.” I’d felt relieved at the gentling of his voice.
“Good. Then I expect you to join me for dinner each evening, as you and your mother used to. No more of this hiding in your room, starving your looks away.”
I had smiled then, actually smiled. “I would like that,” I’d said.
He’d grunted, slapped the newspaper he’d been holding across his arm, and nodded. “At dinner then,” he’d said, and he walked past me, disappearing into the west wing of the house.
“I may be even a little hungry tonight,” I’d said to Mary as she clucked at me and helped me up the stairway.
“’Tis good to see he’s takin’ an interest in ye, it is,” Mary had whispered happily.
I’d hardly paid any attention to her. My only thought was that for the first time in a month I had something more than sleep and sadness to look forward to. Father and I shared a commonality!
I’d dressed carefully for dinner that evening, understanding for the first time how very thin I had become when my black mourning dress had to be pinned so that it did not hang unattractively loose. Mary combed my hair, twining it in a thick chignon that I thought made my newly thin face look much older than my fifteen years.
I will never forget the start it gave me when I entered our dining room and saw the two place settings— Father’s, where he had always been at the head of the table—and mine, now placed at Mother’s spot to Father’s right hand.
He’d stood and held Mother’s chair for me. I was sure as I sat that I could still smell her perfume—rose water, with just a hint of the lemon rinse she used on her hair to bring out the richness of her auburn highlights.
George, a Negro man who served our dinner, began ladling from the soup tureen. I’d worried that the silence would be terrible, but as Father began to eat, so, too, began his familiar words.
“The Columbian Exposition Committee has joined collectively behind Burnham; we are supporting him completely. I wondered, at first, that the man might be a touch mad—that he was attempting something unattainable, but his vision of Chicago’s World’s Columbian Exposition outshining Paris’s splendor seems to be within reach, or at least his design appears to be sound—extravagant, but sound.” He’d paused to take a healthy mouthful of the steak and potatoes that had replaced his empty soup bowl, and in that pause I could hear my mother’s voice.
“Is not extravagance what everyone is calling for?” and didn’t realize until Father looked up at me that it had been I who had spoken and not, after all, the ghost of Mother. I froze under his sharp, dark-eyed scrutiny, wishing I’d kept silent and daydreamed the meal away as I had so many times in the past.
“And how do you know what
I remember feeling a rush of relief and smiling heartily in return. His question was one I’d heard him ask Mother more times than I could begin to count. I let her words reply for me. “I know you believe all women do is talk, but they listen, too.” I spoke more quickly and more softly than Mother, but Father’s eyes had crinkled in the corners as he showed his approval and amusement.
“Indeed…” he’d said with a chuckle, cutting a large piece of bloody red meat and eating it as if he were ravenous while he gulped down glasses of wine as red and dark as the liquid that ran from his meat. “But I must keep close tabs on Burnham, and his gaggle of architects, close tabs indeed. They are grotesquely over budget, and those workmen … always a problem … always a problem…” Father spoke as he chewed, dribbling bits of food and wine into his beard, a habit I knew Mother had loathed, and often rebuked him for.
I did not rebuke him, nor did I loathe his well-engrained habit. I simply forced myself to eat and to make the proper noises of appreciation as he spoke on and on about the importance of fiscal responsibility and the worry that the frail health of one of the lead architects was causing the board in general. After all, Mr. Root had already succumbed to pneumonia. Some said he’d been the driving force behind the entire project, and not Burnham at
