I will not allow myself to believe anything else.
May 1st, 1893
I shall record the terrible, wonderful events in their entirety, even though I believe that I must end this recording and destroy this journal. I must leave no evidence. I must show no weakness.
But for now the retelling of my story soothes me, almost as much as the concealing shadows of my garden, beneath my willow, once soothed me.
I already miss them, though. I cannot ever return to my garden and my faithful shadows, so this journal is all that is left to comfort me. And, comfort me it does. Though I have walked through the fires of Hell and looked its demons in the eyes, my hands do not shake. My words do not falter.
Let me begin when I awoke mid-morning on this fateful day. It was a wrenching cough that had me sitting up in bed, gasping for air. Mary came to me quickly, clucking with worry.
“Lass! I knew the look of ye yesterday boded ill. I can foretell a fever better than most. Let me summon the doctor,” she’d said, plumping the pillows around me.
“No!” I’d coughed again, but tried to stifle it with my hand. “I cannot disappoint Father. If he believes I am truly ill, that I will not be able to accompany him tonight, he will be angry.”
“But lass, ye cannot—”
“If I do not go with him he will attend the Exposition opening alone, as well as the dinner at the University Club. He will return home drunk and angry. You must know how terrible he can be. Don’t make me say more, Mary.”
Mary had bowed her head and sighed. “Aye, lass. I know he isn’t himself when he’s in his cups. And he has been countin’ on your support today.”
“The great Ladies of Chicago have demanded it,” I’d reminded her.
She’d nodded somberly. “That they have. Well, then, there is only one thing to do. I’ll make ye my grandma’s herbal tea with lemon, honey, and a spoonful of Irish whiskey. As she used to say, if it doesna fix ye up, it will get ye through.”
I’d smiled at her purposefully thickened accent and managed not to cough again until she’d left my bedchamber. I’d told myself her tea would help. After all, I couldn’t be ill—I was never ill. I’d wondered if I had, over the past three days, spent too much time resting—and thereby avoiding Father as well as Arthur—and from feigning illness brought illness upon me.
No. That was a fantastical assumption. I was a bit unwell, probably from my frazzled nerves. The pressure of waiting and hiding and wondering could not be good for my constitution.
Mary had returned with her tea, and I drank liberally of it, allowing the whiskey to warm and soothe me. I believe it was then that time began to shift. Hours ran together. It had seemed I had only just opened my eyes when Mary was coaxing me into my green silk gown.
I remember sitting before the small mirror on my vanity and watching Mary dress my hair. I’d been mesmerized by the long strokes of her brush, and as she began to lift it into an elaborate chignon, I’d stopped her.
“No,” I’d said. “Just pull it back from my face. Weave one of Mother’s velvet ribbons through it, but leave my hair free.”
“But, dove, that’s a child’s hairstyle, and not fit for a great Lady of society.”
“I’m not a great Lady. I’m sixteen years old. I’m not a wife, or a mother. In this one respect, I would look my age.”
“Very well, Miss Wheiler,” she’d replied respectfully.
When she’d finished my simple coiffure, I’d stood and stepped before the full-length looking glass.
Regardless of what happened later that night, I will always remember Mary and the sadness that had filled her expression when she had stood behind me and the both of us took in my reflection. The emerald silk dress fitted me as if it had been poured over my body. It was perfectly unadorned by anything except the mounds of my breasts and the curves of my body. Almost none of my bare skin was revealed—the bodice was modest and the sleeves three quarters length—but the simplicity of the gown intensified the lushness of my figure. The only real concealment I had was my hair, though the thick fall of it was as sensual as the gown.
“You look lovely, dove,” Mary had spoken quietly, and her mouth had formed a tight line as she’d studied me.
Fever and whiskey had flushed my face. My breath was shallow and it rattled in my chest. “Lovely,” I’d repeated dreamily. “That is not how I would describe myself.”
The door to my bedchamber had opened then and Father, holding a square velvet jewelry box, had entered the room. He’d stopped abruptly and stared with us at my reflection.
“Leave us, Mary,” he’d commanded.
Before she could move, I’d grabbed her wrist. “Mary cannot leave, Father. She is not finished helping me dress.
“Very well then.” He strode to me. “Move aside, woman,” he’d said, brushing Mary aside and taking her place behind me when she’d retreated to the corner of the room.
His eyes had burned my reflection. I’d had to force my hands to stay at my sides instead of instinctively attempting to cover myself.
“You are a picture, my dear. A picture.” His gruff voice had the small hairs on my arms standing on end. “You know I’ve seen you so little this past week, I almost forgot how beautiful you are.”
“I have not been well, Father,” I’d said.
“You look well—well indeed! Your color is so high it makes me believe you have been looking forward to this evening as much as I.”
“Nothing could make me miss this evening,” I’d said coolly and truthfully.
He’d chuckled. “Well, my dear, I have something for you. I know you will wear them as proudly as your mother before you.” He’d opened the square velvet box to reveal the triple strands of Mother’s exquisite pearls. Taking them from the box, which he tossed away uncaringly, he lifted them and placed them around my neck, latching the thick, emerald studded clasp and then, with hot hands, he’d lifted my hair so that they settled heavily on my chest in a triple waterfall of luster.
My hand went up and touched them. They felt very cold against the heat of my skin.
“They become you, just as they did your mother.” Father placed his hands heavily on my shoulders.
Our gazes had met in the mirror. I’d kept my revulsion carefully hidden, but when he just stood there and stared, I freed the rattling cough I’d been repressing. Covering my mouth, I stepped out of his grasp and hurried to my vanity where I finished coughing into a lace handkerchief before taking a long drink from Mary’s tea.
“Are you truly ill?” he’d asked, looking more angry than concerned.
“No,” I’d assured him. “It’s just a tickle in my throat and my nerves, Father. Tonight is an important evening.”
“Well, then, finish dressing and join me downstairs. The carriage is here and the opening of the World’s Columbian Exposition waits for no man, or
