Neferet's Curse

“Wipe your eyes, Emily. You can show me how much this means to you by promising me that you will be a good and faithful wife to my son.”

“I promise with all of my heart!” I’d meant the promise. I’d had no way of knowing that the rest of the night would alter everything.

* * *

Mr. Simpton had fulfilled his wife’s request. He and Arthur were seated at the same table as Father and me, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Burnham, and Mr. and Mrs. Ryerson.

Father had gloweringly pushed a crystal flute filled with champagne the color of a blush over to me, saying, “Drink this. The bubbles may help your abominable croup!” I’d sipped it, folded my linen napkin onto my lap, and surreptitiously watched Arthur’s mother whisper to him.

Arthur’s face had gone pale, obviously with nerves, but he’d nodded tightly. He’d turned to his father, and I saw rather than heard him say, “It is time.” Slowly, laboriously, his father had stood, raised his own champagne flute and, using a silver knife, tapped the crystal, silencing the crowd.

“Good ladies and gentlemen,” he’d said. “I must begin by saluting Mr. Burnham and ask that you join me in a congratulatory toast to his genius, which was the driving force behind the World’s Columbian Exposition.”

“To Mr. Burnham!” the room roared.

“I am happy to announce that tonight’s congratulations are not yet over. But I bow to my son, Arthur, as he must lead us in our next toast, and he has my blessing in doing so.”

I’d felt my rapid heartbeat pounding in my chest as Arthur, tall, handsome, and somber-faced, stood. He’d walked around our table until he reached Father. He’d bowed first to him, and then he extended his hand to me. Though mine trembled terribly, I borrowed strength from him and stood by his side.

“What is the—” Father had begun to bluster, but Arthur neatly cut him off.

“Barrett Wheiler, I publicly, formally, and with the blessing of my family, declare my deepest affections for your daughter, Emily, and ask your permission to court her with the express and honorable purpose of marriage.” Arthur’s voice was deep and did not falter one bit. It carried throughout the opulent dining hall.

In that moment I can truly say that I loved him utterly and completely.

“Oh, well done, Simpton! Congratulations indeed!” It was Mr. Burnham, and not my father who stood. “To Emily and Arthur!” The room echoed his toast, and then there was an eruption of cheers and well wishes. As Mrs. Ryerson and Mrs. Burnham gave me soft kisses and made over Arthur and me, I saw Arthur’s father limp over to my father. I held my breath. Though Father’s expression was dark, the two of them shook hands.

“It is done.” Arthur had been watching as well, and he whispered the words to me as he bent and kissed my hand.

I don’t know whether it was with relief or with illness, but it was then that I fainted.

When my senses returned there was pandemonium around me. Father was bellowing for a doctor. Arthur had lifted me and was carrying me from the room into the sitting area outside the great hall. Mrs. Simpton was trying to reassure Father and Arthur that I was simply overexcited and had not been feeling well all day.

“And the poor thing’s gown is entirely too tight,” she’d said as Arthur placed me gently on a settee.

I’d tried to reassure Arthur and agree with his mother, but I could not speak through the cough that gripped me. Next I knew there was a gray bearded man bending over me, feeling my pulse, and listening to my chest with a stethoscope.

“Definitely not well. Fever … rapid pulse … cough. But in light of the events of the evening, I’d say all except the cough could be attributed to woman’s hysteria. Rest quiet, and perhaps a hot toddy or two are what I prescribe.”

“So, she will be well?” Arthur had taken my hand.

I’d managed to smile at him and answer for myself. “Quite well. I promise. All I need is rest.”

“She needs to get home and to her bed,” Father had said. “I shall call our carriage and—”

“Oh, Father, no!” I’d forced myself to smile at him and sit up. “I would not rest well knowing I had been the cause that took you from this special dinner you have so looked forward to.”

“Mr. Wheiler, please allow me the honor of escorting your daughter home.” Mr. Simpton surprised me by speaking up. “I understand what a burden it is on the family when one member is not well, as I have not felt completely myself for months. This evening I agree with little Emily—rest shall do us both a world of good—and that should not hinder the celebration for the rest of you. Mr. Wheiler, Arthur, please stay. Eat, drink, and make merry for Emily and for me.”

I’d covered my smile with a cough. Mr. Simpton had put Father in a position twice in one night wherein he would look ridiculous if he refused him. Had I not felt so terribly ill I would have wanted to dance about with joy.

“Well, indeed. I will allow you to see my Emily home.” Father’s voice had been gruff, verging on impolite, but everyone around us acted as if they did not notice.

Everyone, that is, except Arthur. He’d taken my hand and met Father’s dark gaze, saying, “Our Emily now, Mr. Wheiler.”

It had been Arthur and not Father who had helped me to the Simpton carriage, and Arthur who had kissed my hand and had bidden me a good night, saying that he would call on me the next afternoon.

Father had stood alone, glowering, as the lovely, well-upholstered carriage had driven away with Mr. Simpton and me smiling and waving.

It had seemed that I was a princess who had finally found her prince.

* * *

Wheiler House was unusually still and dark when the Simpton carriage left me on the walkway to the front door. Mr. Simpton had wanted to see me inside, but I had protested that he not inflame his leg any more than necessary, and explained that Father’s valet, as well as my maid, would be waiting within.

Then I’d done something that had surprised myself. I’d leaned down and kissed the old man’s cheek.

“Thank you, sir. I owe you my gratitude. Tonight you saved me—twice.”

“Oh, not at all! I’m pleased by Arthur’s choice. Get well, child. We will talk again soon.”

I’d been thinking how fortunate I was to have found Arthur and his affable parents when I entered our foyer and lit the gaslight within. After the soothing darkness of the carriage and the night, the light seemed to send spikes through my temples and I snuffed it out immediately.

“Mary!” I’d called. The house didn’t stir. “Carson! Hello!” I called again, but my words dissolved within a terrible cough.

I’d longed for the comforting shadows of my garden and the concealing darkness beneath my willow—how I believed it would have soothed me! But I was feeling so very ill that I knew I must get abed. Truth be told, the severity of my cough and the burning of my fever was beginning to frighten me. I struggled up the three flights of stairs, wishing Mary would hear me and appear to help me.

I was still alone when I made it to my bedchamber, pulled the cord that would ring the summoning bell in Mary’s small, basement room, and collapsed on my bed. I have no idea how long I lay there, struggling to breathe. It seemed a very long time. I’d felt like sobbing. Where was Mary? Why had I been left alone? I’d tried to unhook the tight little buttons that ran from the back of my neck all the way down to my waist and to take off the green silk gown that was so restrictive, but even feeling completely well that would have been nearly impossible. That night I hadn’t even been able to manage unclasping Mother’s pearls.

Fully dressed, I lay on my bed, gasping for breath between coughs, in a state that was more dreamlike than awake. A wave of weakness washed through me, closing my eyes. I believe I might have slept then because when next my senses registered the world around me, I thought I was in the grip of a hideous nightmare.

I’d smelled him before I’d been able to open my eyes. The scent of brandy, sour breath, sweat, and cigars filled my bedchamber.

I’d forced my eyes open. He had been a hulking shadow over my bed.

“Mary?” I’d spoken her name because I hadn’t wanted to believe what my senses told me.

“Awake, are you?” Father’s voice was thick with alcohol and anger. “Good. You need to be. We have things to settle between us.”

“Father, I am ill. Let’s wait and talk tomorrow when I am better.” I’d pushed myself farther back against my bed pillows, trying to put more space between us.