Neferet's Curse

I’d blinked and felt as if I was swimming up through deep, murky waters. “Arthur Simpton? He was talking about me?”

“Yes, while he danced with Camille.” Mrs. Elcott’s tone had been hard with annoyance, and I’d suddenly understood why—Arthur Simpton was the eldest son of a wealthy railroad family that had recently relocated from New York City to Chicago, because of close business ties with Mr. Pullman. Besides being rich, suitably bred, and eligible, he was also extremely handsome. Camille and I had whispered about him as his family moved into their South Prairie Avenue mansion and we’d watched him riding his bicycle up and down the street. Arthur had been the single driving force behind our desire to obtain our own bicycles and to join the Hermes Bicycle Club. He had also been one of the key reasons both of our mothers had agreed to pressure our fathers into allowing us to do so, even though Camille had told me she’d heard her father informing her mother that bicycle bloomers could lead a young woman into “a life of pernicious lasciviousness.” I remembered it clearly because Camille had made me giggle as she’d done an excellent impression of her father. As I’d laughed she’d also said she’d be willing to enter a life of pernicious lasciviousness if it meant entering it with Arthur Simpton.

I hadn’t said anything then. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Arthur had, quite often, looked our way, but the both of us knew it was my eyes he met when he tipped his hat, and my name he called a “Bright, good morning, Miss Emily” to.

I shook my head, feeling woozy and slow. I turned to Camille. “Arthur Simpton? He danced with you?”

“Most of the evening,” Mrs. Elcott had spoken for her daughter, nodding her head so quickly the feathers on her hat fluttered with disturbing violence, making her look even more henlike. “In truth Camille and I believe Arthur Simpton will approach Mr. Elcott soon and ask permission to formally court her.”

My stomach had felt terrible and hollow. How could he court Camille? Little over two months ago he hadn’t so much as spoken her name to wish her a good morning. Could such a short amount of time change him so drastically?

Yes, I’d decided silently and quickly. Yes, a short amount of time could change anyone drastically. It had certainly changed me.

I’d opened my mouth to speak, though I was still not sure what it was I was going to say, and Father had burst into the room, looking frazzled and wearing no jacket.

“Ah, Emily, here you are.” He’d nodded absently to Mrs. Elcott and Camille, saying, “Good afternoon, ladies.” Then he’d turned his full attention to me. “Emily, which waistcoat should I wear this evening? The black or the burgundy? The board is meeting again with those infernal architects, and I need to use a firm hand. The right tone must be set. Their budget is out of control and time is short. The fair must open May the first. They are simply not prepared. They climb too steep—too steep!”

I blinked, trying to focus on the bizarre scene. Arthur Simpton’s name linked with Camille’s had still been almost tangible in the air around us while Father stood there, his dress shirt untucked and only partially buttoned, a waistcoat in each hand, waving them about as if they were flags unfurled. Mrs. Elcott and Camille were staring at him as if he had lost his mind.

I was suddenly angry, and I’d automatically come to Father’s defense.

“Mother always said the black is more formal, but the burgundy is richer. Wear the burgundy, Father. The architects should see you as rich enough to control the money and, therefore, their futures.” I’d tried my best to pitch my voice softly to mimic my mother’s soothing tone.

Father had nodded. “Yes, yes, it should be as your mother said. The richer is the better. Yes, well done.” He’d bowed briskly to the other two women, wishing them a good day, and then he hurried out. Before the door closed, I could see his valet, Carson, joining him in the hallway and taking the discarded black waistcoat that was tossed his way.

When I turned back to the Elcott women, I lifted my chin. “As you can see, Father has been depending upon me.”

Mrs. Elcott had lifted a brow and sniffed. “I do see. Your father is a fortunate man, and the man to whom he eventually marries you will be fortunate, as well, to have such a well-trained wife.” Her gaze went to her daughter and then she smiled silkily as she’d continued, “Though I imagine your father won’t want to part with you for several years, so marriage is out of the question for your foreseeable future.”

“Marriage?” A jolt had gone through me at the word. Camille and I had talked about it, of course, but we had mostly whispered about the courting, the betrothal, the sumptuous wedding … and not the actual marriage itself. Mother’s voice had suddenly echoed from my memory: Emily, you will not leave me … You should know what it is to be a wife and mother. You should not go blindly into it as did I. I’d felt a shudder of panic and added, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly think about marriage now!”

“Of course you can’t think about marriage right now! Neither of us should—not really. We’re sixteen. That’s entirely too young. Isn’t that what you’ve always said, Mother?” Camille had sounded strained, almost frightened.

“Thinking about a thing and preparing for a thing are not one and the same, Camille. Opportunity should not be overlooked. And that is what I have always said.” Mrs. Elcott had peered down her long nose at me while she spoke with disdain.

“Well, I think it is a good thing that I am devoted to my father,” I’d responded, feeling horribly uncomfortable and unsure of what else to say.

“Oh, we are all in agreement about that!” Mrs. Elcott had said.

They hadn’t stayed long after Father’s appearance. Mrs. Elcott had rushed Camille off, not giving us even one small chance to speak to each other alone. It was as if she’d gotten what she’d come for and left satisfied.

And me? What had I gotten?

I’d hoped for validation. Even though the affection of the handsome young Arthur Simpton had turned from me to my friend, I’d believed it was my duty as a daughter to care for my father. I’d felt that Camille and her mother would see that I was doing my best to carry on after Mother—that in a little over two months I’d grown from girl to woman. I’d thought that somehow I could make the loss of Mother bearable.

But in the long, silent hours after their visit, my mind had begun to replay the events and to view their facets differently, and on retrospection I feel my second view to be more valid than my first. Mrs. Elcott had wanted substantiation of the gossip; she’d gotten her wish. She had also wanted to make it very clear that Arthur Simpton would not now be a part of my future and that no man—other than Father—would be a part of my foreseeable future. She had accomplished both tasks.

I’d sat up that night and waited for Father’s return. Even now, as I record what happened next, I cannot fault myself for my actions. As the Lady of Wheiler Mansion, it was my duty to see Father cared for—to be there with a tea or possibly a brandy for him—as I’d imagined Mother had often done upon his late return from work dinners. I had expected Father to be tired. I had expected him to be himself: aloof, gruff, and overbearing, yet polite and appreciative of my fidelity.

I had not expected him to be drunk.

I’d seen Father filled with wine. I had glimpsed him red nosed and effusive in his praise of Mother’s beauty as they went out in the evenings, dressed formally and trailing the scent of lavender, lemon, and cabernet. I cannot remember ever seeing them upon their return. Had I not been asleep in my bed, I would have been brushing my hair or embroidering the fine details of violets at the bodice of my newest day dress.

I realize now that Father and Mother had been to me like distant moons circling the self-absorption of my youth.

That night Father evolved from moon to burning sun.

He’d lurched inside the foyer, calling loudly for his valet, Carson. I’d been in Mother’s parlor, trying to keep my heavy eyes open by rereading Emily Bronte’s gothic novel, Wuthering Heights. At the sound of his voice, I’d put the book aside and hurried to him. His scent came to me before I saw him. I remember that I pressed a hand against my nose, flustered at the rankness of brandy, sweat, and cigars. As I write this, I am afraid that those three odors will for me, forever, be the scent of man, and the scent of nightmares.

I’d rushed to his side, pursing my lips at the thick reek of his breath, thinking that he must not be well.

“Father, are you ill? Shall I call the physician?”

“Physician? No, no, no! Right as rain. I’m right as rain. Just need some help getting to Alice’s room. Not as young as I used to be—not at all. But I can still do my duty. I’ll get her with a son yet!” Father swayed as he talked, and he’d put a heavy hand on my shoulder to steady himself.