Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(12)

“Don’t envy me.” I saw that the coldness in my voice hurt her, but I could not help myself. “I have no mother, and I’m trapped with a man whose eyes burn me!” I broke off my words and pressed the back of my hand against my mouth.

I knew the instant her expression changed from concern to shock, and then to disbelief that I had made a dire mistake in speaking the truth.

“Emily, whatever do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” I’d assured her. “I’m tired, that’s all. I misspoke. And I shouldn’t be taking up all our time together just talking about me. I want to hear about you! So, tell me, has Arthur Simpton made his courtship of you formal yet?”

As I knew it would, mention of Arthur took away all other thoughts from Camille’s mind. Though he hadn’t spoken to her father yet, Camille had, several times, ridden side by side with him during the Hermes Club’s mid-morning lakeshore route. He’d even chatted with her the day before about how intrigued he was about the enormous Ferris wheel everyone could see being erected on the Midway of the exposition grounds.

I was going to tell Camille I was happy for her, and that I wished her well with Arthur, but the words wouldn’t form in my mouth. It wasn’t that I was being selfish or envious. It was simply that I could not stop thinking of the unalterable fact that should Arthur court Camille it would come to be one day, in the not too distance future, that my friend would find herself in servitude to him, waiting to die alone in a flood of blood …

“Beg pardon, Miss Elcott. Mr. Wheiler’s valet is here to collect Miss Wheiler.” When Camille’s maid had interrupted I realized I hadn’t been listening to what Camille had been saying for several minutes.

“Thank you,” I said, getting up quickly. “I really must get back.”

“Miss Wheiler, the valet asked that I give this note to you, and that you deliver it to Miss Elcott.”

“A note? For me? How exciting!” Camille had said. With a stomach filled with dread, I passed it to her eager fingers. She’d opened it quickly, read it, blinked twice, and then a radiant smile transformed her face from pretty to beautiful. “Oh, Emily, it’s from your father. Instead of your having to rush here whenever you can find time, he has invited me to call on you at Wheiler House and to visit with you in the formal parlor.” She’d squeezed my hands happily. “You won’t have to leave the house at all. See, it is just like you’re a great Lady! I’ll come straightaway next week. Perhaps Elizabeth Ryerson will join me.”

“That would be nice,” I’d said woodenly before following Carson to the black carriage that waited outside. When he closed the door behind me, I felt as if I couldn’t catch my breath. The entire ride back to Wheiler House, I had spent gasping for air, as would a fish held out of the water.

As I finish this, my first journal entry in months, I remind myself that I must never forget Camille’s response to my confidence. She reacted with shock and confusion, and then she reverted to our girlish dreams.

If I am mad, I must keep my thoughts to myself for fear no one else can understand them.

If I am not mad, but am truly as much a prisoner as I am coming to believe I am, I must keep my thoughts to myself for fear no one else will understand them.

In either scenario there is one constant—it is only upon myself I can rely and upon my own wits to devise a way to save myself, providing salvation for me exists at all.

No! I will not fall into melancholia. I live in a modern world. Young women can leave home and find new lives—different futures. I must use my wits and my wiles. I will find a way to be the conductor of my own life! I will!

Once again, I find myself recording my innermost thoughts in my journal as I await the rise of the moon and its heralding of the deepest darkness of night so that I may go to my one true escape—the shadows of the garden and the concealing comfort I find there. The night has become my security, my shield, and my comfort—let us hope that it doesn’t also become my shroud …

April 19th, 1893

Emily Wheiler’s Journal

My hands shake as I write.

I must make them stop! I must record all that has happened with accuracy. If I leave legible record of it, I shall be able to look back upon the events of the past several days when my mind is calmer, more rational, and I may then relive every bit of discovery and wonder, and not because I believe I could be mad! No, not at all! I wish to record my remembrances for a much different, a much more joyous reason. I have discovered the way to a new future! Or rather, he has discovered me! Someday I know I will wish to sift through the web of events that have caught me up, have carried me on a tide of surprise and joy and—yes I will confess it here, perhaps even love! Someday, when my own children are grown—yes, I may indeed embrace the path of wife and mother—I can reread this and tell them the story of my romance with their beloved father and how he saved me from bondage and fear.

My mind and my heart are filled with Arthur Simpton! So filled that even my loathing for my odious father cannot ruin my joy, for I have found my way free of my bondage to him and to Wheiler house!

But I begin too quickly! I must go back and show how the puzzle pieces fit together to create the beautiful scene that culminated this night! Oh, happy, happy, night!

* * *

The afternoon I returned from Camille’s home Father awaited me in Mother’s parlor. “Emily, I would have a word with you!” he’d bellowed as I’d tried to hurry up the stair to retreat to my third-floor bedchamber.