Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(13)

My hands trembled and I felt as if I might be sick, but I did not balk when he called me to him. I went to the parlor and stood, ramrod straight, hands fisted at my sides, my expression calm, unflinching. I knew one thing beyond all others—Father must not sense the depth of my fear and my loathing for him. He wanted a complacent daughter. I’d been newly determined to allow him to believe he possessed what he wanted. I had meant my first step to freedom to begin at that moment. Father did not want me to socialize with my old friends, and so I would capitulate, wait, and as he became more and more certain of my submissive compliance to all of his demands, his focus would turn away from me. Then I would plan and execute my eventual escape.

“Father, I will not see Camille again.” I’d said, mimicking Mother’s sweet, soft tone. “Not if it displeases you.”

He’d brushed away my words with an abruptly dismissive gesture. “That girl is not of our concern. If you insist, you may see her here, as your mother took social calls here. We have issues of much greater import to discuss.” He’d pointed at the divan and ordered, “Sit!” Then he’d bellowed for tea and brandy.

“Brandy at this hour?” I regretted it the moment after I’d spoken. I’d been so foolish! I must learn to always control my words, my expression, my very bearing.

“Do you dare question me?” He’d spoken only after the maid had left the room. He had not raised his voice, but the danger in his quiet anger shivered across my skin.

“No! I only question the hour. It is but three o’clock. Am I wrong, Father? I believed brandy an evening drink.”

His shoulders had relaxed and he’d chuckled as he sipped from the wide-mouthed crystal glass. “Ah, I forget you are so young and that you have so much to learn. Emily, brandy is a man’s drink, one that true men take when they so will. You should begin to understand that women must behave a certain way, a way in which society dictates. That is because you are the weaker sex, and must be protected by tradition and by those who are wiser, more worldly. As for myself? I am a man who will never be a slave to social convention.” He’d taken another long drink from the glass, and refilled it as he continued. “And that brings me to my point. Social convention dictates we spend at least six months in mourning for your mother, and we have practically fulfilled that time. Should anyone question us, well, I say in the face of the World’s Columbian Exposition that social convention be damned!”

I’d stared at him, uncomprehending.

Father had laughed aloud. “You look exactly as your mother did after the first time I kissed her. That was the first night we’d met. I’d gone against social convention then, too!”

“I’m sorry, Father. I do not understand.”

“As of today I am lifting our mourning period.” When I gaped silently he waved his hand, as if wiping away soot from a window. “Oh, some will be shocked, but most will understand that the opening of the World’s Columbian Exposition constitutes a dire emergency. The president of the bank that rules the exposition committee’s funds must reenter society. Continuing as we have been—segregated from our community and the world that is joining us—is simply not adhering to modern thinking. And Chicago will become a modern city!” He’d pounded his fist on the table. “Do you understand now?”

“I’m sorry, Father. I don’t. You will have to teach me,” I’d said truthfully.

He’d seemed pleased by my admission. “Of course you couldn’t understand. There is so much that needs to be explained to you.” He’d leaned forward then and awkwardly patted my hands, which were clenched together in my lap. For far too long his hot, heavy hand rested on mine as his gaze burned into mine. “Thankfully, I am willing to guide you. Not all fathers would be, you know.”

“Yes, Father,” I’d repeated my rote answer, and tried to still my heart from its frantic beating. “May I pour you more brandy?”

He’d let loose my hands then and nodded. “Yes, indeed. There, you see—you can be guided to learn!”

I’d focused on not spilling the brandy as I poured, but my hands were trembling and the crystal decanter had clanged against his goblet, causing the amber-colored liquor to almost spill. I’d put the bottle down quickly.

“I am sorry, Father. That was awkward of me.”

“No matter! You will get more steady with practice.” He’d sat back on the velvet divan and sipped his drink, studying me. “I know exactly what you need. I read about it just this morning in the Tribune. Seems women’s hysteria symptoms are on a rise, and you are obviously suffering from this malady.”

Before I could formulate a protest that would not incite him, he’d risen and walked, a little unsteadily, to Mother’s small buffet table that sat against the wall and poured from the decanter of red wine that I had, just that morning, watered carefully. He’d brought the crystal wineglass to me and thrust it roughly into my hands, saying, “Drink. The article, written by the acclaimed Doctor Weinstein, stated that one or two glasses per day should be taken as remedy for women’s hysteria.”

I’d wanted to tell him I was not hysterical—that I was lonely and confused and frightened and, yes, angry! Instead I sipped the wine, controlled my expression, and nodded serenely, parroting my “Yes, Father” response.