Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(19)

Arthur’s dark brows lifted, along with the corners of his lips. “Well, then let me make your understanding clear. I will be escorting my mother to your dinner party on Saturday. My father’s gout is plaguing him, but Mother wishes to attend your first true social event in support of you. She is the friend I was hoping you would make.”

“So, you will not be courting Camille?” I’d asked boldly, though breathlessly.

Arthur stood then and, smiling, bowed formally to me. In a voice filled with warmth and kindness, he’d announced, “Miss Emily Wheiler, I can assure you it is not Camille Elcott I will be courting. And now I must, reluctantly, bid you a good night until Saturday.”

He’d turned and left me breathless with happiness and expectation, and it had seemed to me that even the shadows around me reflected my joy with their beautiful, concealing mantle of darkness.

But I hadn’t spent many more moments reveling in the magical events of the night. Though my heart was filled by Arthur Simpton and I wanted to think of nothing but our wondrous conversation and that he had practically left me with a promise that it would be me he would be courting in the future, my mind was cataloging the other, less romantic information Arthur had just provided me. Though my hands shake with joy as, safely in my room, I relive through this journal my meeting with Arthur, and begin to imagine what a future with him could bring, I must remember to be very quiet when I come to my garden spot.

I must not ever draw anyone else there.

April 27th, 1893

Emily Wheiler’s Journal

I begin this journal entry with trepidation. I can feel myself changing. I hope the change is for the better, but I confess that I am not certain it is. Actually, if I am to write with complete honesty, I must admit that even hope has changed its meaning for me.

I am so confused! And so very, very afraid.

Of only one thing am I sure, and that is that I must escape Wheiler House by any means possible. Arthur Simpton has provided me a logical and safe escape, and I have accepted him.

I am not the giddy child I was eight days ago, after that first night Arthur and I spoke. I still find him kind and charming and, of course, handsome. I believe I could love him. A beautiful future is within my grasp, so why is it that I feel a growing coldness within me? Has the fear and loathing I have for Father begun to taint me?

I shudder at the thought.

Perhaps as I review the events of the past days, I will find the answers to my questions.

Arthur’s garden visit had, indeed, changed my world. Suddenly, the Saturday dinner party was no longer something I dreaded—it was something I counted down the hours to. I threw myself into the menu, the decorations, and every tiny detail of my gown.

What was going to be a five-course dinner that I’d uncaringly told Cook to resurrect from one of Mother’s old party books utterly changed. Instead, I raked through my memories, wishing I had paid better attention—any attention really—when Mother and Father had discussed the especially sumptuous social dinners they’d attended in the year before she had had to withdraw from society because of her pregnancy. Finally, I recalled how even Father had praised a particular dinner at the University Club that had been sponsored by his bank and held in honor of the exposition architects. I sent Mary, whose sister was one of the University Club’s legion of cooks, to get a copy of the menu—and then I was pleasantly surprised when she actually did return with a list of not simply the courses, but the wines that should accompany them. Cook, who I believe until then had mostly pitied and humored my attempts at menu making, began to look at me with respect.

Next, I changed the table settings and decorations. I wanted to bring the garden inside, to remind Arthur of our time together, so I supervised the gardeners in cutting bushels of fragrant stargazer lilies from our gardens—though not from around the fountain. I also ordered them to gather cattails from the marshy area around the lakeshore, as well as curtains of ivy. Then I set about filling vases and vases with lilies, cattails, and trailing ivy, hoping all the while that Arthur would notice.

And while I was in the center of a whirlwind of activity of my own creation, I realized something incredibly interesting—the more demanding I became, the more the people about me complied. Where once I had tiptoed around Wheiler House, the timid ghost of the girl I used to be, now I strode purposefully, calling out commands with confidence.

I continue to learn. This lesson is one I’m finding most important. There may be a better way of ordering the world around me than my mother’s way. She used her beauty and her soft, pleasing voice to coax, cajole, and get her way. I am discovering that I prefer a stronger approach.

Is that wrong of me? Is that part of the coldness I feel spreading within me? How can gaining confidence and control be wrong?

Whether right or wrong, I used my newly discovered knowledge when I chose my gown. Father had, of course, commanded me to wear one of Mother’s green velvet gowns again.

I refused.

Oh, I was not foolish enough to refuse him outright. I simply rejected every one of my mother’s green velvet dresses Mary offered me. Where before she would have insisted until I capitulated, my new attitude and bearing had her befuddled.

“But, lass, you must wear one of your mother’s gowns. Your father has been quite firm about it,” she’d protested one last time.

“I will follow Father’s request, but it will be on my own terms. I am the Lady of Wheiler House and not a child’s doll to be dressed up.” I’d gone to my armoire and pulled from the recesses of it the gown I had planned on wearing for my Presentation Ball. It was cream silk with cascades of embroidered green ivy decorating the skirt. The bodice, though modest, was full, as was the skirt, but the waist was synched tiny, so that my figure became a perfect hourglass. And my arms were left alluringly, though appropriately, bare. I handed the gown to Mary. “Take a green velvet sash and bow from one of Mother’s dresses. I’ll wrap the sash around my waist, and stitch the bow to the side of the bodice. And bring me one of her green velvet hair ribbons. I’ll wear it tied around my neck. If Father objects, I can truthfully tell him that I am, as he asked, wearing Mother’s green velvet.”