Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(20)

Mary frowned and muttered to herself, but she did as I told her to do. Everyone did as I told them to do. Even Father was subdued when I refused to go to the GFWC on Friday, saying that I was simply too busy.

“Well, Emily, tomorrow everything must be just so—just so. Skipping this week’s volunteer duties is certainly understandable. It is commendable to see you fulfilling your responsibilities as Lady of Wheiler House.”

“Thank you, Father.” I’d answered him with the same words I used countless times before, but hadn’t softened my tone and dropped my head. Instead, I looked him directly in the eye, and added, “And I won’t be able to dine with you this evening. There is just too much for me to do and time is too short.”

“Indeed, well, indeed. Be quite certain you make good use of your time, Emily.”

“Oh, do not worry, Father. I will.”

Nodding to himself, Father hadn’t seemed to notice that I’d left the room before he’d dismissed me.

It had been a delicious luxury to command George to bring a tray up to my sitting room Friday evening. I ate in perfect peace, sipped a small glass of wine, and recounted the gold-foiled RSVPs—all twenty invitations had, indeed, been accepted.

I had placed the Simptons’ reply card on the top of the pile.

Then I lounged on my daybed that sat before my small, third-floor balcony, and burned six pillared candlesticks while I leafed through the latest Montgomery Ward catalog. For the first time I began to believe I might enjoy being Lady of Wheiler House.

* * *

Excitement didn’t keep me from feeling a dizzying rush of nerves when Carson made his announcement Saturday evening that the guests were beginning to arrive. I’d taken one final look in the mirror while Mary tied the thin velvet ribbon around my neck.

“You are a great beauty, lass,” Mary had told me. “You will be a success tonight.”

I’d lifted my chin and spoke to my reflection, banishing the ghost of my mother. “Yes, I will.”

When I’d reached the landing, Father’s back was to me. He was already engaged in an animated conversation with Mr. Pullman and Mr. Ryerson. Carson was opening the front door for several couples. Two women—one I recognized as the rather plump Mrs. Pullman, and the other, a taller, more handsome woman—were admiring the large central arrangement of lilies, cattails, and draping ivy I’d spent so many hours on. Raised in pleasure, their voices had carried easily to me.

“Well, this is quite lovely and unusual,” Mrs. Pullman said.

The taller woman had nodded appreciatively. “What an excellent choice to use these lilies. They have filled the foyer with an exquisite scent. It is as if we entered a fragrant indoor garden.”

I hadn’t moved. I’d wanted to take a private moment of pleasure, so I’d imagined, just for an instant, that I was back on my bench in the garden, curtained by willows, cloaked by darkness, and sitting beside Arthur Simpton. I’d closed my eyes, drawn a deep breath, inhaling calm, and as I released it his voice had lifted to me, as if carried on the power of my imaginings.

“There is Miss Wheiler herself. Mother, I do believe the arrangement you have been admiring shows evidence of her hand.”

I’d opened my eyes to gaze down at Arthur, standing beside the handsome women I hadn’t recognized. I’d smiled, said, “Good evening Mr. Simpton,” and had begun descending the last flight of stairs. Father had brushed past them and hurried to meet me, moving so quickly that he was puffing with effort when he offered me his arm.

“Emily, I do not believe you have met Arthur’s mother, Mrs. Simpton,” Father said, presenting me to her.

“Miss Wheiler, you are even more lovely than my son described,” Mrs. Simpton had said. “And this centerpiece arrangement of yours is spectacular. Did you, as my son surmised, create it yourself?”

“Yes, Mrs. Simpton, I did. And I am flattered that you admire it.” I hadn’t been able to stop myself from smiling up at Arthur as I spoke. His kind blue eyes were alight with his own smile—one I was already finding familiar and increasingly dear.

“And how would you know Emily created the arrangement?” I’d been stunned by the gruff tone of Father’s voice, sure that everyone around us could hear the possessiveness in it.

Nonplused, Arthur laughed good-naturedly. “Well, I recognize the stargazer lilies from—” Partway through his explanation, he must have seen the horror in my eyes because he broke off his words with an exaggerated cough.

“Son, are you well?” His mother had touched his arm in concern.

Arthur had cleared his throat and regained his smile. “Oh, quite well, Mother. Just a tickle in my throat.”

“What is it you were saying about Emily’s flowers?” Father had been like a bloated old dog with a bone.

Arthur hadn’t missed a beat, but had continued smoothly, “Are they Emily’s flowers? Then I have made an excellent guess because they instantly reminded me of her. They, too, are exceptionally beautiful as well as sweet.”

“Oh, Arthur, you do sound more and more like your father every day.” Arthur’s mother had squeezed his arm with obvious affection.

“Arthur! Oh, my. I had hoped you would be here.” Camille had rushed up to us, ahead of her mother, though Mrs. Elcott followed so closely on her daughter’s heels that it appeared as if she pushed her along.