Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(6)

“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 Brontë’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.

I staggered under his weight, guiding him to the wide stairway, so worried that he was ill that I hardly comprehended what he was saying. “I’m here. I’ll help you,” was what I whispered over and over to him. He’d leaned even more heavily on me as we climbed clumsily up to the second floor and finally stopped outside his bedchamber. He’d shaken his head back and forth, mumbling, “This isn’t her room.”

“It is your bedchamber,” I’d said, wishing his valet or anyone would appear.

He’d squinted at me, as if he were having trouble focusing. Then his slack, drunken expression had changed. “Alice? So, you are willing to break your frigid rules and join my bed tonight.”

His hand had been hot and damp on the shoulder of my fine linen nightgown.

“Father, it’s me, Emily.”

“Father?” He’d blinked and brought his face down closer to mine. His breath had almost made me retch. “Emily. Indeed. It is you. Yes, you. I know you now. You cannot be Alice, she is dead.” His face still so very close to mine, he added, “You’re too thin, but you do have her eyes.” He’d reached out then and lifted a strand of the thick, auburn hair that had escaped my nightcap. “And her hair. You have her hair.” He’d rubbed my hair between his fingers and slurred, “You must eat more—shouldn’t be so thin.” Then, bellowing for Carson to attend him, Father let loose my hair, shoved me aside, and staggered into his room.