Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(9)

I learned not to interrupt Father. He liked to speak while we ate dinner. Speak—not talk. Father and I did not talk. He spoke and I listened. I wanted to believe that my taking Mother’s place in the household and at dinner was honoring her memory, and at the first I did believe it. But soon I began to see that I was not doing anything at all except providing the vessel into which Father poured his vitriolic opinion of the world. Our nightly dinners were a stage for his soliloquy of anger and disdain.

I continue to secretly water Father’s wine. Sober, he was abrupt, overbearing, and boorish. Drunk, he was terrifying. He did not beat me—he has never beaten me—though I almost wish he would. At the very least that would be a sure and outward sign of his abuse. What Father does instead is burn me with his eyes. I have come to loathe his hot, penetrating gaze.

Though how can that be? And, better asked, why? Why did I come to loathe a simple look? The answer, I hope—I pray, will unravel here, in the pages of this journal.

* * *

Camille visited, though less and less often. The problem wasn’t that our friendship had ended. Not at all! She and I were still as close as sisters when we were together. The problem was that we were less and less able to be together. Mrs. Armour and Father decided that I must continue Mother’s work. So I ladled soup to the miserably starving and handed out clothing to the stinking homeless three days per week. That left a mere two days out of the five, when Father worked, for Camille and I to visit. And for me to escape, though it has become more and more clear to me that escape is not possible.

I tried to get away from Wheiler House and to call on Camille as I had before Mother’s death. I attempted this four times; Father thwarted me each time. The first time, leaving late for his banking duties, Father spied me as I was hurrying away astraddle my neglected bicycle. He didn’t come into the street to call me back. No. He sent Carson after me. The poor, aged valet had turned red as a ripe apple as he’d jogged along South Prairie Avenue to catch up with me.

“A bicycle is not ladylike!” Father had blustered when I’d reluctantly followed Carson home.

“But Mother never minded that I rode my bicycle. She even allowed me to join the Hermes Bicycle Club with Camille and the rest of the girls!” I’d protested.

“Your mother is dead, and you are no longer one of the rest of the girls.” Father’s eyes had traveled from my gaze down my body, taking in my modest bicycle bloomers and my serviceable, unadorned flat leather shoes. “What you are wearing is lewd.”

“Father, bicycle bloomers are what all the girls wear.”

His eyes continued to stare at me, burning me from my waist down. I had to fist my hands at my sides to keep from covering myself.

“I can see the shape of your body—your legs.” His voice sounded odd, breathless.

My stomach heaved. “I-I will not wear them again,” I heard myself saying.

“Be sure you do not. It isn’t proper—not proper at all.” His hot gaze finally left me. He pushed his hat firmly on his head and bowed sardonically to me. “I shall see you at dinner, where you will behave as, and be dressed in the fashion of, a civilized lady, worthy of her position as mistress of my home. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Carson!”

“Yes, sir!” His poor valet, who had been hovering nervously in the corner of the foyer had jumped at Father’s violent tone and skittered to him, reminding me of a large, old beetle.

“See that Miss Wheiler remains at home today, where she belongs. And get rid of that infernal bicycle!”

“Very good, sir. I will do as you say…” The old wretch had simpered and bowed as Father had stalked from the house.

Alone with him, Caron’s eyes flicked from mine to the tapestry on the wall behind us, then to the chandelier, then to the floor—everywhere except truly meeting my gaze. “Please, Miss. You know I can’t let you leave.”

“Yes. I know.” I chewed my lip and added, hesitantly, “Carson, could you, perhaps, move my bicycle from the outbuilding to the gardening shed at the rear of the grounds instead of actually getting rid of it? Father never goes there—he’ll not know. I’m sure he’ll be more reasonable soon, and allow me to return to my club.”

“I would like to, Miss, I would. But I cannot disobey Mr. Wheiler. Ever.”

I’d turned on my heels and slammed the door to the parlor that had become mine. I hadn’t really been angry with Carson, nor did I blame him. I did understand all too well what it was to be Father’s puppet.

That night I dressed carefully for dinner in my most modest gown. Father hardly glanced at me while he talked endlessly about the bank, the precarious state of finances in the city, and the impending World’s Fair. I rarely spoke. I nodded demurely and made agreeable noises when he paused. He drank goblet after goblet of the secretly watered wine and ate an entire rack of rare lamb.

It wasn’t until he stood and bade me good night that his gaze lingered on mine. I could see that, despite the weakened wine, he’d had enough of it to flush his cheeks.

“Good night, Father,” I said quickly.

His gaze scalded from my eyes to my lips. I flattened them together, wishing they were less full, less pink.

The gaze then went from my lips to the high bodice of my dress. Then, quite abruptly, he met my eyes again.