Neferet's Curse

April 19th, 1893

Emily Wheiler’s Journal

My hands shake as I write.

I must make them stop! I must record all that has happened with accuracy. If I leave legible record of it, I shall be able to look back upon the events of the past several days when my mind is calmer, more rational, and I may then relive every bit of discovery and wonder, and not because I believe I could be mad! No, not at all! I wish to record my remembrances for a much different, a much more joyous reason. I have discovered the way to a new future! Or rather, he has discovered me! Someday I know I will wish to sift through the web of events that have caught me up, have carried me on a tide of surprise and joy and—yes I will confess it here, perhaps even love! Someday, when my own children are grown—yes, I may indeed embrace the path of wife and mother—I can reread this and tell them the story of my romance with their beloved father and how he saved me from bondage and fear.

My mind and my heart are filled with Arthur Simpton! So filled that even my loathing for my odious father cannot ruin my joy, for I have found my way free of my bondage to him and to Wheiler house!

But I begin too quickly! I must go back and show how the puzzle pieces fit together to create the beautiful scene that culminated this night! Oh, happy, happy, night!

The afternoon I returned from Camille’s home Father awaited me in Mother’s parlor. “Emily, I would have a word with you!” he’d bellowed as I’d tried to hurry up the stair to retreat to my third-floor bedchamber.

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.

“You see, that is better. No silly shaking hands for you now!” He’d spoken as if he’d effected a miracle cure.

As I drank the watered wine and watched him chuckle in a self-satisfied manner, I imagined throwing the wine in his pinkish face and bolting from the room, the house, and the life he was trying to thrust me into.

His next words stopped that waking fantasy.

“Two evenings from now, Wednesday night at exactly eight o’clock, will signal the beginning of the reopening of Wheiler House. I have already sent invitations and received assurances all will attend.”

My head had felt as if it were going to explode. “Attend? The house reopening?”

“Yes, yes, do try to pay attention, Emily. It won’t be a full dinner party, of course. That won’t happen until Saturday. On Wednesday we will begin with an intimate group. Just a few close friends—men who also have an interest in the bank, as well as an investment in the World’s Columbian Exposition: Burnham, Elcott, Olmsted, Pullman, and Simpton. Five men that I have invited for a light repast. It is an excellent way to move you gently into your new role in society, and, indeed, a very meager party by your mother’s standards.”

“Two days from now? On this Wednesday?” I’d struggled to hold tight to my composure.

“Certainly! We have wasted too much time already by being segregated from the whirlpool of happenings that surround us. The fair opens in two weeks. Wheiler House must be a hub at the center of the wheel that is the new Chicago!”

“But-but I have no idea how to—”

“Oh, it isn’t so difficult. And you are a woman, though a young one. Dining and entertaining come naturally to women, and most especially to you.”

My face had blazed with heat. “Especially to me?”

“Of course. You are so like your mother.”

“What shall I serve? Wear? How shall I—”

“Consult Cook. It isn’t as if it’s a full dinner party. I already told you that I managed to put that off until Saturday. Three courses should suffice for Wednesday, but be quite certain to have the best of the French cabernet as well as the port brought up from the cellars, and send Carson for more of my cigars. Pullman has an especial fondness for my cigars, though he’d rather smoke mine than buy his own! Ha! A tight millionaire!” He’d drained the last of his brandy and slapped his thighs with his meaty palms. “Oh, and as to what you should wear. You are Lady of Wheiler House and have access to your mother’s wardrobe. Make good use of it.” He’d lifted his great bulk from the settee and was leaving the room when he’d paused and added, “Wear one of Alice’s emerald velvet gowns. It will bring out your eyes.”

I wish I could go back to that day and comfort myself by explaining that all that was happening was that the missing pieces of my life were being filled in so that the picture of my future could be complete. I needn’t be so frightened and overwhelmed. All would be well—all would be most spectacularly better than well.

But that night I’d had no idea that this small reentry to society would quickly and completely alter my life—I’d only been lost in my fear and loneliness.

Two days passed in a frantic haze for me. Cook and I planned a lobster creamed bisque, a roasted duck breast with asparagus, which was very hard to find this early in the season, and her after-dinner iced vanilla cakes, which Father loved so much.

Mary brought me Mother’s collection of emerald velvet gowns. There were more than a dozen of them. She laid them out across my bed like a green waterfall of fabric. I chose the most conservative of them—an evening dress modestly fashioned and unadorned except for pearls sewn into the bodice and the sleeves. Mary clucked her disapproval, muttering that the gold-trimmed gown would make a more dramatic impression. I ignored her and lifted my choice over my head so that she had to assist me into it.

Then the alterations began. I am shorter than Mother, but only slightly, and have a smaller waist. My breasts are larger, though, and when Mary finally helped me lace myself into the gown and I stood before my full-length looking glass, Mary immediately began to cluck and fuss and open seams, trying to contain my flesh.

“All of her dresses will have to be altered, they will,” Mary had spoke through a mouthful of pins.

“I don’t want to wear Mother’s dresses,” I’d heard myself saying, which was the truth.

“And why not? They’re lovely, and your looks are alike enough to hers that they will be beautiful on you as well. The most of them even more than this one.” She’d hesitated, thinking, then while she stared at my bosom and the material stretched tightly there, she added, “Sure and they won’t all be appropriate as they are made now, but I can find some lace or some silk to add here and there.”

As she continued to pin and stitch, my gaze went from the mirror to my own dress that lay in a discarded heap across my bed. It was cream colored and lacey and covered with blushing pink rosebuds, and it was as different from Mother’s fine velvet gowns as was Mary’s brown linen uniform dress from Lady Astor’s day dresses.

Yes, of course I’d known then, as now, that I should have been delighted by the vast addition to my wardrobe. Mother had been one of the finest dressed women in Chicago. But when my gaze made its way back to the mirror, the girl swathed in her mother’s gown who looked out at me felt like a stranger, and me—Emily—had seemed to be utterly lost somewhere in her unfamiliar reflection.

When I wasn’t talking with Cook or standing for alterations or trying to remember the endless details of entertaining that Mother had mastered with what had seemed like no effort at all, I wandered silently through our huge mansion, trying to avoid Father and speaking to no one. Odd how I’d not thought of our home as huge until after Mother was no longer filling it. But with her gone it had become an enormous cage, filled with all of the beautiful things one woman had collected, including her only living child.

Living child? Before that Wednesday evening, I had started to believe that I had quit living and I was only existing as a shell, waiting for my body to catch me up and realize that I was already dead.

Miraculously it was then that Arthur Simpton brought me back to life!

This evening, Wednesday, the nineteenth of April, Father sent a glass of wine up to my dressing room as Mary readied me for my first social event as Lady of Wheiler House. I knew the wine was strong, unwatered from the special bottles Father had ordered up from the wine cellar. I’d sipped it while Mary combed and pinned my thick auburn hair into place.

“’Tis a considerate man, he is, your father,” Mary had chattered. “It warms my heart, it does, how much care and attention he’s been showin’ ye.”

I hadn’t said anything. What could I have said? I could easily look through her eyes at me, and at Father. Of course he appeared careful and considerate of me to the outside world—they had never seen his burning look or felt the unbearable heat of his hand!

When my coiffure was done Mary had stepped away. I’d stood from the chair at my vanity and walked to my full-length looking glass. I’ll never forget that first sight of myself as a woman fully grown. My cheeks had been flushed from the wine, which came easily to me as my skin is so fair—as fair as Mother’s had been. The dress fit me as if it had always been mine. It was the exact color of our eyes.

I stared and thought hopelessly, I am my mother, at the same instant Mary whispered, “You are so like her, ’tis like seein’ a ghost,” and crossed herself.

There was a knock on my dressing room door and Carson’s voice announced, “Miss Wheiler, your father sends word that the gentlemen have begun to arrive.”

“Yes. All right. I’ll come down in a moment.” I hadn’t moved, though. I don’t believe I could have made my body move had Mary not gently squeezed my hand and said, “There now, I was silly to speak so. ’Tis not your mother’s ghost you are. Not at all. ’Tis a lovely lass who does credit to her memory. I’ll light a candle for ye tonight and pray her spirit watches over ye and gives you strength.” Then she’d opened the door for me, and I’d had no choice but to leave the room, and my childhood, behind.

It was a long way from my third-floor bedchamber and private parlor that had begun as a spacious nursery for children that never came, but it seemed it took only an instant for me to reach the last landing—the one that opened to the first-floor foyer below. I’d paused there. The deep male voices that lifted to me sounded odd and out of place in a home that had been so silent for so many months.

“Ah, there you are, Emily.” Father had closed the few steps between us, joining me on the landing. Formally, he bowed and then, as I’d seen him do for Mother countless times, held out his arm for me to take it. I automatically rested my hand on his arm and moved down the remainder of the staircase beside him. I could feel his eyes on me. “You are a picture, my dear. A picture.” I’d looked up at him then, surprised to hear the familiar compliment he’d paid Mother so many times.

I hated the way he was looking at me. Even after the joy the rest of the evening brought me, that hatred is still fresh in my mind. He studied me ravenously. It was as if I were one of the rare cuts of lamb on which he habitually gorged himself.

I still wonder if any of the waiting men that evening noticed Father’s terrible gaze, and my stomach roils with sickness at the thought of it.

His gaze left me and he beamed effusively at the small gathering of men below us. “You see, Simpton. Nothing to worry about at all. Emily is right as rain—right as rain.”

I’d looked down, expecting to see a graying man with rheumy eyes, a thick walrus mustache, and a barrel chest, but my eyes met the clear, blue gaze of a dashingly handsome young man who was smiling good-naturedly at me.

“Arthur!” His name had escaped before I could control my words.

His brilliant blue eyes had crinkled at the corners with his smile, but before he could respond, Father cut in gruffly. “Emily, there will be no overfamiliarity tonight, especially when Simpton here is standing in for his father.”

I felt my face flame with heat.

“Mr. Wheiler, I’m sure it was surprise that caused your daughter to speak so familiarly. I am, alas, not the man my father is,” he’d joked, puffing up his cheeks and swelling his chest as to mimic his father’s girth. “Or at least not yet!”

A man I easily recognized as Mr. Pullman slapped Arthur on the back and laughed heartily. “Your father does have a love of good food. Can’t say I’m not guilty of the same.” He patted his own impressive belly.

Carson chose then to step from an arched doorway and call, “Dinner is served, Miss Wheiler.”

It had taken me several moments to realize that Carson was actually speaking to me. I swallowed past the dryness in my throat and said, “Gentlemen, if you will follow me to the dining room we would be honored by your company for tonight’s modest repast.” Father had nodded his approval to me and we’d begun walking toward the formal dining room when I couldn’t stop myself from peeking back over my shoulder for another glimpse of Arthur Simpton.

And I stumbled into Mr. Pullman’s impressive girth.

“Alice, do watch where you are walking!” Father had snapped.

When he spoke I had been readying an apology for Mr. Pullman, so I saw the older man’s face as he registered the fact that my father had just called me by my dead mother’s name. His concern was palpable. “Oh, Barrett, think nothing of it! Your lovely and talented daughter may stumble into me at will.” The dear man put his hand on Father’s shoulder, gently guiding him ahead of me, all the while engaging him in conversation and moving him forward into the dining room so that I could pause and have a moment to collect myself. “Now, let us discuss an idea I have for adding electric lighting to Central Station. I believe the night traffic that will be generated by the Columbian Exposition justifies the expense, which we can more than make up for in the additional train tickets sold. You know I hold controlling shares in the station. I would be willing to…”

Pullman’s voice trailed away as he and Father strode into the dining room. I’d stood there, frozen as stone, the words Alice, do watch where you are walking! playing round and round in my mind.

“May I escort you to dinner, Miss Wheiler?”

I looked up into Arthur Simpton’s kind blue eyes. “Y-yes, please, sir,” I’d managed.

He’d offered his arm, and I placed my hand on it. Unlike my father’s, Arthur’s forearm was trim, and there was no dark mat of hair tufting out from under his cuffed dress shirt. And he was so delightfully tall!

“Don’t worry,” he’d whispered as we led the rest of the small group into the dining room. “No one except Pullman and I heard him call you Alice.”

My gaze had darted up to his.

“It was an understandable mistake,” he continued, speaking quickly and quietly for my ears only. “But I know it must have been painful for you.”

It was difficult for me to speak, so I only nodded.

“Then I will attempt to distract you from your pain.”

And a wondrous thing happened—Arthur positioned himself beside me at dinner! I was, of course, sitting to Father’s right, but his attention—for once—was utterly distracted from me by Mr. Pullman on his left and Mr. Burnham, who was sitting beside Mr. Pullman. When their discussion turned from the electricity at Central Station to the lighting of the Midway of the exposition, the architect, Mr. Frederick Law Olmsted, joined the conversation, adding even more passion to the argument. Arthur stayed out of much of the conversation. At first the other men joked that he was a poor stand-in for his gout-ridden father, but he laughed and agreed; then when they returned to their battle of words, Arthur returned his attention to me.

No one seemed to notice, not even Father, at least not after I called for the fifth bottle of our good cabernet to be opened and liberally poured—though he did send me a sharp look if I laughed at one of Arthur’s witticisms. I learned quickly to stifle my laughter and instead smile shyly at my plate.

I did look up, though, as often as I dared. I wanted to look into Arthur’s beautiful blue eyes and see the sparkle and the kindness with which they watched me.

But I did not want Father to see, nor did I want Mr. Elcott to see.

Mr. Elcott’s gaze did not have my father’s intensity, but I did find it on me often that night. It reminded me that Mrs. Elcott, as well as Camille, expected that Arthur Simpton was close to declaring his serious affections for their daughter, though in complete honesty I will admit that I did not need a reminder.

As I write this I do feel a measure of sadness, or perhaps pity is the more sincere emotion, for poor Camille. But she should not have deluded herself. The truth is the truth. That night I took nothing from her that she hadn’t attempted to first take from me.

I also took nothing that was not freely, joyfully, given.

The dinner that I had dreaded seemed to last but a fleeting moment. Too soon, Father, his face flushed and his words slurred, pushed back from the table, stood, and announced, “Let us retire to my library for brandy and cigars.”

I’d stood when Father did, and the other five men got instantly to their feet.

“Let us first have a toast,” Mr. Pullman had said. He’d lifted his mostly empty wineglass, and the rest of the men had followed suit. “To Miss Emily Wheiler for a delightful dinner. You are a credit to your mother.”

“To Miss Wheiler!” the men said, raising their glasses to me.

I am not ashamed to admit that I’d felt a rush of pride and of happiness. “Thank you, gentlemen. You are all most kind.” As they all bowed to me I managed to sneak a look at Arthur, who winked quickly and flashed a handsome, white-toothed smile at me.

“My dear, you were a picture tonight—a picture,” Father slurred. “Have brandy and cigars sent to my library.”

“Thank you, Father,” I’d said softly. “And I already arranged for George to be waiting in your library with both brandy and cigars.”

He’d taken my hand in his. His was large and moist, as it always was, and he lifted mine to his lips. “You have done well tonight. I bid you a good night, my dear.”

The other men had echoed his good-night wishes, as I hurried from the room, wiping the back of my hand on my voluminous velvet skirts. I’d felt my father’s gaze burning me the whole way and I did not dare look back, even for one last glimpse of Arthur Simpton.

I’d started toward the stairs, meaning to secret myself in my bedchamber so that I would be well out of sight when Father, thoroughly drunk, stumbled to his bed. I’d even told Mary, who was chattering nonstop about what a success I’d been, to give me just a few moments to myself, but then I’d be ready for her to come to my room and help me out of the intricacies of Mother’s gown so that I may change into my nightgown for bed.

As I consider back on it, tonight it seemed as if my body was completely in control of my actions, and my mind could do nothing except to follow its lead.

My feet had detoured around the wide staircase and I’d slipped quietly down the servants’ hall and out the rear door where my hands had lifted my mother’s skirts and I’d almost flown to the quiet bench under the willow tree that I had made my own.

Once I reached the dark security of my special place, my mind had begun to reason once again. Yes, Father should be smoking and drinking with the other men for hours, so it was logical that I could hide safely away there for most of the night. But I’d understood it would be too dangerous to stay but a few moments. What if the moment I chose to slip upstairs was the same moment Father stumbled from his library to relieve himself or to bellow for the cook to bring him something to satisfy his insatiable appetite? No. No. I would not chance that. And, of course, there was Mary. She would look for me if she didn’t find me in my bedchamber, and I did not want even Mary to discover my sanctuary.

Still, I’d breathed a deep, satisfied breath, taking in the cool night air and feeling the comfort lent to me by the concealing shadows. I’d wanted to steal just a few moments for myself—a few moments here, in my special place, to think about Arthur Simpton.

He’d shown me such special kindness! It had been so long since I’d laughed, and even though I’d had to stifle my giggles, I had still felt them! Arthur Simpton had transformed the evening I had so dreaded from a strange and frightening event to the most magical dinner I had ever experienced.

I hadn’t wanted it to end. I still do not want it to end.

I remember that I could not contain myself for another moment. I stood, and holding wide my arms I twirled around in the darkness within the curtain of willow boughs and laughed joyously until, exhausted by the unaccustomed rush of emotion, I sank to the young grass, breathing hard and brushing from my face the thick fall of hair that had escaped my chignon.

“You should never stop laughing. When you do, your beauty changes from extraordinary to divine and you look like a goddess come to earth to tempt us with your untouchable loveliness.”

I’d scrambled to my feet, more thrilled than shocked as Arthur Simpton parted the willow boughs and stepped within.

“Mr. Simpton! I-I did not realize anyone was—”

“Mr. Simpton?” He’d cut me off with a warm, contagious smile. “Surely even your father would agree we need not be so formal here.”

My heart had been pounding so loudly that I believe it drowned out the sound of my good sense that was shouting at me to hold my words, smile, and return quickly inside, because instead of doing any of those three reasonable things, I’d blurted, “My father would not agree to us being alone in the garden together, no matter what I call you.”

Arthur’s smile had instantly dimmed. “Does your father disapprove of me?”

I shook my head. “No, no, it is nothing like that—or at least I don’t believe so. It is just that since Mother’s death, Father seems to disapprove of everything.”

“I am sure that is because he has so recently lost his wife.”

“As I have so recently lost my mother!” I’d had enough sense remaining to me to press my lips together in a tight line and stop my outburst. Beginning to feel nervous, and incredibly clumsy, I’d walked to the marble bench and sat, trying to tidy my escaping hair, as I’d continued, “Forgive me, Mr. Simpton. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“Why ever not! Can we not be friends, Emily?” He’d followed me to the bench, but did not sit beside me.

“Yes,” I’d said softly, glad my errant hair hid my face. “I would like us to be friends.”

“Then you must call me Arthur and feel free to speak to me as you would a friend, and I will have to be certain your father finds nothing at all to disapprove of about me. I won’t even mention to him that I discovered you in the garden.”

My hands had instantly stilled and dropped from my hair. “Please, Arthur. If you are my friend, promise me you will not mention that you saw me after I left the dining room.”

I thought I saw what might have been surprise in his deep blue eyes, but it was replaced too soon by a kind, reassuring smile for me to have been sure. “Emily, I will say nothing of tonight to your father except to repeat what a lovely hostess his daughter was.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

He did sit beside me then. Not close, but his scent came to me—cigars and something that was almost sweet. Thinking back I realize that was foolish. How could a man smell of sweetness? But I didn’t know him well enough yet to understand that the absence of strong spirits and cigars on his breath seemed sweet after Father’s foul odor.

“Do you come here often?” His question had seemed such an easy one to answer.

“Yes, I do.”

“And your father doesn’t know you do?”

I’d hesitated only a moment. His eyes were so kind—his gaze so honest—and he said he’d wanted to be my friend. Surely I could confide in him, but perhaps I should do so carefully. I’d shrugged nonchalantly and found an answer that was as truthful as it was vague. “Oh, Father is so busy with business that he rarely even notices the gardens.”

“But you like them?”

I’d nodded. “I do. They’re beautiful.”

“At night? But it’s so dark and you are so very alone.”

“Well, as you are my friend now I feel I can tell you a secret, even though it may not be very ladylike.” I’d smiled shyly up at him.

Arthur grinned mischievously. “Is it your secret that isn’t ladylike, or the telling of it to me?”

“I am afraid perhaps it is both.” My shyness had begun to evaporate, and I’d even dared to lower my lashes coquettishly.

“Now I am intrigued. As your friend, I insist you tell me.” He’d leaned a little toward me.

I’d met his eyes and trusted him with the truth. “I like the darkness. It’s friendly and comforting.”

His smile had dimmed, and I’d worried that I truly had let my words reveal too much. But when he spoke his voice had lost none of his kindness. “Poor Emily, I can imagine you’ve needed to be comforted these past months, and if this garden comforts you, day or night, then I say it is a wondrous place indeed!”

I’d felt a rush of relief, and of joy at his empathy. “Yes, you see, it is my escape and my oasis. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. You’ll forget that it’s night.”

“Well, all right. I will.” He’d closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “What is that lovely scent? I didn’t notice it until now.”

“It’s the stargazer lilies. They’ve just begun to bloom,” I’d explained happily. “No, keep your eyes closed. Now, listen. Tell me what you hear.”

“Your voice, which sounds to me as sweet as the lilies smell.”

His compliment made my head light, but I’d scolded him with mock seriousness. “Not me, Arthur. Listen to the silence and tell me what you hear within it.”

He’d kept his eyes closed, tilted his head, and said, “Water. I hear the fountain.”

“Exactly! I especially like sitting here, hidden under this willow. It is as if I have found my own world where I can hear the sound of the water rushing from the fountain and imagine that I’m riding my bicycle again beside the lake with the wind in my hair and no one and nothing catching me.”

Arthur opened his eyes and met my gaze. “No one? No one at all? Not even a special friend?”

My whole body had felt flushed and I’d said, “Perhaps now I could imagine a friend joining me, and I do remember how you love to bicycle.”

He’d surprised me then by slapping his forehead. “Bicycle! That reminds me of how I found you here in the garden. I excused myself early so that I might return home to speak to Father before he goes to bed. I’d bicycled here, and was alone, mounting my bicycle to return home when I heard laughter.” He’d paused, and his voice had deepened. “It was the most beautiful laughter I had ever in my life heard. It seemed to be coming from the grounds behind the house. I saw the garden gate, opened it, and followed the sound to you.”

“Oh.” I’d breathed the word on a happy sigh, my face feeling even warmer. I’d said, “I am glad my laughter brought you to me.”

“Emily, your laughter didn’t simply bring me to you—it drew me to you.”

“I have another secret I could tell you,” I’d heard myself saying.

“Then that is another secret I will keep and treasure as my own,” he’d said.

“When I was laughing, I was thinking about how happy I was that you had been at dinner. I had been so terribly nervous before you sat beside me.” I’d held my breath, hoping I had not been what Mother would have called too forward with him.

“Well, then, I am very, very pleased to announce that I will be returning to your home for your dinner party Saturday, and that I will be escorting a lovely woman with whom I hope you will also become fast friends.”

My heart, already so battered and bruised, ached at his words. But I was learning the lesson of hiding my feelings well, so I put on the same interested expression and soft voice I used with Father and said, “Oh, how nice. It will be good to see Camille again. You should know she and I are already friends.”

“Camille?” He’d looked utterly baffled. And then I could see his expression shift to understanding. “Oh, you mean Samuel Elcott’s daughter, Camille.”

“Well, yes, of course,” I’d said, but already my bruised heart was beating more easily.

“Of course? Why do you say ‘of course’?”

“I thought it was understood that you were interested in courting Camille,” I’d said, and then felt my heart become lighter and lighter as he shook his head and replied with an empathic, “I don’t know how something I have no knowledge of could be understood.”

I’d felt as if I should say something in defense of what I knew would be poor Camille’s great embarrassment had she heard Arthur’s words. “I believe the understanding was something Mrs. Elcott was hoping for.”

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.