Neferet's Curse

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.”

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.

“Miss Elcott.” Arthur had bowed stiffly, formally. “Mrs. Elcott, good evening. I am escorting my mother as my father is still unwell.”

“What a coincidence! My Camille joins me this evening because Mr. Elcott believes he may be coming down with an ague. And, of course, I so wanted to be sure I was here to support Emily at her first formal dinner as Lady of Wheiler House that I couldn’t bear to cancel.” Mrs. Elcott had explained with a honeyed tone, but her pinched expression as she cast her gaze from Arthur to me belied her words. “Though, sadly, I have only daughters and no devoted son. You are a fortunate mother, Mrs. Simpton.”

“Oh, I readily agree with you, Mrs. Elcott,” Arthur’s mother had said with a fond smile. “He is a devoted and an observant son. We were just discussing that it was he who guessed that these lovely decorations were created by Miss Wheiler herself.”

“Emily? You did that?”

Camille had sounded so shocked that I’d had a sudden urge to slap her. Instead I lifted my chin and did not soften my voice and make little of my accomplishments, as Mother would have.

“Hello, Camille, what a surprise it is to see you. And, yes, I did make this arrangement. I also created all of the arrangements on the dining table, as well as those in Father’s library.”

“You are a credit to me, my dear,” Father had said.

I’d ignored him and kept my focus on Camille, and very precisely said, “As you and your mother observed during your last visit, I am learning early what it is to be the Lady of a great house.” I had not added the rest of what Mrs. Elcott had said, which is something my future husband will be glad of. I hadn’t needed to. I’d simply needed to turn my gaze from Camille to Arthur, and then return the warm smile he’d been beaming at me.

“Yes, well, as I said. You are a credit to me.” Father offered his arm to me again. I’d had to take it. He nodded to the Simptons and Elcotts, saying, “And now we must greet the rest of our guests. Emily, I do not see the champagne being served.”

“That is because I chose to follow the University Club’s lead with the menu tonight. George will be serving amontillado before the first course instead of champagne. It will pair much better with the fresh oysters.”

“Very good, very good. Let us find some of that amontillado, my dear. Ah, I see the Ayers have arrived. There is talk of a permanent art collection for his Indian relics, which the bank will be very interested in…”

I’d stopped listening, though I allowed Father to lead me away with him. That entire night, as I played the part of hostess and Lady of Wheiler House, I kept always in my mind the hope that Arthur Simpton was noticing, and each time I managed to steal a look at him our eyes met because he had been watching me. His smile had seemed to say he had also been appreciating me.

As the evening progressed, I’d understood that, as always, after dinner the men would leave us and retire to Father’s library for brandy and cigars. The women would go to Mother’s formal parlor, sip iced wine, nibble on tea cakes and, of course, gossip. I’d dreaded that separation, and not simply because Arthur would not be there, but because I had no experience conversing with ladies of my mother’s age. Camille was the only one of them within a decade of my age. I’d realized I had a choice to make. I could sit beside Camille and chatter like I was nothing more than any other young girl, or I could truly attempt to be Lady of Wheiler House. I knew I might be treated with condescension. There were, after all, great ladies such as Mrs. Ryerson, Mrs. Pullman, and Mrs. Ayer present, and I was but a sixteen-year-old girl. But as I led the ladies into Mother’s parlor, and was met with the familiar and soothing scent of the stargazers I had so meticulously arranged, I made my choice. I did not withdraw to the window seat with Camille and cling to my childhood. Instead, I took Mother’s position in the center of the room on the divan, supervised Mary’s refreshing of the ladies’ wine, and tried to hold my chin up and think of something—anything intelligent—to say into the building silence.

Arthur’s mother was my salvation.

“Miss Wheiler, I am interested in these unusual bouquet creations you have beautifully displayed in each of the rooms. Would you share with me your inspiration?” she’d asked with a warm smile that had reminded me so much of her son’s.

“Yes, dear,” I’d been amazed to hear Mrs. Ayer say. “The decorations are quite cunning. You must share your secret with us.”

“I was inspired by our gardens and by the fountain at its heart. I wanted to bring the lily scent and the water imagery, and my favorite tree, the willow, inside tonight.”

“Oh, I see! The cattails evoke the presence of water,” Mrs. Simpton had said.

“And the trailing ivy is arranged much like the fronds of a willow,” Mrs. Ayer had said, nodding in obvious appreciation. “That was an excellent idea.”

“Emily, I haven’t known you to be particularly fond of the garden. I thought you and Camille were much more concerned with bicycling and the latest Gibson Girl styles than gardening.” Mrs. Elcott had spoken with the exact tone of condescension I had been dreading.

For a moment I said nothing. There had seemed to be a breathless silence in the room, as if the house itself awaited my response. Would I be a girl or a lady?

I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and met Mrs. Elcott’s patronizing gaze. “Indeed, Mrs. Elcott, I have enjoyed bicycling and Gibson Girl styles, but that was when my mother, your particular friend, was Lady of Wheiler House. She is dead. I have had to step into her role, and I find that I must be concerned with things that are not so girlish.” I’d heard clucks of concern and several of the women whispered the poor thing. That further emboldened me, and I’d realized how I could use Mrs. Elcott’s condescension to my favor. I’d continued, “I know I cannot hope to be as great a lady as Mother was, but I have resolved to do my best. I can only hope that Mother is looking down on me with pride.” I’d sniffed delicately and used my lace napkin to dab the corners of my eyes.

“Oh, you sweet girl.” Mrs. Simpton had patted my shoulder. “As your father said earlier, you are a credit to your family. Your mother and I were not well acquainted, but I am a mother with daughters of my own, so I feel confident when I say that she would be very proud of you, very proud indeed!”

Then each of the ladies, in turn, consoled me and assured me of their admiration. Each of the ladies except Mrs. and Miss Elcott. Camille and her mother said little for the rest of the evening, and were the first of my guests to leave.

An hour or so later, when the men came to collect their women, conversation flowed in my parlor as freely as brandy had obviously flowed in Father’s library. Our guests bade us effusive good nights, praising everything about the evening.

Arthur and his mother were the last to depart.

“Mr. Wheiler, it has been quite some time since I have had such an agreeable evening,” Mrs. Simpton told Father, as he bowed to her. “And I do so appreciate it, as I have been uncommonly worried about my good husband’s health. But your daughter was such an attentive hostess that I feel my spirits have been lifted.”

“Pleasantly said, pleasantly said,” Father had slurred, weaving a little as he stood beside me just within the foyer.

“Please, Madam, send Mr. Simpton my best wishes for a swift recovery,” I’d said, holding my breath in hopeful anticipation of her next words.

“Well, you must call on Mr. Simpton yourself!” Arthur’s mother had exclaimed, just as I’d wished her to. “You would be such a lovely diversion for him, especially as he desperately misses our two daughters. They are both married and remained in New York with their husbands’ families.”

“I would enjoy calling on you very much,” I’d said, touching Father’s arm and adding, “Father, do you not think it would be a kindness to visit Mr. and Mrs. Simpton, as he has been so unwell?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Father had said, nodding dismissively.

“Excellent. Then I shall send Arthur around with our carriage on Monday afternoon.”

“Arthur? The carriage? I do not—” Father had begun but Mrs. Simpton had interrupted, nodding her head as if she agreed with whatever edict he was getting ready to speak. “I do not like the current craze of young people bicycling everywhere, either. And those bloomers girls are wearing—atrocious!” Mrs. Simpton had leveled her gaze on her son. “Arthur, I know that you are fond of your bicycle, but Mr. Wheiler and I insist his daughter travels in a more civilized manner. Do we not, Mr. Wheiler?”

“Indeed,” Father had agreed. “Bicycles are not appropriate for ladies.”

“Precisely! So my son will take the carriage for Miss Wheiler on Monday afternoon. It is well decided. Good night!” Mrs. Simpton had taken her son’s arm. Arthur bowed formally to Father, bidding him good night. When he turned to me his bow was just as formal, but his gaze met mine and his quick wink was for me alone.

As soon as the door closed I went into action. I’d recognized Father’s weaving and slurring. My heart was too filled with the success of the evening and the obvious attentions being paid me by Arthur and his mother. I’d not wanted to take any chance that Father would ruin my happiness with his alcohol breath, his hot, heavy hands, and his burning gaze.

“I’ll wish you a good night now, Father,” I’d said with a quick curtsey. “I must see that everything is back in its proper place tonight, and it is already so late. Carson!” I’d called and then had breathed a great sigh of relief when Father’s valet hurried into the foyer. “Please help Father to his bedchamber.”

Then I’d turned and, with purposeful, confident strides, retreated from the room.

And Father hadn’t called me back!

I’d been so giddy with victory that I practically danced into the dining room where, just as I’d already directed, George was putting everything back to order.

“Leave the flower arrangements, George,” I’d directed him. “The scent really is spectacular.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Mary was tidying the parlor. “You can leave that for now. I’d rather have you help me out of this gown. I am exhausted.”

“Yes, Miss,” had been her response, as well.

Had I actually ended the night after Mary had helped me into my sleep chemise, I would be recording that as the most perfect evening of my life. Sadly, I was too restless for sleep—too restless to even write of the evening’s events in my journal. I’d craved the comfort of my sweet, familiar garden, and the soothing touch of the darkness that brought me a special sense of calm.

I’d wrapped my night robe around me and, on slippered feet I’d padded silently, swiftly, down the wide stairway. I heard the servants distantly in the kitchen, but no one saw me as I slipped from the house and into my gardens.

It had been late—much later than I usually ventured outside, but the moon was more than half full, and my feet knew their way. My willow awaited me. Under its curtained darkness I curled up on the marble bench, gazed at the fountain, and then, like each memory was a jewel, I sifted through the events of the evening.

Arthur Simpton’s mother had made it clear that she prefers me! It had even seemed that she and her son were in cahoots, and that they worked together to slip around Father’s possessive disapproval.

I’d wanted to stand and dance and laugh with joy, but Arthur had taught me a valuable lesson. I had no intention of anyone, not even one of the servants, discovering my special place, so I remained quietly on the bench and imagined myself dancing and laughing in joy under my willow tree, and I promised myself then that someday I would be Lady of my own great house, and my Lord and husband would have kind blue eyes and a warm smile.

As I write this, remembering the evening, I do not believe my manipulations malicious. Arthur and his mother had paid me special attention. Was it wrong that I wanted to use their affections to escape a situation I was finding more and more difficult to bear?

The answer I find is no. I would be good to Arthur. I would be close to his mother. I was not doing an evil act by encouraging the Simptons.

But I digress. I must continue to report the horrific events that followed.

That night, the comfortable shadows beneath my willow tree had worked their usual magic. My mind had ceased its whirring and I’d felt a lovely sleepiness come over me. Almost as if I was in a waking dream, I’d slowly, languidly, left the gardens and made my way back through the dark, silent house. I was yawning widely when I reached the second-floor landing. I’d covered my mouth to stifle the sound when Father stepped from the unlit hallway.

“What are you doing?” His words were rough, and came to me on a wave of brandy and garlic.

“I just wanted to be sure everything was set to rights before I went to sleep. All is well, though, so good night, Father.” I’d turned and tried to continue up the stairs when his heavy hand caught my arm.

“You should have a drink with me. It would be good for your hysteria.”

I’d stopped moving the instant he’d touched me, afraid if I began to struggle away from him, he would only grasp all the tighter to my arm. “Father, I do not have hysteria. I only have weariness. The dinner party has tired me greatly and I need to sleep now.”

Even on the dim landing I could see the intensity of his eyes as his hot gaze took in my loosened night robe and my free-falling hair. “Is that Alice’s robe you’re wearing?”

“No. This is my robe, Father.”

“You did not wear one of your mother’s dresses tonight.” His hand had tightened on my arm, and I knew there would be bruised shadows there the next day.

“I refashioned one of Mother’s dresses so that it fit me. That is probably why you didn’t recognize it,” I’d said quickly, sorry that I had been so stubborn—so vain—and that I had given him an excuse to focus his attention on me.

“Your figures are very similar, though.” He’d lurched toward me, closing the space between us and making it thick with alcohol fumes and sweat.

Panic lent my voice strength and I spoke more sharply than I have ever heard any woman speak to him. “Similar, but not the same! I am your daughter. Not your wife. I bid you to remember that, Father.”

He’d stopped moving toward me then and blinked, as if he couldn’t quite focus on me. I used his hesitation to pull my arm from his loosened grasp.

“What is it you’re saying?”

“I am saying good night, Father.” Before he could grab me again I’d turned, lifted my skirts, and raced up the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. I did not stop running until I closed the door to my bedchamber and leaned against it. My breath had been short and my heart had been beating frantically. I was sure, quite sure, that I heard his heavy feet following me, and I’d stood, trembling, afraid to move, even after all sounds outside my room went quiet.

My panic finally subsided, and I’d gone to my bed, pulling the coverlet around me, trying to still my thoughts and find the calm within me again. My eyelids had just begun to flutter when there was a heavy footstep outside my room. I burrowed farther down within my bed linens and watched, wide-eyed, as the doorknob slowly, silently turned. The door opened a crack and I squeezed my eyes closed, held my breath, and imagined with all of my mind that I was back on my bend under the willow tree, safely cloaked in the comforting shadows.

I know he entered my room. I am sure of it. I could smell him. But I remained perfectly silent, not moving, imagining I was hidden completely in darkness. It seemed a very long time, but I heard my door reclose. I’d opened my eyes to find my room empty, though scented with brandy, sweat, and my fear. Hastily I’d gotten out of bed. Barefoot, I used all of my strength to push and drag my heavy chest of drawers in front of my door, barring the entrance.

And still I did not allow myself to sleep until dawn lightened the sky and I heard the servants begin to stir.

Sunday, I awoke and did what would become my morning ritual: I dragged the chest of drawers from before my door. Then I avoided Father the entire day. I told Mary that I was exhausted from the excitement of the dinner party, and that I wished to remain in my room, resting. I’d been quite firm, and Mary did not question me. She left me to myself, and for that I was grateful. I did sleep, but I also planned.

I am not mad. I am not hysterical. I do not know exactly what it is I see in my father’s gaze, but I do know that it is an unhealthy obsession and it only reinforces my determination to leave Wheiler House soon.

I went to my looking glass, stepped out of my day dress, and studied my naked body, cataloging my attributes. I have high, firm breasts, a slim waist, and generous hips that have no inclination to fat. My hair is thick and falls almost to my waist. Like my mother’s was, it is an unusual color—dark, but touched by rich auburn highlights. My lips are full. My eyes, again like Mother’s, are undeniably striking. It is a true comparison to name them emerald in color.

With an utter lack of vanity or emotion I acknowledged that I was beautiful, even more beautiful than my mother, and she had often been called the most handsome woman in Second City. I also realized that, even though it was an abomination for his feelings to be such, it was my body, my beauty that my father so obviously coveted.

My mind and heart were still filled with Arthur Simpton, but they were also filled with a sense of desperation that frightened me. I needed Arthur to love me not only because he was handsome and kind and well positioned in the world. I needed Arthur to love me because he was my escape. Monday, I would visit his home. Staring into my looking glass I resolved to do anything to gain his vow and his troth.

If I am to save my life, I must make him mine.

Sunday evening, I’d expected Mary to bring me a dinner tray. Instead, Carson knocked on my door.

“Excuse me, Miss Wheiler. Your father requests that you join him for dinner.”

“Please tell Father that I am still unwell,” I’d said.

“Be pardon, Miss, but your father has had Cook make a healing stew. He said either you come to the dining room, or he will join you in your parlor here for dinner.”

I’d felt a horrible sickness and had to clasp my hands together to keep from showing how I was trembling. “Very well, then. Tell Father I will join him for dinner.”

With leaden feet I made my way to the dining room. Father was already seated at his place, with the Sunday paper open and a glass of red wine raised to his lips. He’d looked up as I entered the room.

“Ah, Emily! There you are. George!” he’d bellowed. “Pour Emily some of this excellent wine. That and Cook’s stew will have her right as rain in no time—right as rain.”

I sat without speaking. Father didn’t seem to notice my silence.

“Now, you know, of course, that the opening of the Columbian Exposition is exactly one week from tomorrow, on May the first. After the success of your dinner party last night, Mrs. Ayer as well as Mrs. Burnham have taken an especial interest in you. The ladies have invited you to be included in their opening ceremony festivities, which will culminate in dinner at the University Club.”

I gaped at him, not able to hide my surprise. The University Club was exclusive and opulent and not a place young, single girls were invited. Women were rarely allowed there at all, and those allowed were chaperoned by husbands.

“Well, have you nothing to say? Will you just gape like a codfish?”

I’d closed my mouth and lifted my chin. He wasn’t drunk yet, and sober Father was much less frightening. “I am flattered by the ladies’ attentions.”

“Of course you are. You should be. Now, you must consider carefully what you will wear. First we will be going to the Midway, and then to the club. You should choose one of your mother’s more elaborate gowns, but not one with such decadence that it would be out of place during the opening ceremonies.”

One small thought had my heart lightening, and I’d nodded somberly. “Yes, Father. I agree the gown is very important. When I call on Mrs. Simpton tomorrow, I must ask her to help me in the choosing, and perhaps even in the alterations of it. She is a lady of impeccable taste and I’m sure she will—”

He’d waved his hand, cutting me off. “I have already had Carson send word to your mother’s dressmaker to come to the house tomorrow. You have no time for such social frivolities as gallivanting about town. I have sent your excuses to the Simptons, and assured them it would not be necessary for that son of theirs to collect you. Instead, I will make a call on Mr. Simpton Monday evening for after-dinner brandy so that we may discuss business matters. That gout of his has kept him absent too long from board meetings. If Simpton will not go to the board, the president of the board will go to Simpton.”

“What?” I’d pressed my fingers against my forehead, trying to stop the pounding in my temples. “You canceled my visit to the Simpton house? Why ever would you do that?”

Father’s hard gaze met mine. “You have been ill all day, hiding away in your room. Too much excitement is obviously not good for your constitution, Emily. You will remain home this entire week so you will be fit for Monday next and the University Club.”

“Father, I was simply tired from the party. Tomorrow I will be quite well. I am feeling more like myself already.”

“Perhaps had you felt more like yourself earlier I would give credence to your words, but as it is, I have decided what is best for you—and that is saving yourself for Monday next. Have I made myself clear, Emily?”

I sent his hard gaze back at him, in my imagination filling it with the depth of my loathing. “Yes, you have made yourself clear.” My voice had been stone.

Father’s smile had been self-satisfied and cruel. “Good. Even your mother bowed to my will.”

“Yes, Father, I know she did.” I should have stopped there, but my anger allowed my words to be free. “But I am not my mother, nor would I ever desire to be.”

“You could do no better in life than to be the Lady your mother was.”

I’d let my voice mirror the coldness expanding within me. “Do you ever wonder, Father, what Mother would say if she could see us now?”

His eyes had narrowed. “Your mother is never far from my thoughts.”

George began to serve the stew then, and Father neatly changed the subject, launching into a monologue about the ridiculous expenditures of the Exposition—like bringing an entire tribe of African pigmies to the Midway—and I sat silently, planning, thinking, plotting, and above all hating him.

I did not dare visit my garden that night. I excused myself before Father poured the brandy, smoothly using his own words against him by saying that I realized, after all, that he had been correct—I really was completely fatigued and must rest and be prepared for Monday next.

I dragged the heavy chest of drawers before the door, then sat atop it with my ear pressed against the cold wood, listening. Until well after moonrise I heard him pacing back and forth on his landing.

I was filled with frustration all of Monday. I so needed to call on Arthur and his parents! My only condolence was the fact that I was certain Arthur would see through Father’s ruse. I had already warned him of Father’s possessiveness. This would be but one more piece of evidence to prove my words true.

Surely the Simptons would at least attend the opening of the Columbian Exposition, if not the dinner at the University Club as well. I would see Arthur again Monday next—I must see Arthur again then. I would use all of my wits to find an opportunity to speak with him. It would be forward of me, but my circumstances were such that they demanded drastic actions. Arthur was kind and reasonable. He and his mother had paid me special interest. Surely, between the three of us we would find a way to get around Father’s draconian behavior.

Draconian behavior. I had thought for many hours about how I could explain Father’s unnatural possessiveness. I had learned from Camille’s reaction when I had attempted, ever so slightly, to confide in her my distress about Father. Her shock had been complete and then she had excused my fears. Even Arthur, that night under the willow tree, had waved aside Father’s behavior as that of a grieving widower who mourned the loss of his wife and was, therefore, understandably careful of his daughter. I knew better. I knew the truth. His increasing attentions to me were not simply overbearing and possessive, they were becoming horrifyingly inappropriate. It was an abomination, but I had come to suspect my father wanted me to take the place of my mother, in all ways. I had also come to believe that my suspicions could never be shared. So, instead of the truth I would paint a picture of a gruff, domineering father who frightened my delicate sensibilities. I would appeal to the gentleman within Arthur to rescue me.

It would be absurd for Father to turn down an honorable marriage proposal from a family with the wealth and social status of the Simptons. The alliance with their money and power would be too tempting. All I need do would be to secure Arthur’s affections and convince him that my fear of Father’s domination was so great that my health was at risk, and that we must have a short engagement. Father himself had taught me that men wanted to believe in the fragility and hysteria of women. Though Arthur was kind and good, he was a man.

The dressmaker arrived late Monday afternoon. It was decided that Mother’s most elegant emerald silk gown would be reworked to fit my figure. I was still being fitted and pinned when Father had burst into my third-floor parlor without introduction or warning.

I could see the shock in the dressmaker’s eyes. I had to raise my hands to cover my half-bared breasts as she had been in the process of repinning the dress’s bodice.

Father’s gaze had seared my body.

“The silk—an excellent choice.” He’d nodded in approval as he’d paced a complete circle around me.

“Yes, sir. I agree. It will be lovely on your daughter,” said the dressmaker, lowering her eyes.

“The gold lace is vulgar, though, for one so young as my Emily,” Father had announced. “Remove it.”

“I can do so, sir, but then the dress will be completely unadorned and, if you beg pardon for me saying so, sir, the occasion calls for something spectacular.”

“I disagree.” Father had stroked his beard and continued to study me and speak as if I weren’t in the room, but only a soulless manikin. “Make the cut simple, but pleasing. The silk is the richest it was possible to acquire on this side of the world, and Emily’s innocence is adornment enough for the dress. Otherwise, I will look to her late mother’s jewels and, perhaps, find something appropriate for the evening.”

“Very good, sir. It will be as you desire.”

The dressmaker had been tucking and pinning, so she had not seen the heat in my father’s eyes when he responded with, “Yes. It will, indeed, be as I desire.”

I’d said nothing.

“Emily, I expect you to come down for dinner soon. Afterward, I will call on the Simptons so that you may go to your bed and rest. I want you in good health for Monday next.”

“Yes, Father.”

Except for one slight exchange, I had been silent during dinner. In the middle of Father’s latest tirade about the excesses of the Exposition and his worry that he would, once again, be proved correct and the bank would lose money, he abruptly changed the subject.

“Emily, are you enjoying the time you volunteer with the GFWC each week?”

I am not sure what came over me. Perhaps it was how utterly exhausted I’d been by the subterfuge required to keep living a life wherein I had been forced to play the part of dutiful daughter to a man unworthy of the title of father. Perhaps it was because of the growing coldness within me, but I’d decided not to lie or evade Father’s question. I met his gaze and told the truth.

“No. Mrs. Armour is a hypocritical old woman. The poor and homeless of Chicago stink and behave badly. Little wonder they have to live on the charity of others. No, Father. I do not enjoy volunteering at the GFWC. It is a charade and a waste of my time.”

Humph! He’d made a noise through his nose followed by a guffaw of laughter. “You just spoke almost the exact words I used to your mother when she’d petitioned for the bank’s charitable support of the GFWC. Well done you for understanding so quickly what your mother did not comprehend at more than two decades your senior.”

I’d held my words. I would not barter my soul to be the ally of a monster. In silence I’d continued to push my food around my plate. Father had watched me while he drank deeply of the wine I had not had an opportunity to water.

“But contributing to a charity is of the utmost importance for those of our social and financial status. Let us imagine, for a moment, you could support a charity of your own inception. Tell me, Emily, what would that be?”

I’d hesitated enough to consider whether there could be any negative ramifications to answering him honestly, and I’d quickly decided I might as well speak my mind. It was obvious that I was his toy, his doll, his diversion. Nothing I said had the least bit of meaning to him at all.

“I would not support the lower stratus of humanity. I would uplift those who strive to reach beyond the bounds of the mundane. I have heard Mr. Ayer speak of his collection of fine Native art. I have heard Mr. Pullman discuss adding electricity to Central Station and his more exclusive cars. If it were within my power, I would create a Palace of Fine Arts, and perhaps even a Museum of Science and Industry, and I would nurture excellence rather than sloth.”

“Ha!” Father had slapped the table so violently his wine had sloshed over the rim of his glass, and ran like blood into the fine linen tablecloth. “Well said! Well said! I am in complete agreement. I proclaim from here on you will no longer volunteer at the GFWC.” Then he’d leaned forward and captured my gaze. “You know, Alice, we could accomplish great things together, the two of us.”

My whole body had gone to ice. “Father, my name is Emily. Alice, your wife, my mother, is dead.” Before he could respond I stood and, as George entered the room with the dessert, I’d pressed the back of my hand against my forehead and staggered, almost fainting.

“Miss, are you unwell?” The Negro had asked, frowning in concern.

“As Father said yesterday, I am still fatigued from Saturday night. Could you please call Mary so that she may escort me to my room?” I’d glanced at Father and added, “May I be excused, Father? I would not want my weakness to keep you from calling on the Simptons tonight.”

“Very well. George, call for Mary. Emily, I expect your health to be better tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Carson!” He’d bellowed, pushing away the dessert George had left for him. “Bring the carriage around at once!” Without another glance at me, he’d stalked from the room.

Mary had come in immediately thereafter, whispering about the fragility of my health and herding me to my bedchamber as if she were a hen and I her chick. I’d let her help me out of my day dress and into my nightgown, and then curled into bed, assuring her that I would be well if I could just rest. She’d left me quickly, though I could see that she was honestly concerned for me.

What could I have told her? She’d seen the heat of Father’s eyes on me. She and George and Carson, and probably even Cook, had to know that he stalked and imprisoned me. Yet none of them had said so much as one word against him. None of them had offered their aid in planning my escape.

No matter. I must be the vehicle of finding my salvation.

But that night, at least for an hour or two, I could orchestrate an escape, if only one of miniscule proportions.

Father would be gone to Simpton House, and would be ingratiating himself in the family and attempting to appear the concerned patriarch for his poor, frail daughter.

Again, no matter. It only meant that I could flee to my garden!

On silent feet I tiptoed down the broad stairway, around the foyer, and made my way out the servants’ exit. I was not discovered. The house was as I preferred it, dark and quiet.

The April night was dark, as well. And I found a great ease in the concealing shadows. With no lights on in the rear of the house, and no moon risen as yet, it seemed as if the shadows had overtaken the walkway completely and, welcomingly, they caressed my feet. As I hurried to my willow, I imagined that I drew the shadows to me so that they cloaked my body in darkness so complete that it would never, ever, allow me to be discovered.

I’d followed the music of the fountain to my willow, parted the boughs, and gone to my bench, where I sat with my feet curled beneath me and my eyes closed, breathing deeply and evenly and searching for the serenity I’d always found there.

How long I was there I have no real recollection. I tried to keep time in mind. I knew I must leave my safe place well before Father might return, but I was drinking deeply of the night. I did not want to be parted from it.

The latch of the side gate to the garden had not been oiled, and its protesting voice had my head lifting from my hand and my body trembling.

Moments later a nearby twig on the garden path snapped and I was certain I could make out footsteps shuffling through the gravel of the walkway.

It could not be Father! I’d reminded myself. He does not know I come to the garden!

Or does he? Frantically, my mind had raced back to the conversations of Saturday night—the women complimenting me on my flower arrangements; Mrs. Elcott’s sarcasm regarding my regard for the garden.

No. It had not been mentioned that I was spending time in the garden. No! Father could not know. Only Arthur knew. He’d been the only person who—

“Emily? Are you there? Please be there.”

As if I’d conjured him, Arthur Simpton’s sweet voice preceded him and he’d parted the boughs and stepped through the willow curtain.

“Arthur! Yes, I’m here!” Without allowing myself time to think, I’d acted on instinct and rushed to him, hurling myself into his surprised embrace, weeping and laughing at the same time.

“Emily, my God! Are you truly as unwell as your father says?” Arthur had held me away from him, studying me with concern.

“No, no, no! Oh, Arthur I am perfectly well now!” I hadn’t stepped back into his embrace, his hesitance had warned me. I must not appear too desperate—too forward. So I’d wiped my face quickly and smoothed my hair, glad again of the concealing darkness. “Forgive me. I have embarrassed myself dreadfully.” I’d turned away from him and hurried back to the safety of my bench.

“Think nothing of it. We both were surprised. There is nothing to forgive,” he’d assured me in his calm, kind voice.

“Thank you, Arthur. Would you sit with me for a moment and tell me how you come to be here? I am so glad!” I’d not been able to stop myself from saying. “I’ve been so distraught at the thought of not visiting you and your family.”

Arthur had sat beside me. “At this very moment your father is sipping my father’s brandy and they are sharing cigars as well as banking stories. I come to be here because of my concern for you. Mother and I have both been dreadfully worried since receiving your Father’s note yesterday saying that you were too unwell to pay any social visits at all this week. Actually, it was Mother’s idea that I slip from the house and check on you tonight.”

“Did you tell her about the garden?” My voice had gone sharp and cold with fear.

There was enough light for me to see that he was frowning. “No, of course not. I would not betray your confidence, Emily. Mother simply suggested that I call on you. And if you truly could not receive visitors I should leave a note of condolence with your maid. That is exactly what I have done.”

“You spoke with Mary?”

“No, I believe it was your father’s valet who answered the door.”

I nodded impatiently. “Yes, Carson. What did he say?”

“I asked to be announced to you. He said you were indisposed. I said my parents and I were distressed to hear it, and asked that he give you our note of condolence tomorrow.” He paused and his frown had begun to tilt up in the expression that had already become so beloved by me. “Then your father’s man escorted me from the porch and watched me bicycle away down the street. When I was quite certain he was no longer watching, I circled back and entered through the gate as I did before, hoping that I might find you here.”

“And so you have! Arthur, you are so clever!” I’d placed my hand over his and squeezed. He’d smiled and squeezed my hand in return. I released him slowly, understanding that I must not offer too much too soon.

“So you have recovered? You are well?”

I’d drawn a deep breath. I knew I must tread carefully. My future—my safety—my salvation depended upon it.

“Oh, Arthur, this is so difficult for me to tell you. It-it makes me feel disloyal to Father to admit the truth.”

“You? Disloyal? I can hardly imagine it.”

“But I’m afraid if I speak the truth I will sound disloyal,” I’d said softly.

“Emily, I believe in truth. To tell it is to show a loyalty to God, and that is beyond any loyalty we hold to man. Besides, we are friends, and it is not disloyal to share a confidence with a friend.”

“As my friend, would you hold my hand as I tell you? I feel so frightened and alone.” I’d added a small, hiccupping sob.

“Of course, sweet Emily!” He’d captured my hand in his. I remember how wonderful it was to feel the strength and sureness of him, and what a stark contrast that was to Father’s hot, heavy touch.

“Then this is the truth. It seems as if Father is going mad. He wishes to control my every move. I was not unwell after Saturday night, but he suddenly refused to allow me to call on your parents. He has also forbidden me to continue my volunteer work that I have been doing weekly at the GFWC, and that cause was so important to my mother!” I’d stifled another sob and clung to Arthur’s hand. “He has said I may not leave Wheiler House until Monday next, and then I am only allowed to attend the opening of the Columbian Exposition and the University Club dinner afterward because several influential ladies have requested my presence. I know it is as you said before, that Father is mourning the loss of his wife, but his behavior has become so controlling that it is frightening! Oh, Arthur, tonight at dinner when I tried to insist that I continue Mother’s volunteerism with the GFWC I thought he was going to strike me!” I began to sob in earnest. Finally, Arthur pulled me into his arms.

“Emily, Emily, please don’t cry,” he’d said soothingly as he patted my back.

I’d pressed myself against him, crying softly on his shoulder, becoming increasingly aware that I had nothing on except my thin nightdress and my loosened dressing gown. I am not ashamed to admit that I thought of the beauty and fullness of my body as I clung to him.

His hand had stopped patting me, and had begun traveling up and down my back, warmly, intimately. When his breathing began to deepen and his touch had gone from consolation to caress, I’d realized his body had begun to react to the scant amount of cloth separating his hand and my naked flesh. I’d let instinct guide me. I’d held to him more tightly, shifting my breasts so that they were flattened against his chest, and then I pulled abruptly from his arms. With trembling hands I’d retied my dressing gown and turned away from him.

“What you must think of me! My behavior is so … so—” I’d stuttered, trying to find my mother’s words. “So forward!”

“No, Emily. You must not think that, for I do not think that. You are obviously distraught and not yourself.”

“But that is the trouble, Arthur. I am myself because I have only myself on which to depend. I am completely alone with Father. I so wish Mother was here and could help me.” I hadn’t had to pretend the sob that followed those words.

“But I am here! You are not alone. Emily, give me leave to speak to my mother and my father of your troubles. They are wise. They will know what to do.”

I’d quelled a fluttering of hope and shook my head miserably. “No, there is nothing to be done. Arthur, Father frightens me dreadfully. If your father said anything to him about his treatment of me, it would only make my situation worse.”

“Emily, I cannot promise that my father will not speak to yours. I had wanted more time to move ahead slowly and carefully, but with things as they are, it doesn’t seem we are destined to be afforded time.” He’d drawn a deep breath, and turned to face me on the bench. Gently, chastely, he’d taken my hands in his and continued. “Emily Wheiler, I would like to ask permission to formally court you, with the express purpose of making you my wife. Will you accept me?”

“Yes, Arthur! Oh, yes!” It hadn’t just been relief at the escape that had opened before me that had me laughing and crying and hugging him tightly. I cared for Arthur Simpton, truly.

I might even love him.

He’d hugged me in return and then, laughing with me, drawn back, saying, “I have not stopped thinking of you from the moment I first saw you all those many months ago when you and your friend joined the Hermes Club. I think I have always known you would be mine.”

I’d tilted my head back and looked up at him adoringly. “Arthur Simpton, you have made me the happiest girl in the world.”

Slowly he’d bent and pressed his lips to mine. That first kiss had been an electrical shock to my body. I’d felt myself molding to his body and parted my lips invitingly. Arthur had deepened the kiss, tasting me hesitantly with his tongue. There had been no hesitation in my response. I’d opened to him, and even as I write this my body easily recalls the rush of warmth and wetness that his mouth had caused me to feel. Breathing deeply, he’d broken the kiss. His laugh had been tremulous.

“I-I must speak to your father soon. Tomorrow! I will call on him tomorrow.”

My good sense had returned to me abruptly. “No, Arthur! You mustn’t.”

“But I don’t understand. You are frightened, and time is of the essence.”

I took his hand, pressed it to my breast, over my heart, and dared to say, “Do you trust me, my darling?”

His startled expression had softened instantly. “Of course I do!”

“Then please do as I say and all will be well. You must not speak to Father alone. He is not himself. He will not be reasonable. Arthur, he may even forbid you to see me, and then beat me when I protest.”

“No, Emily! I will not allow that!

I’d breathed a sigh of relief. “I know how you can secure his blessing, my safety, and our happiness, but you must do as I tell you. I know Father far better than you do.”

“Tell me what I must do to keep you safe.”

“Be sure you and your parents attend the dinner at the University Club Monday next after the opening ceremonies on the Midway. At the dinner, in front of his peers and the great ladies of Chicago who have expressly requested that I accompany Father, that is when you must publicly ask permission to court me.” Arthur had already been nodding in agreement, but I continued, “Even in his current unstable state, Father will not act irrationally in public.”

“When I pledge my intentions, and my family supports me in my troth, your father will have no rational reason to refuse me.”

I’d squeezed his hand more tightly. “That is true, but only if you do so in public.”

“You are right, sweet Emily. Your father will have to act like himself then.”

“Exactly! You are so wise, Arthur,” was what I’d said. My thoughts, of course, had been much different.

“But will you be safe for a week? And how can I see you without provoking your father?”

My mind had whirred. “Father himself has said I am unwell. I will be a dutiful daughter and insist he is right, that my health is fragile and that I must rest, so as to be invigorated for Monday.” And, I’d added silently, I will go to my bed early and sleep with a heavy chest of drawers barring entrance to my chamber …

Arthur had pulled his hand from me and gently tapped me on my nose. “And no more insisting that you volunteer at the GFWC. After we are married there will be years for you to follow your civic spirit, and volunteer as often and wherever you so desire.”

“After we are married!” I’d said the words happily, mentally tossing away the rest of his sentence. “That sounds so wonderful!”

“Mother will be pleased,” he’d said.

That had touched my heart and true tears had come to my eyes. “I’ll have a mother again.”

Arthur had embraced me, and this time I did not offer my lips to him. This time I’d only clung happily to him.

Too soon, he took his arms from around me. “Emily, I do not wish to leave you, but I am worried about the passing time. Father will not entertain long—his health will not allow it.”

I was already standing before he’d finished speaking. Taking his arm I’d guided him to the edge of the shielding darkness of my willow. “You are absolutely right. You must leave before Father returns.” And I had to rush to barricade myself within my bedchamber!

He’d turned to me. “Tell me how I can see you between now and next week. I must know that you are truly safe and well.”

“Here—you may come here, but only at night. If it is safe, and if I am able to escape to the gardens I will pick a lily and place it in the latch of the garden gate. When you see the lily, you will know I’m waiting for you, my love.”

He’d kissed me quickly and said, “Be safe, my dearest one.” And then he’d hurried away into the darkness.

I’d been giddy with happiness and breathless with worry as I ran as swiftly and silently as possible back through the house and up the long flights of stairs. It had only been minutes after I’d pushed the chest of drawers before my door that, watching from within the curtains of my third-floor balcony, I saw Father stumble drunkenly from our carriage.

If he lurked outside my bedchamber, that night I did not know it. That night I slept soundly, door barricaded, content that my escape had been secured and that my future would be safe and happy.

Avoiding Father over the next week proved much easier than I’d anticipated, thanks to the financial travails of the Columbian Exposition. Father’s bank was in turmoil regarding last-minute funding that Mr. Burnham was insisting the Exposition Committee approve. Tuesday and Wednesday he’d rushed through dinner and then left immediately afterward, muttering darkly about architects and unrealistic expectations. Though he did not return home until well after moonrise, I did not escape to my garden. I did not pick a lily and chance being discovered. But on Thursday evening, when Carson announced that Father had come home only long enough to change into more formal attire and then depart for dinner and a board meeting at the University Club, I knew I would have hours of solitude before he returned.

I took dinner in my private parlor and dismissed Mary hours before usual, encouraging her to take the evening for herself and to visit her sister who lived across town in the meatpacking district. She had been grateful for the free time and, as I knew it would, word that the master and mistress of the Wheiler House were otherwise occupied spread through the servants. The house was silent as death before the sun had fully left the sky, and it had been ever so difficult for me to wait for true darkness and the concealing shadows of night. I’d paced and fretted until the moon, almost completely full, had lifted into the sky. Then I crept from my room, moving much more slowly than my heart had wanted my feet to go—but I understood I must be more careful now than ever. My freedom was in sight. Being discovered now, even were it only by one of our servants, could put everything I had worked so hard to orchestrate at risk.

Perhaps I should have remained in my room and trusted that Arthur would not forsake his word to me, but the truth was that I needed to see him. I longed to be touched by his kindness and his strength, and through his touch feel warmer, gentler emotions again. The tension within me had been building each day, and as Monday drew nearer and nearer, even though Father had largely been absent, I had begun to feel an increasing sense of foreboding. Monday should bring an end to my fear and suffering, but I could not shake the presentiment that something so terrible that even my imagination could not give it name, was waiting to happen to me.

Trying to put aside my foreboding and focus on the things I could control—the events I could understand—I’d dressed carefully, fully aware that I must draw Arthur to me and make him irretrievably my own. I’d chosen my finest chemise, a nightgown made of blush colored linen so soft that it felt like silk against my naked skin. From Mother’s wardrobe I borrowed her finest dressing gown. It was, of course, made of velvet the exact color of our eyes. I’d stood before my looking glass as I wrapped it snuggly around my body, using the gold tasseled sash to belt it tightly so that the slimness of my waist contrasted beautifully with the generous curves of my bosom and my hips. But I’d been quite sure that the belted sash was tied in a bow, and one that could easily be loosened, as if on accident. I’d left my hair unadorned and free, combed it to a lustrous shine so that it tumbled in a thick auburn wave down my back.

I’d plucked a fragrant lily in full bloom from beside the garden path. Before I’d threaded it through the latch on the outward side of the gate I pulled one petal free and rubbed it behind my neck, between my bosoms, and on my wrists. Then, covered in the sweet scent of lily and the welcoming shadows of the night, I’d sat on my bench and waited.

Looking back I realize I couldn’t have waited long. The moon, white and luminous, was still hanging low in the sky when I’d heard the garden gate squeak open and shoes crunch hurriedly on the gravel path.

I hadn’t been able to sit calmly as I should have. I’d leaped up and on feet that did not seem to touch the spring grass, hurried to the edge of my willow curtain to meet my lover, my savior, my rescuer.

“Arthur!”

His arms were around me and his dear voice sounded like a symphony in my ears. “My sweet Emily! Are you well? Unharmed?”

“I am completely well now that you are here!” I’d laughed and tilted my face up, offering my lips to him. Arthur had kissed me then, and even pressed his body against mine, but as I’d begun to feel an increase in the tension of his body, he’d broken our embrace and, with a shaky laugh, bowed formally to me and offered me his arm.

“My lady, may I escort you to your seat?”

I’d swept my thick hair back and curtseyed, smiling teasingly up at him. “Oh, please do, kind sir. And, though I do not want to appear too forward, you should know that I have saved every dance tonight for you.”

My words had made him laugh again, less nervously than before, and I did not cling too tightly to his arm, but gave him a chance to collect himself as he guided me to the bench. We sat, holding hands. I’d sighed happily when he, shyly, lifted my hand and kissed it gently.

“Tell me how you have been. There has not been one moment since last I saw you that you have not been on my mind,” he’d said, sounding so earnest and young that he’d almost frightened me. How could anyone as good and kind as Arthur Simpton ever stand up to my father?

He wouldn’t have to! I’d reminded myself as quickly as I do now. Arthur only need make a public declaration for me—Father’s fear of scandal and ridicule would do the rest.

“I have been missing you,” I’d said, holding tightly to his strong hand.

“But your father—he has not…”

When Arthur faltered and could not complete his question I continued for him, “Father has not often been at home for the past several nights. We have rarely spoken. I have kept to my chamber, and Father has kept to the business of financing the exposition.”

Arthur had nodded in understanding. “Even my father has roused himself from his sickbed and has been dining and conducting business beside Mr. Pullman.” He’d paused, and appeared uncomfortable.

“What is it?” I’d prodded.

“Mother and Father were completely pleased when I announced my intentions toward you. When I further explained your circumstances Mother, in particular, was concerned, especially after Father returned home Tuesday evening from a meeting and reported how very drunk your father had been, as well as impolite and belligerent, before the meeting had even come to a close.”

I’d felt a thin ribbon of fear. “Oh, please, Arthur! Tell me your parents do not hold my father’s excesses against me. It would break my heart if they did!”

“Of course not.” He’d gently patted my hand. “To the contrary. Because Father witnessed Mr. Wheiler’s behavior himself, he and Mother are even more determined that our courtship be short, our engagement formally announced, and you be rescued from such an undesirable situation as soon as is proper. If all goes as planned, this time next year you and I shall be wed, my sweet Emily!”

He’d pulled me gently into his arms then and hugged me. I’d been glad that I could bury my face in his chest because it had stopped me from screaming in impotent frustration. One year! I could not stand to be in this abominable situation for another year!

I’d slid closer to Arthur, secretly pulling at the sash which held Mother’s dressing gown closed.

“Arthur, one year seems such a very long time from now,” I’d murmured, lifting my face slightly, so that my breath was warm against his neck.

His arms had tightened around me. “I know. It seems long to me as well, but we must do things properly so as not to cause gossip.”

“I’m just so afraid of what Father will do. He’s drinking more and more, and when he is drunk he is frightening. Your father even said he was belligerent!”

“Yes, sweet Emily, yes,” he’d said soothingly, stroking my hair. “But once we are betrothed, you will belong to me. Though it is impolite of me to say so, the truth is that my family has more social connections and is wealthier than yours. I want you to know that matters not at all to me, but it will matter to your father. He dare not offend my family, which means once we are engaged, he dare not offend—or harm—you.”

Of course Arthur had spoken truthfully—or spoken as truthfully as he knew. The problem was that Arthur did not understand the depth of my father’s depravity or the force of his desires.

But I could not enlighten him with such shocking information. All I could do was to be certain that Arthur Simpton was eager to marry me as quickly as possible.

So, I’d untangled myself from his embrace and stood with my back to him, my face in my hands, and sobbed softly.

“My Emily! My darling! What is it?”

I’d turned to face him, being sure that my movement caused my loosened dressing gown to open and expose the sheer chemise underneath. “Arthur, you are so good and so kind, I do not know how to make you understand.”

“Simply tell me! You know we were friends before we were aught else.”

I’d swept back my hair and wiped my cheeks, all the while watching how his honest gaze couldn’t seem to help flickering downward to take in the curves of my body.

“I realize that your parents know what is best, and I want to do the right thing. I am just so afraid. And, Arthur, I must admit to you another secret.”

“You may admit anything to me!”

“Each moment I spend away from you is an agony for me. It is forward and improper for me to admit it, but it is the truth.”

“Come here, Emily. Sit beside me.” I’d sat close to him and leaned against him. He’d encircled me with his arm. “It is not improper for you to admit your feelings for me. We are practically engaged. And I have already admitted that I spend every moment thinking of you. Would it ease your mind if I spoke to my parents and asked them to try to find an excuse to shorten our courtship period?”

“Oh, Arthur, yes! That would soothe my nerves ever so much!”

“Then consider it done. We will work this out together and someday soon you will know you have nothing more to fear from life except that your husband overindulges your every whim.”

I’d rested my head on his shoulder and felt such a wonderful sense of well-being that the foreboding that had been shadowing me suddenly lifted, and I was finally, finally warm again.

I give my oath that I do not embellish, nor do I fantasize about what happened next. As we sat there together, within the shelter of my willow, the moon lifted high enough to send silver, illuminating light down on the fountain, lending the white bull and his maiden an otherworldly luster. The statues appeared to glow, almost as if the moonlight had breathed life into them.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I’d whispered reverently, feeling as if I was somehow in the presence of the divine.

“The moonlight is lovely,” he’d said hesitantly. “But I must admit to you that your fountain is rather disturbing.”

I’d been surprised. Still under the spell of the shining moon, I’d lifted my head so that I could look into his eyes. “Disturbing?” I’d shaken my head, not understanding. “But it is Zeus and Europa—and it isn’t my fountain. It was Mother’s fountain. Father gifted her with it as a wedding present.”

“I don’t mean to criticize your father, but that seems an inappropriate gift for a young wife.” Arthur’s gaze had gone back to the moon-bathed fountain. “Emily, I know you are an innocent, and this is a subject better not discussed, but do you not realize Zeus rapes the maiden Europa after he, in bull form, steals her away?”

I’d tried to view the fountain with his eyes, but still all I saw was the strength and majesty of the bull, and the nubile beauty of the maiden. Then, for some reason, my voice spoke words that until then I had only considered silently.

“What if Europa went with Zeus willingly? What if she really loved him and he her, and it was only those who did not want them to be together—did not want them to have a happy ending—who called it rape?”

Arthur had chuckled and patted my arm patronizingly. “What a sweet romantic you are! I find I like your version of the myth better than the lewd one I know.”

“Lewd? I have never considered it such.” I’d stared at the fountain—Mother’s fountain—now my fountain, and the warmth Arthur had made me feel began to cool.

“Of course you wouldn’t. You know nothing of lewdness, my sweet Emily.”

When he’d patted my shoulder again I’d had to force myself not to shrug away from his condescending touch.

“But speaking of fountains and gardens and such reminds me, my mother has begun supervising plans for extensive gardens on the grounds of Simpton House. She shared with me that she will be excited to have your input, especially as Simpton House will someday be your home.”

I’d felt a jolt of unease then, though in retrospect it was foolish of me. In all the fantasizing and planning I’d done about my future and my escape, I’d not considered that I might be moving from one gilded cage to another.

“So, we will live with your parents, here in Chicago, after we are married?” I’d asked.

“Of course! Where else? I am sure we could not reside comfortably at Wheiler House, not with your father in such a disagreeable temperament.”

“No, I would not want to live here,” I’d assured him. “I suppose I thought you might consider returning to New York. Your father still has business interests there that need to be looked after, does he not?”

“Indeed he does, but my sisters’ husbands are more than competent in that respect. No, Emily, I have no desire to leave Chicago. This city has my heart. It’s ever changing. There is always something new happening here—always another excitement, a new discovery, rising with the dawn.”

“I’m afraid I know little about that.” I’d tried not to sound as cold and bitter as I felt. “For me, Chicago has shrunk to Wheiler House.”

“There is nothing wrong with being an innocent, Emily. That is an intriguing form of excitement and discovery of its own.”

He’d shocked me then by pulling me rather roughly into his arms and kissing me thoroughly. I’d allowed him the kiss, and a long, hot caress of my back when he slid his hand inside my loosened dressing gown. His touch had not repulsed me, but as I consider back I must admit, if only here in my silent journal, that I enjoyed his attentions much more when I initiated them. The urgency of his mouth had felt awkward and almost invasive.

I’d been the first to break the embrace, pulling away from him and modestly closing my dressing gown.

Arthur had cleared his throat and passed a shaking hand across his face before gently taking my hand in his again. “I did not mean to take advantage of our solitude and to press my attentions improperly.”

I’d softened my voice and glanced shyly up at him from under my lashes. “Your passion did surprise me, Arthur.”

“Of course it did. I’ll show more care for your innocence in the future,” he’d assured me. “You cannot know how very beautiful and desirable you are, though. Especially the way you are dressed.”

I’d gasped and pressed my hands to my cheeks, though in the concealing darkness he could not see that his words had not made me blush. “I did not mean to be inappropriate! I didn’t even consider my state of undress. I had to excuse my maid so that I could be sure not even the servants discovered that I was waiting for you.”

“I don’t blame you—not at all,” he’d assured me.

“Thank you, Arthur. You are so good and kind,” I’d said, though the words almost lodged in my throat. I’d made a show of yawning then, covering my mouth delicately with my hand.

“I forget how late it is. You must be exhausted. I should go, especially as it would not do to cross paths with your father—or at least not yet. Remember, I will ride by the garden gate each night between now and Monday, hoping to see a plucked lily.”

“Arthur, please do not be angry with me if I cannot slip away. I will try my best, but I must be safe. You know how unpredictable Father has become.”

“I could not be angry at you, my sweet Emily. But I will be hopeful. If it is at all possible, I pray I see you before Monday night.”

I’d nodded and agreed heartily with him, and walked hand and hand with him to the edge of the willow curtain, where he’d kissed me softly and left, whistling to himself and stepping lightly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

When I was sure he’d gone, I’d left my concealing willow and walked within the soothing shadows of the dark path to the house. No one stirred as I hurried to my bedchamber. There I pushed the chest of drawers before the door, and retrieved my journal from its hiding place.

Now, as I reread my words I do not believe I am doing Arthur or his family an injustice by encouraging his suit. I do care for him, and I will be a good and dutiful wife, but between now and Monday I will not pick a lily and place it on the garden gate. I will not tempt fate any more than I already must. Arthur will pledge himself to me on Monday night, in front of my father, his family, and our social peers. Father will not disgrace himself by refusing such a grand and glorious union of families. Then I only need to continue to prod Arthur into a hasty marriage, and all will be well.

It is Father and the abomination of his unnatural desires that make me cold. When I am free of Father, I will be free to love and live again.

I will not allow myself to believe anything else.