P. Cast - Neferet's Curse

“Oh, yes!” I’d said happily, putting down my fountain pen and pushing aside the grocer list I’d been going over. I remember how happy Evelyn and Camille had been when I’d said yes. The three of us had laughed spontaneously.

“Emily, I am so, so glad you will come with us.” Camille had hugged me. “And you are looking so well—not pale and thin at all.”

“No, not pale at all!” Evelyn agreed. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

“Thank you, Evelyn. I have missed everyone so much.” I’d hesitated, feeling the need to share a confidence with someone who wasn’t a servant—or my father. “It has been difficult since Mother has been gone. Really difficult.” Camille had chewed her lip. Evelyn had looked as if she were on the verge of tears. I quickly wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, and found my smile again. “But now that the both of you are here I’m feeling much lighter than I have for weeks and weeks.”

“That’s what we intended. Mother tried to tell me you were too busy to be bothered with bicycle riding, but I swore not to listen to her and called on you anyway,” Camille had said.

“Your mother is always too serious,” Evelyn said, rolling her eyes skyward. “We all know that.”

“I don’t believe she was ever young,” Camille had said, making us giggle.

I was still giggling as I hurried from the parlor, determined to rush up the stairs and change as quickly as possible into my riding bloomers when I’d run straight into Father.

The breath had been knocked out of me with an oof, and my eyes had teared.

“Emily, why ever would you be bolting from the parlor in such an uncivilized manner?” Father had seemed a storm cloud in the making.

“E-excuse me, Father,” I’d stuttered. “Camille Elcott and Evelyn Field have called on me and asked that I bike to the lake with them for luncheon. I was hurrying to change my clothes.”

“Bicycling is excellent for the heart. It creates a strong constitution, though I do not approve of young people biking together with no adult supervision.”

I hadn’t noticed the tall woman standing across the foyer from Father until she’d spoken. She’d taken me by surprise, and I’d stood there, speechless, staring at her. In her deep blue dress and her peacock-plumed hat, she’d made quite an imposing figure, though one I had not recognized, and I’d wanted to say that I did not approve of old women wearing wildly plumed hats, but of course I’d held my tongue.

“Emily, do you not remember Mrs. Armour? She is chairwoman of the General Federation of Women’s Club,” Father had prompted me.

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Armour, I apologize for not recognizing you.” I had recognized her name, now that Father had spoken it, but I could not remember the woman herself. “And—and I also apologize for rushing out,” I’d continued hastily. “I do not mean to be impolite”—I’d turned and made a gesture that took in Evelyn and Camille where they sat in the parlor, watching with obvious curiosity—“but as you can see, my friends are waiting for me. Father, I will ring for Mary to bring tea if you are entertaining Mrs. Armour in your study.”

“You mistake me, Miss Wheiler. It is you, and not your father with whom I wish to visit.”

I’d been confused, and I believe I gaped rather stupidly at the old woman.

Father had not been likewise confused. “Emily, Mrs. Armour has called on you to speak about your inherited place at the GFWC. It was a passion of your mother’s. I expect it to be a passion of yours, as well.”

My confusion cleared as I realized why the name Armour had been familiar. Philip Armour was one of the wealthiest men in Chicago and he kept much of his money in Father’s bank. I’d turned to Mrs. Armour and made myself smile, pitching my voice to be soft and soothing, just as Mother used to sound. “I would be honored to inherit Mother’s place at the GFWC. Perhaps we can set a date for me to come to Market Hall and meet with you about—”

Suddenly, Father’s big hand engulfed my elbow, squeezing while he commanded, “You will meet with Mrs. Armour now, Emily.” In comparison to my gentleness, Father was like a battlefield. I heard Evelyn and Camille both gasp at his forcefulness.

Then Camille was there at my side, saying, “We can easily call again, Emily. Please, your mother’s work is so much more important than our silly bicycle outing.”

“Yes, truly,” Evelyn had added as my friends moved hastily to the door. “We’ll call again.”

The sound of the door closing behind them had seemed to me like the sealing of a tomb.

“Ah, well, that is better. Enough of that foolishness,” Father said as he loosed my elbow.

“Mrs. Armour, please, join me in the parlor and I will ring Mary for tea,” I’d said.

“Good. Go on about your business, Emily. I will see you at dinner. Good girl—good girl,” Father had said gruffly. He bowed to Mrs. Armour, and then left us alone together in the foyer.

“I can tell you are a young woman of excellent character,” Mrs. Armour said as I woodenly led her into Mother’s parlor. “I am sure we will get on well together, just as your mother and I did.”

I nodded and agreed and let the old woman talk on and on about the importance of women of means being united in their dedication to improving the community through volunteer service.

In the weeks that have followed, I have come to realize how ironic it was that Mrs. Armour, who lectured unendingly about the importance of the unity of women, has become one of the main instruments in isolating me from other women my age. You see, Evelyn and Camille have not called again to ask that I bike with them. Evelyn has not called on me at all since that morning. Camille, well, Camille was different. It would take more to lose her as a friend, much more.

March passed into April —the winter chill was tempered by a spring that came with light, reviving showers. My life has aligned itself into a numbing rhythm. I run the household. I volunteer at the wretched Market Hall, feeding the poor while I nod and agree with the old women who surround me when they drone on and on about how, because the spotlight of the world would shortly be on us and the World’s Fair, we must use our every resource to change and shape Chicago from a barbaric gathering into a modern city. I have dinner with Father. I watch, and I have learned.

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

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

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

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