Darker Still (12 page)

In a suit so fine it was nearly gaudy, pinstriped and sveltely tailored, Denbury strolled with a crystal-topped walking stick, a fine hat, and a sprig of something on his lapel. He was every ounce a tall, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, neatly trimmed, and perfect dandy. And ungodly beautiful. Save for the shimmering of his eyes when he looked from one way to another with an odd swiveling of his head and a strange reflection in his gaze that reminded me he’d become inhuman.

And because it seems I’ve been crowned the queen of all things uncomfortable, of course the devil turned to stare right at me.

He waved. Jauntily swinging his walking stick, he looked me up and down, just as he’d done at the Art Association. A glimmer of recognition flickered over his face, and he put his finger to his lips and winked at me, very amused with himself. The lascivious look made me want to retch.

Unfortunately, his dashing figure would not go unnoticed. But while the
real
Denbury was engaging, charming, and indeed a bit of a flirt, this creature was a pale and paltry imitation. Even if he looked the same outwardly, he was a disquieting mockery of the man who’d held me in his arms. My strange entwined reality with Denbury felt more real to me in that moment than did the sun warming my cheek through the leaves.

“Why, doesn’t that look like Denbury? Just like!” Maggie breathed, catching where I’d fixed my stare.

“Oh, Mags, you see him
everywhere
we go, silly,” Elsie scoffed.

“I don’t care who he is, just that he’s gorgeous,” Fanny breathed with a bit of a purr. She lifted a hand to wave, causing Elsie to giggle and bat her friend’s hand down. “And wealthy. Look at that suit!”

“No, truly—” Maggie insisted.

“Well, whoever he is, he seems to have eyes only for Natalie.” Fanny scowled, staring not at me but still at Denbury’s body. None of the girls could take her eyes off him, and certainly neither could I. And that oddly reflective gaze would not release me.

“Honestly, he’s drinking her in like she’s some
catch
,” Elsie gasped in shock, still not looking at me. Gazing at me to the last, Denbury’s devil half turned down another path and disappeared behind a flowering shrub before Maggie could determine his identity for certain.

“To some, a deaf and dumb girl has her advantages,” Fanny offered. “I bet my father would give his eyeteeth to strike me mute.” Maggie’s face colored, and she admonished Fanny softly.

I could no longer bear it. I clutched my notebook, the charcoal snapping into a stub in my hand with the furious pressure I exerted in writing: “I am
not
deaf and most certainly not
dumb!
”

I stood up, leaving the shawl and the parasol with Maggie, and strode away, nodding curtly to Mrs. Ford as I passed her. She nodded back with a bit of concerned confusion. Clearly I did not belong with these girls. I was perfectly capable of removing myself to somewhere where I would be more wanted.

I longed to run to the Metropolitan and throw myself into the painting and into Denbury’s arms, but I had to remember what had been real and what had been a dream and maintain some sense of propriety. All of it was made of madness, though, so what could I believe? I had known Denbury for only a few days—and part of that only in dreams. But even those brief moments had been enough for me to recognize that he was the one person who made me feel alive, beautiful, whole, and good for something. Funny how extraordinary circumstances breed close kinship.

But rather than darting up to the Metropolitan, I continued downtown, ignoring the glances of those who wondered what a girl in a relatively nice evening dress was doing walking unaccompanied down Fifth Avenue. Surely they thought I was either a dress lodger looking for a gentleman to pay for my services or a neighborhood eccentric. I hoped that the burning frustration knitting my brow and narrowing my eyes betrayed the latter.

I didn’t realize where I was going until I was at the door and facing its hefty bronze knocker. I lifted it and let it fall, anxiously hoping I wouldn’t regret my intrusion. I waited for a servant to appear, but instead I was greeted by the very woman I’d come to see, dressed smartly neck to toe in charcoal gray, hardly a summer day dress. Mrs. Northe didn’t seem influenced by what was or wasn’t proper fashion. She was always elegant, ever beautiful. She was everything I wanted to be someday.

“Hello, Natalie, I’m so glad to see you!” Mrs. Northe exclaimed, bringing me in the door and directly to her parlor. I almost sagged with relief at her warm welcome. But before I could get too comfortable, she surprised me with a wary question: “I don’t suppose you saw the papers today, did you? The
Herald
?”

I shook my head and signed: “I was preoccupied. The girls…”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Northe said brightly. “Margaret had you over for tea. Did you have a nice time?”

I hoped to convey everything in a look. Explaining was too difficult. Mrs. Northe’s elegant, stoic face curved into an amused expression, her hazel eyes sparkling. “Oh, Natalie, I’m sorry to seem amused. It’s just that girls can be so
terrible
.”

Rallying a faint smile, I accepted the tea Marie offered, even though I’d had plenty already that morning.

“I have it on high authority that you’re not like other girls, my dear, so don’t worry about being like
anyone
else. Do you understand?” Mrs. Northe said.

“I think so,” I signed. She smiled in return, but then the smile faded, and with its departure, a chill crept into the room.

“And I’m sure we’ll have plenty of cause for tea and company. But I wish it were under better circumstances. There’s something in this morning’s paper that you must see. Unpleasant, I’m afraid.”

“Unpleasant” wasn’t the half of it. I’ve included the article here so you will understand my distress.

The
Herald
, June 12, 1880

Young Aristocrat Slays Woman in Brothel Nightmare

Late last night just off Cross Street in the hellish zone of the Five Points, nineteen-year-old Barbara Call was found beheaded in the back room of a house of ill repute and with bizarre markings carved into her forearm.

Witnesses described Miss Call’s “suitor” as shockingly handsome, with a fine suit of worsted wool, black curls, and bright eyes. The British-accented man called himself “Barry.” A composite sketch is rendered here from accounts of witnesses who saw the man take Miss Call into a private room after he’d taken care to ascertain her name. No sounds were heard from within the room, and no one saw Barry exit. Nor did they see Miss Call alive again.

The New York City Police Department requests any information the public might have about this man or his further whereabouts.

On the opposite page was a newspaper artist’s sketch, and there I saw my Denbury!

“How similar and yet frighteningly different a face can be, can’t it?” Mrs. Northe murmured. “Barry, the fine clothing, the accent…it’s as if his every feature is heightened, a caricature of itself, not,” she scoffed, “that newspaper artists are known for their verisimilitude. I daresay the novelty is a handsome killer and so grisly a deed. Is this what you saw at the Art Association?”

The dark circles below his eyes were like paint, his curls twisted into near horns on either side of his head, and the high cheekbones were set even higher as if to hollow his cheeks—but even then, there was a haunting beauty to him. My blood ran cold. I nodded. The devil that held Denbury’s body hostage was a killer…And my dream had foretold it. Barbara. A beheaded woman in the Five Points.

“I dreamed…” I signed, not bothering to hide how much I shook. Mrs. Northe was patient as I struggled to relay my thoughts. “I visited Denbury through the study door he cannot access. I brought nightmares. The demon Denbury came. I hid against the wall. Then, in the corridor, I saw…a corpse. Headless. ‘Barbara’ was carved into her arm.”

I gestured to the paper and shook harder as I wrote on the margin of the paper: “My nightmare
foresaw
this! Why am I tied to this? Worse, I just saw the fiend strolling in Central Park! What can I do?”

I fought back the tears welling in my eyes. Mrs. Northe remained ever calm.

“You must ask Denbury to tell you every detail about his imprisonment. We cannot solve a mystery, supernatural or no, without clues.”

“The Denbury I know in the painting…Tell me he’s not the one responsible—”

Mrs. Northe shook her head. “From everything you have said, your Denbury appears just as much the victim as Miss Call. At least, part of him is. And we must do everything in our power to make sure that the side of good prevails. Trust in his good, and it will not fail you.”

I gulped and nodded. It was dizzying to think about such impossibilities. What a contrast from the chatter of society ladies and upper-echelon intrigues! “Did Maggie see the article?” I signed.

“I doubt it. She only reads the society pages.”

I asked about what the murder could mean. Why beheading? What about the symbols carved on her arm? Would logic have any bearing in such circumstances?

“I can’t say,” Mrs. Northe replied. “Perhaps those were more runes. I’ve made progress on the verses carved around the painting, but the translation isn’t yet complete. What’s clear is that this is the work of devils, not spiritualists. But come to the museum. You must meet with your father, and we must keep up appearances. I’ll see you in the exhibition room when you’re done.”

We rode to the museum in silence, sitting overwhelmed with the shock of the murder.

I am reminded that I’ve lived a sheltered, protected life. Were my circumstances different, I could have easily been Barbara Call. If my father had less respectable work, less stability, I could have been forced to such a house of ill repute as poor Barbara. My heart goes out to all the women whom society has cast onto the streets and put at the mercy of devils. Perhaps women like Mrs. Northe and me are the sort to do something about it.

But none of this to my father. Such things as this troubled him greatly; his heart was a delicate one, an artist’s heart, and I hoped he would hear nothing of this brutality. In Father’s estimation, I hadn’t a care in the world, and I appeared unusually compliant as we discussed my schedule and duties. I might not speak, but I’m a decent actress. We agreed I could spend several days a week at the museum, and he suggested several pleasant activities such as cataloguing and sketching. He did not need to know how much of the time I would spend sneaking in to see Denbury.

I do believe this apprenticeship will lead to very little work and a deal of watching, giving a restless female something to do and giving Father the sense that he’s doing right by his daughter. When he introduced me to his fellows, it was clear no real responsibility would be offered to my hands. All those stoic male tones confirmed as much. But I cannot take issue. It’s best that my duties remain vague, that my tasks are set on observation and time for sketching, that time is not always entirely accounted for…so that I may slip into the other world of Denbury’s quarters to unfold magic and mystery.

• • •

I’ve taken these few free moments, as I sit amid the glorious Greco-Roman sculptures, to write down every mad detail thus far. The pieces
between
important events may provide a truer sense of the whole.

Mrs. Northe will meet me here in a few minutes, and then we’re off to see my lord. My Lord Denbury. Forgive me, God, if that sounded disrespectful. My compulsion to see Denbury is total. Unseen hands push me toward him, terror be damned. Everything has been shaken inside me, and I’ve begun to pray more heartily than ever before. How odd that when one is faced with the expanding petals of a blooming, supernatural rose, one must cling to faith to keep one’s head. I’ll report anon.

Later, June 12th into the 13th

(I write late at night and into the next day, burning the gas lamp low but steady.)

My poor Denbury has been terribly scarred!

When Mrs. Northe and I arrived in his room, his canvas portrayed him in his usual stoic position, tall, broad, striking, and bold. But today he had a bright red gash upon his cheek, and his mouth was taut with pain. The curators would think that someone with an errant brush has offered a foul addition, but I knew better. Something has been inflicted on his soul from the inside out, made manifest upon the artwork.

I turned to Mrs. Northe in alarm. She clearly saw the wound too. “Should I go to him?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “We must find out what he knows. And by the time you’re out again, I’ll have finished the runic translations of the frame.”

I nodded. One weird task after another. My heart pounded.

I braced myself for that most peculiar sensation. Dipping my forehead and my shoulders and then swiftly launching my weight, I was in. Denbury was at my side in an instant, catching me again. My body thrilled, flooding with heat in that delicious moment. I could feel the press of his firm hand at my back as it lingered there.