Darker Still (30 page)

“I will, don’t worry. And you’ll not get rid of me easily.” She grinned and descended from the carriage to help me out and hand me the bags.

“I should hope not. I adore you,” I cried, throwing my arms around her once my feet hit the cobblestones.

“And I you, dear girl. There’s an extra bill in your case. With that, be sure to get a sleeper car and ally yourself with a few respectable-looking women until you’re brave enough to confront Denbury on that train,” she instructed, pointing a finger. When she pointed her finger, I knew it was of grave import. I nodded.

The train’s whistle screamed.

While surely we both could have listed thousands of reasons why what I was about to do was a terrible idea, I was a woman of decision and I’d made mine, though Mrs. Northe had managed to say it before I did.

“I’ll write. And I promise to pay you back for everything, somehow,” I called as I retreated. Out on the air, the words on my tongue were still heavy and awkward, still getting used to themselves. Mrs. Northe was again inside the carriage and at the window, her face betraying the first conflict I’d yet seen. While she knew the situation and knew she wouldn’t have been able to stop me, she, like any good substitute mother, would think that getting on a train unbeknownst to the young man you loved might be a terrible idea, all supernatural events aside.

And still she let me go. Just as she had let me stare down death and the Devil. Likely because whispers from my real mother had told her that my present destiny lay with Jonathon and that I was, perhaps, safer with him. Or so I hoped. Now to convince him of it.

I sit now at the back of the train, and here is where I’ve been relaying all of these events.

When I boarded the train, I helped myself into a seat next to three generations: a grandmother, her daughter and granddaughter. The Wills family took instantly to mothering me so that I needn’t have worried about being without a chaperone. I’ve learned that if you just look a little lost and appeal to well-dressed older females, and you yourself are well-dressed, they generally are a beneficial, generous species, if not a bit opinionated.

New York is rolling away from me in all her massive mess and glory. Beloved and familiar lanes, clutter, congestion, and horse dung. Gorgeous palaces of homes, churning industry, smoke, fire, and gaslight. “I love you,” I whisper to my city as it chugs away and the steam engine gains speed, my breath on the glass and a new darkness ahead as the train veers west.

Onward! What an adventure! It is not every day that a young woman runs away from home after a handsome man and sees the country by rail. My nerves are mixed with a growing excitement. However, exhaustion sorely tempers me.

“Pardon me,” I said to the ladies around me. I laid my head upon the glass, not even bothering with the sleeper car, as I’ve never been so exhausted. I’m sure I’ll be asleep in a mere moment. A new world will await me when my heavy eyelids open at dawn.

Later…

I slept. And I dreamed.

In that dream was a dark, long, smooth corridor. Much like the corridor of a train aisle.

Somewhere in the distance was a pale light, like dawn. Moving. Perhaps that shifting movement was from the threads of light that were so like people, as when I’d dreamed of such tumbling, shifting forces against the backdrop of my city. Perhaps this is what Mrs. Northe meant by there being another existence entirely…

There were doors at intervals on each side of me, with beveled glass knobs like the one on Jonathon’s painted study door.

Out from one of those doors far ahead walked Jonathon.

He turned and looked at me. There was a long silence.

“You’re on the train,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

He laughed and then held out his hand. I bit my lip, hardly able to contain myself.

I moved forward, reaching out to he who is my angel in waking and in dreams.

I opened my eyes.

There, awake, at the door of my train car, was Lord Jonathon Denbury, real and in the gorgeous flesh, holding out his hand for me. I stared at him. I was the girl he’d asked for.

“Yes, you,” he murmured with an irresistible grin.

And here I conclude.

Dear Father,

By the time you receive this diary, likely you will have already seen to the odd business of the painting, or what’s left of it, anyway. The answer lies within these pages, and while I realize you’ll hardly believe them, please be content in the fact that I am safe and that I am following my destiny. Please do not read the part(s) about kissing and such. You don’t want to know, and I don’t want you to.

I send this to reassure you I have not been abducted and so you’ll have a testament to the strange events surrounding the portrait of Lord Denbury. (That very man himself has vowed to send me back to New York City unless I assure you of my safety and give you the full story.)

Whether or not you believe that Mother told Mrs. Northe that this was my path, I believe it. I was not coerced; I am here of my own free will. I pursued the innocent man I love because we will be safer this way. We shall be in contact, and none of this is permanent. I am still a lady, and Lord Denbury is a consummate gentleman. It is my hope that you and Mrs. Northe can come visit. I will write you often.

I am so grateful for your love, your support, and all the gifts you’ve given me. I cannot express that enough.

Please respect this path, however strange, and know that I endeavor to make you proud. Jonathon and I want to do the public some good, and we shall do so.

Through the unusual circumstances of the last weeks, I have once again found my voice. I cannot wait for you to hear it. To converse with you, Father, will be such a gift! And that’s all due to Lord Denbury.

He is convinced I should make sure I’d rather not have any other suitor—but here is the only area in which he is a fool. I want no other, and when he asks for my hand, I do hope you’ll give your blessing. I daresay a better match could not be made. I love him. Again, please skim over the kissing part(s), and we’ll both be far less embarrassed.

I cannot mention where we’re going. While Denbury is innocent, I can’t expect the police to believe a word of this and must protect him until he can be absolved of any wrongdoing.

Please keep in mind that Mrs. Northe suggested that lingering traces of the magic may still be upon us, a beacon, if we remained in New York. Please realize we have both taken ourselves from the area in the interest of safety. While you may not believe us on account of magic, I hope you will believe that we mean you no disrespect or harm. As for public opinion, as an “unfortunate” anyway, I daresay this won’t ruin anyone’s expectations of me as I had none to begin with. Please do be careful around the Metropolitan. It unwittingly housed a curse. We’re sorry we brought it upon you.

Mrs. Northe will corroborate as much of this as she may see fit, and she is attending to the loose ends of this odd case so that all may be put to rest.

I love you always,

Natalie

Dear Mr. Stewart,

While I imagine you may hate me for all that has transpired and are surely as baffled by the turns of events as I am, please believe that I am a gentleman, and upon my life, I shall do right by your daughter. While you’ve never met me, I look forward to meeting you in the future and proving that I deserve the kindness and bravery your daughter has shown me.

She is the most incredible young woman in all the world. Surely you know this. I promise you that she will be well cared for and provided for. I intend to live out my life in the service of others, and there is no better partner in this than your daughter, a gift from the heavens who saved my life. I am more than indebted to her, I love her. We shall make you proud, we promise.

With utmost sincerity,

Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury

June 20, 1880

New York City Police Record Case File: 1306

Missing Person, Vandalism

Report of missing person, described to and taken down by yours truly, Sergeant James Patt, on this day, June 20, at one in the afternoon.

Reported missing: One Natalie Stewart, age seventeen.

At noon on June 20, Mr. Gareth Stewart came into the precinct and asked to speak to an authority, as his daughter had gone missing the night prior. Mr. Stewart is a lean man of average height, with hazel eyes, close-shaven beard, and russet hair. He is of average means, an employee of the Metropolitan Museum of Art with no criminal record. Mr. Stewart reported that his daughter was not in her room, not with another guardian with whom she had been close, a Mrs. Evelyn Northe, nor was she at the Metropolitan, where she had been apprenticed.

Additional concern: Mute status of Natalie Stewart. Adept at sign language but no known vocal capacity.

Behavior of late: No different from average for a girl her age—save for her voice. Mr. Stewart grew red in the face as he described a certain obsession with a painting. A painting he described as now lying in shreds in a downstairs storage room of the Metropolitan Museum.

Case development: Case of vandalism of painting of one Lord Denbury, portrait. No museum guards expressed anything out of the ordinary but confessed to having been present only at front entrance, and other entrances might have admitted the vandal.

Mr. Stewart here concluded that there was a connection between the painting and his daughter’s disappearance but that he could not, “for the life of him” imagine what.

I questioned him about this friend of the family, Mrs. Northe. Here Mr. Stewart’s face again grew red. My suspicion of both Mr. Stewart and the widow Northe was piqued. He said that while he knew Mrs. Northe would never harm the girl, she may know something he did not as they had grown “close as mother and daughter.”

It was around this point in the narrative that the very woman in question, Mrs. Evelyn Northe, was escorted into the room.

“What the devil’s gone on, Mrs. Northe?” Stewart stated before anyone could be properly introduced. “Where the hell is my daughter? The guards report that Denbury’s portrait is grotesque and all in shreds!”

Mrs. Northe turned to me then and said, “It’s a domestic matter, Sergeant, not a criminal one, and there’s much to explain to Mr. Stewart.” Here she turned to him. “Your daughter has confided in me, but I think it best to discuss her future elsewhere.”

“You’ll tell me right now—”

“Your daughter is safe, Mr. Stewart. A criminal investigation would prove fruitless as there is no harm or threat involved, save for a case of young, impetuous love.”

“Young love?” he cried. “With whom was she in love?”

“All will be explained,” Mrs. Northe stated.

Here Mr. Stewart appeared confused and began to protest that Mrs. Northe should have stopped his daughter. But Mrs. Northe stated that no matter what, Natalie would have done what she wanted. Mr. Stewart seemed unable to argue this point. Clearly he trusted Mrs. Northe, and it did seem she cared for the girl. But the two were undoubtedly odd. Northe in particular. She put me in mind of some gypsy fortune-teller, even though she was dressed as any fine lady might be. She kept staring at me with odd scrutiny. It was uncanny and I didn’t like it.

She blamed Mr. Crenfall—whom her agents had been spying upon ever since he and an unidentified man broke into her home—for the destruction of the painting. (Refer to case file under Northe for reference to this breaking-and-entering charge.) I shall have him brought in for questioning and call upon Mr. Stewart and Mrs. Northe next week to see if there are developments in this case.

July 5, 1880

Sergeant James Patt, New York City Police

Notes on follow-up visit to Stewart residence

Mr. Stewart immediately assured me all was well, and I caught him tucking into his pocket a little note card that read “I love you” in feminine script. There was something nervous in his voice as he tried to shoo me out the door.

“Glad to hear you are well, Mr. Stewart, but I’ve a few more questions. Due diligence and all. I’m sure you can understand, sir,” I explained.