The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart (21 page)

I chuckled at this. Father just kept watching.

“But in the meantime,” Jonathon continued, “Mrs. Northe has extended the courtesy of her guest rooms.”

“So I should take care how much time my daughter spends at Mrs. Northe’s residence, then?” Father asked sharply. “She’s visited nearly every day since they met.”

“Mrs. Northe has been here, too, of late, hasn’t she, Mr. Stewart?” Bessie said as she entered the room with our small, wheeled tea service, which I hadn’t seen used in years. “One big happy family these days, all of us.” She winked at me.

“Oh, is that Earl Grey?” Jonathon said delightedly, taking the cup with his most charming smile.

“Natalie told me it was your favorite.”

“You are indeed a saint, Mrs. Cartwright.”

Bessie beamed again. Not a woman to keep thoughts a mystery, her face was an open book. Still, my father would not be distracted from his point.

“I’m not questioning whether we all enjoy Mrs. Northe’s company or not. That has been quite established. I am wondering about her ability to chaperone.”

“Oh, she watches us like a hawk,” Jonathon supplied quickly. A bit too quickly.

“I’m sure,” my father drawled.

“Speaking of Mrs. Northe, she has invited us over for late cordials and dessert,” Jonathon shifted the focus artfully. “Her friend just returned from Germany inspired to make apple torte for everyone she’s ever known. She delivered a whole pan this evening, and Mrs. Northe says it’s a crime to eat it alone.”

Father’s eyes misted over. “That was Helen’s favorite,” he murmured.

Mother, was that you blessing us?
my heart asked. Stunned, I glanced upward as if I might see her ghostly, shining face looking down on me and smiling. That wouldn’t have been a haunting; it would have been a prayer answered. Instead I stared at her daguerreotype upon the mantel, lovely and fierce, her hair a bit wild, betraying her gregarious spirit.

“Well, then, we must oblige,” my father said, rising. “I’d offer you some of my store of a man’s luxuries, but I promised Mrs. Northe that I’ll help her with the late Mr. Northe’s bounteous supply. I daresay Mr. Northe had better taste and stores than I.”

He clapped Jonathon on the back and was the first to leave the room. Jonathon whirled to me as if looking for my approval.

“Brilliant,” I offered, stealing a swift peck upon the lips when I was sure no one was looking, and hurried out after Father.

“It’s a nice night. We should walk the distance,” my father stated.

It wasn’t exactly
nice
outside; it was too warm and too humid. But Father didn’t want to subject Jonathon to the small buggy we stored at the carriage house down the street. Early on, my father had had to navigate our social position amid the wealthy patrons of the Metropolitan. He knew what to show off and what to avoid.

Regardless, he was a man who liked to walk everywhere in the city he possibly could. So, it would appear, did Jonathon.

“I’d much prefer it,” Jonathon added.

Something about being out of the house loosened everyone up. Or it could have been the sight of the grand Metropolitan itself as we crossed over to Fifth Avenue. Then another thing that my father had in common with the upper classes naturally came out: a healthy knowledge of and unparalleled passion for art. Jonathon mined that common vein.

“Tell me what you think, if you would, Mr. Stewart, about the role of the symbolists in the current aesthetic? Will they influence your collection at all?”

“I love the symbolists,” I blurted excitedly. “I just recommended a Moreau.”

“Brilliant,” Jonathon breathed.

It took every ounce of my power not to snatch up Jonathon’s hand in mine as we walked past the impressive redbrick and granite structure of the Metropolitan, gaslit and alluring in the twilight. I wondered how the museum would look when the expansion was approved and financed, giving it a luminous, white beaux-arts facade that would take up twice the space along the avenue. It would look so different that I wondered if it would be less romantic. But at the moment I couldn’t think of anything more romantic than walking the city street at twilight with my English lord talking about the French symbolists.

“I like how they’re a distinct breed from the impressionists,” Father began. “It’s hard to say who will be the most lasting painter among them all. There’s interesting literature and poetry around the symbolist circles, that’s true, although that Baudelaire—”

“Right creepy, that one, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Jonathon muttered. Charles Baudelaire had been used in the mystery of Jonathon’s curse, so he had an understandable bias. My father cleared his throat, embarrassed.

“Oh, yes, right, the painting and all. I’m sorry, didn’t mean to bring up—”

“No,” Jonathon assured him, “one case of art used for evil hardly turns me against it.”

The two fell into a vigorous discussion about the role of a literary movement alongside a painting movement, and before long they were walking lockstep, their theories on justice and social issues coming into play. Even their points and counterpoints were laced with underlying visions of hope, education, and, above all, equality between the sexes. I knew in this moment that my father was won. Jonathon would treat me as a partner, not just a pretty face or doting wife who would do only her husband’s whim.

I hadn’t realized until that moment that none of my father’s nerves had anything to do with the title or the unconventional way in which Jonathon and I had met. My father didn’t want me to lose what sense of self, resourcefulness, and relative freedom he’d tried to give me in a world that still sought to bind women into extremely limiting stays.

I couldn’t even bother to chime in. Having been a listener for so long, I wasn’t confident enough to interrupt. For the moment, I was overjoyed to watch them forge a tentative alliance.

Mrs. Northe flung wide the door at our approach, crying, “Friends! Come save me lest I explode from another bite of apple torte!”

As we gathered in the entrance hall, I glimpsed an unexpected face through the open pocket doors of the parlor. Maggie was being hurried off by Mary, who had her things in tow and was begging her to consider the hour.

Maggie didn’t see us at first; she was too busy protesting. Her dress was finer than usual, and there was an enormous, glittering bauble about her neck. Mary tried in vain to place a golden-beaded shawl about Maggie’s shoulders, which showcased far more skin than she ought to outside of a special occasion. She was, as usual, whining to her aunt about why she had to go home when the fun was just beginning. There were dark circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t been sleeping.

“As I say every time it broaches nine o’ clock,” Mrs. Northe droned, “your mother will have my head—”

Maggie looked up, and the moment she saw me, she froze. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting; our last encounter was pleasant and friendly. She flung her arms around me and kissed both cheeks. Then she noticed the man at my side.

“Hello, who’s this? Oh.
Oh, my.
Oh, my…you’re from the painting, you
are
the painting. Oh, my God, Natalie, it’s Lord Denbury!” The rising pitch of her voice was like the shrieking of birds or a mythological harpy. The acoustics of the high-arched ceiling of the entrance foyer amplified her cry. My father and Jonathon both winced.

“Hello, miss. I’ve been told I resemble that chap,” Jonathon said sportingly, bowing his head in greeting.

“But how…how are you here? You
are
alive! It worked! You’ve come! You’ve come
home
!” she cried.

We all stared at her as if she were mad. Sudden tears of joy rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her arms around him.

“I beg your pardon?” Jonathon said, laughing nervously and extricating himself from her unexpected embrace.

“It has to be you.” She breathed. “You’re
unmistakable
.”

“Margaret, this man is in danger,” Mrs. Northe said in one of those cold tones that would not be questioned. “Whoever you think he is, keep your mouth shut or people will die. This young man is simply my guest, a visitor from England. Nothing more will be said. Is that
entirely
clear, Margaret Hathorn?”

Maggie winced and nodded. “But, what are you doing with
her
?” she asked Jonathon, gesturing to me. Her words weren’t a slight as much as she seemed confused, as if Jonathon had shown up at the wrong home. “Oh, because of Mr. Stewart, the Metropolitan, I suppose, but…”

“The Stewarts are my friends,” Jonathon supplied, trying to tread carefully.

“But they’re not of your station,” Maggie said matter-of-factly.

That’s when Mrs. Northe forcibly walked her out the door. “
Enough
. My driver is taking you home.”

“Auntie, why are you so mean to me?” Maggie asked softly at the door, showing a sudden, genuine vulnerability that I’m not sure I’d ever heard out of her.

“For your own good.”

“I’m not sure that’s true…” Maggie’s sad voice trailed off down the walk.

“What was that about?” my father asked slowly, once she had gone.

Mrs. Northe sighed. “I tried to get her out before you came, but she always wants to stay later and later, as if by approaching the witching hour she might watch me turn into a bat or something,” she muttered. “I’m very sorry, Lord Denbury, but it would have been hard to hide you from my niece indefinitely.”

Jonathon chuckled, but he seemed as uneasy as I was.

“Maggie always professed she was in love with your portrait,” I explained. “The night I freed you I found her at the museum. It seems she’s—”

“Deluded,” Jonathon snickered.

“Not necessarily,” I replied, looking pointedly at Mrs. Northe. “She just doesn’t know the truth. Maybe if we told her, she wouldn’t have to resort to her own flights of ridiculous fancy rather than ours.”

“I don’t really want her in on our secrets, Natalie,” Jonathon said. “I actually think she could be trouble if we’re not careful.”

I didn’t know whose side to be on or what to say. Maggie didn’t make me comfortable either. She seemed the sort who, if she knew you had secrets, cared all the more to find them out.

“Never a dull moment when it comes to you and those around you, Evelyn. I will say that.” My father broke the tension and headed directly toward Mr. Northe’s study full of manly treasures. He gestured for Jonathon. “Come, Lord Denbury, I must have your take on Cezanne and the cubists. But one needs a cigar for such talk!”

Jonathon looked at me hopefully, and my father’s desire for further company had to be a good thing. I squeezed his hand and nodded him off.

I joined Mrs. Northe, who was examining some correspondence at an ornately inlaid parlor writing desk.

“Those two seem to be getting on famously.” Mrs. Northe smiled.

“It took a moment,” I replied, positioning myself delicately upon a brocade fainting couch. “I hope it holds.”

“Art makes fast friends.”

“It certainly does,” I agreed. Jonathon’s portrait had brought us all together. “I’m worried—”

“About Maggie, and so am I. I can’t get a read on her.” Mrs. Northe tapped her temple. “Psychically, I mean. I can’t get into her mind. She’s addled. Her mother wants her focused on the upcoming Season, and for once I’m trying to encourage frivolity and gossip. Maggie simply won’t accept that spiritualism is an augment to my faith.

“She thinks I must operate on some entirely different system, on spells and incantation, talismans and powders. I lifted up a cross saying
that
is my talisman, and she set it aside as if it wasn’t glamorous enough. She wants something flashy and controversial to have her friends screaming about at balls. Mere Christianity isn’t scandalous enough.”

“Her reaction to Jonathon was…intense.”

“To say the least.”

“Do I dare let on that he and I are…” I ran my fingers over the raised embroidery of the cushion nervously. “What are we, even?”

“Courting. Soon to be engaged, surely, by the way everyone’s acting. It isn’t as though the two of you can simply exist as friends. I wish lovers weren’t hurried into wedlock the moment they blossom from child into adult, but such is the way of our age.”

“Maggie’s confusion about why he was with
us
…” My nerves had me picking at the golden embroidery before I stopped myself from doing damage. Instead I picked at the frayed hem of my petticoat, wishing I looked more the part of Lady Denbury.

“Oh, I heard it.”

“Is that what everyone will think? I’m not cut out for high-society cruelty,” I said, blinking back a sudden, unexpected tear. Fearing I’d rip my hem entirely, I helped myself at the tea service to occupy my hands. “I’m only just now getting used to
conversation
. I’ll never speak a word if I’m in her world’s pit of vipers, hissing gossiping snakes.”

Maggie’s careless words drove open a crevasse of faltering confidence. Was I only at ease around friends of my own “kind” and class? Maybe I’d fit in with Nathaniel’s Association, those who were proudly unconventional.