The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart (5 page)

“Please give Mother my love with her usual bouquet of black-eyed Susans,” I wrote. We had a ritual of visiting her grave at Woodlawn in the Bronx, bringing a particular flower we bought from an old woman who’d seemed ancient for as many years as I could remember. Father would tell me how the flower symbolized my mother. I felt a pang for that old lady, those flowers, my father, that grave, and my city. New York City wasn’t paradise, but it was home. We sent our messages, nodding our thanks to the baffled clerk.

“Everything all right?” Samuel asked from the carriage as the bell of the post-office door clanged shut behind us. I shrugged. Denbury offered a curt nod.

As we went up the hill again toward Summit Avenue, Samuel took a different route, turning back to us to say, “I’ll show you our outlook. We’ve a park with many fine homes around it. It may not be as grand as your Central Park, but it’s ours…”

A timber magnate owned an impressive estate alongside other industrialists, and the square of Irvine Park was lovely, replete with statuary. But it was the outlook between the mansions that was spectacular.

The view was magnificent. New York City is a crowded, close place. The only time you’ve a sense of vastness is in Central Park or along the rivers, but even then, there’s so much smoke and traffic. From this height the bustle on the river was miniscule, the trains long insects, the Mississippi mighty and commanding. I held in a gasp. It was as if we were flying above it all. Rivers are the heart of civilization, and it was as if we gazed down on the veins of humankind at the mouth of the most famous waterway in our country. Here we were above the beginning. Jonathon’s hand squeezed mine.

“Magnificent,” he said. I nodded.

We ate a pleasant dinner, during which Samuel discussed cases with Jonathon and they spoke a different language of medical terms, medicines, chemicals, and physiology. It was impressive, and I took interest in the methods of deduction between symptoms and diagnosis, even if most of the terms were new to me. I resolved to examine a few medical texts so that I might keep up with such a conversation.

“Before it grows too late,” Samuel said once we had finished dessert and coffee, “we must promenade along Summit. It’s beautiful at dusk.”

The sky was spectacular with stars. The quiet of the town was profound in comparison to home, which hissed and rushed at all hours. I longed to be alone and unhindered in this peace with Jonathon. I’ve spent so much time being frightened for him that I wondered what just wandering like a normal young couple on a perfect summer night would be like. Samuel’s gaze was far away, and I wondered if he wished Elsa were here instead.

“I wish you could have met Elsa,” Samuel broke the silence as we passed a grand home more darkened than the others, no lamps lit at the doors, no candles in windows. “She lived there.”

“
Lived?
” Jonathon asked gently. “Isn’t she still alive, friend?”

“Only a shell. Sometimes I wonder if she was just a figment of my imagination that I dreamed up in the days when we played as children. Our falling in love seems lifetimes ago. Dr. Mayo believes it’s something to do with the spine. Tricky, the spine. I cling to hope, visit her, talk to her, take her hand as though everything is normal, yet I…
feel
her fading. That doesn’t sound very scientific. But I’m beginning to think I don’t really know anything. That I don’t know what I do or don’t believe.”

“You don’t believe in the supernatural,” Jonathon stated.

“Could the supernatural cure Elsa?” Desperation edged Samuel’s voice. “Is there a way I could know if she was all right? I lose sleep wondering if she suffers.”

Jonathon glanced at me and spoke carefully. “In dealing with the supernatural, take care what…company you invite.”

We were again at the doorstep. Seizing a paper and pencil on a small tray where calling cards might be placed, I wrote hastily: “In New York, I could direct you to someone who might try to contact Elsa’s spirit to answer you. But yes, be careful.”

Samuel stared at me for a long moment. “Thank you.”

As we were shown up to our rooms by Mrs. Strasser, I noted Jonathon’s room was just three doors down. Left alone in the hall, I thrilled at the possibilities, but Jonathon chilled me with business instead.

“Natalie, nothing would make me happier than running away with you, forgetting everything terrible that’s happened. But there are clues back in London—this ‘Society’ Preston mentioned. I
cannot
sit idly by, not knowing what happened to my family, wondering what they wanted with me to begin with.” I opened my mouth, but he continued. “You gave me my freedom, Natalie. Release me again. I’ll return to you as soon as possible.”

“Can’t I come with you?” I whispered.

“What, and explain to your father that I absconded with you to another continent?” He took my hands in his. “Do you truly want him to kill me? No. Return to Mrs. Northe. She’s the only one we can trust—”

“What if she’s been targeted too? And isn’t it too soon? The magic too fresh—”

“She’ll know what to do. Don’t argue with me, please. I allowed you to come this far. No man would place his treasure in any further danger.”

Moving in to kiss me, he had just pressed his lips sweetly to mine when we heard footsteps hesitate at the landing. Wishing to avoid what might be a ferocious German scolding from Mrs. Strasser, Jonathon cupped my cheek fondly in his hand before reluctantly retreating down the hall toward his room, his scorching gaze upon me to the last.

I ducked into my room. I heard Mrs. Strasser’s slow tread down the hall after I’d shut myself in. She paused at each of our doors to listen for any telling noises.

Crawling into bed in my nightdress, I felt the uncertainty of the coming days settle over me like a damp cloud. What would Father say upon my return? And how long would I have to be secretly courted by a man secretly pretending to be a demon? When he played the fiend, would I forever be reminded of that creature that nearly killed me?

The thought of the demon must have triggered something. I found myself scratching at my wrist. The skin around it was nearly rubbed raw, and a scratch mark was visible in a thin line of blood. A marking. A letter. No.

A rune.

Runes like those that had been carved into the demon’s Five Points victims, onto the painting, onto Jonathon. Now onto me as I sat stewing in a bed in Minnesota. Runes were just an ancient alphabet. But in this case, the letters channeled something more. I turned my arm one way, then another, seeing if it was trick of my eye. I closed my eyes and opened them again. The mark remained.

I couldn’t remember what this letter represented. But there it was on my arm. Delicately written in blood. “Natalie, you’re exhausted—you’re seeing things,” I whispered to myself. “Besides, I’m done with you, dark magic. I renounced you.”

I looked down again to find the marking had faded. Convinced that it had been delirium, I eventually realized I couldn’t hold out against how little I’d rested on the train, and I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep where even Jonathon could not find me.

Chapter 4

I awoke nearly at first light, lying in bed, kicking at the sheets, and sick to my stomach. I lifted my arm to see if any mark remained. Smooth skin.

I resolved to look up the mark in Mrs. Northe’s book on runes. I made note of the figure in a fresh diary she’d placed in my bag with the inscription:

A Gift to Miss Natalie Stewart, whereabouts unknown. Dream well, dear girl.

Love, Evelyn Northe

Dream well. Did that mean pleasantly or prophetically?

I tried to make myself presentable. Bless Mrs. Northe for sending me off with a nice tea gown; she did have an eye for clothing. Someday I hoped to have enough options that I might not be seen in the same array of things for a whole week and a half. That would be luxury. I tucked a few errant tresses behind my ears and pinched my cheeks for some color.

I pulled out the rosewater toiletries. Miss Rose indeed. The finery made me feel better, and I needed all the help I could get. I glanced in the long mirror of the armoire to see wide green eyes staring back at me that appeared older, wiser, and more harrowed than they had mere months ago.

My footfalls at the top of the stair must have alerted Samuel. He popped his head around the corner with a smile, bounding up the stairs onto the landing beside me and extending an arm to escort me down the stairs.

“And how are you this fine morning, Miss Stewart?” he asked, sure to bend his face into my view so I could read his lips.

I grimaced and thought about the question. Everything I was worried about must have passed over my face. I shrugged.

Samuel looked at me blankly for a moment before replying: “Well, the good news is that your hair smells like rosewater.”

I stared at him, and suddenly I smiled. My shoulders relaxed. What a kind soul. How, then, could he be blinded by Preston? Clearly, grief could keep strange company.

Bread, butter, and coffee were laid out for us. The day outside the wide windows was bright, the trees green. I could hear birds singing, and I recalled glorious summer days in Central Park. I hoped I’d have the presence of mind to enjoy them this year. My reverie was interrupted by the entrance of Jonathon, freshly groomed and breathtaking as ever, but with suitcase in hand. Back on the run again, the two of us. Mrs. Strasser had put my things by the door.

“Will your ward be traveling with you to England?” Samuel asked. “Miss Rose would be welcome here.”

“Thank you for the offer, Samuel, but I’ve made arrangements.”

“It’s Preston, isn’t it? He changed your attitude immediately.”

Jonathon gave a little laugh. “Nonsense.”

“Denbury, you once praised me on my attentiveness to a patient’s symptoms. I couldn’t miss the icy pall that came over you when he entered. He means well—”

“Does he?” Jonathon said sharply.

“He’s a grieving man, just like me. All he wants is to help others rouse their loved ones again.”

“We can’t cheat death, Samuel. None of us can. Even science, the all-mighty savior, can’t. We took the Hippocratic oath including the promise to do no harm. Don’t deal with devils, Sam.”

“Why? Because they haven’t treated you nicely? Preston told me you’re involved with his associates—”

“Nothing is as it seems, my friend. And if you say
one
more
word
about me to Preston or anyone he knows, it may end in my death. Truly, this time. Yours too. Maybe Miss Rose here if we’re not careful.”

“I’m sorry…” Samuel said softly. “If I thought I was bringing some sort of ill luck upon anyone, least of all you—”

“Oh, no, I think we were targeted, my friend, but not for ethical reasons.”

“Preston said you’re not the man you were. What do I trust or believe? Preston and I bonded over grief. Over tragedy. Over young lives ruined too soon. Surely you of all people can understand that.”

“Grief can make you vulnerable and lead you down a path from which there is no return,” Jonathon said darkly, his gaze downcast, his face coloring in shame.

The day Jonathon’s parents died, he’d been persuaded into an opium den. From there, he’d been taken prisoner, and the curse began. He couldn’t forgive himself for it.

Jonathon sighed. “I’m sure Preston, like me, is being used. Just…extricate yourself from his acquaintance. Tactfully. But by your own wits, not by anything I’ve said,” he warned. Breaching the icy gulf, Jonathon embraced Samuel by the door. “We’ll be in touch,” Jonathon said.

Samuel looked at one of us and then the other. “Travel safely.”

“Indeed. And…give Elsa our best,” Jonathon said. “Keep faith, my friend.”

***

So. Here we were again on a train. Jonathon had been quiet for hours, staring out the window, brooding, and scowling.

“You’re worried about him,” I said.

“I’m worried about everything: Samuel, what I’ve yet to face in England, you, everyone. I wish I had some sense of security.” He returned to silence.

The lazy motion of the train had me nodding off. And once I did, the nightmares returned. I suppose this was a day-mare, as it was daylight outside when I fell into the fitful sleep that produced yet another traumatizing vision.

A long corridor, a hallway, with doors on each side. The floor is slightly damp. Perhaps a basement. The lamps are trimmed too low. I hear a distant sound of moans. This is not a place of happiness but torment. As I pass each door, they recede in number; 10, 9, 8, etc., and either no light or only dim light comes from the other side of the door. There are sharp smells, medicinal but below an astringent scent, like something elderly, decaying.

And just as I arrive at the end of the corridor, glass doors on each side of me and a brick wall ahead of me, I glance to my right. My heart stops as a yellowish hand suddenly slaps the glass, splaying out as if in pain or trying to reach for someone. There is a whooshing sound of exhaling breath like a last breath. I try to scream, but nothing comes out, my voice again unreliable.

A door opposite flies open.