The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart (9 page)

Across the Veil. Booth’s Theatre. Ask Veil about the last time he saw my family—if he remembers anything odd. —J

I thought a moment about what or who he meant. I realized he must mean Nat, his actor friend who’d been involved with the London clinic.

I’d have to ask Mrs. Northe to go with me to the show. I couldn’t afford to be wary of her. She’d so swiftly become inextricably wrapped up in my life that I couldn’t seem to operate without her. This chafed at my increasingly independent sensibilities. But I didn’t understand operating in high society—or much of any society really. I was nowhere without the calm, capable guidance of Mrs. Northe, and I needed to accept that fact. It seemed I needed to accept her increasing presence in my
home
as well.

Father is a museum man, a man of static art and the occasional concert. He finds theater a bit silly. Not one for crowds unless they stare silently in appreciation of a canvas, so I couldn’t ask him to go. And if he suspected any more foul play surrounding the Denbury name, I was afraid he’d forbid Jonathon to come anywhere near me.

Bessie announced that Mrs. Northe’s carriage had pulled up. It was as if Mrs. Northe knew I needed her. Of course she knew.

I darted out and down the stairs, kissing Bessie once on the cheek, which seemed to surprise her. I was through taking the people in my life for granted.

Once I ducked in the carriage, I handed Mrs. Northe the letter from Rachel.

“Read it.”

She did and paled. “Oh, my. I wonder what’s in those boxes.”

“If it’s what was in my dream, I fear even more for her,” I murmured. Mrs. Northe stared at me a moment, and thankfully didn’t ask me to elaborate upon my nightmare.

We gave the driver Rachel’s address on Seventy-Seventh Street. We rang and rang. No one answered. There was no activity in the curtains of her floor. No one was there. We then strode an avenue over to Preston’s wing of the hospital to find it still shuttered. Mrs. Northe paused a moment outside. She closed her eyes.

“I sense no one within. Just…death.”

“And Rachel?” I asked fearfully. “Can you sense if she’s alive?”

“She is, but she’s fled somewhere. Scared. That’s all I can gather.”

***

“I’ve been given an instruction,” I told Mrs. Northe later that afternoon over tea. “Jonathon sent a telegraph. I must attend a performance here in the city. A show called
Across
the
Veil
. Do you know it?”

Mrs. Northe nodded. “Nathaniel Veil. I hear he’s quite the talented young man. Popular with the young ladies, too,” she said with a knowing look. “Take care.”

“Well, he’s a friend of Lord Denbury. An attractive man like Jonathon invites attractive company,” I said, and had a sudden panic at the thought of him being mobbed by society ladies when he returned to England. “Jonathon thinks Mr. Veil may have seen his parents just before their death.”

“Any further news from London?”

I shook my head.

“Have you a suitable gown? You’ll get more out of Mr. Veil if you’re at your beautiful best,” she said with a smirk.

I thought of my one evening dress, the green one, the one Maggie and her friends had made fun of. It must have been the look on my face that made her drain her tea, pay the bill, and drag me back to the carriage.

“Well, then. Ladies’ Mile, my dear. I never did get to take you shopping.”

I grinned despite myself. Wary as she made me at times, she always pulled me back into her warmth, her spell impossible to break. “You’re too kind, Mrs. Northe.”

“I do try. Maybe one day you’ll even call me Evelyn.”

I looked at her a moment. Somehow, I just couldn’t. I felt more comfortable thinking of her in a position of authority, and she was still too mysterious for me to call her by her first name, to accept that she was family.

Ladies’ Mile
.

On Fifth and Sixth avenues, the boulevards of castle-like stores are filled with unimaginable treasure. It was the only place a respectable woman can walk the street unescorted, as she is there upon the harmless business of beauty and fashion. Ladies’ Mile is the one sphere in the city where women are allowed wholly to rule.

I’d passed this parade of palaces with trepidation, as I was a woman who could
almost
be welcome there. My clothes were fine enough not to be escorted from the buildings, but I’d be regarded in the same way I saw the finery: with aspiration. As if it was something I could hope for, nearly reach, but not quite grasp.

With Mrs. Northe by my side it was a different story.

The tailors and clerks knew her by name, and in a whirlwind of satin, organza, bombazine, taffeta, lace, and thousands of buttons and clasps, I was transformed time and again into a princess. I didn’t say much through it all. I really
couldn’t
, in fact.

Each store was staggering in its interior, as if they were palaces or opera houses.

The wide, yearning eyes of each seamstress and tailor, counter girl, and milliner—all of them my class and striving, surely wishing they too could have a fairy godmother like mine—were so overwhelming that they triggered that anxious clench in my throat that constricted my speech again. I managed a brief hello, enough that they didn’t think me incapable, but Mrs. Northe did most of the talking. After all, she’d be doing the buying. I hoped Jonathon might offer her something in return for all this kindness; I was doing
his
bidding in this business, after all. I hated to owe anyone anything, and things like this only put me further in debt to Mrs. Northe.

It was, ironically, at A. T. Stewart’s (no relation, I only wish) that Mrs. Northe and I finally settled on something, as if everything else had just been whetting our appetites, and I realized she’d been dissatisfied only so that she could save the best for last.

“Now, from what I know of Veil and his tastes, it has to be something dark. Dark and dramatic. What is your favorite color, Natalie?”

“Purple,” I managed after a moment, needing to press past my comfort in quiet colors.

“Indeed, you’ll look ravishing in a deep, dark plum. It should be trimmed darkly with onyx beads and starched black lace. You’ll see why.”

Jonathon had said something about how Nathaniel was as fond as I was of Poe and dressed daily in mourning. This evening’s costuming should fit his bill.

We found something breathtaking in a purple that looked nearly blood-black from some angles and then shimmering rich plum in other lights, the sheen of the taffeta making it like a jewel shining darkly in its cut angles. The dress was beaded in black, and satin ribbon trim gathered up the bustle at the rear. Trim gave elegant definition to each ruffle of the layered skirts, the taffeta brushing out around me a foot in each direction with a gathered train. Flattering to curves, the dress had a tapered, V-line bodice, a plunging neckline, and capped sleeves opening to a bell at mid-forearm. Just a bit of wrist was left exposed once netted lace gloves, each clasped by a black pearl, glided over my palms.

I stared at myself and didn’t recognize the woman in the trifold mirrors. The fitting-room attendant, Fanny, truly seemed to enjoy her job, as if she were a sculptor creating a goddess. Indeed, once my corset was tightened and I was cinched, clasped, and buttoned into these many exquisite layers, I was scared to move and thought I’d best be as still as a sculpture.

Fanny had swept up my hair and clasped it with pins hidden beneath a beaded, ostrich-feather fascinator. She left a few errant curls around my face “for whimsy and seduction,” she murmured with a grin as she lightly rouged my cheeks with powder that had a faint, glimmering hint of purple.

In this light, all my colors seemed heightened. The auburn of my hair seemed to glow with its faint red traces, and my green eyes were lit as if a candle were flickering behind thin peridot. All I could think was how I wished Jonathon could see me now so he would know for certain that I could rise to the title of Lady Denbury and fill the role.

Mrs. Natalie Whitby, Lady Denbury.

Oh, that does sound nice, doesn’t it?

“Natalie, are you pleased?” Mrs. Northe said softly, as if she was reading my mind. Perhaps she was. I blushed and nodded vigorously. “We’ll take this, Fanny. Nicely done.”

Fanny clapped her hands. “Brava. You’re fit to make some lord seek you as his lady.”

“Oh, indeed, she quite plans to,” Mrs. Northe said, chuckling.

When I was back in my chemise and petticoat, Fanny helped me into my own dress, a rag by comparison, a utilitarian dress I didn’t need help with, but I accepted her help anyway with murmured thanks. I clutched my new black lace fan, an accessory that was a must during a New York summer and would replace my small, worn wooden one. I opened and shut it nervously a few times.

Once Fanny had gone to ring up the bill, I leaned into Mrs. Northe, murmuring: “I wish Jonathon could see me in this. But I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself before a star of the stage. You see…I don’t always…present myself well when nervous.”

“Natalie Stewart, you’re the bravest young person I’ve ever met.”

“When it’s life and death, perhaps I have my moments. But in day-to-day life, in crowds, new encounters, I…falter.”

“If in moments of
crisis
you are at your best, then you’ve a gift the rest of the world should envy. Think of meeting Veil, then, as life and death. If dire situations force your impetuous bravery, then you must think of anything involved with Lord Denbury as such. He needs you now, just like then.”

I nodded. That would have to do.

On our way out, I noticed a tray full of sparkling baubles, hair-pins, and brooches. I paused.

“See something you like?”

I shook my head. “I was just thinking of Maggie. She’d like these. How is she?”

“Still in trouble. I didn’t tell her mother everything about the ritual mess she’d made in the Metropolitan after dark, but enough to make Maggie regret it. She’s quite under house arrest. You should go pay her a visit.”

“I’d like to. I do want to be her friend.”

Mrs. Northe sighed. “I’m afraid you’re better to her than I am, and I’m her aunt. Thank you for having the patience with her that I no longer have. It would be good of you to go. Her calling hours are Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”

“I’ll do so this week.”

Mrs. Northe and I picked out a hair-pin and brooch set I could take as a present.

***

A few hours later, I met Father in his office. He immediately left his paperwork and escorted me to the door. He seemed to be done taking my presence for granted too. Usually he would have made me wait.

We rode the Lexington Avenue Elevated rail north as far as we could, then a trolley into the Bronx until the vast necropolis of Woodlawn Cemetery—a garden-style cemetery founded seventeen years ago, in the year of my birth—spread out before us.

We strolled toward the Gothic stone pillars and iron gates. Familiar ornate tombs loomed in the verdant distance.

“Tell me again how you and Mother met.”

My father eyed me. “Again? Haven’t I told you this a thousand times?”

“It’s important.”

He smiled, the green eyes I’d inherited from him twinkling. “It was at the Cooper Union. A speech.”

“But not just
any
speech,” I added.

Here began Father’s tale, which I’d never tire of hearing:

“Abraham Lincoln’s speech, the one that would make him president. But I didn’t know about that then. I was only vaguely interested in politics. All I wanted was to open a museum. I was told potential investors for all sorts of noble causes frequented the Union, so I was sure to bring my friend Weiss, who knew everyone who was anyone, along to help me navigate the crowd.

“I was admittedly riveted by the odd-looking, tall man whose voice was reedy, almost a joke of himself, but no one laughed when Lincoln built to his conclusion. Everyone held their breath. But for me, that great man was outshone by a woman who stood near the front of the dais: tall, elegant, and utterly radiant. Weiss saw the object of my stare and chuckled:
“‘Viel Gluck…
Lots of luck, friend.’” I asked Weiss who she was.

“‘
Germania
in all her glory,’” he said, “‘as painted by Philipp Veit in the heart of Germany’s democratic revolution. Currently she’s giving the Lutheran Society hell. She’d like them to ordain women.’”

“I laughed. I could see from across a room of breathless people that she was full of fire and life. Lincoln would go on to be president, and I knew my life would never be the same for having seen Helen Heidel. Thankfully for us, she cared about art as much as any cause. Once Lincoln was done stunning the crowd, Weiss introduced me to her and presented my cause. And by grace alone and a good bit of planning the Metropolitan, she came to care for me.” Father’s tale ended as we reached the gates.

And
then
she
died
in
the
street. Rescuing me, at the age of four, from an oncoming carriage.