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  “Good then. We’ll go call upon Mrs. Northe. If she’s hell-bent on buying it, I’ll press her to offer it to us on loan. I wouldn’t wish to make an enemy of her. Charms aside, I hear she always gets her way. Let’s hope it works out the best for all of us.”

  He kissed me lightly on the head and left for the museum offices.

  Grinning, I jumped to my feet, too excited to sit still. How I longed to join the bustle of the city I could see through the window: the people striding swiftly to their destinations, the carriages jockeying for place on such a fine day, the shopkeepers calling to passersby. But now I had purpose. Perhaps I might become part of their world after all.

  Then again, there are always shadows in the back of my mind. Those lovely people down below move effortlessly in carefree sunlight, far from nightmares, while this haunted painting is the stuff of nightmares. And yet this is what calls to me most strongly. As if it’s where I belong. I turned away from the window.

  I have included the article about the portrait herein for my future reference and for commemoration.

  The Tribune, June 4, 1880

  A portrait recently arrived at the vault of the Art Association on Twenty-Third Street has become such a sensation in various circles that public viewing is now prohibited.

  No one can deny the appeal of the portrait’s eighteen-year-old subject, Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, who is said to have perished by drowning in Greenwich, England. The promising young medical scholar suffered what appeared to be a most devastating loss of both parents in a tragic accident. He soon followed with his own demise, when a body surfacing downriver was hastily assumed to be his.

  However, the young lord is survived by a startling likeness in a life-sized portrait mysteriously commissioned just before his death. Those who have seen it report that the air around the painting is impossibly chilly and that the eyes are too lifelike, as if Denbury’s ghost hovers in the very room. Some of a more delicate nature have even fainted at the sight.

  Mrs. Evelyn Northe, wife of the late industrialist Peter Northe, an acclaimed collector and no stranger to a poltergeist or séance, oddly rejects the idea of the painting being haunted but offers no alternate explanation. She’s among the elite who have been courted to purchase the piece by the estate’s creditors. As for the reported fainting spells of some women who have viewed the portrait, Mrs. Northe had this swift retort: “He’s devastatingly handsome, this Lord Denbury. I daresay they fainted for love of his looks, not fright.”

  If not purchased directly into private ownership, the painting will go to public auction next week. Due to the insatiable curiosity surrounding the piece, it has now been closed off from viewing as the Art Association has stated that they do not employ enough guards to manage the task of keeping the public from touching the young Lord’s likeness.

  June 5

  Father wasted no time in obtaining an invitation during Mrs. Northe’s calling hours. I write this even now as our carriage jostles downtown toward her Fifth Avenue home. So forgive me if the pen slips when we clatter over a bump.

  I’ve never been inside a Fifth Avenue home, though I can see the street from my window. That avenue sometimes feels like the boundary line with another country. Father is distinctly middle class, and while he runs in intelligent and well-respected circles, they’re far from the richest in the city. He may steer decisions at the Met, but wealthier power makes them reality.

  By all accounts, Mrs. Northe cuts a figure that will be intimidating to a man like Father and utterly fascinating to me. I only wish I could talk to her. I write very quickly and carry a pad of paper with me wherever I go. Perhaps she’ll have the patience to indulge me.

  Later…

  What an afternoon!

  Firstly, let me say that Mrs. Northe is a most gracious and charming woman. And I daresay she and my father got along better than could be expected. Almost too well for a daughter not to feel a bit awkward, as I often do anyway, let alone if I sense flirtation could be afoot…

  And I believe I may have a new friend! Her name is Margaret Hathorn, Mrs. Northe’s niece, who immediately insisted I call her Maggie. She was dressed exquisitely in a green satin dress of doubled skirts and capped sleeves. I found myself staring at the lace detailing on nearly every gathered fold. I didn’t think I much cared about fine dresses, though Maggie certainly does. I’m reminded I’ve not spent much time in fine society. And she only gave me one of those looks for just a moment. I forgave her easily for that.

  Mrs. Northe’s house was splendid—everything I could have expected and more, trimmed with the finest Oriental rugs and lavish marble pieces, and that was just the foyer. The interior architecture had grand staircases and chandeliers reminiscent of what I’ve seen in pictures of European opera houses. Several windows featured richly colored stained glass by a son of the Tiffany family, which Mrs. Northe proudly said would be all the rage in the next decade and we ought to invest in the man’s work now.

  Evelyn Northe, of course, was splendid too, a woman I would guess to be nearly forty. She was dressed in the latest French fashion with fitted sleeves tapering with countless buttons and gathered skirts of mauve satin drawn into a cascading bustle, all trimmed in seed pearls that I would have thought suitable for a ball gown. But amid the opulence of the home, the ensemble appeared somewhat mundane.

  I glanced into a beveled, bejeweled mirror at my side, my green eyes wide with drinking in the sights, and couldn’t help comparing myself. My blouse and skirts were neat and trimmed with lace, and I’d put my nicest pearl hairpins up into my thick locks of auburn hair, allowing a few ringlets to fall against my cheeks. I knew I wasn’t terrible to look at, but I did feel awkward in such surroundings.

  I was soon surprised by a comfort I could not possibly have expected.

  As Father introduced me, he gave the practiced, cursory explanation that I could hear perfectly well but could not speak, to which Maggie gave that slightly pitying look. Mrs. Northe did not bat an eyelash but instead offered me a “Pleasure to meet you” in standard sign. At this, I confess, my mouth dropped in an uncouth fashion and I had to recover a moment before signing “Thank you” in response.

  “I speak six languages,” Mrs. Northe explained casually. “I found that learning a seventh with my hands was thoroughly rewarding.”

  Father looked away, put to shame by the woman when he hadn’t bothered to learn to sign himself. I can’t blame Father. He’s always hoped that one day I’ll just open my mouth and all will be well. But I did appreciate a woman of such fine taste who could make me feel so welcome in such a personal way, when society never would have required it of her. Maggie seemed suitably impressed by her aunt; clearly this was a new discovery for her as well.

  As Mrs. Northe swept us into the parlor, a maid in a crisply starched uniform was instantly upon us with tea and confections.

  “So, Mr. and Miss Stewart,” Mrs. Northe began, tea in hand. “I understand you are here in regards to the Denbury portrait.”

  We nodded.

  “Oh, he is beyond words!” Maggie cooed, fluffing her emerald skirts. “I’m positively in love with him.” My father blinked at Maggie. “Denbury,” she clarified. “He’s beautiful. Natalie—may I call you Natalie?—you’ll positively die when you see him. He is unparalleled.”

  “I plan to purchase, Mr. Stewart,” Mrs. Northe interrupted smoothly. “So if you are here to outbid me, I do hope the board of your decade-young Metropolitan has a considerable sum in their budget,” she said with an affable smile, leaning toward him a bit.

  Father’s tense lips flickered into a small smile and he coughed a little. I knew he was far more nervous about being in a room with her than he was about talking business. “I would never presume to outbid you, Mrs. Northe, and I have the utmost respect for your taste and wishes. Might I propose that you graciously allow the Metropolitan to have the portrait upon loan for a brief while? With full recognition of your ownership, of course. I believe that my superiors
would chastise me if I let something so…talked about…go entirely without a request to include it in an upcoming exhibition.”

  “Indeed. I will certainly consider such a proposal. I’d hate to deprive you and your institution of so striking a man as Lord Denbury,” Mrs. Northe said.

  Maggie’s face fell. “You mean you won’t have him always at the house?”

  “Margaret, hush. Your family lives a block from the museum. You can visit.”

  I couldn’t help it. My hands flew out to ask if the painting was, indeed, haunted, despite her protestation in the paper. Maggie stared at me intently, curiously, as if she thought that by just watching my fingers, she might understand them too.

  Mrs. Northe’s smile remained as she registered my question. I was pleased that she did not exhibit any of the cold distance the upper echelons of society feel necessary when dealing with the merchant class. And I credit that she had influenced her niece similarly.

  “I am a spiritualist, Miss Stewart. I believe that certain objects can retain a bit of living energy and that death is just one veil away from our earthly home. It isn’t that I believe the picture is haunted, per se, but that it could quite possibly have a connection with a lost part of Denbury’s soul.”

  She turned to my father. Maggie was listening, rapt, clearly as intrigued by spiritualism as I was. “And that, Mr. Stewart, is something to be regarded carefully and reverently. That particular aspect is priceless. I don’t trust the painting with just anyone. But I wasn’t about to tell that to the papers.”

  My expression surely betrayed my eagerness, for Mrs. Northe added, “I shall take you to see him, if you like, Miss Stewart. The Art Association has him locked away all to himself in a side room.”

  I nodded, too taken with the idea and with Mrs. Northe to think about asking Father for permission.

  Maggie clapped her hands. “I tell you, Natalie, you’ll just die!”

  To my father, Mrs. Northe declared, “The sooner we are able to secure the portrait from his broker, the better.”

  “Why’s that?” Father asked.

  “I fear the man is mad. It’s as if he were an inmate at Bedlam the day prior to setting sail with the portrait. He keeps shuffling about the association and mumbling something about a master. I daresay that when people get uneasy around the painting, it has less to do with Denbury and everything to do with Crenfall.” Mrs. Northe turned to me. “So, shall I take you tomorrow, Miss Stewart?” she asked.

  Here I turned to Father. He evidently had been watching Mrs. Northe with somewhat of a dazed look, for he had to shake his head a bit, as if waking from a reverie. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, our gossip bores you, Mr. Stewart. Quite all right.” Mrs. Northe laughed.

  “No, no, it wasn’t at all that I was bored…” My father fumbled. “I was…very interested in you, I assure you. I mean, in what you were saying. Interested. Yes.”

  Could it be that my father blushed? Maggie seemed to catch it too, and we shared a smile.

  “Indeed. I’ll have a carriage fetch you in the morning, Miss Stewart. Let’s make a day of it. You did mention, Mr. Stewart, that your daughter has just returned from her schooling. I’d like to take her somewhere nice to celebrate her return before she examines this work of art for herself.”

  “That’s too kind of you—” I began to sign, blushing at her generosity. But she interrupted me.

  “Not at all,” she signed in return. “I’ve no daughters. I always wanted one. It would be as much for me as for you.”

  But she has her niece, Maggie, I thought. And I looked at Maggie for a moment, puzzled. Something in Mrs. Northe’s eyes stilled me. I didn’t understand. Maggie seemed kind and engaging enough…

  I tell you, there was something knowing in Mrs. Northe’s eyes that went beyond mere hospitality. It was as if she saw something I couldn’t understand. In that moment, I had the distinct sense that being acquainted with Mrs. Evelyn Northe would be one of the most important things ever to happen to me.

  June 6

  My life shall never again be the same. Something is irrevocably changed. But, alas, let me start at the beginning and not skip over how the day began. I’m told I’m good with details.

  How is it that, in one mere day, Mrs. Northe and Maggie have come to feel so much like family? Despite any social differences, we all fell in so naturally.

  Maggie is the sort of girl I always wished I had as a friend. At the asylum, I was surrounded by deaf and mute girls, as well as some blind ones. All of them were lovely, of course, but to be around a pretty girl my age, a girl of society in fine dresses and immaculate gloves…I almost felt like I could fit in among the world at large, a world where there is possibility.

  Mrs. Northe took me to the finest of teas downtown before insisting that she have me sit in a photography studio for a portrait session.

  “All pretty young ladies need a portrait to offer a beau,” Maggie explained. When I protested in clumsy signing that I’d never had nor would I ever have a beau, Mrs. Northe scoffed at me as Maggie fluttered around me, primping my dress for the photograph. I was set down in the vast room filled with drapes and milling onlookers and told to stay put.

  “I’ll not have you say such a thing. I had a premonition,” Mrs. Northe scolded. “And my premonitions are rarely wrong. I saw you teaching at a school with some handsome doctor looking in on you.”

  “Ooh!” Maggie cooed. “A doctor. That’s noble!”

  I smiled at the thought. I’d have to teach other unfortunates like myself, but I found I rather liked the idea. It sounded right. Perfect, in fact. I’d make sure other girls like me had as many books as their hearts desired and no one to tell them they were merely stubborn.

  Sitting for a portrait takes a great deal of patience, and I don’t think the gentleman taking it was very fond of me, for I have a hard time keeping my knees from bouncing. That made me wonder how long Denbury had had to pose for his portrait. How had he withstood it? And what would he look like in person?

  It didn’t help that Maggie kept trying to make me blush and laugh. Goodness, the girl does like to chatter. Thankfully, I’m a very good listener. Even if I could talk, I’m not sure I could have gotten in a word edgewise. She related every last detail she’d recently gathered about the goings-on of New York City’s foremost elite, telling all the juicy, amusing bits. I got quite a colorful education. Mrs. Northe didn’t weigh in for a second, so I assume the topics were of no interest to her. The Hathorns and the Northes seem to have different priorities.

  While we were en route to the Art Association, I confessed to Mrs. Northe that I wanted to know more about spiritualism.

  “It would only do to introduce you to one experience at a time,” she replied aloud to my signed inquiry as we jostled up Broadway, eyeing Maggie as she spoke. “It has been an intensely personal journey for me, and you must look at it the same way if you want to create a lasting experience of faith and belief. This is a concept I keep stressing to Margaret, but she won’t leave me be about it.”

  “I’m obsessed. I want to know everything there is to know about spiritualism!” Maggie cried, not realizing she was echoing what I had just signed. “I want to go to séances and talk to the dead. I want to comprehend that sort of power and then to wield it—can you imagine what you could do—”

  “For the last time, Margaret Hathorn, there is no power in spiritualism. And those who are interested in it for the sake of power quickly become my former friends,” Mrs. Northe said sharply. Maggie snapped her mouth shut. “Not to mention that your mother would never forgive me for teaching you anything about it in the first place. She already is convinced I’m going to Hell.”

  “She is not…” Maggie rallied, but unconvincingly.

  Mrs. Northe turned to me with a smirk, signing: “But I’m rich enough to be considered redeemable. Amazing how wealth buys salvation.”

  I bit my lip to keep from grinning. I didn’t want Maggie to feel left out of the j
oke, but she was looking out the window and pouting about having been put in her place in front of me. Mrs. Northe’s jovial honesty about her position, her money, and her faith was quite refreshing.

  I recalled Sister Theresa at the asylum once railing about spiritualism being the Devil’s work, which had made me immediately curious as to how and why. Father isn’t much of a churchgoer, being descended from lapsed New England Congregationalists, but Mother, a devout German Lutheran, never missed a Sunday at Immanuel near our home. In her honor, I attend services regularly.

  I find the ritual of faith a comfort, and thankfully the Lutheran congregation is rather stoic. They don’t much care that I can’t speak, and the service is almost all in German. Is it more tragic that I understand two languages that I don’t speak? Regardless, if Sister Theresa was right about the Devil’s work, I can’t have Mother turning in her grave.

  Perhaps Mrs. Northe read my mind, for she was quick to clarify. “Now to be sure, I am an Episcopalian Christian. But my experiences in spiritualism have only expanded my faith, strengthened my commitment to the Lord, women’s rights, and the rights of all people, and enriched my delight in the Divine Mystery of the universe.”

  That sounded grand.

  “What you may have guessed,” she added, her tone suddenly weary, “is that not all persons interested in the discipline come to it purely for spiritual growth, enlightenment, or education. Some become involved because they think somehow they will gain power. Influence. An other-worldly advantage,” Mrs. Northe said bitterly. “And these people quickly fall away from spiritualism to make their own orders and sects as their egos see fit.”

  “Do you know such people?” I signed.