The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart Read online

“Just keep your dreaming focused, Natalie. I can’t take any more betrayals.”

  “As if I’d betray you—”

  “But she’s under my spell, old chap,” Nathaniel finished. “Can you begrudge a spirit like hers a bit of curiosity? It isn’t like you haven’t kissed other girls before.”

  “Not since meeting her,” Jonathon insisted, breaking free from a long-limbed girl in a sapphire ball-gown who had wrapped her arms around him and staring down Veil. “And you’re not really here, Veil. It’s just the two of us, Natalie.” He pinned me with his gaze. “It’s just us and whatever your mind creates. So stop it. I’m having enough trouble sleeping without seeing another man have his way with you.”

  I closed my eyes. I tried to break free, to move toward the beautiful blue-eyed man in the hall that I knew I loved. “I choose you,” I said to Jonathon, praying he’d believe me, and stumbled forward as if pushed, a hand—no, a claw—raking down my back and scoring me with a sharp pain. I cried out, falling not forward into Jonathon’s arms but straight up in my bed.

  I’d managed not to wake Father this time, for which I was grateful. I wrestled myself back to sleep. I had plans to visit Maggie tomorrow, and it would do no good to go looking like hell. I needed to be at my very best. Dealing with Margaret Hathorn might be its own careful game.

  Chapter 10

  To my surprise, I found I was nearly as nervous about paying a visit to Maggie as I was about dealing with curses and double-crossing intrigues. Chiefly because I wasn’t sure what sort of reception I would get, and I never really knew where I stood with her.

  “Hello? And you are?” the maid asked at the door.

  “Miss Stewart. Miss Hathorn knows me.”

  “I’ll announce you to the mistress,” the maid said, bobbing her head. She closed the door a moment. I fiddled with the small silken pouch in my hand. At least I came bearing gifts. The maid opened the door and led me through the lavish entrance hall to the open doors of an even more elaborate parlor.

  The residence was just as fine as Mrs. Northe’s home, but I didn’t like it. It was ostentatious in a way Mrs. Northe’s home was not, trying very hard to impress. While Mrs. Northe’s home was elegantly classic, the Hathorn residence was on the cutting edge of so many fashions that nothing matched, but I’m sure it was all very expensive.

  Mrs. Hathorn was a bit confused as the maid led me into the parlor. “I know I know your name, Miss Stewart, but—”

  “Hello, Natalie,” came a wary voice from the top of the grand staircase. Maggie was looking very lovely, her dark hair pinned up at the sides but left down in the back, as I used to wear mine as a girl, giving her a youthful look even though her day dress was sumptuous in layered satin stripes. Her eyes were dark and wide, sizing me up.

  “Ah, yes, the Metropolitan, that’s it. Mr. Stewart,” Mrs. Hathorn said, finally placing me. The Stewarts didn’t rank high on her social list so it took her a moment.

  “Yes, the Metropolitan,” Maggie repeated carefully.

  Last I’d seen Maggie, she was standing before Jonathon’s portrait in the museum, chanting in his exhibition room at midnight and looking like a ridiculous gypsy. She had laid out a chalk pentagram on the floor, not even knowing the right way to draw it so that it wasn’t a sign of the devil.

  Clearly, we were both thinking of that moment during the strained silence. Just as I had no idea why Maggie had been there, neither did she understand why I was. We had to move toward some semblance of the truth.

  “Claire,” Maggie called to the maid finally.

  “Yes, mum.”

  “Bring us lemonade on the balcony. Come, Natalie.” Maggie was so used to ordering people around that it came effortlessly. She gestured for me to join her on the landing, so I climbed the grand staircase.

  The balcony looked out over a painstakingly manicured lawn with landscaped flowers in bloom. It was admittedly impressive. There were fewer and fewer grand mansions these days along midtown avenues. Blocks were giving over to town houses and row houses and fine shops, but mansions like this still clung to Millionaires’ Mile, where a higher concentration of wealth resided than anywhere else in our country, maybe even the world.

  “How lovely,” I breathed. Maggie started.

  “Ah, yes, that’s right, you can speak. I’d forgotten about it amid the…madness when last I saw you. Where did you go after that night? It was awfully suspicious that you were out of town visiting a relative.”

  Was that the alibi Mrs. Northe had given? I thought a moment. “I had to get out of the city. That night proved…traumatic.”

  “How so?”

  “Here, I brought you a present.” Distraction was always such a lovely way to change the subject.

  “Ooh!” Maggie squeaked. She opened the drawstring pouch and pulled out the pin and brooch. They sparkled in the sunlight. Maggie held them up to admire the glitter. Claire brought us lemonade. I thanked her, and she smiled at me.

  “These are very nice. Where did you get them?

  “Stewart’s,” I replied.

  “Ah. Shame you’re not—”

  “Related, yes. I know.”

  “I suppose Auntie took you shopping then,” she said, a bite to her tone. Of course. It wasn’t as though I had money to get them on my own, and the fact that her aunt had been out with me and not her was an additional slight. I looked into my lemonade, shamed.

  “I’m sorry.” Maggie sighed. “I’m still angry at Aunt Evelyn. And you. I don’t understand why you kept things from me. Why you still keep things from me. Maybe there are things I know that you don’t. Did you ever think that?”

  “Maggie, I want to be your friend,” I said earnestly. “I never wanted to keep anything from you. But things got very…complicated, and it wasn’t just my safety at stake, but the safety of others.”

  “Lord Denbury. I don’t think he’s dead, Natalie,” she breathed.

  “No, I’m not sure he is either. But whatever happened to him, it’s a mystery.”

  “What do you know about it?” Maggie breathed. I sighed. I had to throw her a bone and debated how to do so.

  “Why were you there that night?” she pressed. “I was trying a spell to bring him to life before me. Were you there to do the same?”

  “No.” I took a deep breath. “I was there as bait.”

  “What?”

  “The painting was tied to unsavory types who’d seized the Denbury estate. One of the criminals had a particular…penchant for young ladies. So I stood as bait.”

  “Have you met him? Denbury?”

  “No, just a solicitor in touch with my father. Denbury, if alive at all, remains to be seen.”

  “Your father risked his own daughter as bait?”

  “No, I volunteered. Insisted, really, and since it was Mrs. Northe’s painting, she agreed, provided Mr. Smith stood guard.”

  “Because you wanted to meet him too,” Maggie said, a hint of conspiratorial glee in her tone. I looked at her. “Admit it.” There was a mischievous sparkle in her eye. And with that, she was a girl who could be my friend.

  I laughed. “All right. Yes. I wanted to meet him.”

  “Finally, some truth—”

  “I thought if I was bait, he’d at least want to meet a girl who risked her safety to help him. I mean, no girl is immune to that man’s looks.”

  “That’s for certain,” she sighed dreamily.

  Oh, if you only knew, Margaret Hathorn, if you only knew. I blushed, thinking of his kisses and caresses.

  “I still dream of him,” Maggie whispered. “Scandalous dreams.”

  I opened my mouth as if to agree, to giggle and blush and conspire with her further, so glad to have the icy gulf between us bridged, but I really couldn’t share the contents of my dreams with Maggie; they were too complicated by nightmares. Jonathon had indeed been in my dream the night before, but it was hardly a dream I was proud of or could share.

  No, I could never really tell her the truth. She
could never be the sort of confidante Mrs. Northe was, and for that I doubted Maggie could ever forgive me.

  “So what happened?” Maggie prompted. “In the museum room.”

  “Someone came. He tried to attack me, then got arrested.”

  “The crazy man, that awful broker—” Maggie clapped her hands over her mouth.

  “One of his people.”

  “Oh, Natalie, that was very brave,” she said and meant it.

  “Thank you.”

  “And he has yet to reveal himself? After all that? After his painting is…”

  I eyed her. “Is what?”

  “The painting is gone, Natalie. Don’t tell Mum or Auntie, but I sneaked out to the Metropolitan the next day. I saw workers throw out the pieces.” She bit her lip, as if she was about to say something more. “If you hear anything. Anything from him, promise to tell me.”

  “All right…” I replied hesitantly. “If I can.”

  “Natalie, you must.” There was an odd urgency to her tone. The clock down the hall struck half past three. “Ah, I must get ready for my drawing lesson. I’m hoping to study in Paris. Wouldn’t that be heavenly?”

  I nodded. I’d like to see Paris. I wondered what it would be like to live with every opportunity available. Well, every opportunity available to a woman.

  As she saw me to the door, she thanked me for the baubles. “Do come again, Natalie. It was good to see you.”

  I nodded and agreed. Most likely, Maggie would always say oblivious things that rubbed my middle-class status in my face, but she had her bright sides. I needed to at least try to have a normal relationship with someone not supernaturally affected. It was a shame she was so fascinated by the supernatural; she should be careful what she wished for.

  She was far too preoccupied with Lord Denbury for my comfort, but at what point did I tell her he was alive? At what point would they inevitably run into one another?

  Chapter 11

  The next morning Father handed me a letter. The postmark was from Connecticut, the penmanship familiar. Rachel. He kissed my cheek, and just as I was about to tear open the envelope, he asked, “Are you coming with me to the museum today? Or since there’s no longer a haunted painting to tend, do you have no use for the Metropolitan and its acquisitions?”

  I’d nearly forgotten about my post on the acquisitions committee. It wasn’t really a job; it was the appearance of one. But I missed the museum and wanted to at least appear useful, so I agreed. My dress was suitable for day and business, so I merely ran for my sketchbook, tucked the letter in its pages, and walked out into the lazy summer heat.

  New York City in late July and August moved at a slower pace than the rest of the year. Father’s associates nodded at me in their conference room. I perused the papers on the long table, and while Father was procuring a cool pitcher of water for us to weather the warm rooms, his associates were only too happy to ignore me, as usual.

  There were sketches for consideration from artists I could care less about. I recognized one name, that of a French symbolist I’d seen on postcards in Jonathon’s study when we’d been sharing our interests. There was an opportunity for the Metropolitan to gain a Sphinx, or more specifically, Oedipus and the Sphinx by Gustave Moreau. It was a provocative painting of the mythical, riddling creature climbing up Oedipus’s beautiful body.

  “Oh, you must buy the Moreau,” I said finally. “It’s classic with its Greek themes, and yet it’s modern. You’d please two sets of patrons. Besides, I love the symbolists, don’t you?”

  Everyone turned to stare at me. During this long silence my father returned with water.

  “Gareth…” Mr. Moore said slowly. “Since when does she speak?”

  My father looked around at them all for a moment and replied airily. “She has for a while. You just haven’t noticed, you oblivious lot—”

  They all broke into loud denial, grumbling and refuting with scowling faces and wobbling jowls. I laughed. “Gentlemen, my voice was only recently recovered. By spending a great deal of time here at your wonderful institution. In celebration of my successful treatment, what say you agree to the Moreau?”

  “Oh, yes, do take the Moreau,” Father said. “It’s classic and modern at the same time.”

  I laughed again. “I said the exact same thing.”

  “Chip off the old block, I’d say,” said dear, oblivious Mr. Nillis with a grandfatherly smile.

  “I believe my duty is done for the day. Father, if you need me I’ll be sketching in the sculpture wing.”

  I took my glass and made my way to a bench in the sculpture wing, where I was surrounded by ideal specimens of beauty. I thought of Jonathon. Not long ago he’d been a work of art. I refused to let the horror of what had happened to him reflect poorly on art or museums. I would not let devils tear down one of my great sanctuaries. Although only founded a decade prior, this museum was a treasure.

  But in a basement room it had been a prison. I couldn’t help myself. I wandered down to the small, auxiliary exhibition room where the portrait of Lord Denbury had hung. The door was locked. I still felt a cool chill creep up my spine on the warm day.

  I returned to the Greek gods. There, as I sketched, Rachel’s letter slipped out from the pages. Part of me dreaded to open it, but I couldn’t deny that she needed help.

  My dear Natalie,

  I’ve fled to the Asylum. I didn’t know if you were home yet, and I was too scared to go to the authorities. I don’t know what to do. Dr. Preston left for Minnesota two weeks ago, but after that he sent his “associate”—a gaudy, cold man who does nothing but leer and smirk—with a new sequence of boxes of varying sizes that I must connect to spirits.

  The boxes, Natalie. I managed to open one. With a hairpin.

  Inside was a severed human hand.

  I’m scared. The spirits around the hospital just cry and shriek, creating a constant mental ward in my mind. I don’t understand what Dr. Preston wants, but it can’t be to help anyone or to reach Laura anymore. This is unnatural. Mrs. Northe promised I could trust you both. If you’ve any advice, I’d gladly heed it. I’m one step from madness.

  Sincerely,

  Rachel

  I put a hand to my chest, as if pressure would stop it from pounding so hard it felt as though it would leap from my chest. I’d foreseen this.

  “God?” I asked, looking up in prayer. “Whatever is going on here, please don’t throw us into the water if we can’t swim. Don’t give my friends and me something we can’t manage.”

  I couldn’t understand why this was so terrifying and personal. Walking home slowly, lost in thought, I tried to appreciate the pleasant day filled with light, full of New Yorkers enjoying the glorious park at the heart of our city. My eye caught something.

  A glistening spiderweb had been spun between two tree branches at the end of my block. At the center of the impressive web sat the weaver, a spider no larger than my thumbnail. I felt in that moment that if there was any explanation to be had, then the spider’s web was it. A web had been cast around Jonathon, and somehow we’d been caught up in it. Rachel too, though I didn’t see the connection.

  Oh, but of course. Young and talented, Preston had said. Her talents as a medium had ensnared her. Her knowing me was mere coincidence, though I’m not sure I can believe in coincidence these days. Thank goodness she knew me; otherwise she’d have no one. And Jonathon. Within his painted prison he’d dimly seen countless people pass him by before the fateful light about me set me apart and made him change the portrait to get my attention. Thank goodness he had found me.

  You remain at the center of mystery, Mrs. Northe had written. I glanced at the spider at the heart of her web. Was that me? I had accused Mrs. Northe of being a magnet for the supernatural. Maybe I wasn’t being totally honest with myself. I didn’t want to be the spider.

  ***

  Mrs. Northe met us for dinner at our home. Quite a different experience from dining at her mansion. But she seemed
just as at ease in our modest dwelling as in her lavish one.

  “I received a letter from Rachel,” I said to her. “She went to Connecticut, to the Asylum, terrified. It was as I feared.”

  “With the boxes?” Mrs. Northe grimaced.

  “Yes. What was in them. I was right. A hand. So now what do I do for Rachel?”

  “The question is,” Mrs. Northe continued, “what’s being done with those body parts and the spirits trailing them?” We shuddered collectively.

  “Body parts?” My father choked.

  I continued with: “It can’t be good.”

  “Hand this over to the authorities at once,” my father stated, the color gone from his face. This sort of talk was too much for him, but he was trying to take more of an active part in the goings-on of our lives, for the sake of both Mrs. Northe and me. But he strained.

  “The authorities wouldn’t know the first thing about how to reverse a curse or contact a spirit, Gareth!” Mrs. Northe scoffed as if that were perfectly obvious. “Denbury’s body and soul would be dead and destroyed by now if we’d contacted them. Rachel is in a similarly delicate place. If she’s tied spirits to body parts, they’re being used for something. We must find out what. Confrontation with Dr. Preston is inevitable. I don’t understand his aims, but I’ve my suspicions. However, I don’t see the larger picture. Hopefully Denbury can enlighten us from England.”

  “What do I tell Rachel?” I asked.

  “Write and ask her to come and stay with me. She must untie those sad ghosts. She’s the only one who can. Only those directly involved in the action of the magic can affect it. Just like you and Jonathon were the only ones able to reverse his curse.”

  A thought occurred to me, something that had been nagging at me in my world full of loose ends. Did I dare tell her about the rune that had appeared on my skin? I needed to translate it, to see if there was a message imprinted on my skin or just random aftereffects of the magical portals I’d traveled through to get to Jonathon.

  “What happened to the painting? The shreds?”