The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “I went to the museum first thing and instructed that workmen should dispose of the shreds,” Mrs. Northe replied. “I demanded that they be incinerated, though I cannot be sure if the workmen complied to the letter. I didn’t want to appear directly involved, lest Sergeant Patt might find me any more interesting than he already did.”

  I nodded. Father scowled. Bessie, who had kept entirely silent and had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with this talk, entered with a snifter of brandy and slid it toward him.

  Soon Jonathon would be here and everything would be better—at least, when he wasn’t expected to be evil. Rachel would return, and we could put her abuses to rest and give her—and those spirits—well-earned rest. But what hope do we have of coming out unscathed? I remain the fulcrum of a dangerous scale.

  Father didn’t say another word the rest of the day, reminding me why there was silence in my house for so long. I wrote to Rachel as instructed and lost myself in an adventure novel to take my mind off the waiting.

  ***

  The next few days passed in a blurred haze of summer heat, museum meetings, meals with Father, and reading. And writing. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get my first diary back, so I tried to keep up accounts from then and now as best I could.

  Part of me felt as though I was frozen, that my soul had separated to visit with Jonathon’s when he was still trapped in the painting, and here my body was, hovering. Waiting. I yearned to be with Jonathon where we could work together to solve all that was keeping us apart. But part of me dreaded his letters, his return, for that would also mean new facets of his intrigue, and I doubted either of us would rejoice in his findings across the pond.

  Instead I threw myself into enjoying every moment at the museum, dining with Mrs. Northe and with Father, and watching them grow ever closer and trying not to feel jealous of it.

  At night, the dreams were consistent for a while. The long corridor, as usual. But at the end of that hall was a beckoning dark silhouette, as if something was waiting for me or knew I would eventually come home to its shadows.

  There were constant whispers and murmurs, but I couldn’t make out the words. Just when I began to feel like the shadows wanted to hurt me, I heard Mother’s Whisper, that very specific Whisper that had once made me believe that death was not always the end. And when I heard her Whisper above the rest, I knew I was safe and could sleep soundly. But would she always be there to protect me? And where was Jonathon in my dreams? Had we lost our connection? Perhaps the soul had limits when another’s was so far away.

  Chapter 12

  To: The loveliest girl in all of New York

  From: Her paramour stranded in a mess of demons’ making in London

  My dearest Natalie,

  By the time you receive this, I’ll already have thrown myself on the swiftest ship back and will see you soon. London is grayer than ever. Everything here is dreary and downright odd. And cold. I’m very cold even though it’s summer.

  I’ve taken detailed notes. While I’m not the diarist you are, I hope I do my tale justice.

  Mrs. Northe’s solicitor friend, Mr. Knowles, is a man of letters and law, and a lifesaver. I owe him much. The moment I walked into his fine office in North London, he gave me a hearty handshake and a stiff bourbon. A sharp man with graying hair slicked back, he sat across a great mahogany desk, with glasses low over wide gray eyes above a long nose. His office was fastidiously organized.

  “Lord Denbury,” Knowles began, “while I never met your family, I know all of you were highly regarded. I deeply regret the tragedies that have befallen you. I assure you, your being here remains secret.”

  Mrs. Northe had told him every last mad detail.

  “All the documents I’ve gathered pertaining to your affairs are in a file in your quarters. I’ve good friends at the deeds offices. Always make friends with clerks, I’ve learned. Peruse the documents at your leisure, though, I warn you, they’re not pleasant.”

  He then bade me to come back in the morning and gave me keys to rooms he’d procured for me across the street. “Though I am sure you would like to get back to your family’s town home, let’s not make you—or any property of yours—obvious, shall we?”

  He led me out and down the front stairs, gestured toward my rooms, and disappeared under a wrought-iron arch into an interior courtyard and was lost to the night.

  The street was lit sporadically by gas lamps. Not a soul walked along it. It was not too far from great King’s Cross station, and there were rumblings in the distance. It was a comfort to see discernable life moving in the city. Even if I was alone on the street, I was not alone in the world. I did search the shadows for anyone following, but there was no one there. No light, no aura, no movement in the shadows. Only the sound of trains. It made me think of our time alone in those cars, and I ached to be next to you again.

  I’ve yet to see your signature green-and-violet light elsewhere, Natalie. You remain unparalleled, while a white light flashed around Knowles, similar to what I see flicker periodically around Mrs. Northe.

  As I stepped into my rooms where no one greeted me, the lamps were trimmed low. I drew the shades on all the windows. Tea and a tray of sliced meat and cheese were laid on a table by a large armchair. The wide fireplace across the room would normally be unnecessary in late summer, but I was chilled to the bone. I took to the whole spread and lit a fire.

  Across the room on a writing desk sat a green folder: my evening’s task.

  I wouldn’t step foot onto the Greenwich estate this trip if I could help it. It had been a prison once, and I’d not be locked onto its grounds again, painted or real. I wasn’t ready to again take up my title, not with servants likely to shriek and faint upon seeing me. I’d had enough of being a fright, and all I’d see down those halls were the ghosts of my parents: Father in his favorite armchair and Mother fussing about with the meticulous energy I inherited. I missed them too much to see the home we’d all lost.

  That the first document on the pile was a deed was both a relief and an insult. The Denbury estate had been sold at auction. A freshly wealthy merchant, his wife, and their two children had taken up residence in my home.

  Monies went to “the Society,” according to the letter, which was on fine stationery designated by a coat of arms of no family I recognized. The center escutcheon was not divided into quarters but was a single golden crown, with red dragons rampant on either side. Red and gold: the colors that crackled around my foe when his magic was strongest. I swore I even saw a shimmer of those sparks flutter across the page. Perhaps that was just a trick of my angry eye, but regardless, clearly the Society was my enemy.

  Tomorrow I’ll confront them and write you immediately thereafter. I send this so it will make this evening’s final post, and I’ve booked my return ticket. So be comforted that by the time this reaches you, I’ll already be close on its heels in Atlantic waters.

  I’ve more documents to read, so I leave you with a kiss and my love.

  Yours,

  Jonathon

  P.S. It would seem I’m still connected to your dreams, darling, at least in part. I do recall you dreamed of Nathaniel. I’m glad you chose me, but really, Natalie, I mean it. Don’t be cruel.

  Chapter 13

  Drowning in anxiety, I felt as if the day passed on pins and needles. I had no way of knowing what had happened to Jonathon in that viper’s nest. I knew steamers traveled to and from New York and England daily carrying mail along with passengers, so there was a chance that if he had written the next day, that post would reach me soon. But with so many miles between, there was no guarantee it would arrive at all. I tried to write, to draw, to mend, but I kept throwing things aside and pacing.

  I would’ve gone to the museum and worked with the acquisitions team, but they were off at a board meeting I hadn’t been invited to. I took up the journal Mrs. Northe had given me and saw the markings I’d inscribed. I needed to tell her about them.

  My restlessne
ss found its way to her doorstep. I unburdened all my anxieties in one babbling rush. I opened the journal to show the runes I’d glimpsed upon my arm. “They could be hallucinations,” I offered hopefully.

  “Or it’s likely lingering magic,” she replied. “You came back too soon.”

  “I didn’t really have a choice,” I protested.

  “That was merely a statement, not an indictment. Come, let’s decipher.” She led me into her library, where books were immaculately kept in glass cases from floor to ceiling. She shook an elegant silver set of tiny keys down her thin wrist and into her palm, fingered the correct key without looking at it, unlocked a glass case, pulled out a volume in Swedish full of her translations, and opened it to a runic alphabet. I turned my journal to the page where I’d taken down the marks from my sighting.

  “They appeared as if they were carved into my arm,” I explained. “There was a burning pain, and then they were gone.”

  “Did you do anything? To break the hold?”

  “I…think I renounced it. Like in the liturgy, when you deny evil.”

  “‘I renounce thee.’ Yes, good. That’s good. From the characters, it would seem that the markings read: ‘I am.’”

  “I am?”

  “Well. At least it’s self-actualized magic.” She chuckled. I blinked at her. “Sorry. It isn’t funny. It’s also an incomplete message.”

  “Lovely,” I muttered.

  “Don’t let dark energy keep hold of you. Do as many positive things as you can. Spend time with that wonderful father of yours,” she exclaimed. I couldn’t help but notice how her face lit up at the mention of my father. Before I could inquire further on that count, she continued: “Now, Natalie, I need you to be prepared. My dearest friend is ailing in Chicago, and I must go to her side. I have the crushing premonition that I’m meant to go west.”

  I panicked. “You can’t go. Not until Jonathon—”

  “I’m not saying it will be tomorrow. But soon, and I want you to be prepared. These are to my house and library.” She handed me a set of keys. I stared at them.

  “You’ve placed an awful lot of trust in me,” I said quietly.

  “And until you prove unworthy of that trust, you have it,” she replied. “When Lord Denbury returns, he will be staying here. If for some reason I am indisposed, I’d like you to let him in and introduce him to the staff. Rachel too. She should stay here, not near the hospital. Now, there’s someone I want you to meet. I’m not about to leave this city without making sure you have a spiritual guardian on your side.”

  I knew better than to do anything but follow her. We had strolled a few blocks uptown before she volunteered where we were going.

  “Reverend Blessing is a supply pastor who serves several congregations in the city. He’s also become somewhat of an exorcist,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” I murmured. “Catholic?”

  “No, Episcopalian like me.”

  Really, I wasn’t sure what many denominations meant. I didn’t know what Presbyterian meant either. As a Lutheran, I recognized that the denomination’s name was an obvious derivation from the name of Martin Luther. Regardless, here I was, a Lutheran, beside an Episcopalian and off to see an exorcist.

  “An exorcist,” I breathed. Not that it was any stranger than what we’d already encountered. “Could he have gotten the demon out of Jonathon’s body?”

  “Perhaps in part, but then making sure Jonathon re-inhabited himself and trapping the demon to keep him from inhabiting others, that was a task for you and the counter-curse. Your situation was new territory. We may be in for any number of things. Hauntings, possessions, poltergeists, you need to be ready for anything.”

  “His name is Blessing,” I said with a smile. “Really?”

  I fell quite silent and didn’t dare question his name when Reverend Blessing opened the door.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing in a fine, dark suit with a crisp, white cleric’s collar, his skin gleaming brown-golden. As soon as he saw Mrs. Northe, his stern look turned into a wide smile. I don’t know why I should have been surprised at first glance that the priest was a man of color, but then again, Mrs. Northe was a woman of many friends. Besides, the church claimed it was a place for all peoples, and the Episcopalians seemed to have at least attempted a modicum of equality. I wondered if they’d ever let a woman in the pulpit.

  A fond chuckle erupted in the reverend’s throat. “Mrs. Northe, to what do I owe this sudden honor, and who have you brought with you?”

  “Gail in the diocese office told me these were your calling hours, and while I’m sorry to disturb you, I’m never sorry to see you.” She embraced him briefly. At this, Blessing took a step back. Mrs. Northe turned to me.

  “This is Miss Natalie Stewart. She’s been through quite a lot.”

  I was too shocked by the two of them embracing to pay much attention to my introduction. New York may long have been a free state, but prejudices still run deep. In another state, that embrace could have gotten the reverend killed. Then again, Mrs. Northe was never one for convention. I didn’t have time to assess further for I felt a small, wet something on my hand and I drew back with a start.

  Two heads poked curiously out from the reverend’s suit coat, one on either side. They were two tall and elegant dogs, greyhounds by the look of them, one beige and one a gorgeous gray, nearly blue. They sniffed the air and sized us up, but did not bark. What I’d felt on my hand was a nose. Blessing chuckled again.

  “Ah, pardon my fearless guard-dogs, Bunny,” he put a hand on the beige creature, “and Blue,” then on the gray-blue one. “Shall we show our guests in?” He guided the lean creatures back. “We can’t stand long in the doorway lest they tear out of the house and down the sidewalk. They’re racing dogs, you know, not the best fit for the city, but I’m fostering for the moment. Don’t worry. They’re as friendly as can be.”

  It was true. The dogs wagged tails and sniffed around us but did not jump up. Instead they circled us closely, lean bodies shaking with excitement. Bunny managed to lean her head up into my hand, as if the sole purpose of a hand was to pet her. I laughed and scratched her between the ears.

  “Amazing, resilient creatures, dogs,” Blessing stated. “They were built to love humans. When they sense kindness from you, they will return it tenfold. If only humans were the same.”

  As we filed into the entrance foyer of polished wood and religious iconography, I heard other barking from the rear of the house. Were there more dogs? And what was that from the other room? The squawk of a bird? I saw a cat dart across a banister. Then another one.

  The reverend laughed. “Welcome to the Blessing zoo.” It was quite fine and clean for a zoo, and I wondered what sort of menagerie the rest of the house held. “Stewart,” he added, gesturing for us to sit in his parlor, which continued the theme of crosses and saints. “How do I know that name?”

  “Gareth Stewart is in acquisitions at the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Mrs. Northe offered.

  “No…was your mother—”

  “Dead,” I murmured.

  “Ah. Yes,” Blessing said quietly, bowing his head a moment. “Helen Stewart. Taken from us too soon. I met your mother once. She offered to translate our tracts and give lectures to German congregations. Our cause spread like sweet wildfire, I’m proud to say.”

  I must have looked a bit stunned or confused, for Mrs. Northe explained: “Reverend Blessing worked closely with Mr. Bergh and his American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. It’s thanks to their efforts that there are any laws at all about child and animal abuse.”

  “I don’t meet many people who knew Mother.” I said, blushing, trying to explain my surprise. “Though it seems she was infamous. Father fully supported her causes but couldn’t bear to take them up or associate with her circles after her death. It was too painful. He saw her everywhere.” I stared down at my hands. “I wish I did. I wish I could listen to the
city and hear her echo.”

  “She was a force of nature. A force for good in many causes,” Blessing said. “When she died, there was a void in every project she touched.”

  I looked up into Blessing’s warm dark eyes and resolved to take up some of Mother’s noble causes myself, once all of Jonathon’s affairs were sorted out. I could learn to be a force of nature. For good.

  “Are these rescue dogs?” I asked, watching as Blessing’s large, dark hand scratched fondly behind Bunny’s ears.

  “Yes,” he replied. Bunny closed her eyes, blissful. “We managed to get them out of a coursing run where a horde of dogs was being mistreated. I volunteered to house them here until a new family could be found…and then I grew fond. Animals are such pure souls that they’re hard for me not to get attached to. I take the liberation of every innocent soul very seriously, human or animal.” Blue repositioned herself to stare at me, as if sizing me up or judging my character. “Blue here wants to know, as I do, what we can do to help, Mrs. Northe. What’s the trouble?”

  “Well, it’s more that I’m being preventative, Reverend. I want to make sure you’re someone Miss Stewart can turn to. I’ve been her…spiritual consultant on a manner of dark things that befell her and her suitor. But I may be called away to a friend’s deathbed. We have two dear friends who we believe are in danger…and not the sort that normal channels of authority would believe. If I’m out of town, I can’t leave her to fight her battles entirely on her own.”

  “What sort of battles?” Blessing asked calmly, as if they two had dealt with supernatural goings-on before.

  “Well, we’ve seen a strange manner of possession by dark rituals and séances gone wrong. I’ve a sinking suspicion we haven’t seen the end of it. So while I’ll be leaving Natalie here in charge, I don’t want her to be without recourse.”

  My mouth fell open. “Who said anything about my being in charge? I don’t want to be in charge!” I sputtered awkwardly. Blue turned then to stare at Mrs. Northe, as if she was following the conversation and expected a retort.