Darker Still

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “Unfortunately, I do,” Mrs. Northe said. “Ah. We have arrived. Come, dear, are you ready to meet him?”

  I grinned.

  “You’ll just die, I tell you!” Maggie crowed, and she took me by the hand and dragged me into the building.

  The Art Association was a lovely edifice on Twenty-Third Street with floors full of fine art, though the grandiose Metropolitan had spoiled me to the extent that nothing could possibly compare. Mrs. Northe swept me expertly through the various rooms, passing under numerous carved wooden arches. She nodded to all she passed in cordial greeting, and Maggie parroted her with the same firm confidence, though she did so with a bit more haughtiness to her step and her head held slightly higher. Clearly they were in familiar territory here, and my task was to keep up.

  We at last came to an unassuming back room where the lamps were trimmed low and a distinct chill hung in the air.

  Mrs. Northe gestured for me to go ahead.

  I turned the corner and held my breath.

  Would it be a horribly clever redundancy to say I was speechless?

  If Mrs. Northe spoke to me in those first moments, I never heard her. I was lost in the music of him.

  I’d never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. His eyes were impossibly real. Bright, shocking blue, they burned with cerulean light. They cried out from the canvas, desperate for more show of life than brushstrokes, as if simply two dimensions were an insult.

  He was tall and sure, broad shouldered and fit, with his hands clasped behind his back. He had jet-black hair that was neat around his ears but fell in gentle curls. He looked firm and authoritative, master of his domain.

  The masculine lines of his face were beautifully composed, as one would expect in the perfection of a dark seraphim. Tiny traces between his nose and the corners of his pursed and perfect lips indicated that his mouth would grow lines of an often wide smile as he aged. But no such trace of gladness could be seen in his portrait’s expression. His lips were set in a stern expression of young defiance, his perfect nostrils flared.

  His suit was fine and charcoal gray, something perhaps for sporting or hunt, something masculine but youthful and unpretentious. He was posed in a study filled with books and well-appointed items: a desk stacked with fresh paper and a blotter, fountain pens and golden trinkets of measure and study, and a high-backed chair before a fireplace bedecked with treasures from around the world.

  A verdant pastoral scene could be glimpsed out the bay window, his Greenwich estate, surely. Everything about the painting drew me in. Perhaps it was haunted after all—the life in those eyes…the slight chill that I couldn’t quite shake. The flare of his nostrils was that of an animal smelling blood.

  Mrs. Northe leaned in to murmur, not wishing to distract me from his gaze. “A shame. Such a handsome youth to be lost at eighteen.”

  “Heartbreaking,” Maggie sighed.

  I could only nod, though I couldn’t help feeling that Denbury wasn’t really gone. He was so unbelievably present. As Mrs. Northe had alluded, some part of that man’s soul was surely in the room with us.

  A gangly, sharp-nosed man with an affable smile poked his head around the corner.

  “Why, my dear Mrs. Northe and Miss Hathorn, you didn’t mention you’d be stopping by again so soon.”

  Mrs. Northe gestured at the painting. “He’s hard to resist. I had to bring Miss Natalie Stewart by to see him. You know Gareth Stewart of the Metropolitan? This is his daughter.” Mrs. Northe turned and signed his name to me—Mr. Sullivan—before he could say anything. I took the cue and inclined my head in greeting.

  Mr. Sullivan stared at us, confused by Mrs. Northe’s gesticulations. I was quite used to that response. Lest he make some social mistake, he ignored the exchange entirely, inclined his head to me, and turned back to Mrs. Northe with pressing urgency, his affable smile fading.

  “May I have a word with you alone? About the buyers.”

  “Ah. Yes. And?”

  Mr. Sullivan glanced over at me nervously. I smiled a bit too broadly, as if the lamps weren’t quite on in my attic. It couldn’t hurt to appear nonthreatening in this case, considering that Denbury seemed to make most people nervous.

  Mr. Sullivan continued with hesitancy, holding out a paper. “Shall we discuss it somewhere apart from the young ladies?”

  “Oh, it’s all right. Miss Stewart can’t hear a thing you say, and I daresay Maggie here has demanded I share every particular of her beau,” Mrs. Northe said, winking so that only I could see. Maggie sighed at the word “beau.” Mrs. Northe turned back to Mr. Sullivan, and I continued to stare at the painting as if I hadn’t heard a word. “You go right ahead, Mr. Sullivan. What’s odd about the list?”

  I could feel Mr. Sullivan glancing at me, embarrassed. “Oh, poor dear,” he said, offering me that all too familiar pitying look. “All right then. Just look at the list of buyers here.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the color slip from Mrs. Northe’s face as she perused the list. To have somehow earned her confidence like this was a great honor. I pledged to do my best to deserve it.

  “Good God, Mortimer,” Mrs. Northe gasped, letting slip his familiar name. She was on a decidedly familiar standing with nearly everyone involved in this operation. Including now my father. Hopefully that would bode well for Lord Denbury.

  “I was just thinking of these, dare I say, gentlemen,” she said in dismay. “These men are all…”

  “Spiritualists. I know. Isn’t that odd?”

  Maggie was instantly alert, her nostrils flaring like Denbury’s, as if she too smelled blood. Or in Maggie’s case, excitement and perhaps scandal, things she deemed delicious.

  “No, Mortimer, let’s be clear,” Mrs. Northe began sharply. “The men on this list are not spiritualists. Not anymore. They’ve become downright dangerous. Bentrop especially. They dabble in the pure occult through secretive sects that practice Dark Arts. We can’t let Denbury fall into their hands.”

  “What harm could they possibly do with a painting?”

  “I’m not certain. But I would rather not find out.” Mrs. Northe squared her shoulders. “Mr. Sullivan, will you help me draw up purchase documents?”

  Mr. Sullivan looked baffled. “Surely it’s not…an emergency?”

  “I’m not a woman to take chances. I’ll not have this piece in hands I would not trust to touch a dog.”

  Mrs. Northe excused herself to tend to the particulars, and Maggie followed along uninvited.

  I was left alone with the painting. I took a step closer, absorbing every detail. Then a movement out of the corner of my eye had me turning my gaze…

  And then my heart stopped. I choked and questioned my sanity in one fell swoop.

  As I live and breathe, and upon my beloved mother’s grave, I swear that Denbury himself walked by the alcove where the painting was kept and glided toward the hallway beyond. It had to be him! I screamed within, my eyes darting madly to the painting and then to the figure who bore the same elegant lines and the same dark curls, though wearing a different fine suit of deepest red…

  And then he stopped. He turned to me. I saw the only thing that was different: his eyes were off. He was so beautiful, and yet with his eyes not quite as you’d expect, he was unsettling. And, I remembered, he was dead.

  “Hello, pretty,” he murmured, glancing around as if to make sure we were alone. “What’s your name?”

  His accented voice sounded normal enough, for a ghost. It was young, male, British…

  I gestured to my throat and opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

  “Oh, you can’t tell me.” He frowned, and the terrible look of pity I expected was instead delight. “How fascinating.” His clouded eyes seemed to sparkle, and I realized what was odd about them: they reflected strangely in the light, the orbs glowing, like those of an animal at night if a lamp was flashed before them. “And how lucky. If you resisted me…who would know?”

  I stood the
re staring, knowing I should be offended by such a brazen comment, and yet one doesn’t think about how manners should be when chatting with the dead. He gestured up at his own image. “Amazing, isn’t it? It’s like he’s alive. He’s watching you. I don’t blame him. I’d watch you too, pretty thing. I daresay we’d be beautiful together…”

  His lilting British accent was underscored with something that was both enticing and alarming. We both heard a rustle from another room. He put his finger to his mouth but then laughed. “Oh, but of course you’ll keep our little secret. You’ve no choice. Brilliant. Ta.” And he moved into the hall and disappeared.

  That ghost was nothing like what I’d imagined Denbury—a young genius and reportedly a perfect gentleman—would be like. That was not how one, dead or alive, spoke to a lady. And yet, there was something terribly compelling about him. Ghosts, I supposed, had their thrall, their ways about things. Yet why would a ghost refer to his own likeness not as himself, but as another entity? And why am I now trying to make sense of that?

  As if my sanity weren’t tested enough, dear diary, I was then strained even further. I turned back to the painting, and my heart went again into spasms.

  And here I swear to you, as I looked up again at Denbury, I realized…

  The painting had changed.

  I’d intimately catalogued the piece so I knew something was different. It took me a while to realize what, but when I saw it, the change was undeniable. The retreating perspective line of the woodwork and floor along the bottom of Denbury’s bookshelf was now interrupted. By a book.

  One of the books on the lowest shelf was tilted out from the bookshelf so that part of the title was just barely visible.

  The Girl…

  It was a good thing I could not squeal, for I might have made a scene. First his ghost—a rude one at that—and now this? My blood was alternately hot with excitement and cool with fear. What did that mean, The Girl? Was this image of Denbury asking for help? And did the book title mean anything at all other than a sign that the painting was somehow alive? Haunted after all! How many ghosts could one young man have?

  Before I could clear my head and decide whether I would tell Mrs. Northe and Maggie of these developments, a small and beady-eyed man entered the room. It would seem all bad omens come in threes.

  The man wore an ugly tweed suit, and his hair was plastered with some sort of unappealing agent that reeked of sour mint. His gaze went right to me, and he leered. I returned my attention to the painting, suitably offended. He seemed to remember himself and bowed after a moment, but not before I felt the keen desire to plunge myself into a hot bath to rid myself of his stare. I shuddered. After already having been improperly chatted up by a ghost, I determined that this man was decidedly hateful. He took a step closer and stared at the painting with a sort of triumph, an uncanny look.

  “Mr. Crenfall,” Mr. Sullivan boomed suddenly, sweeping into the room and stepping directly between us, for which I gave him a thankful glance that he received with an apologetic grimace. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be alone in a room with that man, and Mr. Sullivan seemed quite aware of it. “There you are indeed, sneaking in and out. What sort of businessman does so?” Mr. Sullivan scolded. “Mrs. Northe and I were just discussing Lord Denbury here, and she has made you an offer you cannot refuse.”

  Mrs. Northe eyed me with concern for a moment before moving into the room a step, with Maggie triumphantly behind her. “Backed, of course, by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And the very City of New York,” Mrs. Northe added for good measure.

  I raised an eyebrow but then remembered I wasn’t supposed to be hearing this.

  Crenfall’s piggish eyes flickered from the painting to Mr. Sullivan and then to Mrs. Northe. He leered at Maggie, and then he laughed nervously. “But Mr. Bentrop has confided to me the highest purchase price. He plans to return early from his trip to Egypt just to procure the portrait.”

  “Bentrop does not have the resources to outbid me and the Metropolitan together.” Mrs. Northe stepped closer. Even from a distance, she towered over Crenfall. “Come now, Mr. Crenfall, I’m not a dullard. You’ve been showing strange favoritism, and that won’t do in my circle. I’ve a wide circle. You don’t want the press, the wealthy patrons who have built this fine temple of art, and indeed the city getting any more involved, do you?”

  Crenfall opened his mouth as if to protest, but Mrs. Northe drove her point further. “Tell Bentrop not to bother coming home from Egypt. He may continue his grave-robbing in peace.”

  The broker was wholly out of his league. Maggie was beaming. Clearly she relished the power and privilege her aunt wielded so effortlessly. Crenfall’s shoulders, tight with worry, fell and he shrugged as if acquiescing defeat when he should have been kissing Mrs. Northe’s feet for the sum she would pay.

  Muttering, he left the room. The sale of the painting evidently wasn’t about money after all. For any of them. And I now knew why. Unnatural happenings were afoot.

  “Well,” Mrs. Northe said brightly, turning to Denbury’s portrait. “My fine chap, you’ve got yourself a new mistress!”

  Maggie sighed again, staring up at him with fawning eyes.

  I’m sure it was my imagination, but there seemed to be a certain relaxing of Denbury’s brow, as if he’d narrowly escaped certain doom. His blue eyes looked relieved, so unlike the disturbing onyx gaze of his ghost. I found myself wanting to reassure him, to speak words of comfort and friendship.

  Where was all this coming from? These two Denburys caused distinct reactions within me. My heart reeled, and I felt sick to my stomach. Were these two different echoes of the man, one his better half, a noble soul with angelic eyes immortalized on canvas, and the other left to wander the earth with darker intent? Had the occult somehow gained what was left of him? The painting remained changed, with that book’s spine and the gilded letters out in plain sight, but there was no further sign of the corporeal form that moved and spoke.

  Mrs. Northe kept eyeing me. Could she tell what I was thinking? Could I possibly tell her what had happened?

  Father came at his appointed time, and both Mr. Sullivan and Mrs. Northe greeted him warmly.

  “Alas, I’ve forced your hand, Mr. Stewart. If I hadn’t intervened, this incredible piece would have fallen into hands as good as thieves’. I’ve signed off on the purchase of the work just now to put a swift end to this circus. But I’ll need the backing of the Metropolitan and its connections to lawyers, creditors, and civil servants of New York, should Crenfall seek to fight me on this.”

  “And why should he do that?”

  “I don’t know that he will. But something about his handling of this sale is highly suspicious. He seemed in quite a hurry to rush the portrait out of England,” Mrs. Northe replied. “Come, let us be off to dinner. Natalie, ride with me.”

  Father trotted along after the three of us, baffled but happy to be invited.

  Once in the privacy of the carriage, Mrs. Northe wasted no time. “I kept you in that room, Natalie, to hear it all. Have you ever met someone you feel, in the instant, you were meant to meet?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I feel that way about you, Natalie. God brings people into our lives precisely when we need them.”

  All I could do was nod again, suddenly quite pleased to be “needed.” Not only did I feel the same way about her, but the impossible had unveiled itself and I could not deny it. Maggie was compelled by her aunt’s urgency, and I was surprised she didn’t edge herself into the conversation.

  Mrs. Northe continued. “Earlier I mentioned that some persons associated with occult dealings seek powers beyond themselves. By this I mean all matter of spells, witchcraft, and imbuing of objects.”

  “To what end?” I asked. My hands shook as I signed, and I was helpless to control the tremors.

  “Most often, immortality. I fear this painting has, in part, something to do with that very desire.”

  “Immortality!” Ma
ggie exclaimed as if she were about to burst. “You see, this is the stuff I live to hear about!”

  Mrs. Northe ignored her, instead eyeing me.

  My heart leaped as I signed. “You think Denbury might still be alive? Because I…”

  And here I stopped. I was not ready to confess anything. I didn’t want to be shipped to a real asylum.

  Mrs. Northe again eyed me, now with a knowing look that was both comforting and unnerving. She ignored that I’d stopped midstream. “All I know is this portrait cannot fall into the wrong hands. I’ll have Sullivan transport it to my house tonight.” She looked at me apologetically. “Unfortunately, I do believe I’ve given the Metropolitan more than a beautiful painting’s worth of trouble.”

  “I’ll take him off your hands,” Maggie offered eagerly. Mrs. Northe glanced at her with a smirk that showed she wouldn’t consider it for a minute.

  Dinner was finer than we’d perhaps ever eaten, thanks to Mrs. Northe, but I had no appetite. Denbury’s eyes—both sets of them—kept searing into my soul. I kept reliving what his ghost had said. My body was warm, tingling in a way I was not at all proud of, but I was flattered that something related to Denbury thought me pretty, that perhaps something of him had indeed chosen to watch me as I watched him. Beautiful together…

  I wondered what The Girl meant and how I might explain it to Mrs. Northe. Or if I’d even seen what I thought I saw in the first place. Could it possibly have been wishful thinking? Willing the sort of intrigue found only in wild Gothic novels to a mere canvas? Maggie would, in her words, surely die if she found out.

  Mrs. Northe was doing me the honor of trusting my confidence. I know I ought to return the courtesy, even at the risk of sounding like a madwoman. But I am, quite frankly, afraid.

  Later…

  (Watching a bright moon rise in the sky from my bedroom's bay window)

  And here, these diary pages serving as a true friend, I hereby confess what I used to believe, what I rejected, and what I may be forced to believe again in regards to ghost stories.

  I have mentioned the Whisper. My childhood world was painfully quiet, of course, as you can well imagine. I did not make noise, and no one made noise around me. Father and I developed our vaguely comfortable silence long ago.