Darker Still (2 page)

Now if there’s one thing I can’t help but adore more than Edgar Fourte’s face, it’s a ghost story. Perhaps it stems from that long-ago Whisper. Or the shadows I see at night. Wherever the thrill comes from, I can’t deny my obsession.

Evidently Lord Denbury simply disappeared one day. Locals assume that it was suicide, that he was overcome with despair at losing his family. But it was odd, for he was so well loved by everyone in town. Such a tragedy! Only eighteen years old with no siblings, he lost his parents when they died in a sudden accident. Having to take on such a mantle of responsibility must have weighed heavily upon him, or so everyone supposed. He inherited money and lands with his title, but with no surviving family to help him, he simply went and drowned. A fine piece of clothing bearing a pin with his crest washed onto the bank of a quieter part of the Thames. A damaged body was later found farther downriver and assumed to be his, but was that conclusive?

In such a troubling case, people tend to seek a reason. Once they find one suitable, they’ll close the matter in their minds and hearts for their own comfort. But I wonder…

He was devilishly handsome, they say, and studied medicine. Supposedly he helped open a clinic for the underprivileged in the heart of London. So absorbed in learning medicine, he hadn’t taken the time to court anyone, though he was continually sought after. He attended a Greenwich hospital nearly round the clock, absorbing all the knowledge he could. I should like to have known him and commended him for being a credit to his class. They say he was a good-natured fellow, if not a bit mischievous, as most clever boys are, and had a way of talking to all sorts of people. Perhaps he could have found a way to help me.

All that survives him is a grand portrait by an artist who remains unknown despite the vast sum paid for the commission, as recorded in Denbury’s personal ledger. Considering the portrait is of such fine quality, it’s odd that no one sought attribution. Discovered behind a curtain by surprised housekeepers after Denbury’s disappearance, the painting is said to appear nearly alive with the soul of its subject.

How a group of men like Father’s friends managed to absorb and retain this fantastic gossip is beyond me, but since it involves art, it comes into their territory. Mr. Weiss suggested that when the item makes its way to New York, where the estate broker plans to sell the piece, my father and the Metropolitan ought to consider buying it.

I desperately want to see it. To see
him
. I must convince Father he ought to at least put in a bid, so that “the Met” seems fashionable. The supernatural
is
all the rage these days, and America’s foremost art museum must stay ahead of the times.

Dear me, I’ve forgotten their coffee, and they’ll be clamoring for it. I’ll return once I’ve served them and given Edgar an unbearably sweet smile. Did I mention that his cheeks went red when I descended the staircase and waved? Perhaps there’s something about a girl back from boarding school that makes a man see her differently. Too late, Edgar, too late. Not that I’d fault you for breaking off your engagement…maybe there’s a way I can assure it…Drat. Coffee first. Schemes later.

Later…

I hate them. All of them. Especially Edgar. Don’t they know I might be at the door at any moment? I may be mute, but I am
not
dumb.

I’d hesitated outside the study, the coffee tray carefully balanced in my hands. Their cigar smoke wafted beneath the door, acrid tendrils making that threshold a foreign passage where women are forbidden to go—unless, of course, they are there in service. And then I heard my father say something he’d recently said directly to my face:

“I don’t have the foggiest idea what to do with her. I’ve no idea what would be best…”

Which was, sadly, the truth. It was the subsequent response from Edgar, of all people—I’d know his voice anywhere—that shocked me:

“Why don’t you just send her off to a convent, where you wouldn’t have to worry about her, Gareth? She could become a nun and change out her own communion wine for whiskey for a change. A vow of silence certainly wouldn’t be difficult!”

Before any of them had a chance to laugh or snigger at the insult, I threw wide the door, sending coffee spilling onto the tray. My nostrils flared as I narrowed my eyes and looked right at Edgar. He blushed again, this time not because he thought me pretty. Let him rot with guilt for everything he’s done to cause me misery. He’s never known how much I care—no,
cared
—for him, but surely now he knows I’ll never respect him again.

I may be an unfortunate, but Father taught me never to stand for being made fun of.

“Edgar, shame on you,” Father muttered.

There was deathly silence in the room as I served each of the men: first, Father, who was looking up at me apologetically, second, Mr. Weiss, who couldn’t look at me out of embarrassment, and then finally Mr. Nillis, who never has a single interesting thing to say but always has a grandfatherly way of patting my hand, which I’ll take over being teased any day. Mr. Nillis beamed up at me, entirely oblivious of the awkward moment, and patted me on the hand. I managed to offer him a grateful smile for his small, unwitting courtesy.

I turned and walked back out the door with the last cup of coffee, Edgar’s, in my hand. He would not be served. Now I sit sipping it myself as I write this account and stare out the window at Eighty-Third Street three stories below, golden and dappled beneath patches of shade in summer’s setting sun. Men in top hats and women in light shawls and bonnets stroll slowly along the cobbled street toward the gem that is our beloved Central Park for one last promenade before dusk. They have a slow but sure purpose to their movement, to their existence, which is more than I have. What
am
I going to do with myself?

Oh, Mother. If you hadn’t died, I’m sure this wouldn’t have happened. I’d speak. And
you’d
know what to do with me.

June 3

I was secretly terrified that Father would actually take Edgar’s advice and I’d wake to find my bags packed, a train ticket purchased, and a position in a convent secured. But perhaps the incident gave me leverage, for Father knew I was upset, and he hates it when I’m upset.

He came to me this morning in the parlor, where I sat in a patch of sunlight at the reading table by the window, enraptured by a newspaper article discussing the recent subject of intrigue, that of the mysterious—and delicious—Lord Denbury painting.

Now, Father doesn’t rightly know how to deal with me, it’s true. I must resort to writing notes as he still hasn’t grasped the particulars of sign language. But thankfully, he gives me money for newspapers. Any paper, every paper, and has always encouraged my reading and education. So I was the first in the household to see the etching of Lord Denbury himself. I was thoroughly engrossed in staring at it when Father interrupted.

“Natalie, my dear girl, I apologize for what Edgar said. Perhaps he forgets that you can hear very clearly—”

My eyes surely must have flashed with anger, for Father was quick to clarify. “Not that it would have been an appropriate comment under any circumstance.”

I turned away. He sat across from me and waited until I decided to return his gaze.

“Tell me,” he began a bit nervously, “what would you like to do? I’ll try my best. Anything. What would you wish for in your adult life that a girl…in your condition…could reliably attain?”

I studied my father for a moment, as if weighing my options. But I knew what I wanted. The morning paper had made it clear. I scrawled capital letters on the blank end of the opposite page: ACQUISITIONS. Big, bold, and expectant.

Father blinked a moment. “Acquisitions,” he repeated slowly. “At the museum?”

I gave him an expression as if he were daft. Where else?

“Indeed…” After a moment, he nodded. “I think you’d make a fine consultant.” I nodded enthusiastically. He eyed me and then added, “Tell me. Is there something you’d like to acquire?”

Offering my most pleased smile—why, how lovely of him to ask—I pointed directly to the hasty charcoal likeness of Lord Denbury’s painting in the paper. The sketch alone was engaging so I could only imagine the piece in the flesh, or rather, the canvas. Something about that young lord called to me.

According to the paper, Mrs. Evelyn Northe, a wealthy spiritualist known for keeping interesting friends (wealth has a way of allowing you to be “interesting” when in other circles you’d be denounced as scandalous or mad), was closing in on the purchase of the Denbury painting. We simply couldn’t let her have it over the Metropolitan.

“The Lord Denbury nonsense?” Father’s nose wrinkled in disapproval. I nodded, undaunted. He examined the article.

“Well indeed,” he sighed. “If Mrs. Northe is considering it so seriously, I’d be called a curmudgeon, not to mention incredibly out of fashion, if we didn’t at least stake a claim…” Father rose, straightened his suit coat, and nodded crisply, as he always did when sealing a decision.

“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…