The Double Life of Incorporate Things (Magic Most Foul) (3 page)

“But it’s here, in me, and I can’t just ignore it,” he hissed, hitting his chest with a fist and standing suddenly. He began to walk away. I followed, forward, toward the inlet of the reservoir beyond, where a path veered off along thick bushes. “I don’t want to rise to all the challenges I’m being put to. Right now, I’m not sure I want to be the better person, not toward my enemies.” He whirled to me, grabbing me by the arms then dragging me farther into a copse of underbrush. “But you, I do want to be better to you...” he murmured, a desperate edge to his voice that I hadn’t heard since his soul’s trapped days in the painting. “And your father insists I do what’s right. Of course. But I just... I’m forced to do so much...”

I blushed, feeling awkward. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re forced into anything.”

I couldn’t be sure about where my father had shifted to; for the moment the foliage blocked us from the above road. I’m sure our disappearance had him wondering too.

“Well, like it or not, Natalie, you are,” Jonathon responded. His clipped words were not comforting. “I have to do many things that defy convention. My life has seen to that now. You’re not of my class, not of my world, but I must do right by you.”

I stared at him, wondering if I’d just been insulted while he was trying to be “noble.”

“I know I’m not of your station,” I murmured, kicking at a pebble on the uneven path with my boot that, next to his, was hardly as fine. “Not of your world. I already feel awkward about that, Jonathon, you don’t need to make it worse—”

“Natalie, I don’t mean—”

“I don’t see how else that could be interpreted, it’s true…”

This path wasn’t as kempt or populated, and perhaps it was this that emboldened Jonathon. Clumsily, he dived in to kiss me, which I allowed for a moment because I was too disoriented to stop him, though an inelegant pawing wasn’t his usual method and I was debating on whether or not to be insulted. The upper class often dismissed the rest of the world with ease. I could not tolerate that for myself; it would hurt too much to be thought “lesser” when I didn’t believe that to be true. I drew back and stared at him. He stared back with wide eyes, a flash of panic in those ice-blue spheres.

And then, suddenly, he dropped to his knee, one hand fumbling in his pocket for something, a branch whacking me in the leg as he did so. My eyes went wide. No, no. After that troubled outburst? And here? In the shrubbery?

“Marry me—” he began but was stopped by my fingertips as they pressed fully upon his mouth.

“No, Jonathon, you’re doing it wrong.”

He blinked up at me for a long moment before ducking to the side of my hasty, shushing fingers, abandoning whatever had been in his pocket. “Beg your pardon?”

“Jonathon, the way you’re talking? No. You’re unsure, sweating and stammering—”

“Proposals make men nervous—”

“And vaguely rude. You need to be
absolutely
sure about this, pressured by nothing else but your own heart.” I looked around at the unkempt underbrush we were surrounded by, frustrated. Did I not deserve some grand place where if his noble offer was seen by others, it would merely be applauded? Was I some secret to be kept? Hidden? Yet another of his burdens, rushed into legitimacy? “And we’re in the middle of the
bushes
, Jonathon,” I added, hurt in my tone. “Try again with a...better vista. Darling.”

He stared up at me from his knee, baffled, speaking as if he could not believe his own words. “You, Miss Natalie Stewart, just turned down a British Lord.”

I blushed, partly in embarrassment, partly in frustration. “I did not turn you down, though considered your entitled position, I bet you aren’t used to that.”

“All that’s happened to me of late hasn’t felt very
entitled
, Natalie,” he said, deep pain in his voice.

I stared up at him with wide eyes, willing him to see both the overwhelming love in my heart and my fear that he wasn’t ready. “I want to marry you,” I exclaimed and said his title achingly, “
Lord
Denbury
, and be a lady to you, like none other could ever be. But only if you sound like you really mean it.” I stared at the ground. “Ask me because you don’t think class matters. As if my father doesn’t matter. You ask because you
want
to—”

“For the love of God, Natalie, I
want
to marry you!” he exclaimed, exasperated.

I looked into his eyes a moment, my stomach churning. “Here? In a tangle of briars? Here it’s like I’m some rushed secret you’re afraid to share, like you’re hiding me—”

“That isn’t true, and that isn’t fair,” he muttered, standing finally, brushing off his slightly mud-besmirched knee.

“Maybe it isn’t. But this isn’t the place. And you’re not in a state of mind that should make this promise. Not right now.”

“You are something else, Miss Natalie Stewart,” Jonathon said with a chuckle, shaking his head. His chuckle lightened the admittedly awkward moment, and I dived in to kiss him softly upon the cheek.

“My father often uses the word ‘particular,’” I offered.

“I may add ‘difficult,’” Jonathon muttered, stalking away and back to the path. I followed after him. It wasn’t as though I could argue that point. But I wouldn’t apologize, either. Facing death, it would seem, only solidified my stubborn self. I had to believe there would be a better moment ahead for a proposal.

At the head of the path, I could see my father pretending to be engrossed in a newspaper he wasn’t holding right side up. I could see his gaze zero in on my hand. He wasn’t the best with subtlety. When he did not see a ring there, he frowned and tried to wipe the disappointed expression off his face when he saw us looking at him, but it was too late. He knew there had been no progress toward propriety today, and I’m sure he assumed it was somehow my fault. There was an exchange between my father and Jonathon—perhaps an eye roll or an exasperate shrug—but I missed it, needing to focus on lifting my skirts enough to not trip up the walk. I caught the swing of my father’s head as if he’d been shaking it wearily.

We all walked in silence to Mrs. Northe’s home where we had planned on eating dinner together. As Mary let us in the front door, I noticed extra top hats on the pegs beside the great foyer armoire and heard voices in the parlor beyond.

The widowed Mrs. Northe appeared to greet us, statuesque and stately as ever, blonde hair with streaks of silver swept up in artful, stunning filigree clasps that were nothing compared to the finery of her plum gown and the elegant jewels glittering about her smiling face.

She approached us with a fond chuckle, kissing my father on both cheeks first, a different fondness in her blue eyes for him than the affection she had for me, something I was still getting used to, but thankfully their courtship was unfolding far slower than mine, as was likely the case with a widower and a widow. I couldn’t say I entirely understood the draw. I adored my father, but he just didn’t seem nearly as interesting as Evelyn Northe. I knew that was very unfair of me to think. It would seem Mother and Evelyn were very similar. Maybe my quiet father’s gentle, steady hand and sensitive heart were just the sort of thing for inimitable, imperious women.

Taking up my hands in hers, she glanced at them briefly. She was dressed to the nines, finer than a mere dinner with friends required. A subtle exchange of expressions between her and Lord Denbury, her raised brow and his shrug told me something was a bit off. It then hit me like a swift punch to my gut. There had likely been a celebration planned for the evening. To celebrate our engagement. My stomach dropped even further as I looked up into Mrs. Northe’s eyes and watched as she masked any presumption and beamed implacably, utterly unruffled.

“I’ve quite the dinner party lined up tonight, friends,” she said in the sisterly, conspiring tone I was accustomed to, “but we’ve
very
serious business to discuss, and so it’s best that we save our celebratory airs for another day.” In this, she absolved me of my mishap. I tried to give Jonathon a look of apology, but he was actively avoiding my gaze.

Maybe I was too particular. But I couldn’t have said “yes” being that uneasy. In the shrubbery. What’s done was done and I hoped there’d be a picture-perfect opportunity in the future. In the meantime, we had company. Mrs. Northe’s tone indicated she had gathered out-of-the-ordinary company. For that respite, in this case, I was grateful.

I looked up at Mrs. Northe, wide-eyed. “Should I...be in finer dress for dinner?” Suddenly the knee-buckling certainty that I could never suitably fill the role of Lady Denbury nearly caused me to stumble against my mentor and substitute mother. I’d turned the poor man down anyway. I’d be lucky if he had the patience to ask me again. My throat felt dry, and I tried to recover myself.

“If you’d like to dress, I’ve kept something for you upstairs.” She chuckled. “But the company here is hardly the kind for that sort of ceremony.”

“Did I ruin everything?” I whispered, seeing that Jonathon was eagerly responding to my father’s awkward prompt about something museum related.

“I don’t know, did you?” she whispered back, flashing a maddeningly mischievous grin.

“Maybe.” I sighed. “I’m so sorry about dinner, I didn’t know you planned anything—”

“Oh, this is hardly for you. Toasting your engagement would have been a delightful distraction. But with the papers being the way they are—”

“You saw about the Association, they’re being targeted, just like Jonathon was—”

“Of course and I’ve already taken action, which is why this dinner is more important than when, exactly, you accept that dear boy’s hand. Come along, let’s make introductions.” She gestured me forward down the entrance foyer and into the lavish dining room, and I was reminded of all the reasons why I was eternally grateful for her. Though being indebted to anyone chafed at my “woeful sense of independence,” as my father called it.

All the best and finest was laid out, glittering and appetizing. The room was as rich and lush in carpeting and drapery as it was in the spread of food before us in crystal, silver, and gold-trimmed china with peacock feather patterns.

I wondered about the elegant silver-haired man in a fine navy suit near the head of the table, but it was the sight of Reverend Blessing, who had helped lead the charge in our recent battle against demons, that had me beaming a smile. And then I recognized another face at the table, a haunted red-headed woman I’d last seen backstage at Nathaniel Veil’s show.

“Many of you are acquainted, save for this fine chap here to my right,” Mrs. Northe began, brushing a satin-gloved hand that spoke of great familiarity across the gentleman’s shoulder. My father’s jaw clenched imperceptibly. No one but me would have seen it, but after spending much of my life mute, I read body language as if it were spoken. “This is Senator Rupert Bishop,” Mrs. Northe went on, “nobly representing our state in Washington. Rupert and I were childhood friends and attended our first séance together, when was that...”

“Good God,” the silver-haired man exclaimed, the chiseled angles of his face curving into a gamesome expression. “Nearly thirty years ago.”

Mrs. Northe made a face and batted a hand. “Why did I
ask
? To be clear, we were
children
when we called our first ghost. Rupert’s hair turned to winter at twenty, so let’s just not speculate about our ages.” Everyone chuckled. Mrs. Northe turned her charming presence to my father, and his jaw eased. “This is Gareth Stewart of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and his daughter Miss Natalie.” I offered what felt like a somewhat awkward smile. She did not introduce Jonathon. He hadn’t entered the room and was perhaps still lingering in the hall.

My father bowed his head to the assembled company and addressed Mr. Bishop. “Pleasure to meet you, senator. My late wife was grateful for your support of her causes. You may have met her, she was always out and about...” he said with soft fondness that made me ache for the woman I’d never known, save for the fact she saved my life twice, once from the grave. She died for me when I was four, pushing me out of the way of a reckless carriage, and her spirit returned to rescue me yet again, from a demon’s grip.

“Helen Stewart, you must mean, what a loss,” the senator said quietly. That my mother had made an impact a senator could recall more than a decade after her death caused a lump to rise in my throat. My father nodded briefly, by now steeled to the loss but never unaffected by the mention of her name in public.

“She was the toast of our ASPCA benefits,” Reverend Blessing piped in with his sonorous voice, a brilliant smile flashing a white crescent across his brown skin.

“Yes, she was,” Senator Bishop added. “As passionate against animal cruelty as she was to cruelty to
any
creature!” Bishop shared in the reverend’s warm smile before turning kind, gray-green eyes to my father and then to me. “Mister and Miss Stewart, I’m sorry to say I’ve been in Washington when your Metropolitan soirees grace the upper echelon of the town. Let’s coordinate, as I’d love to attend one in the future.”

“We’d be honored to have you, sir,” my father replied.

Jonathon entered. I hoped he hadn’t been out there pouting. Whatever his mood, he was the picture of calm stoicism as he bowed his head to the assembled company and spoke with crisp softness that could hold a room in thrall. “Reverend Blessing, sir, good to see you, and why, Miss Kent,” Jonathon murmured, turning to the redhead who was sitting a seat apart from everyone, dressed all in black as was the custom of Mister Veil’s
Association
. “I...”