The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart (31 page)

“My dear Lord Denbury,” I murmured, “My, don’t you look—”

“Not half as ravishing as you, my darling Miss Stewart.” He bowed, boasting a sly smile that was rakishly delicious. “Her Majesty’s Association of Melancholy Bastards has demanded that we stand with them in the galleria tonight as the
very
special guests of Mr. Nathaniel Veil. May I escort you, my lady? Mrs. Northe shall take her box, so we are free to mingle as we please.”

It was a striking, stirring look that Jonathon sported, his blue eyes all the more shocking for the wholeness of black—black ascot, black waistcoat, and the matte fabric of his coattails—down to his trousers and shoes. Was there a faint trace of kohl around his eyes, giving him a slightly haunted visage? Or was I remembering his portrait face? I shuddered suddenly.

“Come now, Natalie. It’s all in love and fun—”

“No, Jonathon, I can think of nothing finer than to be by your side and in this exquisite dress!” Still, I shivered. Jonathon reached for me, concern furrowing his brow. “After everything we’ve been through,” I explained, “the chills refuse to quit me.”

Jonathon came forward, placing a prolonged kiss upon my cheek. “I’ll warm you. I too refuse to quit you.”

I smiled then. “To lose our worries in Nathaniel’s show will do our hearts good. As he says, ‘sweet release.’”

Looking at him, seeing how handsome he was, I had my own ideas about what losing myself in something beautiful could be. Mrs. Northe’s driver picked us up. She was meeting us at the theater.

We were handed a program when we entered the gilded auditorium, and as I opened it, a small leaflet insert fell out. It was a picture of a beautiful woman in a dark gown throwing her head back with glee and abandon. The text read: “Lose all your troubles. Miracle cure for your melancholy. Write to P.O. Box 6616, New York City, for details.” At the bottom was a red and gold crest with dragons.

My palms went sweaty and the room spun. “J-Jonathon,” I gasped, shoving the leaflet at him. He stared at it.

“Bloody,
bloody
hell,” he hissed. “I thought you said Nat turned the devils down.”

“He did, but someone must have planted the inserts.”

“I’ve got to get to him, tell him, warn him.”

“Follow me,” I said and took advantage of the low lighting to run up a narrow stair onto the stage. Our black clothes gave us a bit of an advantage, but a few of the Association members hissed at us.

“What are you—”

“I know where his dressing room is. I paid him a visit, remember.”

“You didn’t tell me it was in his dressing room.”

“Where else does one visit an actor?”

“I don’t know, somewhere more public? You can’t trust an actor alone.”

I laughed and wound my way past scrims and weights. I found that if you moved with purpose backstage and looked dramatic enough, the stagehands didn’t question you.

The moment I saw the VEIL raven on the door, I sprinted forward, brandishing the leaflet in my hand. I suppose I should have knocked but urgency got the better of me.

I opened the door to find Veil biting a woman on the neck. She was wearing a dramatic black robe as if she were some sort of priestess. He jumped back at the intrusion, the woman pouting to be released, scowling at me, and throwing daggers with her eyes.

“Why, Miss Stewart!” Veil cried. “Knock next time, would you?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “It’s an emergency.”

“I’m sure that’s what they all say,” the woman snapped, storming off, kicking up black feathers in her wake, and disappearing into the darkness of the backstage. Jonathon just chuckled behind me, stepping into the light.

“My God if it isn’t the mythical Denbury back from the dead. Oh, my friend, I’ve missed you!” Nathaniel leaped forward and seized Jonathon in a bear hug that lifted him off the ground.

“Good to see you too, Nat, but we’ve got a problem,” Jonathon stated.

“Always business with you. Can’t you spare a moment for celebration?”

“Those men who came around with their miracle cure,” Jonathon declared. “I thought you told Natalie you sent them packing.”

“I did!”

“Then what’s this?” Jonathon slapped the leaflet on Nathaniel’s chest.

He took one look at it and his fury was palpable. “What the bloody hell—”

“That’s what I said. That crest is from a society of madmen who keep trying to kill me, who stitched together a body of different body parts and made it come to life, who went messing with Samuel’s head, and now they’re trying to mess with
your
people.”

Nathaniel turned the color of the pale greasepaint on his vanity table. “Why us?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out. Evidently they don’t take kindly to being denied.”

“They don’t,” I said. I unwound my scarf to reveal the bruises for emphasis.

“Dear God…” Nathaniel whispered.

“We’re all young and talented,” I added. “And that gives them extra incentive to make us their toys.” I wondered, just then, what my talent was exactly. Well, bravery, I suppose, and the uncanny habit of being in the middle of things. I wrapped the scarf back around my neck.

“So if I were you,” Jonathon instructed, “I’d get your Association to go collect those leaflets and pull them from the programs yet to be distributed.”

Nathaniel nodded and flung open his door. “Lavinia, darling,” he called, “you can’t have gone far. Come, love, I need your help.” The red-haired woman in the dramatic black robe stalked back to his dressing room, glaring at us. “Don’t be rude, L, these friends of mine might have just saved your life and the minds of our whole Association. Someone put leaflets into my programs uninvited. And you
know
I do not tolerate unexpected changes to my show. Have Raven and Ether collect them at either side of the aisles, and tell Mr. Bell not to hand out any more programs with the page in it.”

She bowed her head and disappeared into the black velvet wings of the backstage once more.

“You were biting her neck,” I said, watching her walk away.

“Gently. I wasn’t drawing blood.”

“Is that a
thing
? A thing you do?”

“Yes, it’s quite exquisite. Have Jonathon try it on you. Or I can, if he—”

“Don’t even think about it.” Jonathon lifted a warning finger.

“Oh, this is exciting, Miss Stewart. I’ve always been the one with all the girls. Jonathon’s never had anything he’s been possessive of. This will prove great sport—”

“I’m no sport,” I said through clenched teeth. “I don’t take kindly to games.”

“Even games of flattery, flirtation, and wit?” Nathaniel asked in his charming way. I found myself fighting a grin. Jonathon set his jaw.

“Don’t be cruel,” he muttered, and I remembered that plea from my dream. I blushed, recalling the dream I’d had of Nathaniel upon my neck. A little too real here.

“I’d only have suffered the things I did for one man, Mr. Veil,” I said, sliding my arm through Jonathon’s. “So do your worst with your games, but you won’t win.”

Nathaniel clapped his hand over his heart. “Ah, loyalty. It’s so romantic. Come, come, the both of you, out on stage. I’ll introduce you to the whole theater as my extra-special guests while the inserts are collected—”

“No,” Jonathon and I said at the same time. Jonathon continued: “I’m keeping a low profile, friend, which probably means I shouldn’t be anywhere near you.”

“Fine, then. Get out of my room. I must prepare.”

With a chuckle, we moved to the door.

“Den,” Veil called. Jonathon rolled his eyes at the pet name and turned back. “I’m
really
glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too. Thank Miss Stewart here for that.” Nathaniel moved to embrace me. “On second thought, save your thanks for Lavinia. We’ll have you over for dinner one night. Keep an eye out for an invitation from Mrs. Northe.”

“Will do. Thank you for telling me about the leaflet. You know I can’t bear anything befalling my Association. Anything,” Nathaniel said, utterly without affect.

“I know,” Jonathon said and closed the door behind him.

“
Den?
” I asked with a giggle.

“He’s the
only
one allowed to call me that. He has pet names for everything and everyone. It was the only one that wouldn’t get me bludgeoned on the street if someone overheard it. If you ever call me that, I will never speak to you again.”

I laughed as we sneaked back into our places within the Association. Mrs. Northe was somewhere in her box above, a figurehead of a chaperone leaving Jonathon and I to our glorious freedom. I looked up and caught her eye. I blew her a kiss. She lit up, utterly delighted by the token of affection. I’m not sure I’d ever seen her beam so brightly, and I realized in that moment how much I cared for her. I felt confident she honestly cared for me and for my father just the same.

Jonathon and I were on our own with the crowd in the pit, where we edged our way past black tulle and feathers, onyx beading, and mourning finery at its very finest, carving our own little corner by the velvet-covered railing.

I was giddy with excitement. We looked like we belonged to the most intense, artistic set, the two of us. I didn’t know how strikingly dramatic we could be, looking so severe and strangely beautiful. I couldn’t stop staring at us in the beveled mirrored sconces that doubled the light of the golden gas-lamps.

Jonathon caught my gaze and slid his arm around me. “Would you look at that beautiful couple? I can hardly
handle
the sight of us,” he murmured, a purr in my ear.

“You’d best get used to it,” I teased.

“Oh, there are so many things I cannot wait to get used to,” he said, trailing a finger down my back, the bodice line of which was too plunging and exposed to be modest. But then again, it was the height of French fashion, and the French must know how exquisite a fingertip upon a woman’s bare back can be.

My giddiness was soon tempered as a man in a fine coat and tails came up the aisle. I thought he was merely taking his seat in the rows behind our standing gallery. His top hat was tipped low over his brow, so we didn’t get a good look at him.

But when he slipped a piece of paper marked “Denbury” over Jonathon’s hand that rested upon the velvet rail, my eyes bore into him as the stranger turned away. Jonathon snatched the paper, looking after the man who gave it, but he was already lost in a sea of other coattails and top hats, a sea of black satin and white waistcoats.

The small piece of paper read:

They’re coming for you.

Sincerely,

A Friend.

I felt sick. When the words came, they came with difficulty. “Will this never end?” I hissed finally, putting a hand on the gallery rail to steady myself. “Will we never be granted
one
night
that can just be ours, one night to feel safe? That’s all I ask—”

“Tonight,” Jonathon said, his nostrils flaring, his pale blue eyes bright. A flicker of white light rippled off him, his defiance made manifest. “This night. I will not have it taken from me. Now. Right now, all there is, is this,” he said firmly, placing his hand on my waist as the orchestra began a few lilting, tantalizing notes.

He slid his other hand around to clasp my outstretched hand in his. He bowed his head slightly and began slowly to lead me. The music revealed itself as a slow, lilting, haunting waltz. “Will you let this, us, be all there is right now, my dear?”

“Yes…”

Jonathon moved me slowly, dancing us achingly in a circle, our small steps precise. He was right. We were all there was in the world. Just us, pressed together and moving close in an intimate dance. Just this Association of haunted souls who, for one evening, was made a beloved community. I held Jonathon’s hand in mine and would not let go.

Let them come, then, if they must. We are the dark angels who shall block devils’ passage.

The pit swayed soft and sweet as Nathaniel sang, the rich strings lifting melody like a lark ascending. His Association, with their mixture of reverence and wit, shared warm glances of appreciation and affection, brought together by darkness but choosing to stand just this side of light, fingertips brushing darkness and coming away with a friend. Hands were clasped in unspoken understanding as Nathaniel took the pulpit of poetry and seared our souls with literary pain and pleasure, encouraging life as we flirted with romanticizing death.

Nathaniel came to a more casual moment of his production, where he commented on the fate of the Gothic in our modern culture.

“Did you hear there’s a production of
Hamlet
in the West End where Hamlet marries Ophelia at the end of the play? It would seem we Victorians cannot be trusted with a tragedy. It would seem some directors feel the need to protect us from the truth of pain. What say you?” Murmurs from the audience, hisses from the pit. “I say there’s a place for tragedy and a place for a happy ending. We cannot guarantee one or the other, but must let them both live.”