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Jonathon and I shared a hired carriage back to our
respective residences. I doubted he’d have to sneak back into Mrs. Northe’s in
the way I’d have to sneak back home; men did not have to answer to their
whereabouts. Lord Denbury was lord of his own domain, and that would never be
questioned. A young woman was not afforded such freedom of destiny.
But the particulars of freedom were lost to me the moment
that Jonathon closed the cab door behind me, shutting us into the dark
compartment. Somehow being truly alone together in full cover of night gave us
permissions we hadn't allowed ourselves of late. The intense situation we had
just shared brought us back to one another, to the partnership and perils we
had become so familiar with. With those perils also had come passion. He and I
must have been of a mind, for the moment I reached for his hand, he took the
opportunity…
“Will you permit me a moment of not being entirely
gentlemanly, Miss Stewart?” he asked in a hot murmur in my ear. "We've
been trying to be so proper and behaved—"
“You're permitted,” I nearly gasped. He tore the cap from my
head and entwined his fingers in my hair. Pulling me into his arms, he kissed me
deeply, again and again, hands roving, until the carriage slowed its pace. East
down the block stood my home, and I could not remain locked in his embrace
indefinitely.
With a reluctant groan, he released me to catch my breath. I
was just as woeful to be let go. But the driver wouldn't just sit there without
question or further payment, and we did not dare to be suspect in our actions.
Silent as I descended the carriage—I was afraid my voice would tell tales of
me—I donned my cap once more, hoping no one was watching the front door of the
divided townhouse, and that I could quietly ascend to our top floor rooms as
undetected as I'd descended. I was in luck in returning to my bed unnoticed,
though the eyes of Stevens still haunted me, as if I could see him hovering at
my window like some creature in my beloved Gothic yarns. The sorts of tales
that had once so titillated me left a far different taste in my mouth now that
I was living what would only be believed as fiction.
That night came a nightmare, as if the night's victory was
just a tease, as if I couldn't possibly be afforded a sensual dream of
Jonathon's kisses alone, heaven forbid. Just as I was beginning to feel we were
gaining ground as lovers and partners once more and winning against enemies in
our waking hours, the dread fear and reality of his looming departure was writ
large over my unconscious hours and the dread I could not entertain while awake
had full reign while asleep.
This time the dream was shared with Jonathon, as we used to
when our souls met in the painting and our consciousness was linked in dreams,
a life-saving particular his curse could never have predicted. I was so glad to
see him in my mind's eye, thrilled that he had returned to my resting self, but
it seemed he didn't see me down the hallway from his striking silhouette. He
was preoccupied on something before him, far, far away down the endless
corridor that was such a continuing construct of these dreams. Always a
corridor, with different particulars. This time it was the long hall of a house.
A fine house. Perhaps his...
Something was calling him, voices, murmurs. From the
empirical evidence of our horrors thus far, I knew that a swarm of murmurs in
my mind meant that the dark magic of demons was amassing, building, coalescing,
drawing him out and away from me...
This was the darkness gripping hold of him as he'd intimated
to me at the tavern, and I called out:
"Jonathon, don't follow shadows..."
He looked over his shoulder, back at me. His bright eyes
were at first pained, but then flashed oddly, like the demon's once did. He
turned back, away from me once more, and kept walking. Ahead of him was a
familiar old room, his study, in Greenwich ,
England
Jonathon cried out far ahead of me, there was a burst of
light, the door to his study splintered. He cried angrily and ran off into the
darkness, pursuing something as all the gas lamps around me suddenly lowered
their flame.
They're coming for you...
A warning whisper in my mind.
If the devils had anything to do with it, they would part
us. Separate us and pick us off one by one because as a team, we were
invincible. Or, at least, had been thus far, thanks in no small part to some
divine intervention. In our separation would lie our downfall, I was sure of
it. Why in the world had I turned down his proposal? It was just what the
devils wanted. Maybe they were at work within us more than we knew.
The nightmare meant that in the morning I rose at the time
my father rose. He always did take to the morning better than I. Before I could
face anything or anyone, I jotted down the details of the dream in my diary;
purging the images was cathartic, and yet I still had to log details of the
dream as potential clues.
I'd been careful to take the time to be fond with Father,
and with Bessie, our housekeeper who moved in after her Irish husband died
building the foundations of the Brooklyn
Bridge
"I assume you'll be going over to Mrs. Northe's
today?" he asked, when I knew the question really meant if I would be
seeing Jonathon.
"As one would only expect, and as she should,"
Bessie said matter-of-factly, shifting a piece of bread from her plate onto
mine when she saw I'd taken to my food rather quickly. I caught her winking at
me. I returned a wink when Father wasn't looking.
Bessie must have been encouraging Father not to be so
worried about Lord Denbury's proposal, as he simply didn't press the issue
further after her comment. She knew all too well the damage various familial
pressures could do to true love across boundaries. Father shifted the
conversation to acquisitions, and I mentioned what I thought the collection
lacked, and then we were all off to our respective duties and errands.
I spent a little longer on my appearance, pinning up my hair
with seed pearl pins Mrs. Northe had gifted me, sure to wear the nicer of my
two lace-trimmed cream blouses, noting the slight tear in the sleeve had been
repaired. Bless you, Bessie. I wore my best overskirt with its slight bustling
at the back, a deep plum, my favorite color, with a little matching plum vest
trimmed in mauve that made the piece seem like a whole ensemble. After the
delicious kisses he gifted me the night prior, I wanted to be at my feminine
best, though my best dresses were ball gowns I'd been given as gifts. A mere
trip to Mrs. Northe's parlor did not necessitate a ball gown, fine as the
parlor was.
The maid let me in, gesturing me into the parlor, and ran
down the list of who was in, who had been in, and who was out. It was quite the
rotating guest list. Mrs. Northe and Lord Denbury were both evidently out, but
Lavinia was looking a bit lost in the parlor. The maid was quick to fetch us
both tea. The black-clad girl, hair partly up and partly streaming down her
back in a fetching deep red stream, looked like a Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood
painting in mourning.
"Natalie, I'm very glad to see you. I wanted to tell
you something I heard. One of my associates dropped this note for me." She
referenced a small card in her lap. "He was out at the new White Horse
Tavern, downtown, and he thinks he got a sense of the man who was behind the
substance. And he said he thought someone looked familiar, someone
who...interrupted the man in question, just as he was pressuring a group of
lads. I don't suppose...Lord Denbury is on the trail of anyone, is he?"
she asked hopefully, as if my Jonathon could be the hero she seemed to need.
I shrugged. I wasn't sure that we were letting on any word
of our activities to anyone. It wasn't that I didn't trust Lavinia, there was
something about her that compelled me, but I would let Jonathon be the one to
share what he'd been up to. I assumed perhaps he was taking Mrs. Northe to the
location in question, from whence he'd followed Stevens. Before Lavinia could
press me further, there was some commotion at the front door.
Suddenly, I heard a familiar British accent crying out:
“Darling, I’ve come for you!”
Lavinia looked up, wide-eyed, partly in ecstasy, partly in
shock, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. And then her cheeks turned as red
as her hair. We both knew exactly who that voice belonged to.
Nathaniel Veil had returned from England
I could hear the maid protesting with him that he needed to
be announced, but he charged right into the parlor in an imperious swoop of
black fabric and flying locks of hair, not bothering to take off his cloak,
tossing aside his top hat onto a nearby chair, and practically diving across
the parlor and onto his knees before the divan where Lavinia perched so
gracefully.
Enter Nathaniel Veil.
Tall and wild, the Gothic actor—all in the finest black,
tailored vestments—did not leave his persona behind on the stage once he took
his bow. Instead, he lived his theatricality in every moment, to the fullest,
the energy and powerful presence entirely overtaking a room. I had to stop
myself from laughing, not because I found him foolish, but merely because I was
so entertained by his full commitment to being unquestionably dramatic. It was
contagiously delightful.
And Lavinia’s expression was rather priceless. I could see
the joy on her face, but as he took her hands in his and kissed them with
flourish, a fierce pain took over, and her whole demeanor darkened.
“Ah, you finally pay attention to me now that I’ve gone and
done something terrible?” she murmured. “You fly to the side of your injured
toy?” He looked up at her in horror. “And you might want to be just a touch
less rude, Mister Veil,” she added, “and say hello to Miss Stewart, who does
happen to be in the room with us at present.”
“Hello, Mister Veil," I said gently from across the
room. "It is so good of you to come. I am sure your Association will
derive great comfort from your presence.”
Veil sprang up and instantly was across the room and back
down on his knees again, taking up my hands in his this time. He did not kiss
them, thankfully, for poor Lavinia’s sake, but he did hold them to his breast
and spoke with absolute earnestness, his accent every bit as delectable to me
as Jonathon's was. “Miss Stewart, I am so frightfully glad to see you, too,
have you been taking good care of my dove here and my best, bosom friend? Where
is that glorious cad Den, anyway?”
“I… You mean Lord Denbury?” I said, trying to hold back a
chuckle, having forgotten Veil’s pet name for Jonathon, a name I was not
allowed to utter under any circumstance. Ever.
“Yes. Where the devil is the man?” Veil jumped back to his
feet again. A towering presence, he paced a few steps before throwing himself
onto a pouf. I opened my mouth to answer, but he was onto another subject,
addressing Miss Kent
It seemed everyone important to
Nathaniel had a pet name. I cringed at "Vin". He dared not call me "Nat";
he could save that nickname for himself, surely.
“They are all passable. Trying to mitigate any damage done,”
Lavinia answered, her tone even. “As Miss Stewart said, your presence will do
them good. However, I suggest setting a firm tone. We can’t have this seem like
errant behavior will make you come running.” She stared into her teacup. “And
before you ask or assume, I was not trying to do that to you. I was genuinely
interested in…options.”
Veil crossed the room to her again in a mere step. Even
though there wasn't room for him, he sat down beside Lavinia, edging her over,
her own skirts spilling over his trousers, the two of them a streaming splay of
black fabric. If his next words were an act, then he was a very good actor
indeed, for he seemed utterly sincere. There was nothing he did by halves, but
his truly contrite and earnest tone could not be denied.
“Promise me you’ll talk to me before you turn to anything
else,” Veil said gently. “All of you. I want all of you to feel supported. Is
that clear, Vin? I didn't start my Association out of ego. I started it to save
lives. Do you remember how many near suicides we had our first year as
acquaintances, all brought together by some old dark loneliness that was sown
down deep in our bones?”
"I do remember," she whispered, barely audible.
"The point is we have each other, rather than
substances, rather than drastic measures. In the Association, all are cared
for," he murmured. Lavinia wouldn’t look at him, merely nodded. He took a
black-gloved finger and placed it under her chin, forcing her to look up at
him. “And some are cared for more than others.”
“Nathaniel, please don’t,” she murmured, even though he had
turned her face to him, her eyes still refused to meet his. Blushing furiously,
she was surely uncomfortable that I was in the room still. This kind of
intimacy was rather shocking to be shared with an acquaintance in the room, but
Veil didn’t seem to care; he flaunted custom regularly, the whole of his life
and his actions public and unapologetic. I was amenable to honest conversation
between lovers, but Lavinia didn’t know me well enough to know I would not
judge her for it.
“Where are you and your Association meeting, Mister Veil?” I
asked, lest he try to press the intimacy issue further and publicly kiss her, a
shock indeed.
“Why here, of course," Veil replied as if that were
obvious. "Mrs. Northe did say I was welcome in her home when she wired
me.”
“Ah. Yes." I smiled. "But does…Mrs. Northe know
about potential…company?”
Veil blinked a moment. “You don’t think she’ll mind, do
you?”
I took a moment to choose words carefully, stifling a
surprised chuckle at his oblivious regard for anyone but himself and his own.
“I’d think she’d appreciate a bit of an advanced notice, as would the staff,
Mister Veil,” I finally replied.
Lavinia just stared at me with a wide, horrified stare,
trying to mouth an apology. It only made me want to laugh again, until I
imagined what it would be like if I were the staff. Maybe I’d go help them. I
had benefited from Mrs. Northe’s acquaintance, learning how the upper echelon
lived, but when one was as distinctly middle-class as I was, life could go either
way and so would my empathy.
“Yes… I suppose you’ve a point there, Miss Stewart…” Veil
murmured. "Did I mention you're looking lovely? Purple. Suits you. One of
the rare colors I'm fond of."
He bounded up again and darted into the hall; it was
impressive how quickly he moved, preternatural almost. It fit with his persona
eerily well. I heard him call into the hall: “Lovely young miss who I entirely,
rudely, bowled past at the door, would you do me the kind favor of preparing
for guests?”
My jaw hung open at the sheer cheek of the man.
“How… many…” I heard the poor, beleaguered young maid reply.
“Oh, I’d say about forty,” he offered cheerfully. “Give or
take a few.”
“For…ty…give or take…” came the frightened response. There
was a scuffle down the stairs to the kitchens below, and I heard a clatter of a
few pans and fire irons.
“Thank you, beautiful!” Veil cried after her, and bounded
back again to Lavinia’s side. She had been able to do nothing but stare after
him, helpless to stop the tumbling, sweeping force of nature that was the man
she so clearly couldn’t help but adore. “So. Darling,” he said, edging back
onto the seat, practically in her lap. “I think just a good meeting, all of us,
among friends, would do a lot for morale, don't you think?”
Lavinia nodded.
Veil then looked over at me, remembering his earlier
question that had gone unanswered. "I say. Where is that charmer of yours, Miss Stewart?”
"I appreciate that you think I'm the keeper of Lord
Denbury's whereabouts, Mister Veil,” I said with a chuckle. "But I haven't
a clue."
"Well, would you find a way to fetch him?" Veil
said as if exasperated. "Otherwise, he'll miss a bloody good show!
Impromptu parlor shows are my favorite."
--
(End of Chapter 9.1 -- Copyright 2013 Leanna Renee Hieber, The Magic Most Foul saga - If you like what you see, please share this link with friends! Tweet it, FB, + it! The Magic Most Foul team really hopes the audience will continue to grow and it can only do so with YOUR help! If you haven't already, do pick up a copy of Magic Most Foul books 1 and 2: Darker Still and the sequel: The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart and/or donate to the cause! Donations directly support the editorial staff. --
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