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…
And I believe I may have a new friend! Her name is Margaret Hathorn, Mrs. Northe’s niece, who immediately insisted I call her Maggie. She was dressed exquisitely in a green satin dress of doubled skirts and capped sleeves. I found myself staring at the lace detailing on nearly every gathered fold. I didn’t think I much cared about fine dresses, though Maggie certainly does. I’m reminded I’ve not spent much time in fine society. And she only gave me one of those looks for just a moment. I forgave her easily for that.
Mrs. Northe’s house was splendid—everything I could have expected and more, trimmed with the finest Oriental rugs and lavish marble pieces, and that was just the foyer. The interior architecture had grand staircases and chandeliers reminiscent of what I’ve seen in pictures of European opera houses. Several windows featured richly colored stained glass by a son of the Tiffany family, which Mrs. Northe proudly said would be all the rage in the next decade and we ought to invest in the man’s work now.
Evelyn Northe, of course, was splendid too, a woman I would guess to be nearly forty. She was dressed in the latest French fashion with fitted sleeves tapering with countless buttons and gathered skirts of mauve satin drawn into a cascading bustle, all trimmed in seed pearls that I would have thought suitable for a ball gown. But amid the opulence of the home, the ensemble appeared somewhat mundane.
I glanced into a beveled, bejeweled mirror at my side, my green eyes wide with drinking in the sights, and couldn’t help comparing myself. My blouse and skirts were neat and trimmed with lace, and I’d put my nicest pearl hairpins up into my thick locks of auburn hair, allowing a few ringlets to fall against my cheeks. I knew I wasn’t terrible to look at, but I did feel awkward in such surroundings.
I was soon surprised by a comfort I could not possibly have expected.
As Father introduced me, he gave the practiced, cursory explanation that I could hear perfectly well but could not speak, to which Maggie gave that slightly pitying look. Mrs. Northe did not bat an eyelash but instead offered me a “Pleasure to meet you” in standard sign. At this, I confess, my mouth dropped in an uncouth fashion and I had to recover a moment before signing “Thank you” in response.
“I speak six languages,” Mrs. Northe explained casually. “I found that learning a seventh with my hands was thoroughly rewarding.”
Father looked away, put to shame by the woman when he hadn’t bothered to learn to sign himself. I can’t blame Father. He’s always hoped that one day I’ll just open my mouth and all will be well. But I did appreciate a woman of such fine taste who could make me feel so welcome in such a personal way, when society never would have required it of her. Maggie seemed suitably impressed by her aunt; clearly this was a new discovery for her as well.
As Mrs. Northe swept us into the parlor, a maid in a crisply starched uniform was instantly upon us with tea and confections.
“So, Mr. and Miss Stewart,” Mrs. Northe began, tea in hand. “I understand you are here in regards to the Denbury portrait.”
We nodded.
“Oh, he is beyond words!” Maggie cooed, fluffing her emerald skirts. “I’m positively in love with him.” My father blinked at Maggie. “Denbury,” she clarified. “He’s beautiful. Natalie—may I call you Natalie?—you’ll positively die when you see him. He is unparalleled.”
“I plan to purchase, Mr. Stewart,” Mrs. Northe interrupted smoothly. “So if you are here to outbid me, I do hope the board of your decade-young Metropolitan has a considerable sum in their budget,” she said with an affable smile, leaning toward him a bit.
Father’s tense lips flickered into a small smile and he coughed a little. I knew he was far more nervous about being in a room with her than he was about talking business. “I would never presume to outbid you, Mrs. Northe, and I have the utmost respect for your taste and wishes. Might I propose that you graciously allow the Metropolitan to have the portrait upon loan for a brief while? With full recognition of your ownership, of course. I believe that my superiors would chastise me if I let something so…talked about…go entirely without a request to include it in an upcoming exhibition.”
“Indeed. I will certainly consider such a proposal. I’d hate to deprive you and your institution of so striking a man as Lord Denbury,” Mrs. Northe said.
Maggie’s face fell. “You mean you won’t have him always at the house?”
“Margaret, hush. Your family lives a block from the museum. You can visit.”
I couldn’t help it. My hands flew out to ask if the painting was, indeed, haunted, despite her protestation in the paper. Maggie stared at me intently, curiously, as if she thought that by just watching my fingers, she might understand them too.
Mrs. Northe’s smile remained as she registered my question. I was pleased that she did not exhibit any of the cold distance the upper echelons of society feel necessary when dealing with the merchant class. And I credit that she had influenced her niece similarly.
“I am a spiritualist, Miss Stewart. I believe that certain objects can retain a bit of living energy and that death is just one veil away from our earthly home. It isn’t that I believe the picture is haunted, per se, but that it could quite possibly have a connection with a lost part of Denbury’s soul.”
She turned to my father. Maggie was listening, rapt, clearly as intrigued by spiritualism as I was. “And that, Mr. Stewart, is something to be regarded carefully and reverently. That particular aspect is priceless. I don’t trust the painting with just anyone. But I wasn’t about to tell that to the papers.”
My expression surely betrayed my eagerness, for Mrs. Northe added, “I shall take you to see him, if you like, Miss Stewart. The Art Association has him locked away all to himself in a side room.”
I nodded, too taken with the idea and with Mrs. Northe to think about asking Father for permission.
Maggie clapped her hands. “I tell you, Natalie, you’ll just die!”
To my father, Mrs. Northe declared, “The sooner we are able to secure the portrait from his broker, the better.”
“Why’s that?” Father asked.
“I fear the man is mad. It’s as if he were an inmate at Bedlam the day prior to setting sail with the portrait. He keeps shuffling about the association and mumbling something about a master. I daresay that when people get uneasy around the painting, it has less to do with Denbury and everything to do with Crenfall.” Mrs. Northe turned to me. “So, shall I take you tomorrow, Miss Stewart?” she asked.
Here I turned to Father. He evidently had been watching Mrs. Northe with somewhat of a dazed look, for he had to shake his head a bit, as if waking from a reverie. “I’m sorry.”
“Ah, our gossip bores you, Mr. Stewart. Quite all right.” Mrs. Northe laughed.
“No, no, it wasn’t at all that I was bored…” My father fumbled. “I was…very interested in you, I assure you. I mean, in what you were saying. Interested. Yes.”
Could it be that my father blushed? Maggie seemed to catch it too, and we shared a smile.
“Indeed. I’ll have a carriage fetch you in the morning, Miss Stewart. Let’s make a day of it. You did mention, Mr. Stewart, that your daughter has just returned from her schooling. I’d like to take her somewhere nice to celebrate her return before she examines this work of art for herself.”
“That’s too kind of you—” I began to sign, blushing at her generosity. But she interrupted me.
“Not at all,” she signed in return. “I’ve no daughters. I always wanted one. It would be as much for me as for you.”
But she has her niece, Maggie, I thought. And I looked at Maggie for a moment, puzzled. Something in Mrs. Northe’s eyes stilled me. I didn’t understand. Maggie seemed kind and engaging enough…
I tell you, there was something knowing in Mrs. Northe’s eyes that went beyond mere hospitality. It was as if she saw something I couldn’t understand. In that moment, I had the distinct sense that being acquainted with Mrs. Evelyn Northe would be one of the most important things ever to happen to me.