Chapter 9

Booth’s Theater at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street was grand as one would expect. It had been the prominent theater since it opened eleven years prior. With a granite exterior in the Renaissance style, it seated nearly two thousand people.

Tall posters outside the grand entrance shouted ACROSS THE VEIL! The poster featured an imperious, dramatic, shadowed figure, a raven upon his shoulder, eyes blazing and the outlines of women swooning around his feet as his cloak billowed against a dark and stormy night. I was impressed that Veil commanded a theater that had housed the foremost theatrical talent of our day, albeit for a brief run.

Golden filigree and sculpting adorned each box and level, while glittering chandeliers and sconces reflected the gaslight and cast only flattering shadows about the house. The rolling murmur of the crowd was like a lulling tide. The rustling of fine fabrics and gossiping whispers hidden behind lace and feather fans reminded me that this was a place where society was made and broken, much like a ball, where everyone was displayed. Particularly us.

I should have known Mrs. Northe would have a prominent box, and that gazes would inevitably turn our way when our usher opened the box door, pulled back the curtain, and gestured for us to step into the warm velvet interior and to our seats.

From a lifetime of being ignored as a mute, I was the one used to watching, not being watched. It was unnerving. I knew so little about Mrs. Northe, really. Who her friends were, what her late husband, an industrialist, had actually done to make a good deal of money, or what void I filled in her life.

“You’re wondering about me,” Mrs. Northe said. I bit my lip. “It’s all right. Our goings-on have had little to do with outside society. You see me waving, and you know no one I know. My late husband made his fortune in coal,” she began. “A dirty business in more ways than one. Philanthropy became my passion to offset the ruthless companies. Peter tried very hard to be a good man and run a good business, but it wasn’t perfect. He never interfered in my charity, nor my spiritual affairs. I loved him very much. He was taken from me too soon.”

She glanced around the auditorium, blinking back tears. “I’m not exactly sure I’ve recovered from Peter’s death, even after eight years. All my gifts were useless to save him. I suffered that frustration alone.” She looked away, her body tense, emotions held in like a tightening corset. “To these people, I’m merely a wealthy patron of the arts who is rumored to hold an occasional séance. My dear friends are few and far flung, some upstate, the rest in Chicago.”

“Your gifts…were they with you since childhood?”

“At least in part. But everything sharpened the day I watched a ship sail in with Civil War wounded and dead. I saw the ghost of my beloved cousin, fainted right into the river, and nearly died. In that space between life and death I understood that I had a purpose: to use my gifts for love and peace while so much hateful darkness seized the world. I understood then that there will always be a war over souls, and I chose in that moment to live and to fight for the light.”

I shuddered at the word “war.” I hadn’t bargained on being a solider in that battle, but I’d been drafted anyway.

“As to why I remain involved with you, Natalie,” she continued, “Fate brought you to me when your father wished to buy Denbury’s portrait. The moment we met, my gifts told me our fates were entwined. You came at just the right time. I was terribly lonely and bored, my gifts atrophied.

“None of these people,” she waved her hand about the box seats and glittering jewels, “are brave, bold, or terribly interesting. Nor are they my friends. Nor are my talents useful in their shallow worlds. Wealth buys you visibility but not true friends, not happiness. Remember that. I think Lord Denbury knows this well, but in this striving, greedy city, don’t you forget it. You are meant for so much more than an average, petty life.”

I sat stunned, taking in everything she’d said. I hadn’t expected her to open up so, but I was glad she had. Before I could query further, the orchestra in the pit struck a melancholy chord. A slow dirge of a tune began, similar to Bach’s infamous organ Toccata, yet original and dramatic, mournful and glorious. As the music swelled, the gallery gates were opened and an intriguing crowd pressed forward.

Into an open, standing-room gallery at the front of the theater filed a group of men and women entirely in black, as if they’d all just come from a funeral. Yet their faces were full of excitement and expectation, as if waiting for a god to descend. Some clasped hands, and some waved from one side of the gallery to the other, as if they all knew one another. Many glanced shyly at the ground, and in each body—I could interpret the language of each one’s body as if they were speaking—there was a trembling vulnerability conquered only by the radiant excitement on their faces when they stared toward the footlights, which cast a glow upon the red curtain.

The program stated only: “Assembled works of Great and Melancholy Literature, resonant to Body and Spirit, and Transcendent of Mortal Coil. Music inspired by Dark themes from Bach and Chopin.”

“When he first appeared on the theatrical circuit,” Mrs. Northe said, “a friend in Baltimore raved about him, saying I’d appreciate his sensibilities. Though he never embraces spiritualism directly, the notion of body, spirit, and transcendence of mortal coil are parallel.”

“And he has quite a fascinating following.” I nodded toward the crowd below.

“Everyone needs a muse,” Mrs. Northe said appreciatively, drinking in the crowd, examining them, perhaps using her gifts for insight. “Especially the melancholy. We live in a Gothic age. It’s refreshing to see a crowd who acknowledges it, those who cannot ignore pain and darkness yet come together in celebration, a living memento mori…”

There came a sung note, and everything went still and dark.

Girls in the black-clad crowd swooned, leaning on beaux at their side or holding hands with their friends. If I wasn’t mistaken, many of the boys swooned too.

Out stepped Nathaniel Veil. He was tall, black haired, onyx eyed, and clad in a fine black dress suit, his presence wild. If Jonathon had the clear breeding of an English lord, Nathaniel Veil seemed as though he could have been raised by a mythological god in some forbidden forest before being taught how to be a gentleman.

He sang, and I recognized the lyrics as from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night because of the chorus: “For the rain it raineth every day…”

Veil’s arrangement was keening, the strings supporting his vocals as if he wasn’t just one lone man in black but his own chorus. Somehow he was singing for the world and to each one of us, balancing grandeur and intimacy.

The song led into poetry, Poe’s “The Raven.” The curtain rose, revealing a castle, and Veil stepped into a red-drenched chamber the narrator would leave “nevermore.” The scene was a Gothic novel come to life, and for the next hour, we were treated to a cavalcade of characters and music, from the literary adventures and outrageous trials of Otronto and Udolpho, to the verse of Hamlet and more from my personal favorite, Poe.

A celebration of sadness and mystery, morbid and macabre, ghosts and haunting, somehow the play was spectacularly alive. With slight changes of wardrobe, a cloak or hat added or removed, Veil transformed fluidly between characters. All of them, despite their darkness, struggled on toward a faint light at the end of a long tunnel, toward hope. Toward life. And Veil’s magnetic presence never let us forget how very alive he was as he discussed crossing the veil itself.

After the curtain call and encore, a rousing rendition of Poe’s “Annabel Lee” (so fitting to end with Poe’s final completed poem), I sat in the darkness of the box for a moment, watching as the rest of the house adjusted to the brightening house lights. The gas jets lifted their flames to a warm yellow height, and I felt like those in the fore seemed to, that I was being roused from a trance. Those swaying bodies in black below all looked to be in the same pleasant stupor.

“That was incredible,” I said. Mrs. Northe nodded and we remained seated in silence a while longer before I steeled my courage for my task.

“How does one get…backstage?” I asked.

“Leave it to me.”

Skirts rustling, we exited into the dress circle where other murmurings of fine fabric were layered with delighted whispers (or horrified murmurs, depending on if the ladies liked the show). Regardless, no one was unaffected. One either loved or hated it. One had to be willing to let go and release themselves to the adventure. Much like the recent course of my life.

We descended past stately statuary and draped fabrics of velvet and brocade, down to the orchestra level and beyond into an alcove where a tall man stood miserable guard at a stage entrance. A throng of young women in black stood a quiet vigil. Their stillness was far more disconcerting than if they’d been loudly clamoring for Veil.

“Hello, Mr. Bell,” Mrs. Northe said sweetly. “I’ve a young lady that needs to see Mr. Veil.”

“Don’t they all,” Bell drawled.

Unruffled, Mrs. Northe squared her shoulders, saying, “She’s a visitor on behalf of Lord Denbury. And you, Mr. Bell, know better than to insult an emissary of British aristocracy.”

Mr. Bell raised an eyebrow and we were let by, to the pouting, angry murmurs of the pit crowd.

“Really? Did I just get hissed at?” I whispered. Mrs. Northe laughed.

Past a phalanx of black curtains in the wings, a shaft of gaslight fell upon a doorway. A paper raven had been tacked at eye level and the painted script on it declared: VEIL.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Northe said, turning to walk away.

“You’re going to leave me alone with him?” I gasped. I didn’t want the quiet throng outside in the stalls to kill me. “Won’t that appear—”

“Oh, come now, he’s a dear friend of your beloved. You’ve put yourself in far more compromising positions than this. You’ll get more out of the man on your own than with my being a chaperone.”

“That’s your instinct, is it?” I said warily.

“I’ll make sure no one besmirches your reputation, though no one would know any better. It’s good that you were never introduced into society, my dear. Invisibility has its privileges.” She walked away.

It wasn’t that I feared Veil. I was overwhelmed and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, afraid language might escape me. “I’m here for Jonathon,” I murmured, and knocked on the door.

“Ah, Bell, you’ve let someone by?” came a deep, accented voice from within, a bit less affected than it had been on the stage and similar to Jonathon’s, high class or at least pretending to be. “She’d best be young and pretty.”

I opened the door. “I suppose you’ll have to judge for yourself, Mr. Veil,” I replied as I entered and closed the door behind me. The room was covered in capes and hats. Black feathers dusted the floor from several prop ravens and a few skulls sat on a shelf, watching us with hollow sockets.

“Well, hello there,” he said appreciatively. “Indeed. You’re not bad. But you’re not one of my Association. That must make you the lovely Miss Stewart, Jonathon’s girl. Do call me Nathaniel. I was warned you’d be coming,” he said, grinning and showcasing the fangs from his Camille bit that he’d retained for the rest of his show.

“I am indeed Miss Stewart. The lovely part is up to you.”

Nathaniel laughed, putting fingers to his mouth. With one snap, the fangs were gone. Part of me was sad to see the illusion fade.

“You play a vampire, but do you believe in them?” I asked. “In all the characters and creatures you portray?”

Nathaniel considered this as he placed his teeth into a jar of fake incisors. “Vampires surely exist, in one way or another. Something that preys on human life? I’ve seen that well enough. Fantasy is the only way we can understand reality.” There was a darkness to his tone. A familiar one. “The world is full of devils and thieves, Miss Stewart. To make the darkness playful is the only way to survive it. We must externalize that which might kill us otherwise.”

I nodded. “Jonathon described you as unapologetically melancholy. I find it refreshing. I’ve terrible nightmares. They don’t make for pleasant conversation. But life isn’t always pleasant, is it?”

Nathaniel shook his head, gauging me with an intensity that surpassed custom. It was thrilling and off-putting all at once. “Funny. Jonathon didn’t say I couldn’t stand close to you. I’d have thought he knew me better.” He took a step closer. I could feel heat coming off his powerful form. Perhaps Jonathon only kept company with men who were as he was: distinct, bold, and impossible to ignore.

“Is this what you say to all those young women there in the gallery, swaying in black?”

“My Association.”

I raised an eyebrow. He explained: “We are united in melancholy, nothing more. We revel in it, turning our black hearts outward to find joy. We cannot remain in shadow’s ecstasy always, so we must make a game of it. Would you like to join us? I’m not usually forthcoming with strangers. But, alas, you’ve disarmed me.”

Beaming, he produced a card. In bold, elegant script the card declared membership to “Her Majesty’s Association for Melancholy Bastards.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. Turning over the card, I saw that it read:

President: Hamlet

Vice President: Edgar A. Poe

Social Chair: Mary Shelley

Secretary: Ophelia

Treasurer: Manfred, Lord of Otranto

Grinning, I glanced up from the card to see Nathaniel looking rather pleased with himself. “Brilliant,” I agreed.

“Would you like to join?”

I gave him a wary look. “Is there a membership ritual?”

“I’ll forgo the bloodletting for you,” he said and laughed when I looked wary, gesturing that I should keep the card. “Show this at the theater door whenever I play, and they’ll let you into the pit. We’re self-selecting. We don’t want anyone making fun or starting trouble. It’s why there’s a dress code—grand dark aesthetic aside—it shows you want to play in the spirit of community and camaraderie.”

The way his art defined yet didn’t overwhelm him was wonderful. He didn’t take himself too seriously, which made me take him utterly so. But standing too close to him was a bit dangerous. He was so powerful and alluring that I understood the swooning crowds on a more personal level.

“Some are born with darkness,” Nathaniel stated. “Some have darkness thrust upon them.” He turned to his mirrors to wipe a bit of kohl from his eyes. “I hear you and Jonathon were put through quite the trial. He wasn’t born with darkness, so it was thrust upon him. You?”

“Thrust upon me and always pressing in. You?”

“Born with it,” he stated airily. “And when you’re born with melancholy you learn how to live with it or else you die of it. Simple as that.”

I knew it wasn’t as simple as that. My disability proved that rising above challenges, no matter what kind, took discipline and ritual. Veil had figured out his ritual, and once learned, the discipline seemed simple.

As much as I enjoyed our unexpectedly intimate line of conversation, I was recalled to my task. “Mr. Veil, Jonathon is looking into his parents’ death. Do you remember anything odd about the weekend you last saw one another?”

He thought a moment. Moving to his shelf of skulls, he picked one up and pressed it to his forehead as if gleaning some insight. “Hmm…His parents came to my show.” Nathaniel tapped the skull to his own. “Think…Someone approached them, now that I think of it. Jonathon couldn’t have seen them. Our stage manager was feeling poorly, so Jonathon played the good doctor and examined him backstage. But there was a man, odd looking—”

“In the eyes?” I finished, dread in my stomach like a rock. Jonathon’s parents hadn’t died in a tragic accident at all; they had been targeted by the Society. The whole Denbury clan. “I don’t suppose he was French?”

“Yes!” Nathaniel returned the skull to its brethren. “Yes, some Frenchman and his odd consort. They were discussing art with the Whitbys, a commission. Why?”

I paled. “You see, it wasn’t that Jonathon was taken hostage, Mr. Veil. He was imprisoned.”

“Imprisoned?”

“Yes. In a…very odd way.”

“Define very odd.”

“Well, if you must know…his soul was ripped from his body and trapped in a painting.”

Nathaniel blinked. “A painting?”

“His own portrait. I know it sounds mad—”

“No, it’s just…the Whitbys were talking about a portrait with that Frenchman…” Nathaniel sighed. “Denbury and I met back at our favorite lounge. I didn’t think to mention it, as his parents moved in circles I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known. A painting? What the hell—”

“It’s all right. No one would believe anything that’s happened to us.”

“Try me.”

“It’s a long story Jonathon will relate when we’re all relaxed, safe, and toasting your magnificent production together. Then you can tell me the story of how you met. Jonathon mentioned you in connection with his clinic, but you’re—”

“Not a doctor. Hardly. But I’ve…responsibilities to my Association. That, too, is a long story. Dear God, I miss that chap.”

“Me too…” I murmured.

Nathaniel looked pained. “I should not have mentioned it. I feel terrible, but I hardly remember anything after a show.” His eyes glittered at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll remember you. Tell me, how can we help our dear friend now? I may have failed him before, but I shan’t again—”

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Veil, but information is all that will help now. Spare him kind thoughts and traveling mercies. I’m worried sick for him. There’s a group targeting good people. He’s overseas all alone, sniffing them out.”

“Ah, don’t you worry for Denbury. He’s too clever by half. The sensible members of his family schooled him fiercely. He’s grown more resourceful than all of them combined. He’s got a wicked mind for medical magic that utterly eludes me, with a bit of detective in him. You must allow him to solve his mysteries.”

I felt a surge of pride for Jonathon and was pleased by how much I liked his friends. His very handsome friends. Goodness. I’m sure I blushed the entire time.

“I’m engaged until the end of the month,” Nathaniel said. “I do hope this won’t be the last I’ll see of you.”

“It won’t be long until Jonathon returns to New York. I’m sure he’d love to see you, as he mentioned you with a brother’s fondness.”

Nathaniel beamed, and I ached suddenly for a friend who could light up like that for me. Being in love was one thing. Having best, bosom friends was another, and people were meant to have both in their lives. I missed mine from Connecticut. Nathaniel snatched my hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it dramatically.

“Behave,” I cautioned. He dropped my hand reluctantly.

“Ah, yes. Denbury did say he’d kill me if I pressed my luck. Give the old man my regards, and if there’s anything I can do to help—”

“We’ll be in touch. Thank you, Mr. Veil. We will, I’m sure, need all the friends we can spare…” I trailed off. Speaking of friends, did I dare mention Samuel? “Oh…one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“This…group, the Master’s Society, is behind strange, supernatural things. Not only was Jonathon targeted, but Samuel Neumann, too.”

Nathaniel gasped. “Is Sam all right?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. Please help keep an eye on him. Jonathon is…constrained by his circumstances. And since you were involved at that clinic, watch yourself too.”

Nathaniel bit his lip. “I can’t think this could be related, but two strange men approached me after the show when I first came to New York. One was blond and ridiculously dressed, like he wanted to look the dandy but failed. The other was small and mousy and said a lot of large words. He approached me and pitched a ‘miracle serum.’ Showed me the chemical breakdown of it. He claimed it would wipe all melancholies away, replacing sadness with ecstasy, and he thought my Association would be a good market. Now I’ve seen enough damage from opium, laudanum, and the like that I don’t believe in any such miracles, and I didn’t like the feel of him.”

“What was his name?”

“The blond didn’t say a word. The mousy one was Dr. Stevens.”

Good. Not Preston. But we knew Preston wasn’t the only doctor involved. This sounded like another “department” of the Society.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “You were right to be leery. Don’t trust any doctors. Well, not any…unconventional ones, that is. Note who approaches you. And if anyone asks about these goings-on, you know nothing and we didn’t speak.”

Nathaniel stared at me, a bit bewildered and frightened. There was nothing else to say. With a little curtsy, I ducked out of the dressing room and managed to find a different way out through shadowed backstage corridors rather than having to face that quiet mourners’ guild.

On the ride back in the carriage, Mrs. Northe eyed me. “Well?”

“The portrait was arranged with Jonathon’s parents. I presume the Frenchman, the artist, was already demonically possessed. The theater was a rendezvous to discuss the deal. It’s harder and harder to believe their deaths were accidents. Veil was approached by a creepy doctor with a ‘cure for melancholy.’”

“Sounds like it could be related.”

“Thankfully Veil didn’t trust him, but I doubt it’s the end of that query. And yes, Veil behaved. Flirtation is his nature, but he’s a friend to Jonathon.”

Mrs. Northe smiled. “When does Jonathon return?”

“I don’t know. I’m desperate for a letter to know he’s all right and what he’s found out.”

Dropped at my front door, I turned and looked up at Mrs. Northe as I descended from the carriage.

“I’m sorry if what I said when I first came home was ungrateful. I’m just scared. Strange things follow you and me, and the circle is growing. I just don’t want my father wrapped up in it. He’s all I have.”

“You’ve a larger family now—me, Jonathon—”

“Father’s all I’ve had all my life. All I know I can count on. He needs to be protected from the dark things I’ve seen, not brought into them.”

“You can’t protect everyone, Natalie.”

“I’d like to try,” I said. “So please be careful with him. Thank you for this evening, for the dress, for knowing your way about things,” I said, and before I could say any more, I turned and walked up my stoop, my cheeks flushing with a realization.

I didn’t want Mrs. Northe to replace me. I didn’t want her to become more important to Father than me. I was the center of his world, even if he didn’t always know what to do with me. But Mrs. Northe was perfect and charming in nearly every way. How could she not become the whole of someone’s life? He’d said himself that he was changing and I was changing. There was truth in my fear of bringing supernatural woe to my father’s attention. But it was also about my father’s attention in general.

I took a few deep breaths upon my stoop, listening to the evening sounds of the city, which mixed into a soft whir. Looking down, I admired my gorgeous gown. And then I looked down the street past the brownstone row houses and across avenues to see the corner of Central Park. In the gaslit distance, the Metropolitan stood shrouded in shadows of parkland, remaining as full of mystery and grandeur as when it was dreamed up by New York philanthropists.

I was elegant and so was my city. I felt so alive and so was my city. Jonathon would be here soon to share it with me. There was nothing to fear.

“My, my.” My father examined me at the door. Bessie dragged me inside and into the light so she could turn me around and admire all the gathers, beads, and bustling. “And how was the show?” Father asked. “I saw the posters. Were you one of those swooning women straining to clutch at Veil’s cloak?”

“One could hardly swoon and catch him from the height of Mrs. Northe’s box, Father,” I replied pointedly. Bessie chuckled.

“But was it any good?” she asked.

“Brilliant,” I replied, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Father smirked, and his nose went into a book. As I kissed him on the head, he gave me a wary eye.

“And when does that lord of yours arrive? When must I keep an extra special eye on you?”

“I don’t know yet. Mrs. Northe will collect him, as he’ll stay in her home. You’ll meet him soon after. He doesn’t want to vex you, believe me,” I assured him, and I went to my room to admire my dress in the mirror again before there were any further questions.

***

Something of my mind must have been in the mood for testing the waters that night. For guess who stood at the end of my mind’s darkened hallway in my most recent dream?

Nathaniel Veil was lit only by dim gaslight from indeterminate sources, casting contrast on his sharp features and making his silhouette just like his dramatic poster. His wide hand was stretched out to me, like some mesmerist drawing me in. I was somehow helpless to resist, and I fell into the folds of his black robes. He dove upon my neck with searing kisses and a teasing nibble as if he were one of the vampires from his show. It was admittedly thrilling.

But then Jonathon was there. And he did not like this scene one bit. He stood behind me in the hall, bright blue eyes flashing with fury.

“Veil, unhand her,” he said coldly. “Natalie, why are you cruel?”

Nathaniel whirled my body around so that I could face the sound, and there was Jonathon, just as tall and striking, but less wild and unpredictable than his friend. He was hurt and angry.

Nathaniel did not let go, instead kissing the back of my neck gently and drawing my hair aside. My hair was down, which had to mean I was in my night-dress. And so I stared helplessly at Jonathon while I could not help but shudder at the sensation.

“Cruel,” he repeated. “I’m in London. You know, I can have plenty of attention too, whenever I like.”

At that, the hall suddenly flickered to life, one flaming lamp after the next in an inexorable line. The corridor now filled with pretty ladies, and the burning wicks against mirrored sconces cast illuminated glittering jewels like stars in a gaslit sky. Each finely bedecked female stared at Jonathon hungrily.

My mouth dropped open. “Is that a threat, Lord Denbury?”

“Just keep your dreaming focused, Natalie. I can’t take any more betrayals.”

“As if I’d betray you—”

“But she’s under my spell, old chap,” Nathaniel finished. “Can you begrudge a spirit like hers a bit of curiosity? It isn’t like you haven’t kissed other girls before.”

“Not since meeting her,” Jonathon insisted, breaking free from a long-limbed girl in a sapphire ball-gown who had wrapped her arms around him and staring down Veil. “And you’re not really here, Veil. It’s just the two of us, Natalie.” He pinned me with his gaze. “It’s just us and whatever your mind creates. So stop it. I’m having enough trouble sleeping without seeing another man have his way with you.”

I closed my eyes. I tried to break free, to move toward the beautiful blue-eyed man in the hall that I knew I loved. “I choose you,” I said to Jonathon, praying he’d believe me, and stumbled forward as if pushed, a hand—no, a claw—raking down my back and scoring me with a sharp pain. I cried out, falling not forward into Jonathon’s arms but straight up in my bed.

I’d managed not to wake Father this time, for which I was grateful. I wrestled myself back to sleep. I had plans to visit Maggie tomorrow, and it would do no good to go looking like hell. I needed to be at my very best. Dealing with Margaret Hathorn might be its own careful game.