The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart
Read The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart Online
Authors: Leanna Renee Hieber
Copyright © 2012 by Leanna Renee Hieber
Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen
Cover illustration © Consuelo Parra
Cover model: Anna Kussmann
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication is on file with the publisher.
Contents
To those who were born melancholy, and those who have melancholy thrust upon them, may you find your true, beloved community.
Chapter 1
June 1880
Isn’t that the man wanted for those murders in New York City?”
I tried not to let my face betray the panic flooding through my body. I’d thought once we made it out of New York City and onto the train we’d be safe.
A man in a dusty suit and cap had a conductor by the elbow, pointing at the cushioned benches where I sat with Jonathon. The wide-brimmed felt hat he’d been keeping low over his head had fallen back, revealing his face. It was a face hard not to notice. I nudged Jonathon awake, trying not to be too obvious about it. He blinked sleepily. If he hadn’t been wanted for murder, I might have thought he looked adorable.
“Hello there, beautiful,” he murmured in his refined London accent.
“Look sharp,” I whispered. My anxious tone doused his smile. “Someone recognized you. Whatever I say, just…nod in agreement.”
I could feel my voice fumble in my throat.
Oh
no.
Words, do not fail me now
.
“Miss? Sir?” The conductor approached, swaying slightly as the train curved around a bend and plunged into a tunnel cutting through the mountains of Pennsylvania. Jonathon’s accuser hung back, his haggard face scared. I wondered if I looked scared too.
“Yes? Hello,” I said softly.
Just
focus
on
one
word
at
a
time
.
“You…and this gentleman here,” the conductor said carefully. “Are you acquainted?”
“Oh, yes,” I said with a sad smile. “Cousins. We’re off to see our uncle on his deathbed. We hope we make it in time…” I turned ruefully to Jonathon, who nodded, squeezing my gloved hand in comfort. The conductor glanced back at the man who was gesturing toward Jonathon. A few other heads, men in top hats and ladies in feathers and ribbons, turned our way.
“Is there a problem, sir? Do you need to see our tickets again?” I rummaged in my bag. Jonathon reached into his coat pocket and held his out.
“No, no, it’s just…there were murders in the papers, in New York—”
“Oh! That madness in the Five Points?” I shuddered. “Horrifying, isn’t it? What about it?”
“He looks just like the man in the sketch!” the man hanging back shouted. There was a murmur of shock from the compartment. That would teach us to not pay the extra dollars for a private compartment. But runaways have limited spending cash. Jonathon assured me of finances secure in England that demons could not have seized, but those were of little use at the moment. Mrs. Northe had been generous to us both, but we’d played things safe. A tired-looking woman reached a hand up, begging the man to sit and leave things to the authorities.
“I know the likeness is unmistakable,” Jonathon broke in. “That’s what I thought, too. I promise you, the last thing a man wants to look like is a murderer.”
I stared at him. Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, had just spoken in an uncannily perfect American accent. Impressive.
“But,” Jonathon shrugged casually, “I’m not British. I’m from New York. And my eyes aren’t dark like his. See? It’s a difference one really can’t mistake.” He widened his ice-blue eyes for effect. He was right to bring it up. In that respect he was a far cry from the rough portrait that sensation-driven papers had been eager to publish. The conductor looked embarrassed.
“Don’t worry,” Jonathon added. “I’m used to it. I’ve been stopped a few times since the sketch. But if you could just let me and my cousin go in peace to our family, we’d sure be grateful.”
That was no lie. All we wanted was to be left alone.
Nor was it a lie to say that Jonathon wasn’t the murderer. But telling a train car full of people that a demon had possessed his body wouldn’t have helped. It’s why we were fleeing. We couldn’t trust the police to believe us either.
“Sorry to trouble you both,” the conductor said, tipping his hat. The man who had caused the disruption looked at Jonathon warily and finally heeded his wife’s urging to sit down again and drink a beer. Awkward silence descended. There is nothing more unnerving than a train car full of people staring at you. And I’ve stared down a demon, full in the face. The decision of whether we would stay in that car was mitigated by the announcement that we would soon be arriving in Chicago.
Thank
you, Chicago, for your kindness.
While I’d risked my life to save his, Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, could yet be the death of me. But here I am, at his side. What is wrong with me?
Well, look at him.
A girl would be kidding herself if she wouldn’t attempt the impossible for a face like his. The gas-lit sconces of the train cast him in a golden light. His black hair, slightly wavy, framed features carved in classic lines. Shocking blue eyes could cut the breath out of a person as if his gaze were a surgeon’s knife. The train’s whistle blew as it pulled onto tracks in a crowded station.
“We’ve got to mail your diary back to your father,” Jonathon murmured in my ear, regaining his delicious accent again. “A telegram cannot possibly explain everything, and otherwise he won’t know what’s happened to you. I’d rather he not kill me when I ask to court you properly.”
I bit my lip at the word “court” and blushed to the tips of my ears.
We disembarked onto a platform that was too small for the crowds. Signs promised that a new Union Depot would be opening next year. Chicago clearly needed it.
Jonathon helped me down the train stairs, and my blush heightened as I thought of all the kissing parts in my diary that I hadn’t thought to redact. It was too late. We only had twenty minutes before the next train.
No matter the contents, the diary was the only way to explain what really had happened. Even if Father couldn’t believe the account, we needed to try to make things right with him. Unless Mrs. Evelyn Northe, our benefactor and all-around guardian angel, could make him believe in what sounded impossible. She’d thought of most everything, so perhaps she’d even solve the crimes in our absence.
The station was hectic, but the postal counter was clearly marked and we eased our way to the ornate brass counter. As we bought an envelope and postage, the clerk gave us such an odd look that even Jonathon noticed.
“Is there a problem, sir?” he asked, again in an American accent.
“No, sir, it’s just that…”
“She’s very pretty, I know, but you needn’t make it so obvious that you think so too, sir,” Jonathon chided. My blush returned.
“No, sir, I mean no offense. It’s just…” The poor man, who was now as red as I was, slid a note across the counter. “This came in earlier, so you see I’m just…”
I glanced at the note, transcribed from a telegraph onto Western Union labeled paper.
New York City Police Department reports missing girl. Natalie Stewart. Age 17. Auburn hair. Green eyes. Pretty. Presumed traveling alone? Mute.
Jonathon read over my shoulder and didn’t miss a beat. “Sarah here, while I agree she fits the description, isn’t traveling alone but with me—her cousin.”
Father must have reported me missing before Mrs. Northe could get to him. But Father didn’t know I could speak, that saving Jonathon had cured my voice. Speech still wasn’t always easy, but talking would further disprove the cable.
Words. Come on, Natalie.
I took a deep, long breath.
“And I’m hardly
mute
now, am I?” I replied, sliding the paper back to the clerk. The man still looked wary but didn’t immediately call for the police. I tried to steady my shaking hand as I addressed the envelope and handed him the package.
“But whoever she is, I hope you find her,” Jonathon offered with a winning smile. He sounded as if he’d grown up here. He was so aware of his details and yet so unruffled that the man would make an
excellent
spy.
“Have a lovely day,” I offered.
