Chapter 1 #2
“I have always imagined,” he said, a newfound firmness to his voice, “that it was my mother who had these painted. That it was she who wished to conserve these little moments of the blissfully mundane. Perhaps to romanticize the fleeting beauty or joy or calm of her everyday life.”
He stopped before the fireplace, studying the three large bust portraits hanging above it. “But as I have been made aware, it was actually my father who commissioned most of them.”
“You did not know?” Phaedra asked.
“I was not here.”
There was an edge to the straightforward answer, and Phaedra turned back, her eyes sweeping over the canvases they had already passed.
The family and its individual members gazed out of each one of them, and now that she knew to look for it, she could see the one notable exclusion.
Nathaniel Hawthorn, with the sole exception of the painting where he had been a small child, was in none of them.
She glanced back at him, and for a moment studied the hardness that had moved into his eyes.
From the newspaper articles she had seen, she knew Nathaniel had not been present at Brackenhurst Hall—or even in the country—at the time of the tragedy.
And while being away at some school or other, even for an extended period of time, would not be anything unusual, his response, evidenced by the scenes around her, spoke of a different kind of absence.
One not even dotted by infrequent visits.
“And you wish to do something similar?” she asked.
It was difficult to hold her true question back, and she tried to ignore the seed of curiosity sprouting grim possibilities within her mind, wondering what could have happened to spur such divide within this family.
She followed his gaze, taking in the three paintings above the mantel, one for each member of the family that was no more.
Mariana Hawthorn, the former mistress of the house, sat with a vacant expression, as if all sentiment had been expelled from her features even before the first stroke of the brush had ever landed on the canvas.
But despite the stiffness in her otherwise impeccable posture, there seemed to be an aura of gentle beauty about her—however subdued by her years—that spoke of a woman once full of elegant charm.
Opposite her portrait hung that of Ana Hawthorn, a young woman not much older than her brother.
She resembled her mother in features and coloring, her auburn hair radiant against the richness of her mahogany eyes.
She wore a dress of deep emerald, captivating in the way it wound around her form.
And though her own expression was muted, there was no mistaking the roguish delight shining in her eyes.
Then Phaedra’s gaze fell on the third portrait nestled between the other two.
There was a moment of stillness before she felt the faint pulse, like the heralding ripple of some deep, ancient lake waiting to break open over whatever slept beneath. She clenched her jaw, the effort of calming the surface at war with the undeniable truth staring down at her.
That Nathaniel Hawthorn could have indeed been looking into a mirror.
There were, of course, signs to Bartholomew Hawthorn’s older age.
His face was a warmer hue and gently lined, his hair, cropped shorter, graying at his temples.
His own striking eyes stared turbulent and knowing, speaking of a more thorough experience of the world.
But there was no denying that they were of the same blood. A perfect match separated by mere time.
“In a way,” Nathaniel said. He was quiet a moment, his eyes roving between the three portraits, his finger restless on the golden band of his ring.
But when he finally turned to her, his words were smooth and collected.
“I would need you to create paintings based not on real life scenes, but on descriptions I would read to you. These descriptions shall contain the figures, the setting, and even the inner feelings that would need to be portrayed. I shall answer any questions you may have that would help you recreate the scenes. Anything I may not be able to provide, you are free to interpret as you see fit. Do you think this is something you can do?”
Phaedra thought for a moment. His request was, in itself, easily achievable.
Indeed she had rarely relied on models for her own paintings, but that was not something he would know.
Yet as her eyes wandered over the frames around her, a sense of uncertainty took hold because of the one—and probably most important—thing he did know. Or should have known, at least.
“Yes,” she said finally. “But are you sure that I am the right person for what you need?”
He raised a brow, almost amused, and Phaedra caught a glimpse of the amiable youth he must have been before all of this. The weight of the difference sent another ripple cresting over the surface. “Why would you not be the right person?”
“Because,” she said, “as you yourself must know, my work does not look like… that.” She gestured to the walls.
The radiant colors, the minute details of the scenes right down to the smallest objects were a defining feature of oil paintings.
But she did not work with oils. Something he had to have known since it was him who had summoned her here.
“Why did you send for me, specifically?”
There was something charming in the hesitancy of his smile, and Phaedra found herself holding her breath, waiting for his explanation.
“I suppose, it is precisely because your work does not resemble these that I wished to extend this contract to you.” He turned to the frames lining the wall, his eyes narrowing.
“While I do think these works have captured the perfect likeness of the depicted scenes, I also find them very… cluttered. It is difficult for me to understand their essence, when so many things vie for my attention simultaneously. And so, I would prefer something a little more… simple. Elegant and to the point, without sacrificing the spirit of the subject rendered. For that I think you the perfect candidate.”
“But the style of my work—” she started.
“Is perfect for what I have in mind,” he interjected.
Phaedra opened her mouth, another argument on the tip of her tongue, but then she saw it—the flicker of hope, raw and urgent, flashing under the surface of his collected expression.
“Please believe that my choice has been entirely informed, and I am fully aware of what you can and cannot do,” he said. “Will you accept?”
She stared a moment, her whole being assaulted by a myriad of contrary thoughts.
And while every fiber in her body screamed its assent to his proposal, the mystery behind his request caressing the hidden depths within her with glittering talons, she could not help note the quiet, yet relentless chime of vigilance.
Why was this so important to him?
What was he truly after?
And—most importantly—what was he not telling her?
Yet even as the questions revolved in her mind, they worked to draw her in, rather than push her away. Her heart thumped in her chest, counting time like a metronome.
Nathaniel seemed to take her silence as hesitation, because he added, “I shall, of course, recompense you for your time and your work, well above what—”
“I accept,” she blurted, and the smile that flashed across his face almost took her breath away. His paleness, the well-hidden exhaustion of his limbs seemed to fall away, and he looked near vibrant against the dreariness of the people frozen in time around them.
He must have realized it as well, as he stepped back, his features straightening. “Thank you, Miss Mercer. Truly! I am beyond grateful. I shall have the contract ready by tonight. Until then, you may have my butler organize the retrieval of your belongings.”
“My… belongings?” she asked, confused.
“Your clothing and personal items. Whatever you may have brought with you,” he clarified, already moving toward the door. “I presume you are staying at the Claribelle Inn?”
He pulled on the bell, and the butler arrived at a moment’s notice.
“This is Jameson, he shall be at your service.”
“Madam.” The butler bowed to her, but Phaedra could only stare back. Then realization dawned on Nathaniel’s face.
“Do forgive me, Miss Mercer,” he said, the ghost of a smile lifting the corners of his lips.
“I seem to have forgotten a key point of my request. I would like for you to stay here during the extent of our contract. As my guest. So you would not be interrupted or delayed by wearisome travel. Would that be acceptable?”
A chill swept over her body, dark and exhilarating, its reach spreading like ink in water into every hidden crevasse.
She would be staying here.
Here.
She did not expect this, did not prepare for the onslaught of emotion evoked by this kind of ambush. Because it was precisely that, and she had no armor, no weapons to fight the thrill locking her body in place, the dark tendrils of her delight conducting her like a marionette on a string.
So she nodded, because that was the only thing she could do.