Chapter 6
Phaedra stared at the door at the end of the hallway. It hung open, darkness spilling onto the soft carpet, drinking up the feeble light. She watched it swirl and billow, moving to a rhythm seeming to emanate from the very walls around her. An emerald pulse beckoning her forward.
She stepped closer, uncertain, her eyes drifting over the dark frames suspended on the silken wallpaper. Whispers seeped from the canvases, the words bleeding into echoes, drowning in the rush of blood in her ears.
She laid her hand against her chest, wondering at the thunderous beat hammering against her palm.
Wondering why her breath came ragged and short from lungs that burned as if she had been running.
Her throat aching as if she had been screaming.
And then she heard it, the thud of footsteps rumbling through the hallway behind her, their pace slow, deliberate. Menacing.
Fear rose in her like burning bile, and she whirled back toward the open doorway, toward the rippling void that seemed to flow closer with every violent beat of her heart, almost as if it would meet her half-way. As if it wished to help her.
She took a step, and then another, the onset of panic fueling her into frantic action until she was running, dashing toward the awaiting black, knowing that a fate far worse than mere darkness would await her should she not reach it in time.
She could hear him behind her, the steps ringing louder—closer—despite her rapid pace, and she urged the feet she no longer felt toward the only safety she could hope for.
But just as she would reach it, ready to cast herself into the depths of the concealing gloom, the swirling tendrils pulled back, retreating swiftly into the chamber beyond the door.
“No,” she breathed, the word lost to the gathering sounds around her, and she shot out her hand, reaching, grasping for the hold that was no longer there.
Her eyes darted to the door, and it was all she could do not to stumble as a flash of emerald light pierced the room, dispersing her only ally like so much smoke.
“No, no, no…” Her voice broke, dread dripping lead into her veins as the heavy air of the hallway rushed by her and into the room, banging the door shut before her. “No!”
Phaedra’s eyes flew open to gray morning light spilling through her window. She stiffened, the unfamiliar surroundings flooding her senses, and her gaze swept over the papered walls, the drum of their pulse echoing through her head.
No frames broke up the embellished green, and for a moment she had the panicked notion of being utterly alone, imprisoned in a barren place. Trapped.
But as she pushed herself up, the world tilting back into focus, clarity finally rushed in to claim her.
She sank her face into her palms, a relieved breath escaping between her fingers.
Nightmare. Just a nightmare.
There was no one coming for her, no danger, immediate or otherwise, and despite the primal fear still thrumming in her blood, she was safe in a room, in a house, in a time far removed from harm.
And the beat that reverberated as if under her very skin was nothing but the rap on her chamber door made invisible by the wardrobe concealing it from view.
She brushed the hair out of her face, and called in the direction of the door, her voice regaining some of its steadiness, “Come in!”
She heard it open, and a young woman emerged from behind the wardrobe.
“Good morning, miss!” she said, curtsying in her direction. “My name is Matilda, and I shall be assisting you this morning.”
Phaedra stared at the girl, momentarily stunned. Assist her? Assist her with what?
Matilda must have recognized her confusion, for she added, her gaze lowered, “I have been appointed as your lady’s maid. For the duration of your stay.”
“Oh,” Phaedra said. “Of course. I merely— I wasn’t expecting… Thank you.”
She slipped from the bed, her discomposure fully evident in the color rising into her cheeks. Matilda curtsied again, seemingly unaware, and stepped to the vacated bed to make it.
Phaedra moved out of her way, and opened the wardrobe, but Matilda whirled toward her at the sound.
“Please, allow me, miss.” She pulled out a dress, its dark hue striking in the pale morning light.
“No, it’s fine,” Phaedra said, taking the dress from her. “Please, carry on.”
She moved past the flummoxed maid, and pulled out her undergarments from the chest of drawers before stepping behind the dressing screen. She listened as Matilda quickly found her bearings again, continuing her work with unhurried yet practical movements.
Phaedra pulled the nightgown over her head and draped it across the top of the screen, then watched as, in a moment, it disappeared to be folded and laid neatly on her bed.
She had been truthful about the unexpectedness of the situation, indeed she did not remember Nathaniel mentioning such a thing, nor was it in her contract. She imagined it could well be but a sign of his courtesy, yet even so, Phaedra could not help but feel ungainly and very much in the way.
She wondered if it was strange to feel so strongly, as she herself had a housekeeper in employ in her own home. Yet somehow, a lady’s maid felt different. Much different.
When she finally emerged from behind the screen, Matilda gave her no time to reach for the button hook, but made quick time of the dress herself, before ushering her toward the vanity.
Phaedra sat, dazed, and watched as the maid quickly undid her dark braid, the long strands draping over her shoulders and down her back.
“How would you like your hair this morning, miss?” Matilda asked. There was a practiced cheer to her voice, one that, in her own discomfort, Phaedra had failed to notice before. And when she raised her eyes to the maid’s, she saw that she had been right.
There was a blankness to what should have been the warmth of an amber gaze, a kind of silent retreat, as if she were not truly part of the world around her. Absent behind the veil of her duty.
Phaedra wondered why the cheer was needed. Who the facade was for. If it was but an old habit not yet shed, because even if time would have allowed it, her surroundings would not.
A pang of sympathy moved through her, and she pulled her lips into what she hoped was a kind smile. “I… don’t really know. I think something practical would suffice.”
“Very well, miss.” Matilda bobbed her head, then set to work.
Phaedra tensed as the girl’s deft fingers weaved through her hair, combing and pulling and braiding, and despite the gentle nature of the motions, she could not help a feeling of intrusion settling upon her, as if what was happening was somehow wrong.
As if she would be experiencing a thing far too intimate to be done by a stranger.
Her gaze slid from the glass, unable to remain on their reflected image, and she made a mental note never to ask Matilda to do this again.
Ideas ran through her head, excuses she could make, ranging from the most thinly veiled to the most outlandish, but as her eyes landed on the wall beside the gilded frame of the mirror, all thought vanished from her mind.
Awestruck, she stared at the rich green color of the wallpaper, the hypnotic design consisting of elegant geometrical forms weaving around vines and leaves and blooms, the desire to choke or support them unclear.
It felt almost alive, the way it rippled in the gathering light, bleeding emerald into the very air around it.
It seemed an impossibility that Phaedra would only now notice it, this sublime beauty wrapping around her room. That she had somehow previously imagined it to be but the backdrop of things far more intriguing. How wrong she had been.
Her heart slowed, easing into the rhythm of its shimmer, and she put out her hand, unable to resist, wishing to immerse her fingers into—
“How is that, miss?”
Phaedra whipped her head toward the reflection of the maid, the cheerful voice jarring in its interruption, and blinked at the dark figure staring back at her.
It took her a moment to realize that Matilda had moved out of the way, leaving her the only figure within the glass, and she sucked in a breath as she took in the final product of the girl’s labor.
Matilda had pinned her long tresses into a soft chignon high on the crown of her head, the gathered hair accentuating the highness of her cheekbones and the graceful column of her neck. Dark wisps of curling hair framed her face, their softness giving her complexion a youthful glow.
She stood, almost without noticing, her eyes fused to the image before her, to the elegant form so perfectly framed by the lovely green behind her.
There was something magnetic to its darkness, the way the raven curls and onyx eyes drank up the light, the dress as if pulsating with the shadows held within its folds.
And amid the wonder of this composition, it seemed as if even the faint lines divulging her age had retreated, allowing her to step back in her years.
To be, if not the same, but at least closer to that of young Nathaniel Hawthorn.
Phaedra froze, her brows pulling together at the direction of her thoughts.
It was unlike her to dwell on these things, indeed to appropriate any importance to such trivial matters as the passage of time.
And just like Matilda’s ministrations, the appearance of these notions somehow felt intrusive, as if it had been thrust upon her by her environment and not a product of her own reasoning. And it was wrong.
She let out a slow breath, trying to contain her awakening irritation.
Because these thoughts were not only strange, they were indeed as offensive as they were ignorant.
Because, in the end, it was her age that had gotten her this far.
It was the very thing that had forged her talent into skill, crafted her passion into a business, built a dream into a life.
It was her age—her experience—that had brought her here.
And there could be no shallow contrivance, imagined or otherwise, that would take that from her.
The lines cleared from her brow, and she raised her head in defiant pride.
“Perfect.”