Chapter 7 #2
“The paintings in the drawing room,” he began as they turned into the grand foyer, “as you yourself have seen, depict various scenes of my family. They are all lifelike and, I can only assume, accurate. And the descriptions I wish to read to you, they are of them as well.”
They rounded the grand staircase, and turned into another hallway leading to the back of the manor.
“The account is a personal one, and I would like you to get to know my family through that lens. For your work to depict them as they are described there, and not how you would think they should appear based on the work of others.”
Phaedra nodded. It was not an entirely absurd idea, however strange it sounded. But…
“But I have already seen the paintings,” she said.
They entered a large antechamber, their steps clicking over checkered marble.
“Yes,” he said. “But only briefly. And without thinking that you should be examining them more closely. I imagine you have formed some general idea based on what you have seen. Some vague notion of their characters. Their emotions. Their relationship with one another.”
Phaedra nodded, the image of the devoted, enamored husband and his blushing wife flashing through her mind.
“That is well,” he said. “That you may keep in the back of your mind. But everything else, it must come from what I will read to you.”
They stopped before another set of large double doors, and although Phaedra noted their remarkable beauty, with their gilded carvings and delicate cut-glass inlays, she could not help ascertain their lesser nature to those of the drawing room.
“You think there is a difference?” she asked. “That they are different? In the personal accounts, I mean.”
Nathaniel’s hands halted on the door knobs as he glanced back at her.
“I do not know,” he said, finally. “And that is, in essence, why you’re here. So that I may see for myself. To determine if something is indeed different. Or overlooked. Omitted. Misinterpreted.” He shrugged. “I cannot know until you’re finished.”
Phaedra stared at him, brows drawing together. Missing? Why would things be missing in such a portrait? Of course things, especially small details, might be overlooked, but to be specifically omitted?
“But,” she said, trying to make sense of her whirling thoughts, “if you already have a personal account of their lives, would it not be enough to compare what is written to what you perceive in the paintings?”
He nodded on an exhale. “Unfortunately, it is not that simple.” He raked his fingers through his hair, and Phaedra found herself following the motion of his hand, watching as the smooth strands fell back into place, shielding the eyes that were now averted.
“I have a… condition,” he began. “An affliction of the mind.” The words were slow to emerge, his voice rough as if dragged over jagged stone, and for a moment Phaedra worried he would be seized upon by another fit of coughing.
But as he spoke on, the rest came more easily, its path cleared by the blow of the confession.
“It is not a thing I freely disclose, indeed it is a thing that has caused me great struggle, especially in my youth, but… Considering our endeavor, it is only fair that you would know about it as well.”
He pulled in a breath, his fingers twisting into the band of his ring.
“My mind, it does not work like those of others, especially when it comes to things that need to be… visualized. When I was a child, the presumption was that I merely had trouble reading, because while I recognized the letters and could even copy them, I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing. But after months of painstakingly memorizing the sound of each word put before me, it became clear that whatever was wrong with me was not the simple inability to deliver a passage out loud.”
Phaedra winced at this almost crude summary of his affliction, but did not dare interrupt.
“It was later discovered that I could not conceptualize what I read, apart from the most basic things, and the result was equally disastrous whenever someone else would read to me, or even try to explain something to me. It felt as if a haze would come over my mind, and although I could hear each word, even understand their separate meaning, I could not for the life of me piece together what it all meant.” He huffed a laugh.
“It drove my father to madness. Especially because he could otherwise converse with me in an ordinary manner. And when it came to things I myself have witnessed, I also had no trouble recounting them.”
“Because you would draw on memories rather than imagination,” Phaedra muttered, half to herself.
He shot her a glance that almost seemed startled, as if he were taken aback by the correctness of her inference.
“Exactly. It was simultaneously the one thing making it bearable and the thing that made it all the worse. That was why I was not believed when I said I genuinely did not understand. Why I was branded a liar and an idler, an unheeding—”
He stopped short, his eyes falling closed. His chest heaved with a frustrated sigh, as if he would rid himself of the emotion his words were building in him. And when he finally looked back at her, the emerging anguish was gone, as if it had never been.
“I apologize,” he said. “Being back in this house…” He shook his head. “It is sometimes difficult.”
“I know the feeling,” she murmured.
And she did. She remembered quite well what it had felt like to enter her own childhood home again after her father’s passing.
The rage, the disdain, the pure contempt at needing to cross that threshold again.
If anything, she was in awe of Nathaniel’s self-control, of how he had not wished to burn the remainder of the house down himself.
But, then again, her home was not the Treasure Trove.
And her father was not Bartholomew Hawthorn.
And even if Nathaniel’s words alluded to a tempestuous relationship, the pain of which still evidently thrived in the young man’s mind, she dared not imagine that it could have been anything like hers. She hoped it had not.
She saw the flicker of curiosity flash through his features, but before he could even decide if he wished to ask, Phaedra said, “Your letter?”
He blinked, then nodded, as if expecting the question. “Composed by my solicitor. I have merely copied it to give it authenticity.”
“And when you were reading the contract the evening before…”
“I was merely verifying the numbers, to ensure everything was correct.”
She tilted her head, her brows pulling together in thought.
“I know it is somewhat difficult to fathom,” he said quickly, an anxious edge lacing his words. “Sometimes even for myself. It is rare, and it is strange, and—”
“And that is why you need a painter.”
His eyes shot to hers, and Phaedra could almost see the air halting in his chest.
“You wish to see what is in those accounts.”
“Yes,” he said, the word no more than a breath. He watched her a moment, his features guarded, as if waiting for her to say something else. And when she didn’t, he added, near bashful, “I know it may seem rather excessive, but—”
“Please.” She held up her hand. “You do not need to explain. It is your prerogative.”
A hesitant smile lit his somber features, his shoulders losing some of their tense bearing, and Phaedra could not help the hollow ache pulsing through her heart.
She wondered what it could have been like for him to grow up, to go into the world with such an affliction.
What it had meant in the perception of others.
The possible—probable—ridicule or sheer dismissal, all because of something he had no control over.
As if life with such a hindrance would not be difficult enough.
But then again, she was reminded as he finally pushed the doors open, wealth had a way to cushion all falls.