Chapter 11
Phaedra stared at the canopy of her bed, the unexpected revelations of the day thrumming as if in her very bones.
She had known after they had finally set to work that no matter the hour she eventually retired for the night, sleep would not come easily.
Nathaniel must have formed the same opinion, for he had urged her to take the pad and charcoal back to her room, lest some image, some spark of her fancy would come to her during the night.
She turned on her side, her gaze shifting to the pad she had placed on the vanity.
It was closed, the darkness of the room muffling its form into a soft cocoon, barely visible.
Yet she could feel it there, the drawing beneath the cover, knew each ashen stroke as if the lines had been etched not onto paper but her very skin.
To know this was only the beginning filled her with a cavalcade of emotions, tangling into each other in patterns she did not know how to unravel.
But what she did know with ever mounting certainty was that she did not want to leave.
Not this strange mystery finally unfolding before them, nor this magnificent house that had sheltered it for so long.
And not the man who stood in the center of it all.
She hugged the cover to her chest, her gaze moving past the vanity to affix itself to the walls beyond.
Nathaniel had been right in wishing to start early, right in assuming she would sketch while she listened.
She herself had not been entirely certain until he had started reading, and the motionlessness of her hand, so certain one moment, was gone the next.
She had been taken by the strange yet alluring lilt of his voice as he had read the words that were not his, the need to understand while being incapable of it threading it with a tremor that had echoed through the space between them.
She had watched him, his face finally devoid of its false indifference, his tone unsheltered by the biting mockery he so easily hid behind, and what had remained, stripped bare under the sharp glass of her practiced scrutiny, had been something true.
Something achingly beautiful. And for the first time since coming into his acquaintance, Phaedra did not know if it was the artist in her who had made the observation, or the woman underneath.
Her eyes shifted, following the rippling pattern as it fanned out into the corners of the room, its enchantment warring with the darkness threatening to smother it.
She knew it would be a lie to claim she had not noticed the obvious.
That her fancy had not been swayed multiple times by him.
But she also knew that up to this point, it had never been anything…
real. Nothing but peculiar musings brought about by unusual circumstances, fanciful associations driven by the sheer thrill of being in this place so close together with him.
But this, whatever it was that had now burrowed beneath her skin—this felt alive.
She could feel it budding within her, waiting to bloom, as if its flowering were not only a possibility, but a certainty written in the pages of the future.
As if it were something that could not be crushed.
Because for the first time, she had felt every inch, every fiber of her being fully attuned to him, studying, absorbing, seeing him for what he truly was. And he was—
Phaedra clenched her eyes shut, forcing breath into her lungs.
There was a tightness in her chest, a rigidness in her body telling her that she had gone too far.
With jerky movements, she turned her back to the room, commanding reason to leash her wayward thoughts.
Because she knew exactly what Nathaniel Hawthorn was.
And knew that even entertaining such outlandish notions would only lead to misery.
She opened her eyes, surprised to see the moon not only risen, but already high beyond her window. It shone pale against the backdrop of black, its ghostly light cleaving her room in two, signifying the lateness of the hour.
That she had fallen asleep without noticing was the only explanation. And it was the very thing she needed to try again, if she wished to be even remotely refreshed for tomorrow.
She closed her eyes once more, urging her mind to release consciousness, but still, it held its grip a while longer, lingering on the words of the young woman who was no more.
Tomorrow Phaedra’s work would start. Tomorrow she would bring her to life.
Tuesday, the 14th of October, 1879
Father arrived a few days before we were expecting him.
I was sitting in the drawing room with Mother, she pretending to read, I pretending not to watch her.
Her eyes, like fretful sparrows, —— — —- ———- —— —— ——— ——— as if she knew he would be coming.
She had been so fitful during the day, fidgeting and flighty like a ——— ——- —— — —- —- ————- she would always answer the same:
— Just my nerves, my dear. You know how they are.
——— - — —— —- ———
— - ———- — —————— —- ———- — —- ————- since Father left.
It did not happen all at once, but rather gradually, as if at first she could still count on his presence even if he was physically not there anymore.
And she carried on just like she would have with him by her side, until she suddenly realized she was alone.
Father had never been away for quite so long before, his journey taking him farther —— ——- ——- ———- —- —— —————- —— —- —— - —- — ——— —— ——- —- - — ——- ——- but a merchant’s ship is no place for a respectable lady.
Or so he said. But still, the pain of their parting had always been evident, ———— — ——- — —- ————- — —- ——— and I could not help but wonder what it would feel like, to be missed that dearly.
She must have missed him too, for as spring finally turned to summer, and she slowly became aware of his absence, his shadow falling away to let the sun finally shine on her as well, she did not bloom. Instead, she shrank back, as if the light were too blinding.
In a daze she wandered the halls of our home, as if uncertain what to do with herself without his guiding hand. Her eyes roamed large and unsure over every facet of our ————- —- - — —- ——- — —————- - —- —- —— —— As if she would be lost.
My own amazement peaked — —- —- —- ——- — - ——- —- ——- —- ——- ———- — - —- ——- —— —— —- - ——- ——— —- —— ———— she told me stories of her childhood.
She spoke of the grandparents I have never met, the estate I have never seen, and I hung on her every word for the histories I had never before been allowed to know.
Yet every time we would come upon the ——— - —- ——-, when her attachment to my father would begin, she would seem to lose the threads of her memories, leaving me wanting.
And when I would press, she would simply pat my hand with a smile that could have been melancholy did it not have some strange detachment to it, and would say:
— That is a tale for another time.
Then she would get up, even if our game was not yet over, and would slowly find her way to her room, as if shunned by the stern voice of an invisible force.
With the cold returning, so did her usual behaviors, as if the chill winds had already brought Father’s spirit home before he even set foot on land.
It felt as if she had once again found her center of gravity, and fitted herself back into the mold she was expected to be in.
Her excitement seemed to grow ——- —- —— - ——— — ——— crawl out of her own skin for the sheer tremors that sometimes seized her.
She watched for him, days before his expected arrival.
And yet, despite this ardent vigil, Father still surprised us —— — ———- ——- —- —- —— his steps wild and resounding, as if he could not contain himself to a more pleasant approach.
As if being apart had been nothing but agony, and now he was finally free of it.
— — —— —— —- ——- —- dashed toward Mother’s chair as a man rushing toward his salvation, and she shrank back in a moment of shock before shooting up into his arms, professing a pale hand for a kiss, while the other had clasped into a fist by overwhelming emotion.
I felt it again then, the stab of envy for this display of affection, and my yearning heart seized control over my words, calling out a heartfelt greeting, hoping that his attention would shift, even if just for a moment.
Hoping that maybe this time I would not be looked through as if I were nothing but air.
—- —— - ——- - —- ——— in need of reminders to know where my place is, in this world, and especially this house.
Though Father did turn, he did so not to me, but to ———— ———- - behind him, laden with heavy parcels, which he deposited — —- —— ——- ———— Father’s excitement was palpable as he pulled her to his side, and presented the gifts he had acquired — —- ——— —- ——— the definite proof that he had been thinking of her every second of every day of their time apart.
— ———- — —- ——- - ———- an array of creams and powders and tonics, fragrant and beautiful, their expense etched into the intricate patterns of the vials and pots and delicate boxes.
—- — ——— — eyes wide, in such awe of this display that she could barely utter her words of amazement.
Then he pulled out a small bottle, proclaiming he had found the remedy for her ailment, the elixir that would finally make her nights more pleasant.
And as she looked at it, almost afraid that such a miracle cure might exist, her eyes seemed to grow wider, flitting from the bottle to his knowing smile, and I saw her hand grasp his arm in a staggering attack of gratitude.
Indeed she was so consumed by this nigh unbelievable possibility, that when Father finally threw open the last parcel, she did not even glance at it.
But I did. And I have not recovered since.
—— ——- ————- - bolt of fabric, its color a radiant green I have never before beheld in my life. It seemed to call — - —— commanding my attention, and I felt the urge to reach out and ——— ——— —- —, to sink into its depths until my lungs would fill with nothing but that otherworldly hue.
- —— —- Father’s voice that finally broke the spell, and drew my eyes painfully from this wonder.
— Do you not like it?
It was the first time I had noticed the clipped nature —- ——- — ——— as if there were some hidden meaning behind the polite words and endearing tone. —- —— ——— — Mother’s face who finally looked at the fabric, nodding curtly, the words a whisper on her lips:
— It is lovely, my darling. Please, forgive me, I am merely tired.
Lovely. She must have been indeed truly tired if she looked upon that marvel, and that was the only word she could find to describe it. —- ——— ——— — — ——- but rather took her arm, guiding her toward the door.
— Of course, my love. I understand. Allow me to escort you to your chamber.
And there it was again. A new chorus running beneath his words, — - — —- ——— shared a secret language containing all the same words — ———- —— yet their meaning different entirely.
—— —— out of the room before I could judge —- ——— ————— barely a good night thrown my way. Then, as my eyes fell to the fabric once more, all my ———- evaporated like so much ———
Even now as I write this, I can feel the fabric’s presence amid the walls of this house.
- —- ——- see it through the darkness, hear it like a live thing calling out to me.
As if it were made for me. —- - ——— —— —- ———- or hope rather—if Mother would not mind sharing, yet I fear what Father ——- —- - —- —— Some part of me thinks he would not even notice, as he fails to notice everything that concerns my person.
- ———- — —— —- —- —— ——- I know it will most certainly haunt my dreams, just as whatever frightful images haunt poor Mother’s.
I can hear her ——— —- gasps for breath even through the walls separating our bedrooms, and I hope —— — —- —— —- the gift ——— —- ———- —- will finally bring her peace.