Chapter 13
Phaedra worked through the day, relishing in the mixing of the pigments, watching as the smooth, creamy wax melted into the colors.
It calmed her in a way nothing else could, her mind adrift on each fluid movement as it settled into its final hue.
Then she started on the panel, alternating between a brush to put in the base colors for the background and the small painting knife to carve in the details.
She went on without noticing the passing of the time or the shifting of the light as it once more began to rain.
The drops fell softly at first, the rain gradually moving into a fury that pelted the windows like pebbles hurled from the sky.
Then came the sound of something shattering, and Phaedra whipped her head toward the windows, surprised to find a world existed outside the one coming to life beneath her hand.
A world that was now covered in crystalline white, shining bright under the gathering dusk.
Hail coated the grass, crushing weeds and rogue flowers alike, the frozen pellets stuck amid the tangling vines that were once meticulously trimmed shrubbery. The sky rolled dark and ominous as the rain finally stopped, leaving a leaden silence in its wake.
A cold draft rushed past her, rustling her skirts and snaking up her legs, and then she heard echoing footsteps tumbling toward her.
“Miss Mercer!” Nathaniel pulled to a stop behind her, breath wheezing in his chest. “Are you… all right? I heard… something shatter.”
“Yes,” she said absently. She stepped to the window, into the gust of icy wind whistling through the broken pane. Glass crunched beneath her slippered foot.
“Careful!” Nathaniel grasped her by the elbow, and she was gently guided back, her gaze slipping from the glittering shards to something smooth and liquid coating the floor.
She turned to find one of her bowls overturned on the edge of the table, a shard of hail melting beside it, its water mingling with pale green wax dripping onto the marble.
Nathaniel followed her gaze, then grabbed a rag from the table, bending to wipe up the stain.
“Don’t!” Phaedra dropped to her knees, catching his wrist. He froze, his arm stiff under her fingers, his pulse hammering from the unexpected command. Phaedra pulled her hand back, the color draining from her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hawthorn. Please forgive me. I— I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s… quite alright.” He did not look at her as he pushed to his feet.
Phaedra cursed under her breath, then rose as well, her other hand grasping the guilty one, as if it would prevent the reoccurrence of the offense.
“I did not mean to alarm you,” she said, searching his face.
“Not over such a silly thing.” The lightness she had forced into her tone had done its job, and he glanced at her, curious.
She pulled in a steadying breath, hoping her smile would fend off the heat of her next words.
“It is simply that I am not used to… endless supplies. I always try to be as efficient as I can. To save what I can. And with wax, a spill is usually not a waste if one lets it dry.”
His brow furrowed as he digested this, his mouth opening without words, then he looked back at the hardening mound of green on the floor.
“I see,” he said finally. He placed the rag back onto the table, carefully as if it were a fragile thing. A wisp of chill air lifted the strands of his hair, and he looked at the window, remembering. “Right. I shall have that repaired as soon as possible. In the meantime—”
His words halted as he turned back, his eyes landing not on her, but the easel behind her. The soft crease returned between his brows, and Phaedra’s heart sank.
She knew disappointment when she saw it. It was present in every line of his rigid body, the tensing of his features, the way even his breath seemed to halt, and she was sure it was only his impeccable breeding that did not let any word escape him until he was sure what exactly he wished to say.
“It’s—” she started, the sudden urge to explain herself overwhelming.
She wanted to clarify her process, to tell him she is not even remotely close to being finished.
To remind him that he knew very well how her style was different to every other painting in the house, because it was he who had chosen her.
But he cut her short, his one word of assessment rushing out of him on an exhale. “Marvelous.”
The word seemed to dispel whatever force had previously claimed hold of him, and he stepped closer, his eyes roving over the panel, seeking out every detail—every shadow to every light, every shade bleeding into the next.
Phaedra watched him, his rapt wonder loosening the tightness in her chest. But the cloud of her uncertainty lingered even as she stepped to his side. “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Hawthorn, but it is far from finished.”
“Yes, I can see that, but…” He tilted his head as he examined the lines etched into the painted door frame. “But already the details, the textures, the way the colors blend into each other…” He let out a quiet breath. “It is almost… ethereal.”
She shot him a glance, her pleased smile from the honesty of the reaction faltering over a dawning realization.
It felt as if a shade had been removed from her eyes, and some uncomfortable notion had finally softened among her thoughts. It molded itself better to her understanding, its jagged edges dulled by the simple fact that it was not true. Not in the way she had first understood it.
Nathaniel Hawthorn was not unaffected by beauty. And his cold dismissal of everything around him was not because he could not appreciate what he saw, but rather the circumstance of how it came to be here. And the person it had belonged to.
And as she looked at him now, it felt as if he had finally shed some disfiguring cloak, allowing him to stand in a form that was more true to who he was. One without the need to confuse or misdirect. To hide or to protect. One that could indeed take in the wonders of this world and be moved by it.
She watched the emerald of his eyes as it shifted, stirred by emotion and darkened by the flutter of his lashes, and for a moment she wondered what it would feel like to be beheld like that. To have those eyes, that worshiping gaze directed at her.
A blush moved into her cheeks as she registered the errant direction of her thoughts, and she snapped her head forward, a silent yet exasperated breath escaping her. Then, with a self-assurance she did not entirely feel, she cleared her throat.
“It is the medium,” she said. “So very unnotable from a distance, but once offered the chance to be studied closely… It can take one’s breath away.
” She studied the panel, her own eyes moving over the diffused strokes.
A tentative smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
“It is precisely this effect—this wonder of the beholder—that drew me to it in the first place. Seeing it then for the very first time, understanding how each piece is unique and unrepeatable… It made me realize two things. One: that it would take nothing less than pure force to remove me from its presence.”
Nathaniel chuckled, a quick, low sound that sent a thrill through her.
But her unexpected delight at being its cause was short-lived as she realized how seldom she had heard him laugh before.
How even his smile rarely seemed genuine, but a fragile thing laced with the shadows of more unpleasant emotions.
She did not notice she had been staring until Nathaniel prompted, “And the other?”
She turned back to her painting. “That I would not rest until I had mastered this craft.”
“And did you?” he asked, the warmth of his amusement folding over them like a halo, driving away the chill of her descending melancholy. “Rest, I mean. Because it is clear to me that you have achieved your goal.”
“Well, Mr. Hawthorn, being an artist yourself, I am sure you know you can never truly master anything.” She shot him a smile, but froze at the sudden shift in his expression, all remnants of good humor erased from his features.
“What is it?” she asked, but she could barely get the question out before his own followed.
“How did you know?”
They stared at one another, and Phaedra watched as something sharper rose to mingle with his stunned surprise. Suspicion. Distrust. A wall erected where none had been before.
“I…” She hesitated. How had she known? The words had come so naturally, she never thought to examine their origin before saying them. And as she looked at him now, it was clear she had been right. But how? “I do not know.”
It was clear he did not believe her, but she was thankful for his reluctant silence that allowed her the chance to unravel the history of her assumptions.
“You’re a pianist,” she said, carefully testing the words.
He nodded, wary.
“Could I have known that?”
His brows shot up, and Phaedra saw that it was this question that finally dispersed his doubts. He tilted his head, piqued interest rushing in to take the place of his earlier reservation.
“I… am not sure. I doubt you could have learned it from the staff.”
Phaedra shook her head. “No, I would have remembered that. Could I have seen it in one of the paintings?” But she knew the answer even before she had finished the question. And yet…
“No.” His response was quick and certain. “There is only one painting with a piano, and that is of my mother.”
“Yes, but…” Phaedra clenched her eyes shut, something snagging at the edges of her memory.
She raised her hand, trying to recall the image, the woman with long auburn hair cascading down her back, posture held stiff as her fingers glided over the keys.
The room was light, the furnishings few yet masterfully crafted, and there, near the wall—
“There was a metronome,” she said, her eyes snapping to his.
“In the painting of your mother. On the side table, together with two stacks of what looked like exercise books. One was more ornate than the other, so I am guessing both you and your sister played. And under the bench, there was a footstool, so you must have been quite young at the time?”
Nathaniel stared at her, mouth agape, then quickly blinked away his astonishment.
“Yes, that is correct. We both learned as children.” He folded his arms around his chest, his brows pulling together.
“My father was quite adamant about it. Well, at least in regards to me. Ana begged him incessantly to participate, but only when I offered that it might speed up my progress to have a learning companion did he finally relent. He was rigorous in his demands, but for once I did not mind, because, surprisingly, I was rather good at it.” The corner of his lips lifted, but there was no mirth to its tilt.
“It was maybe the only thing I was good at. The only thing that kept me sane.”
His voice lowered over the last words, as if they were no longer directed at her. She saw the tick in his jaw, sensed the danger of the morose cloud hovering over him, so she quickly said, “But you still play.”
He raised a brow at the assurance in her tone, his tentative smile now genuine. “I’m curious to know why you would think that?”
She smothered her own smile, her eyes wandering to the rolled up sleeves of his shirt then down to his long delicate fingers. She could easily imagine them flying over ivory keys, their motion soft yet precise.
“Your hands,” she said with certainty. “When you’re contemplating something, you sometimes drum your fingers, but in a way that has a sort of defined rhythm to it.
And then there is the way you move your arms, with your wrists always held loose, while your forearms are…
” She paused as her eyes lingered on the smooth skin and the strength visible in the lean muscle.
Her fingers twitched with the memory of touching him mere minutes ago, and her throat felt suddenly dry as she ground out, “Well developed.”
She spun toward the table, straightening her tools into neater rows.
“Impressive.” He moved closer, leaning against the tabletop beside her. She could almost feel the weight of his gaze as it brushed over the lines of her profile. “You are very… observant, Miss Mercer.”
“I am a painter, Mr. Hawthorn.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It is my job to be observant.”
“True,” he mused, his voice a low hum in the emptiness of the grand space. “But I feel there is more to you than simply seeing. And while I do not know how you came upon such understanding, I do know one thing.”
“And that is?” she asked lightly. She could feel the heat creeping into her skin, her fingers rigid as she righted the brushes in their pot.
“That bringing you here may have been the wisest decision I have ever made.”
Her eyes darted to his, her breath catching from the intensity of his gaze.
And as it lowered to her parted lips, she could not halt the thrill rushing down her spine, its source now far beyond the effect of his unexpected praise.
And on its heels, a shuddering chill, freezing her limbs to the spot, its bite broken only by the blessed sound of the dinner bell, splitting the heavy silence between them.
Phaedra let out a breath, thanking her guardian angel for this sign of mercy, but before even the thought of fleeing could take root in her mind, Nathaniel asked, “Will you join me for dinner?”
She blinked. “I…”
She glanced at the painting, hoping it would offer her an excuse to stay instead. But it seemed the heavenly favor did not extend to the rest of her evening.
“Yes,” she said. “This still needs time to dry.”
If he had noticed the reluctance in her voice, he showed no sign, motioning instead toward the door. “Please.”
With rigid fingers, she removed her painting smock, draping it over the stool. And as she finally fell into step beside him, head bowed, thoughts tangling into unrecognizable forms, she could almost feel the disapproving gaze of the portraits following her out.