Page 2 of The Tyranny of our Longing

“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorn.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “But there is no need to apologize. In fact, I believe I am the one who owes an explanation.”

He looked at her then, waiting, his one hand twirling a signet ring on the other, and Phaedra found herself wondering if this clear sign of his disquiet was because of her or the ring that still must have felt like new on his finger. The dark circles under his eyes pointed to the latter.

She pulled in a breath before continuing. “You were correct in expecting the painter P. D. Mercer in your drawing room. And by now, you are probably wondering if you have indeed ever heard the artist’s full name, or perchance seen a portrait of them in the paper. I can assure you, you have not. And that is so by design.”

His pale brows pulled together, his question more a statement. “You are P. D. Mercer?”

“I am. Phaedra Daphne Mercer.”

Although there was no challenge in her voice, his brow cleared, his gaze dropping to his entwining hands.

“I… see,” he said. “I apologize, I simply assumed…” He trailed off again, the struggle to find his words seemingly flustering him.

“Most everyone does.” Phaedra smiled, then raised an eyebrow. “Will this be a problem?”

“No!” he exclaimed, his eyes flashing to hers. Then he halted for a beat, as if the outburst had startled him just as it did her. “No,” he repeated, his tone more collected this time, “not at all. I was merely… taken by surprise.”

“Good,” she said, pleased. “I’d hoped my journey had not been in vain. It is not often I find myself so far removed from where I normally conduct my business.”

She surveyed him a moment, noting the becoming tinge of rose in his pale cheeks. It almost seemed as if the child he had been not so long ago had managed to peer through.

“Your letter was vague,” she said at last.

“Yes,” he said, straightening, the shifting of the topic finally dispersing his nervous state. “I do apologize for that. It is merely that the nature of my request is somewhat…” He nodded his head to the side. “Unusual. Therefore I would have preferred to discuss it in person. I appreciate you coming on such short notice. I know you are very sought after.”

It was actually her work that was sought after, but Phaedra did not correct him. Instead, she gave him a smile. “I must admit, I was intrigued. I could not imagine why you would have need of a painter.” Right now were the words she did not add. But then she paused, brows furrowing. “You do wish to commission a painting?”

“I do.” He nodded, his eyes sliding to the wall behind her. “A series of paintings, in fact.”

Something stirred in the vivid green of his gaze, but before Phaedra could decipher its meaning, he walked up to the display of canvases, his hands clasped tight behind his back. There was a faint scent of leather and smoke as he passed her, and Phaedra could not hold back the unfurling notion that he was but an illusion of her mind. Nothing more than a specter of the past, forever haunting the place of his fiery demise. She let out a silent breath, waiting for the image to pass.

Although the emergence of such grim musings could very well be explained by the uncanny similarity between the two men—the one dead, and the other very much alive—she could still sense the dark delight lurking just beneath the surface of her mind. The pull that could wrap around her limbs in coiling vines to drag her down into the murky depths of her own morbid fascinations.

She inhaled slowly, willing her mind to come to rest, before turning to follow Nathaniel.

He stood before one of the larger paintings, a family portrait done in bright, airy colors. The mother and father sat in the middle of the frame on a plush velvet sofa, the left hand of the woman lifted and pressed to the lips of the man close beside her. His eyes were intense, the green of his irises burning with adoration. She, in turn, looked almost bashful, her gaze downcast, her shoulders pulled up to hide the blossoms soon to appear on her face. And before them on the carpet sat two small children playing, oblivious to the world around them.

Phaedra tilted her head, the composition somehow strange, bringing to mind mirrors and reflections, and things that were hidden in plain sight. But before she could grasp what exactly had conjured up these associations, Nathaniel spoke again.

“As you can see,” he motioned to the multitude of frames lining the walls, “my family is a great admirer of the arts. Or rather… was.” He paused, surprised once more by his own words. He pulled in a breath, his lips tilting into the mockery of a smile. “You must excuse me. I sometimes… forget myself.”

“Of course,” she said, yet she could not help but wonder if it was irritation or grief that trembled through his voice. She imagined it might even have been both.

Phaedra did not often find herself pitying the wealthy—especially the ones born into it—but there was something about the suddenness of the tragedy and the consequent responsibility falling on this young man’s shoulders that sent a pang of sympathy through her. After all, he barely had time to mourn his family before the burden of his inheritance was thrust upon him. Along with the expectations, scrutiny, and undeserved cruelty of the public.

“It is understandable,” she added. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

He nodded, his teeth raking over his bottom lip. “Thank you.”

He turned from her then, moving down the wall, and she followed behind him, keeping her distance, her eyes wandering from frame to gilded frame, taking in the images depicted.

“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.”