Firethorne

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Maya

L ysander led me to the opposite side of the mansion, to the wing farthest away from his father’s office. And as we walked, he said, “I spoke to Beresford this morning. He said he won’t set anymore traps on the estate where people might stumble across them. I’m so sorry again for what happened to you.”

I smiled and thanked him. It was sweet that he was looking out for me. But at the same time, I was pretty sure it wasn’t Beresford that’d left that note. Beresford probably had no idea what Lysander was talking about. But I left the matter there... for now.

When he reached the door to his studio, he stood still for a moment, pausing dramatically before announcing excitedly, “Are you ready to see where the magic happens?”

“It depends what kind of magic you’re talking about,” I replied.

His comment was innuendo, I knew that, and I couldn’t help getting sucked in as I stifled a grin.

“The best kind.” He winked, then pushed the door open and stepped back to allow me to enter first.

As I stepped forward, I was surprised at how much light flooded into the room, warming the air and beckoning me in. It was a stunning space. It took my breath away. Truly.

Lysander’s studio was on the corner of the building, with a semi-circle of floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room, overlooking the Firethorne estate. I was instantly drawn to those windows, and as I walked towards them, I gasped at the breath-taking panoramic view. The fields and green hills rolled on for miles, trees as old as time standing tall and proud, leaves and branches swaying in the autumn breeze. The sky was cool and grey, so cool it was almost white, cotton clouds rolling across slowly, creating the perfect accompaniment to this quintessential English day. It was perfect. Even I felt the urge to paint the scene. The room really did have a magical aura.

“Wow,” I marvelled, my eyes sweeping across the landscape, taking it all in. “It really is magical. Everything looks so beautiful from up here.” I felt the warmth of his presence as he came to stand behind me, the heat of his breath as it fanned across the back of my neck. “It’s just so... beautiful.” I’d used that word twice, but I was speechless, fumbling over my words. This was a room I could stay in forever.

“Yes, it is,” he hummed seductively, making me think he was talking about more than the view. His voice was close, so close, and I turned around to find him staring right at me, his eyes penetrating through me.

“Are those your paintings?” I asked, feeling a little nervous.

I already knew the answer as I moved to the far side of the studio. But I needed to give myself some space, to clear my head of the improper thoughts that were running through it.

Painted canvases were propped up against the wall, each one capturing a different aspect of the estate; the fields, the forest, and the lake that I’d yet to discover for myself. Each painting was so atmospheric, so consuming, that it made me want to reach out and touch them, run my fingers over the swirls and flicks of the paint. They made me yearn for the real thing. To experience the natural beauty of this place in all its forms.

“You’re so talented,” I said, taking time to study each painting as I went.

“It’s my passion,” he replied, moving to walk in step beside me. “I like to convey how I see the world, what it makes me feel. And hopefully, pull you into it too. Make you... feel .”

I turned to look at him, and he smiled.

“I meant, as a lover of art. I want anyone who sees my paintings to be pulled into that world. To experience the moods and emotions that a place like Firethorne can give you.”

“I think you do that,” I told him. “It certainly makes me want to go outside and explore.”

“Maybe stay a little longer here and see a few more of my paintings first, before you bail on me,” he replied, and I laughed lightly.

I glanced down at a painting of the lake, the image of a sinister, shadowy figure standing in the thick of the forest in the background, leaning against a tree trunk, almost hidden amongst the beauty of the scene made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

Lysander sighed, and I wasn’t sure he’d answer me as he stood still and hummed to himself. Then on a whisper, as if he was scared someone would overhear him, he said, “That’s Damien. But don’t tell anyone. I hide him in most of my paintings.”

He moved to stand next to a painting of the sweeping driveway of the Firethorne estate. The same driveway we’d driven down last night, with its Victorian lamps lining the way. Then he pointed at one of those lamps, showing me the silhouette of a man hidden behind.

“There he is in this one,” Lysander said, then he moved to point to a painting of the fields, with a cluster of rocks in the bottom left-hand corner. He indicated where a shadow was cast on the ground, as if someone was hiding behind those rocks. “And here he is again.”

I found it strange that he felt the need to put dark, shadowy images of his brother in his paintings, like he was placing easter eggs that only he knew about.

“Why do you put Damien in all your paintings?” I asked, wanting to know what went on in his mind at those points in his artistic process.

“Because I like to put him outside, where he belongs.”

Lysander was speaking candidly now. Lost in his thoughts as he stared at his work.

“Why does he belong outside?” I asked, hoping he’d keep spilling his truths to me, because I wanted to know them all. I wanted to know everything I could about the Firethorne family.

“Because he might have the Firethorne name, but he’s not a real Firethorne. Not like me.”

Interesting.

“Why isn’t he a real Firethorne?” I pressed, my focus on him now, the canvases merely spectators to the reality he was now painting for me.

“Because...” Lysander tensed his jaw, and then, with his eyes fixed on his paintings, he said, “We might have the same father, but my mother didn’t give birth to him. He’s a bastard. A living reminder of my father’s indiscretions. He isn’t a true-born Firethorne.”

They were half-brothers. I’d had no idea, but it certainly answered a few questions and explained why they were so different.

“I thought you were the eldest?” I asked, and Lysander nodded.

“I am. My father brought him to live with us when he was born. I was four at the time.”

“That must’ve been tough. Was your mother still around when that happened?” I asked and watched him swallow. His voice broke a little as he started to speak.

“She died when we were young. She’d been ill for most of our lives, but I know, when he brought Damien to live here, it didn’t help matters. That broke her.”

I wanted to ask how she’d died, what illness she’d had, but I found myself saying, “I’m so sorry to hear that.” And then, “What about Damien’s mother? Where is she?”

“I have no idea, and I don’t want to know.” I felt him snap back to reality, shaking his head slightly as he stepped away from the canvases against the wall and reached out to touch my arm. “Talking about my bastard brother was the last thing I wanted to do when I brought you in here.” His eyes softened as he added, “Come over here. I want to show you something.”

I took one more glance at the paintings laid out in front of me, my eyes searching each one for the darkly hidden figure. The brother that didn’t belong here. Then, I lifted my gaze to look at Lysander. Kind, honest Lysander.

“I’m sorry you lost your mother. I know how that feels. I lost mine, too,” I said, giving him a little bit of myself in return for his openness.

Lysander stepped closer to me.

“Let’s not lose ourselves to the ghosts of our past,” he replied, ignoring my confession like it was nothing. As if they were words he hadn’t heard me speak. The sunshine he always exuded was glowing brightly now as he walked towards a large mahogany desk on the opposite side of the room. “I find living for the moment far more rewarding. And the future is much more exhilarating than the past.”

I knew he was deflecting. Avoiding the pain he didn’t want to feel. Who was I to challenge him on that? I did the same, too, most days.

I followed him to the desk, watching as he rooted through papers, trying to find whatever it was he wanted to show me. The desk was a clutter of artwork, pencils, brushes and paint tubes.

“Ah, here it is,” he announced, pulling out a piece of paper from the pile. “I did this last night. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.”

He handed the paper to me, and I took it, glancing down at the pencil sketched there, almost losing my breath as I did.

“Is this me?” I asked, struggling to find my voice.

“Yes. I sketched it from memory last night, after I’d dropped you off at the cabin. It’s only a rough, first draft, but once I’ve convinced you to sit for me, I can work on it. I can create that portrait we talked about.”

He’d gone home, sat and thought about me, and drawn this sketch from memory. No one had ever done anything like that for me before. I was speechless. Again.

“That’s just so.... so...” I didn’t know if I could find the words to describe how I was feeling. But I went with, “Thoughtful.”

It wasn’t the right word.

It wasn’t nearly enough to describe the buzz of electricity currently flowing through me. The warmth in me that realising he’d taken time to do that elicited.

That he thought I was in some way special.

Trust no one.

They’re all liars here.

But maybe I could trust Lysander. He was giving me every reason to.

In this moment, all my apprehension and mistrust evaporated for a split second, like a break in the clouds, giving me a glimpse of what could be. This sketch was a selfless gesture. A kindness. He really did want to paint me. Capture whatever it was he saw that made him feel something. And maybe it’d make me feel something, too.

“Do you really like it?” Lysander asked, and the fact he seemed unsure made my heart swell a little more.

“Of course I do. I love it.” I went to pass the sketch back to him, but he shook his head.

“That’s yours. You can keep it.”

“Don’t you need it for reference? To work from?” I asked.

“No. I have the real thing I can use for that.” He reached forward and cupped my cheek with his warm hand, and I leaned into it, closing my eyes briefly as I got lost in the haze he was creating. He was the flame, and like a moth, I was flying blindly into the brightness he was promising me. Burning in the sunshine of his presence.

“Do you want to pose for me now?” he asked, his voice low, his lips a whisper away from mine.

My heart fluttered, anticipating what might come next, but my head broke through the haze, reminding me I was at work. I was here for a reason. I couldn’t let myself get carried away. Not now.

“I’m flattered that you want to paint me,” I said, enjoying his warmth for a second longer. Then taking a step back, I added, “But I have to get back to work. I can’t pose for you today. I’m so sorry.” I walked back over to the windows to try and break the spell he’d put me under. “Maybe you could get lost in another landscape today. After all, you said yourself you love painting those the most.”

Lysander began to reply, but suddenly, the air around me cooled, and my ears rang as I noticed my father through the window, walking outside. Lysander’s voice was nothing but background noise that I couldn’t comprehend as I watched my father stride up the driveway towards the house. He wasn’t dressed in his work attire like he had been this morning when I left. No. He was wearing a tailored suit. One he used to wear when he worked in finance. His best suit.

Lysander’s voice went on, just a distant hum as I witnessed my father heading towards the main steps, and I watched open-mouthed as Beresford tipped his hat to greet my father, a greeting he’d give to any visitor to the estate. A visitor of importance. But not a worker. He didn’t tell him to go to the service entrance like he’d told me. Oh no. He let my father walk right past him and up the steps, towards the front door.

I knew Mr Firethorne had spoken about discussing some terms of the contract with my father, but from how he was dressed, and the way he’d carried himself as he’d walked inside just now, it looked to be a lot more than that.

Through the buzz in my ears, I heard Lysander mention a schedule for sitting for him, and I spun around, suddenly unable to think clearly.

“I need to get back to the kitchen,” I announced abruptly, wondering whether I’d bump into my father on the stairs if I left this studio now. Or would he be kept waiting in the foyer or in some side room while Firethorne continued to entertain his client? Another display to my father, to show him how unimportant the elder Firethorne thought he was.

I didn’t know. But I didn’t feel comfortable being here anymore, and I wanted to leave. To get back to the security of the kitchen, and Cora.

“Shall I come and find you later, book in a few sessions for us?” Lysander asked, his brow furrowed in confusion as I headed for the door.

“Not yet,” I replied. Then feeling a little ungrateful, I added, “Let me settle in first, then we can sort something out. I want to make a good impression.”

“You’ve already made a good impression,” Lysander said in that velvety-smooth tone of his.

But I wasn’t deterred.

“I have to go back to work. Thank you for showing me all this. And thank you for my picture.” I held the sketch tightly in my hand and glanced over my shoulder to where Lysander stood in the middle of his studio, looking forlorn, as if I’d abandoned him when he needed me the most. But I gave him an apologetic smile, pulled the door open and walked away.

As I headed down the hallway, I heard the faint sound of floorboards creaking behind me, and I stopped, turning to see who it was, expecting to find Lysander following me. But I couldn’t see anyone, and the door to Lysander’s studio remained closed.

A few more steps forward and I heard those creaks again.

I whipped my head around and called out, “Who’s there?” But no one answered.

I slid the sketch into the pocket of my apron and charged forward with more purpose now, my heart beating faster as I moved through the house, feeling like the walls were watching me, the ceilings tracking my every move. Even the house felt like it was judging me. The mansion was a living, breathing entity ready to encase me in its dark halls and never let me go.

I came to the top of the staircase and expected to see my father ascending as I made my way down, but he wasn’t there.

I didn’t see anyone.

But as I made my way downstairs, I heard movement from above.

I stopped, my heart beating faster now, and I held my breath as I peered up, straining to hear every little sound, expecting to see someone on the stairs. But no one was there.

Shaking my head, convincing myself that it was just an old house that made those sorts of noises, I carried on walking down the hallway, aiming for the kitchen. But the creaking started up again, and I lost my shit.

“Whoever you are, stop fucking following me,” I bellowed as I spun around. And there, standing in the hallway with a smirk that told me she’d gotten the reaction she was hoping for, stood Miriam.