The Crickhowell School for the Muses (15 page)

These words called into Awen’s memory the library at Crickhowell: the hundreds of leather tomes that lined the walls, all of them full of records. Records of patrons, maps, plans, biographies and accounts: money paid and money received. Francis’s story was beginning to make sense. Awen opened her mouth to speak—

“Well, that’s the story of my sister, then,” Francis cut in. “Or all I know of it, at least. Just remember.” He pronounced his next words slowly, with emphasis: “My father is not necessarily the man he seems to be.”

The room was silent for a moment—Francis lost in some old memory, and Awen having nothing left to say.

“Let’s look for some shoes, then,” Francis finally said, squatting back down on the floor. As he pulled a large, dark object toward him, Awen heard the sound of wood scraping against stone. From where she stood it appeared to be a trunk, though it was much bigger than her own. “While we’re here,” Francis said, still looking down, “I think I should find you some new dresses as well. That ruffly cream-puff thing you have to wear gets old, I’m sure,” he added dryly.

“Er…thanks…”

“Any time.” Francis began to pull up pieces of clothing from the trunk, tossing them right and left. “This one,” he muttered to himself, lobbing a handful of material behind him. “Mmm, no and no. Yes. Yes. No…”

Awen stood watching from the other side of the room as Francis threw garments all around the floor. She pressed her back against the door and folded her arms. She hesitated to step any farther in, for it was as if this room still belonged to the lost Gwen, and Awen would be encroaching on the girl’s personal territory.

“All right,” Francis sighed in exaggerated exasperation, struggling to stand with an armful of heavy-looking dresses. “Here are these.” He scanned the room for a moment, then pulled out a wooden table that had been pushed up against the wall. “I’ll set them here, and you can go through them while I search for a pair of shoes.”

“Um…all right…” Awen hesitated, then tiptoed to the table.

Francis watched her movements with an ironic half-smile. “What?”

Her hands were folded. “It’s just that I feel sort of…strange…picking through your sister’s things.”

He laughed. “I appreciate the respect, but she’s gone, and she’s probably never coming back. Besides, there isn’t a chance she could fit into these clothes again. I am certain she would want you to have them.” His smile faded; his eyes turned serious. “Especially you.”

Awen stared into his eyes in silence, trying to read his expression. She kept staring, contemplating his face, which held so much intensity she could not look away. She felt exposed and awkward, and clasped her hands more tightly together; then the feeling transformed into longing, which melted into sadness, and finally into desperation for something she could not describe.

She had to pull her gaze away lest she become stuck. She had to break the stillness. “All right,” was all Awen could think to say. She turned to the pile of clothing on the table.

All of the garments were knee-length dresses of brown, white, and gold, but they had different necklines—square; scooped—and each had a different gemstone lining its empire waist. One dress had a line of large square rubies, another amethysts, and a third, round peridot. “Oh, my…” Awen whispered.

“What?” Francis’s voice came from behind a heavy curtain.

“Nothing…they’re beautiful.”

“I can’t say I know much about dresses,” Francis said, sliding around another trunk, “but I do recall that my sister was said to have good taste. Why don’t you try one of them on? I’ll keep my eyes glued to this wall—but if you don’t trust me, there’s probably some curtain on your side of the room as well.”

Awen almost told him she would rather go back to her own room to try on the dresses—but a strange sort of anxiety stopped her. She was afraid that if she left for just a moment, then Francis, the dresses, maybe even the whole room, would disappear.

Awen selected the dress with the square rubies, draping it gingerly over her left arm. She glanced at Francis to make sure he really was behind a curtain and, presumably, looking the other way. Satisfied, she moved to the far side of the room.

“Have you tried it yet?” Francis’s voice was muffled.

“No; be patient, I just found a nook.” Awen flung off her Crickhowell dress and jumped into the new dress before the old one had even hit the floor.

Francis laughed. “A nook?”

“Yes, a nook.” Awen smoothed out the fabric, trying not to fret over the lack of a mirror. “All right: here I am.”

“Well, then, that
was
quick after all.”

Awen tiptoed out of her hiding place, face already warming with embarrassment. What was she doing, dressing herself in such exquisite clothing?

Francis appeared from behind the curtain across the room and regarded her.

“Well?” she said, a slight shake in her voice, for Francis had yet to speak.

“Amazing!” He clapped his hands together. “How do I put this.… It suits you perfectly. Do a turn!” he urged.

Awen pressed her palms together and made a quick spin. She could still feel herself blushing. Quietly, she asked, “Is there a mirror, perhaps?”

“A mirror…I’m sure there’s one in here somewhere.” Francis stood and strode about the room, his boot heels clicking against the stone. “I cannot imagine my sister not having had a mirror. Something fancy, likely. Aha!” From a dark corner of the room, Francis slid out a large standing metal object draped in black velvet. “Probably lined with jewels too.” He threw the velvet cover onto the floor.

All at once, Awen was looking at herself through an object as beautiful as the dress she wore. Her eyes widened as they took in the golden rope of the mirror’s frame, with every kind and color of gem and jewel pressed into it.

“Do you like it, then?” Francis asked, voice dropping at the end of his question.

“The mirror? Oh, yes; it’s wonderful!” She was still staring at the frame as if in a trance.

“Oh, well—the mirror is great, yes. But I meant the dress.”

“Oh!” Awen tore her eyes away from the frame and focused, instead, on her own reflection. She could not deny that Francis was right. The dress was beautiful—a perfect fit, in every sense of the word. The top section was white, with a square-cut neckline and short sleeves that hit two-thirds of the way to her elbow. The rubies lining the empire waist glimmered with a shocking, almost unnatural brightness. The earth-brown skirt flowed to just above her knee, and it was hemmed with a strip of gold ribbon.

Awen swallowed. “I dare say, I must agree with you: your sister had exquisite taste.”

“Yes,” Francis said, smiling, “but the outfit is incomplete! Here…” Francis walked over to Awen, holding out a pair of shoes. They were gold, with a higher heel than the leather pair Awen had lost. The strap that cut across the middle of the foot contained a line of five giant jewels: a ruby, peridot, amethyst, topaz, and aquamarine. Francis knelt on the floor, placing the shoes before her.

Awen eagerly slipped on the left shoe, but as she raised her right foot, Francis caught it.

“Allow me.” He grinned, placing the shoe on for her.

Awen frowned.

“Problem?” Francis asked, concerned.

“What will your father think? The dress, the shoes—they’re not very subtle. I doubt he’d approve.” Awen turned around, eyeing her old Crickhowell dress on the floor: it looked…safe. She kicked it into a dark corner.

Francis was quiet for a moment, lost in thought.

His silence began to make Awen nervous, and then she wondered if he had even heard her question.

“No…” he finally said, “I think you might be wrong. I don’t think he’d approve of us mentioning where we
found
the clothing; like I said, he never mentions Gwen.…”

“But he’ll know these garments were hers,” Awen protested.

“Yes, of course he’ll know. But as long as her name isn’t spoken, he can still pretend she never existed. I think he might
like
the look, actually. In fact, I would bet he’ll want you to sit for a portrait.” He paused. “Hmm…unless you would hate that.” He smiled.

“I would much prefer sitting for a portrait,” Awen mumbled, “than singing for one.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. Sometimes I wonder what it might feel like to sing just for myself again. But now, I’m not so sure I want to do even that.”

“Do it,” Francis said simply. “Sing for yourself. That’s what
I
think music should be about, anyway. Many would argue with me—but either way, I play the piano for my own pleasure.”

Awen tapped the toe of her shoe against the floor. “I suppose,” she pondered. But what was the point of unshared art? Art hidden under beds, behind layers of dust?
Was
she actually better off before Crickhowell, when her song was unknown to all but herself, tucked away like cobwebs in an unused room? A forced art, though, an unloved art, sounded just as useless. “Well,” she said, pulling at a lock of hair, “it’s something to consider.”

Awen chewed in silence on a small
chunk of tough beef. She sat in the same spot at the dinner table as she had since Francis’s arrival, in between him and his father. She slunk down in her seat, trying to keep the new dress hidden from Sir Robert, and crossed her ankles to conceal the shoes. What if he dropped something and peered under the table? She was not even sure she should bother with the precautions—Sir Robert had not looked at her once since she had entered the room. He and Francis were deep in some serious business conversation.

“How much did you get for them?” Sir Robert asked gruffly, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. “Nothing more than two hundred, I hope!”

“Father! I do say your sense of competition has gotten the better of you. Are you saying that you’d rather your son take home
less
money, just so you can say your paintings are worth more than some other painter’s?”

Awen watched Francis’s animated expression from the corner of her eye. There always seemed to be something ironic and jocular in his behavior, especially when in the company of his father.

“I suppose you could say that,” Sir Robert answered. “As proud of you as I am, I don’t see a cent of your money—you always seem to hide it away somewhere. Therefore, I don’t give one care
what
you make on a painting…unless it’s the painting of my rival, and in that case, I want you to make as little as possible.” He laughed at his own words.

“Then you’re a silly man.” Francis smiled, but he seemed to mean what he said.

Sir Robert turned abruptly. “Awen.”

She nearly jumped out of her chair—then crossed her arms over her chest, afraid he might say something about the dress.

“You look confused.”

“Confused?” Now she
was
confused—but only because she did not know what she was supposed to be confused about. She struggled to come up with a question before Sir Robert composed one for her. “I simply wonder what you were discussing,” she tossed off quickly.

“Ah,” Sir Robert said, leaning back in his chair. “Francis, you see, is a man of business. He is in the art dealing business, to be precise.”

Awen glanced at Francis, who simply shrugged.

“He rarely involves himself with
my
artwork,” Sir Robert continued, “because I like to deal with those sales myself. However, he sells many other works, which often include those of my chief rivals. And, of course”—he smiled—“I always hope he makes very little on those sales.” He winked and, leaning toward the table, turned back to Francis. “All right, Son; you never told me how much it went for.”

“Two seventy-five,” Francis replied with satisfaction. He forked a bite of food into his mouth to drive home the point.

“That bastard!” Sir Robert slapped his knee. “Ahead of me this much”—he made a space between his thumb and index finger—“every time! I’ll get him, one day. My masterpiece is almost done. Well, all right—it’s nowhere near being done. But it will go for five times his number!”

“Is that the painting you’ve been working on since my arrival?” Awen asked quietly, then stared down at her hands.

“No, that’s something different. My
masterpiece
, my
chef-d’oeuvre
, as I like to say, has been stored for some time now. I’ve lacked the inspiration to go on with it. But now, with the help of a muse, I suppose I can finish it!” His eyes lit up. “Yes! That is precisely what I must do.” He shifted in his seat as if he might rise straightaway and dig the painting out of a closet.

“Wonderful, Father. But please,” Francis protested, “not right now. Wait until tomorrow, at least.”

Sir Robert sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll wait till the morning to start.”

The room was silent. Awen looked at her plate, desiring to take another bite of her dinner—but she stopped herself. She was afraid to break the silence with an awkward clink of her fork.

“Well,” Sir Robert finally said, pushing himself out of his chair, “I’ll be heading off to my study now. Have some work to do.” He moved to the entrance of the dining hall.

“No dessert, Father?” The jocular quality had returned to Francis’s voice.

“None for me.” He shifted his eyes to Awen. “I suggest you head up to sleep now; I’m planning to start early tomorrow.” He began to turn, but stopped. “And Francis, tomorrow why don’t you head to young Miss Bryn’s home, down the way? I know she would love for you to pay her a visit.” He walked off.

There was a long silence as Sir Robert’s footsteps faded away. Awen recalled the conversation she’d had with him in his studio—about the girl who lived nearby, to whom Francis might soon be engaged.

Francis finally broke the silence: “I don’t know about you, but I’m always in the mood for dessert!”

Awen smiled faintly.

“Is something wrong?” Francis asked. “You don’t actually have to run off to bed right now, even though my father told you to.”

Awen said nothing. She had already forgotten about that part of Sir Robert’s suggestions.

Francis sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. This Bryn girl—”

“I already know about her,” Awen interrupted. “I didn’t know her name until now, but Sir Robert had said something about an engagement. He also told me not to tell you he’d told me.” She blushed, realizing her words had begun to jumble. “That’s wonderful, though.” She bit her lip, then added, “Good luck.”

“Wait a moment; just listen. I hardly
know
Bryn. I’ve met her on only a few occasions, and although she’s nice enough, I certainly have no intention of marrying her!”

Awen nodded, but without enthusiasm.

“It’s all in my father’s head. She has a name, money, and connections. So naturally, he’s hoping for an engagement.” Francis rounded his lips and exhaled.

“If your father wishes it, and if indeed she does have those qualities, I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry her.” Those weren’t the words she had wanted to say.

“I don’t need a name, or money,
or
connections!” Francis nearly shouted. “I have what I need, and I’ve been successful in my business. My father, too, has been very successful in his art, and so I cannot understand why he wants even
more
—and at my expense!” He crossed his arms in resolve. “I will do whatever I please, and for whatever reasons I choose. My father knows he cannot actually force me into anything.”

Awen had to smile. “Count yourself lucky.”

Francis regarded her seriously. “Don’t say that. You make it sound as if you don’t have any power of your own.”

“I don’t,” Awen said. She was still smiling, but she could feel moisture in her eyes. She did not feel sorry for herself—she had simply spoken the truth.

Footsteps sounded behind Awen, and a startled expression arose on Francis’s face.

Awen whipped her head around:

“Would anyone care for some flourless chocolate cake?” It was only Abigail with the dessert.

Francis rose—but he leaned in close to Awen. “Some day,” he whispered, “you will learn that you don’t have to wait for anybody to give you anything.”

Awen looked down at her dress—then up again, opening her mouth to speak…but Francis had already glided off toward the hallway.

“Save me a piece for tomorrow, Abigail,” he said over his shoulder, eyes focused on Awen. “I’m heading upstairs, but I’m sure Awen will have some.”

Then he winked at her and left.