Waking the Princess (23 page)

"It does." John gave her an impish grin and went to the sideboard to pile his plate with food. Rising, Christina carried his plate and a cup of fresh coffee to the table while John managed his cane.

Aedan folded his paper. "What has inspired you so?"

"I know what to do with the mural," John answered, buttering a slice of toast. "I began the preliminary sketches last night, while I worked late, up in the long gallery. I think it will work very well."

"Excellent. What might it be?" Aedan placed his elbows on the table, joining his fingertips in a pensive arch.

"I will tell only you two," John said. "And it must stay between us for now."

"It will remain our secret until it is revealed in glory on the dining-room walls," Aedan said.

John nodded. "Good. I've decided to use the landscape that is already in place on the wall. Then I'll add scenes from the legend. I want to arrange several scenes in a medieval fashion, with past, present, and future happening all at once, in the foreground, middle ground, and background of the landscape."

"Very fitting, I think," Christina said, and Aedan nodded.

"First, on the wall beside the dining-room door, there will be the prince arriving with his Celtic warriors—golden torques, armbands, plaid cloaks, shining weapons. Then the meeting of the prince and princess in her father's hall, and another scene where the Druid prince teaches the princess to write—that is where they fall in love, you see, so it needs to be a tender image. Then her father imprisons her in a tower when she refuses to wed a rival king. The prince climbs up to meet her there in secret."

"You could place that scene on the wall beside the window," Christina said.

"Exactly what I was thinking. As we come to the last wall, the princess holds her newborn son, then escapes from the tower. She is caught by the evil rival, who casts a sleeping spell over her, and then the prince discovers her fallen in the briar. The last scene will show his grief, his desperation and devotion as she lays asleep forever on her bed." He waved a hand. "And the entire mural will be bordered in a pattern of Celtic knot work and rose-briar vines."

"I can imagine it all vividly," Christina said, smiling. "I quite love it. But it is up to Sir Aedan." She glanced at him.

Aedan nodded. "A wonderful concept. We will keep it to ourselves until you finish it. If you like, we will ban everyone from the room until you want the work to be seen."

"Thank you. At first, I will be doing sketches in the long gallery, before I begin work on the walls. I've asked some of the others to pose—Miss Amy and Lady Balmossie, and Lady Strathlin and Mr. Stewart, too, along with household staff."

"A good idea to include the likenesses of family and household staff in the Dundrennan mural," Aedan said.

"I would like the both of you to pose for the prince and princess," John said.

Christina stared at her brother, then glanced quickly at Aedan. He frowned slightly. Neither replied.

"Please. You are perfect for this couple," John urged. "I knew it the night you played Romeo and Juliet together. That scene gave me the idea for the last image in the mural."

Christina shook her head. "Oh, John, I could not."

Aedan glanced at her. "Your sister seems uninterested, but I am sure Amy would leap at the chance."

"Miss Amy was disappointed, but has agreed to model for sister of the princess—I'll invent one for the mural—as for some of the other figures. She seems pleased."

"Because she will be a princess also." Aedan smiled.

"Aye. But the two main characters in the piece must have the perfect models, or none of it will be as good as it could be," John said. "You want the mural done in several weeks, sir. Now that I have my scheme, I could do the sketches, the overall design, and have the figures roughly painted in that time, and attend to the details at leisure."

"You would have to work very fast," Christina said.

"With the right models, the work will be much easier."

Aedan looked at Christina. "He has a point. Mrs. Blackburn?"

She shook her head mutely.

"Stephen's painting of the princess is here, too, do not forget," John said.

"How could I forget that?" Christina asked quietly.

"If both images of the princess agree, it enhances the romantic appeal of both, and even adds a sense of reality to the legend, something that would be magical, here at Dundrennan."

"Another good point," Aedan commented. John nodded.

"I do not think I can do this," Christina said.

"No one else could do this but you, Christina," John said. "Sir, will you agree to pose?"

"If the princess will agree, the prince is willing."

She scowled at Aedan, then at her brother.

"We could begin today," John said. "It would take only a few sessions on your part."

"Evenings might be best for both of us," Aedan said. "That is, providing Mrs. Blackburn agrees." He waited.

"Really, I cannot—" She felt trapped, desperate, with both of them watching her. The thought of posing for the briar princess again made her breath catch in her throat.

Looking away, she suddenly remembered Stephen's gaze, hungry and critical upon her while she lay half clothed. She had been young, so naive and willing to please, easily succumbing to his charm, believing in his talent, believing in the ideals of true love—and fooling herself.

But when she thought about posing with Aedan, she wavered, wanted to do this. Hours spent with Aedan, posing in his arms while John drew them—that would be a small heaven. She could find solace, comfort, some secret joy to keep for her own when she left Dundrennan.

Biting her lip, she looked at her brother and nearly agreed. But then she remembered that others would see the pictures. She shook her head. "I cannot."

"Christina, please," John said. "This time it would be different. It would be wonderful."

"Different?" Aedan frowned, watching them both.

She turned. "You may as well know, Sir Aedan, since you own the original painting. I brought about tragedy and scandal when I modeled for that picture. My... husband's death, the painting itself, brought scandal and sorrow and embarrassment to my family." She stood, slapped her napkin down on the table. "Sit, both of you," she snapped when they began to stand out of courtesy. "Decide on another princess, for I will not do it."

She fled from the room, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

"Stay, sir," John said, when Aedan rose to pursue her. "It is no use talking to her now. Let her cool a little."

"Believe me, I am acquainted with your sister's temper," Aedan said. He subsided into a chair, shoving a hand through his thick, dark hair. "I knew she did not like the original painting, but I had no idea she felt so strongly about it."

"Later, perhaps you could talk to her about this. She might listen to you, Sir Aedan. Perhaps between us we can convince her to do this."

"It's Aedan—I prefer it, to be frank. 'Sir Aedan' makes me sound fond of cigars and shooting parties." John laughed and offered his first name in return. "If your sister is so opposed to modeling for the princess, why press the matter?"

"She
is
the princess—there can be no other, in my mind. Even when I was a lad and read your father's poem for the first time, before Stephen ever painted her, I imagined Christina as the briar princess. She has a natural elegance, that quiet, dark beauty, and she is both delicate and yet very strong."

"I understand, believe me," Aedan said. "What happened to Stephen Blackburn? I knew there was some scandal surrounding the artist. I thought perhaps the picture shocked polite society, but truly, it is beautiful, a noble and exquisite work of art. And scandal is not uncommon among painters, begging your pardon."

"Of course. You're correct, Aedan. The female body is not considered scandalous in a work of art. But posing for it, then seeing it exhibited, with the model's identity widely known, followed by the artist's death—it created an uproar for a while. Nothing we Blackburns could not handle, mind you. But Christina took it all very hard. She lost her husband, her dignity, her ideals, all at once. She lost faith in herself."

"What happened?"

"Stephen drowned," John said bluntly. "He was found in the river within a few months of his marriage to my sister, just after the painting was exhibited at the Royal Academy—it took a prize that year, as you no doubt know. The police said his death was an accident, perhaps a suicide. I believe he fell in, coming home late one night. Drunken fool," John muttered.

"Intoxicated? Was that a usual state for him?"

"Unfortunately, it was. He said liquor freed his artistic genius. He had that Saturnian temperament, if you know what I mean."

"I do. Passionate, addictive, rather unpredictable."

"Brilliant but troubled, and that inner darkness intensified his art. He was twenty-three when he died; my sister just eighteen. And she was willful and passionate too, brilliant in her own way."

"Not always a bookish wee thing, then?"

"Always intelligent and keen on her studies, but hotheaded and eager to be independent. Stephen was older, a distant cousin, more worldly, already known for his genius. He fascinated her, and she fascinated him. She was his beautiful muse. He began
The Enchanted Briar
just after their marriage. It is his most sublime work, I think."

"Did your sister know about his difficult nature when she married him?"

"Not really. She was young, impulsive, headstrong, and so was he. They eloped. He was a distant cousin on the Blackburn side, and they were not strangers. He was very charming, and she fell rather desperately in love—I think he did, too, as much as he was capable. Our families were furious. By the time she realized she had made a mistake, it was too late."

Aedan went to the window, shoving his hands in his pockets. He saw Christina hurrying along the garden path, black bonneted, her gray skirt swinging like a bell. "So she married for true love," he said thoughtfully.

"She thought so, but she was wrong. True love betrayed her. She said she would never wed again, though she has allowed someone to court her recently."

Aedan half turned. "Court her?"

"Sir Edgar Neaves, sir. He's been helpful to her in her academic pursuits and has been very attentive to her. She gave him permission to court her. The fellow wants to marry her."

"Does he?" he murmured, narrowing his eyes.

"Aye, but I wonder if it is wise. She can be too trusting, my sister. With Stephen, with Edgar. She married young and mourned Stephen grievously, and she has little experience with men."

Aedan's frown deepened as he watched Christina in her solitary walk. He felt John's remark like a blow to his gut. All he had wanted was to protect her, cherish her. But she was irresistible, and he had taken advantage of her. Was he no better than the other two, in his way?

"She felt responsible for Stephen's accident, you see, and has blamed herself, cloistered herself. It was especially hard for her because he lingered so long afterward."

Aedan felt a cold chill. "He what?"

"He lay in an unconscious state for weeks before his death. She nursed him selflessly and compassionately, but she has never been the same. She went from a fiery, vibrant girl to a sad wee thing. I have rarely seen that bright lass in her since."

Aedan watched as Christina left the garden gate and advanced over the meadow. "No wonder she refuses to pose."

"The memories are painful for her."

"Then why insist?" Aedan glanced over his shoulder.

"I believe posing and enjoying it might help... heal her."

Instinctively he knew what John meant. "Posing for the same thing, the princess, under different circumstances."

"Aye. She protects herself with books and intellect and one task after another. In the years since Stephen's death, she has devoted herself to Uncle Walter and his work—he took her into his home after Stephen died, when our father was cold to her. Now Uncle Walter is unwell and suffering a fallen reputation as a scholar, and Christina wants to help him somehow. She takes that responsibility upon her shoulders."

"A serious wee lass, your sister."

"She is not a simple wee lass, I give her that. And I asked her to pose only because I care about her. I want to see her happy again, filled with dreams again. But she must come out of her bookish old tower first."

"Aye," Aedan murmured. "I understand."

In the distance, Christina climbed a low hill. He felt a deep tug within, as if his heart were some tightly closed bud straining to open, petal by petal, and straining with it.

"John," he said, "do you believe true love exists?"

"I like to think so. But we may not recognize it always, or perhaps we fear its power. But it is real, that sort of love. I am a sentimental sort who thinks love helps us all, heals us, clarifies our lives. And no one deserves it more than my sister," he added softly. "Why do you ask?"

Aedan shook his head. "Excuse me," he said, turning toward the door. "I should to head out for the day. If I run into your sister, I will try to convince her... to pose for the mural."