Guardian of the Green Hill (6 page)

Gwidion's jaw dropped in his skull-like face. What a powerful woman! What resistance! He hadn't thought it possible she could defy that spell. He concentrated for a moment, focusing his efforts on Meg and the ideas he'd planted the night before in the bluebell wood.

“Oh, please, Phyllida,” Meg said, leaning against her arm affectionately. “I would so love to see a portrait of you.”

But Phyllida, her pride piqued, was steadfast.

“Can't he paint one of us, then?” Meg asked.

“We don't need such fripperies.” She wasn't inclined to reward the man who reminded her she was no longer young.

“But he paints so beautifully,” Meg persisted, appealing as a kitten. “I only wish I could paint so well.”

Gwidion pounced on the opening.

“I give lessons too, m'lady. That is in fact my specialty. For the children, or for you.” He kept his attention on Phyllida, not realizing she was already a lost cause. Vanity would keep her safer than a legion of bodyguards.

“Please, Phyllida,” Meg said.

“Oh, please!” chimed Silly.

“We'd like to very much,” Rowan said more soberly.

Finn didn't say anything. He was looking at the sketch of Meg, thinking it was really rather good.

“It may be pleasant for the children,” Lysander said. “Give them some distraction from…” He had been about to say from wars and danger and death, then remembered there was an outsider among them and let the sentence trail off. “What do you say, old girl?” He put his arm around her.

Old girl? It was really too much. Lysander had used that term of endearment for his wife since their early calf-eyed courting, and it always made her smile, but not today. She stalked out of the room with a backward wave of her hand, saying, “Do whatever you like.”

You'll Pay for That

A
ND SO THEY DID.
It was arranged that Gwidion should stay in an empty keeper's cottage on the grounds and give the children art lessons each morning. No time was fixed for his departure.

“Can we start right away?” Meg asked.

“Why not?” Gwidion said. What did it matter if Phyllida refused to be painted? He was now a member of the household and would have the leisure to study her even without her consent. In the meantime, here were the children of her bloodline. Perhaps some use could be made of them.

He declared that they would paint al fresco, and when Silly asked, “Who's he?” Gwidion explained it meant outside in the fresh air.

Finn snorted (though he hadn't known who al fresco was either) and said snidely, “The ignorant children can fingerpaint.”

Carried away by this new, unexpected diversion, they forgot about searching for Moll (which was mostly an excuse for adventure to everyone but Meg) and fluttered about like titmice, gathering folding tables and bits of broken pencils. Dickie remembered a bottle of India ink in his sanctuary, the library. When he finally found it and shook the bottle, half of it spilled down his shirt, and he saw that the other half was dried into a cake. Meg ran off to Phyllida to ask if she had any proper paints for them to use.

She found her in the little sitting room that adjoined her bedroom. She was perched at an aptly named vanity, staring into a silver-filigreed mirror. Phyllida's back was to the door, but Meg could see her great-great-aunt's reflection, distant and autumnal, looking at some far-off place, or time. Phyllida started when Meg called her name softly.

“Oh, Meg dear, come in, come in.” She smiled and patted the plush seat beside her.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course. Just indulging myself in a bit of sentimentality. Did that artist fellow stay? Well, it may be good for you, as Lysander says. You'll never want for beauty if you can make your own. I've done a bit of painting myself.” She gestured to the wall at a postcard-sized painting of violets with a slug crawling up the stem. “Without much success, as you can see. My tutor told me, ‘If you can't paint but must paint, stick to flowers.' Even the ugly ones are pretty; if you do them badly, people will know what they are, and as a last resort, you can always say they are abstract.”

“I think it's nice,” Meg said honestly. “You did the slime on the antennae perfectly. I came to ask, do you have any paint we can use, or brushes, or pencils? The artist has some, but not enough for everyone.”

“I think I do. Yes, it's been years, but they should be in the third room on the left from the stairs, on the top floor. I had a studio of sorts for a few months. The late afternoon light there is just right. Like mirrors in very good boutiques, it makes everything look much better than it really is. Perhaps I should live up there.” She said this last to herself.

Meg was turning to go after the paints when Phyllida called her back. “Meg dear, I wanted to talk with you about something. Whenever you have a moment. Yes, go, go learn to paint. You'll enjoy that. But when you're done, come find me, there's a good girl. Oh, wait, one more thing.” She rose and went to a wardrobe. After pulling the hangers back and forth, she came out with a large linen shirt. It was the weathered white of many washings, but so finely made it had only just begun to fray at the cuffs. It was soft as dandelion fluff and crinkled into fine wrinkles in Meg's damp palm. As she laid it over her arm, it caught the light, and she saw that the tiny, precise stitches were wrought in silver thread instead of white, a subtle glint at the seams and collar. Little splashes of color dotted the shirtfront—cyan, cinnabar, rose madder.

“You don't want to get that pretty shirt all covered with paint,” Phyllida said. Meg looked down at her own gauzy blouse, a bright, blotchy print that was supposed to be reminiscent of India, in green and fuchsia and orange (which are more harmonious than you might think). She thought it was nice, but it was mass-produced in a factory, and when she compared it to Phyllida's shirt, which had been woven on a nearby cottager's loom from flax locally grown, and cut and sewed by skilled hands, not machine, her own seemed a paltry, cheap thing.

“I wore this as a smock when I was painting,” Phyllida went on. “It's big enough to cover you to your knees, so you don't have to worry about paint splashing on you. The most entertaining things are so often the messiest, at your age anyway.”

Meg scurried away, promising to return after her art lesson. She found the others grouped on the croquet lawn in various poses. Rowan had a proper easel, borrowed from Gwidion, and Meg brought another from Phyllida's studio. Finn and Dickie had folding tea tables. Silly had commandeered the milking stool and sat on the ground cross-legged with her paper hanging over the round edges.

Gwidion walked among them. “Today you will draw by instinct, without detailed instruction, so that I may gauge your natural talent.” He had never given a lesson in his life and had learned his trade in a haphazard way from his father, so he really didn't know where to begin. Still, he looked impressive as he wandered from student to student, looking over their shoulders, giving them tips on shadow and perspective, speaking in his rather grandiose way with words like
cinquecento
and
chiaroscuro.
They didn't understand half of what he said, which was exactly what he intended.

He told them to draw what they saw. Meg chose a vista of the sheep meadow beyond the ha-ha, following Phyllida's theory that, like flowers, it would look pretty and be recognizable even if poorly executed. Her sheep were nebulous balls, and her field nothing more than the white unmarked paper. Gwidion looked over her shoulder, made a noise like he had just stepped in something unpleasant, and walked away without further comment.

Silly, working with her tongue poking out and head bent so far over to the side she was almost lying on the paper, drafted an ambitious battle scene with croquet mallets as weapons and balls flying willy-nilly. When Gwidion reminded her rather sharply that she was supposed to be drawing what she saw, she replied that she did see it, in her head, and after that he mostly left her alone.

Dickie, with whispered advice from the Wyrm curled invisibly on his shoulder, was drawing an amazingly accurate representation of a cooperative snail who crawled slowly across his table. “If you decide to eat him afterward,” the Wyrm said, “soak him in milk first. It will plump him up and take away any taste of mud. Unpalatable little beasts at best, but the Gauls always had strange tastes. Garlic and butter, that's the ticket. Hmm, an odd phrase, that. What ticket, I wonder? A train ticket? A carnival ticket? A lottery ticket? I knew once, but thank goodness I have forgotten.” Dickie's pencil traced the lines with a draughtsman's precision and a naturalist's eye for detail.

“The snail to surpass all snails!” Gwidion said, making Dickie bow his head to hide his pleasure.

He went to Finn. “Ah, what have we here? A still life of a melon? A dirigible?” He made a show of looking around for either of these objects. “No, a face. I see it now. Who can it be?”

Finn mumbled something.

“Speak up, lad! Art knows no shame, talent no modesty.”

“It's her,” he said, indicating Meg with a jerk of his head. Meg looked up, and her face instantly reddened, which she fervently hoped no one would notice.

Her hopes were dashed. “Not a melon, then, but a beet!” Gwidion said, looking over at her with a laugh. He took the page from Finn and handed him a fresh sheet. “No people yet, lad. Look about for a better subject.” He tore the paper into bits and flung them up over his head so they scattered in the gentle breeze. One landed at Meg's feet. When no one was looking, she picked it up. It appeared to be her nose, though as Gwidion said, it looked more vegetable than animal, bulbous and spotted like a rotting potato.

Is that what I look like? she wondered. Is that how he sees me, a misshapen thing covered in freckles? She pressed her lips together and felt angry tears come to her eyes, a strange kind of anger that was so many other things too.

You might as well know, though Meg didn't, that wasn't how Finn thought of her. He simply didn't have a drop of artistic skill. He was trying for something entirely unlike a rotting potato.

Meg furiously scribbled her sheep's wool as Gwidion wandered to Rowan's side.

“The masterpiece!” she heard him say.

Rowan really did have a talent for drawing, though he had never ventured into any medium other than pencils, pens, crayons, and sidewalk chalk. Knowing his limitations, he did not try to do a face from the front like Finn, but chose instead a rear view. On his sheet of paper were a set of shoulders and a head of sleek hair done in black ink with faint streaks of blue. Just at the nape perched a fat, dusty black and gold bumblebee, its pollen sacs full, cleaning its antennae. Over the shoulder, just beginning to be sketched out, came a hand apparently ready to smack the bee. It was abundantly evident what would happen next.

Gwidion leaned forward with real interest. Though this was certainly not the masterpiece he called it, there was evident skill in the boy's fingers, a facility for translating thought to paper, idea to form. He had glanced discreetly over at Finn, who was absorbed in starting a new drawing. Yes, this Rowan had drawn the Finn boy. His brother? He had assumed all the children were relatives and descendants of Phyllida in one way or another, but he had gotten the impression from Finn's choice of subject that he wasn't Meg's brother, after all.

Gwidion traced back his family history. These must be descendants of Chlorinda, Phyllida's elder sister, who had fled to the States rather than inherit the Guardianship. Gwidion's own lineage traced from Phyllida and Chlorinda's mother's brother, their uncle, Llewellwn Thomas. He tried to figure out exactly how he was related to these children, but the litany of greats and removeds was too daunting. No matter, he thought. The inheritance is rightfully mine, not theirs. When I have done what I came to do, they may go back safely to their dull little homes and forget all about me. Safely, that is, so long as they don't cross me.

All the same, he found himself considering this young Rowan chap. He was in the same position Gwidion's grandfather had been in—eldest male, by all traditions of every land destined to inherit everything, yet being usurped by that little chit of a girl, Meg. It might have been self-interest that motivated Gwidion, but he felt a sympathy for these other males who were swindled out of their inheritance. While he was here, perhaps he would cultivate the friendship of these boys, these distant relatives of his. If he gained their allegiance, they might be of some help, and in any event it would cause more disruption and unrest in Phyllida's line.

But what was the relationship between Rowan and Finn? There must be some malice there, because Rowan had put his heart and soul into this drawing of Finn about to experience a terrible pain. He drew with conviction, and he drew with relish. He evidently wanted Finn to be hurt, and with more than mere boyish mischief. Still, he didn't quite want it enough to make it come true.

Gwidion was loud in his praise of the boys (utterly ignoring the girls), telling them that, as members of such a proud and noble family, was it any wonder they should have such prodigious talent? He buttered them up, and all the while, he studied them. At last he settled behind Rowan again and took up his pencil.

“Here, my boy, let me help,” he said, and settled himself into the trancelike state required to draw a picture so compelling it forced one to do his bidding. This one was tricky, partially because it had been begun by another hand than his, partly because there were two subjects to control, the bee and the boy. With a stroke or two of the lead, he added agitation to the bee, a sense of danger and insulted pride that made the bee ready for attack. Turning to the boy (all the more difficult because he must give will to a hand, not a face), he made the fingers seem to twitch in irritability, created an almost palpable sensation of tickle and itch in the skin of his nape. He focused all his energy on this scene, picturing it on the page, in his mind, in life, thinking,
Let this come to pass
.