Waking the Princess (33 page)

And she would leave as soon as she could arrange it.

"Mrs. Blackburn?" Mrs. Gunn awaited her answer.

"Lunch? Oh... yes. I'll come back to the house, thank you. I've work to do in the library."

"Pity, on such a bonny day." Mrs. Gunn turned as the door opened. "Good morning, Miss Stewart. Ye're up early today!"

Amy entered the breakfast room, her gown a fetching swirl of flounces and ruffles in a pastel tartan glace that suited her blond coloring beautifully. Looking up, Christina smiled a greeting, although inside she felt plain and mousey by comparison. Amy always seemed to glow with verve and confidence.

And just now, Christina felt very plain and unwanted indeed.

"Good morning," Amy returned. "I thought to catch Cousin Aedan before he went to Milngavie. Have I missed him?"

"Och, he's long gone." Mrs. Gunn served Amy some coffee.

"I wanted to go to Edinburgh, too. It would be so nice to visit with Aedan's sister again." Amy put some fruit and a bit of bacon on a plate and took a seat.

Christina looked in dismay at her own generous helping and felt piggish for a moment. Then she picked up her fork and deliberately tucked into her meal with an appetite she no longer felt. She could not allow herself to feel bad about any of the choices she made in life, she admonished herself, the large or the small ones. She had done only what she felt was right.

"I'll be modeling for Mr. Blackburn again today," Amy said, smiling across the table at Christina. "I have so enjoyed that. Your brother is so charming. We have had the most delightful conversations. He has such a nice laugh, and he has such interesting stories to tell. He told me that I am a perfect model." As she spoke, Amy seemed to brighten.

Christina smiled. "John has a very discerning eye and does not compliment freely. You can be very flattered."

"But he did not want to use me for the princess. He says you are perfect for her. How very flattered
you
must be."

"Well, John has a certain physical type in mind to suit his vision. He thinks of the princess as dark, and I am of dark Celtic stock, while you must have a good deal of Norse in you, with that stunning blondness."

Amy patted her hair. "Well, my grandmother was Norwegian."

"Oh, Mrs. Blackburn, there's a letter for ye. I nearly forgot," Mrs. Gunn said, sifting through some mail in her pocket and handing Christina a brown envelope. "It has a fancy seal."

"It's from the National Museum of Antiquities," Christina said, slitting it open. "Oh, it's from Sir Edgar." She read it quickly, her heart pounding. "Oh my! He expects to arrive here sometime in the next few days." She swallowed hard.

"Och, Sir Edgar Neaves, here? Sir Aedan willna like it, but what can we do?" Mrs. Gunn threw up her hands. "The laird isna here, and Sir Edgar will be here any day. We canna put the man oot to find a bed in a tenant's croft!"

"He could stay at Balmossie, I suppose," Amy said.

"But he's come to look at Cairn Drishan, and Balmossie is several miles from here," Christina said.

"True," Amy said, frowning. "Well, we have no choice but to be polite and hospitable. He's sent here by the government, after all, and that's near enough to the queen, I suppose. We'll just have to be nice to him and show him that old hill, and maybe he'll come and go before Aedan returns."

Christina watched her steadily. "What would happen if Sir Edgar is still here when Sir Aedan comes back?"

"Oh, I would not like to see that," Amy said ominously, while Mrs. Gunn shook her head in fervent echo. "But it's too late to reply to Sir Edgar and too late to send word to Aedan. Sir Edgar will be here before then."

"Sir Aedan said he'd be gone a few days," Mrs. Gunn said. "And there's no way to tell when Sir Edgar might arrive."

Amy's frown cleared. "I'll send Cousin Aedan a note. But if Sir Edgar comes in his absence and we are chided for it, you and I will just smile at Aedan sweetly, and he'll forget his displeasure with us." She wiggled her pale brows. "Although Aedan is less susceptible to that than other men," she added with a little pout.

Christina nodded silently and sipped her coffee, scarcely noticing that it had grown cold and was not sweetened. She doubted anything in her life would ever seem sweet to her again after last night's flood of pure joy and the small, hammering blows that her heart had endured this morning.

* * *

"John." Christina knocked on the dining-room door. "It's Christina." Her brother had spent much of the last week shut up in the dining room, emerging now and then to accept trays of food and tea from Bonnie Jean or to speak briefly with Christina in the hallway. He had not requested modeling from his willing subjects in the household; nor had he invited anyone in to see the progress of his mural.

Earlier that day, Mrs. Gunn had reported to Christina that Mr. Blackburn had neither left the dining room nor slept in his bed for two nights. "Och, mistress, and ye know the Jeanies need to do the dusting in there," she told Christina. "And he keeps asking for eggs—raw eggs!" She made a face and shook her head.

Assuring the housekeeper that the dusting could be skipped for a few days, since the dining-room furnishings were draped in sheets for now, Christina promised to investigate the situation.

"John," she said again, knocking harder.

Finally the door opened, and her brother stood in the shadowed gap. "Christina! Did Gunnie send you here to see if I was still alive?" He grinned. "Tell her I'm fine, though in a fair seizure of inspiration. Did you bring food?"

"No." She held up an envelope. "I had a letter from Uncle Walter. Well, Aunt Emmie wrote it for him. May I come inside?"

He hesitated, then stepped back, opening the door. Christina walked in, struck at first by the utter change in the room, its highly polished mahogany table and chairs and cherry sideboard, draped in white like an assembly of ghosts. Two ladders and a stepping stool were arranged at various points around the room. Brushes, paints, rags, a palette, chalk pieces, small jars, and various art materials were scattered over the table. A bowl filled with unbroken eggs sat beside a second bowl, gleaming with egg whites and surrounded by a mess of eggshells.

The large cartoon sketches, glued together from several smaller pieces, had been haphazardly tossed on the table surface. An open window, its draperies shoved back, lace curtains billowing, blew fresh air into the room.

"Thank goodness you have good ventilation in here," Christina said. "You always need that when you're painting with oils and turpentine—though it smells quite clean in here."

"That's because I'm not using oils this time. I'm using egg tempera on the wall, as the medieval artists used. Look." Taking her shoulders, he turned her toward the wall.

"Oh!" She gasped, astonished and pleased by what she saw. She walked forward to look more closely.

The rather ordinary landscape background painted by the previous artist had been transformed by the addition of figures and a charming array of detail. In the background and middle ground, here and there, castles perched on hills, farmers worked in fields, shepherds tended flocks of sheep, and herdsmen goaded cattle along a path. Mounted warriors splendid in shining Celtic armor rode along a winding road emerging from a forested part of the background.

What caught her attention immediately was the foreground image of the prince and princess meeting for the first time. They faced each other in profile and gazed into each other's eyes, their hands joined.

The sight thrilled her, yet she also felt the dull stab of lost joy. Aedan mac Brudei must have gazed at his Liadan like that, long ago—but Aedan MacBride would never again gaze at Christina with such adoration in his eyes.

"It's beautiful, John," she murmured. "Really extraordinary. What a wonderful idea to paint Dundrennan's sleeping-beauty legend here. When it is done, it will be glorious."

He smiled, arms folded. Dabs of paint colored his fingers, marred his white sleeves. His cravat was askew, his dark brown curls wild, his jaw whiskered and in need of a shave. He leaned on his cane as if very fatigued. Circles smudged his eyes, but his gaze sparkled with excited inspiration.

"I am just now seeing how wonderful this could become," John said. "It could take me the better part of a year to finish it the way I'd like. I hope Aedan will not mind."

"A year!" Christina looked at him. "You know it must be done as quickly as possible. The queen visits in a few weeks."

"I will not compromise the mural, now that I know what it could be like," John said, shaking his head. "But I can have the figures and architectural elements sketched in, and I can apply color washes to the figures within a few weeks. It will at least look presentable by then."

"The queen will not mind a mural in progress, I'm sure."

"Because of the eggs, I must work much faster than usual."

She looked askance at him. "Eggs?"

"I am trying a bit of an experiment." He held up a hand. "I know—many a painting has been ruined by experimentation. But I feel certain this will work. I cannot apply oils to the plaster ground—the result would be disastrous. I've decided to use the medieval technique of egg tempera. Some of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood tried their hand at it, with good result. None of them tried it on the larger scale of a wall mural, though," he added, frowning. "Still, I sent word to Father to ask his advice."

"I know you had a letter from him last week, though you mentioned only that he asked after my health and my work here—you said nothing of egg tempera!" She smiled. "Is it working?" She noticed that only a few areas looked finished.

"It shows real promise. The egg gives the paint a wonderful richness, a sheen like oil color. But it dries very fast, so I have to paint quickly. And Mrs. Gunn is complaining about the number of eggs I need," he added.

"Sir Aedan will be glad to hear that it is moving quickly. And when he sees what you've been doing in here, I doubt he will care how long it might take. It's marvelous."

She looked again at the exquisite main image of the prince and princess. Though the figures were sketched and then washed in pale color, the drawing was precise. Realistic in the faces and hands, there was a fluid, decorative use of line in the bodies and draped costumes, showing the elegant and masterful control that characterized John's best work.

"Now, what of your business here?" he asked. "You said you had a letter from Uncle Walter."

"Aunt Emmie wrote it for him." She showed it to him, and he scanned it quickly. "He's not doing well, John. He can hardly hold a pen, and she says he shows no interest in reading history now—that is so very unlike him. Though he still seems strong, she says she fears he will not last the winter."

He handed it back to her, looking grim. "Perhaps you had best finish up here soon and go home to them. He will want to hear about your Pictish house, I'm sure, with its cellar and all. That will bring back some of the spark in him. He loves to learn about new discoveries."

"You're right. I should go to him. Except for you and your work here, there is... nothing further for me here."

John looked down at her for a long moment. "Nothing?" he asked gently. "When does Sir Aedan return?"

He said it so gently that Christina felt sure he knew that something had happened between her and Aedan. "I—I do not know. Edgar will be here any day. I do know that."

"Well, then, I believe you have a decision to make."

"What do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean, princess." He took her elbow and guided her toward the door. "And now, out you go. I must work alone. And you have a great deal to do, too. Uncle Walter will be so happy to know you've found proof of his theories about Celtic Scotland and King Arthur."

She shook her head. "I do not think that hillside proves any of that after all, John," she said. "I was wrong. Hopeful, but wrong. It's a Pictish site, and that's wonderful. But there is no indication of anything more magical than that."

He smiled. "You've found some magic here, I think."

"The ancient site is a very exciting find, but it's not going to yield any extraordinary treasures." She smiled wanly.

"I'm not talking about the hillside. I may be busy during your posing sessions, my dear, but I am not a blind man. There is something very magical for you here—and for the laird, too. I've certainly done my best to encourage it."

She gaped at him. "You—oh! I see it now, you rogue."

"I'm amazed you hadn't noticed before. Both of you are distracted when you are with each other. You scarcely notice anyone else. Certainly not the artist who is nudging you together." He wiggled his eyebrows.

She tilted her head, curious. "What have you noticed?"

"Look through my drawings, my dear, and you will see it for yourself. The laird is in love, I'd guess."

She frowned. "I'm not so certain of that."

"Ask him when he returns and perhaps he'll tell you—if he is an honest man, and I think he is." He smiled and shoved her gently through the doorway. "Send someone with a tea tray, if you will. I'm starved." He winked and closed the door.

Chapter 22