Chapter Fifteen
“I have an idea that I think you will love,” John announced as he entered the breakfast room, tapping his cane.
Christina glanced up, coffee cup lifted.
She had come to the breakfast room early to find Aedan already seated at the table, when she had half hoped he might be gone for the day already.
He sat reading a newspaper; they exchanged polite greetings and ate in silence.
Then John arrived, his enthusiasm like a fresh breeze blowing the tension away.
“Not ‘Good morning, dear sister,’ but simply ‘I have an idea,’” she laughed.
“Inspiration has hold of me,” her brother replied with a grin. He went to the sideboard and piled his plate with food, then managed to bring it to the table. Rising, Christina fetched him a cup of fresh coffee with a generous amount of cream.
Aedan folded his paper. “What inspiration?”
“I know what to do with the mural now,” John answered, buttering some toast. “I made some sketches last night. I think it will work very well.”
“What is that?” Christina asked.
“I can tell you two,” John said, “but it must stay between us for now.”
“It will remain our secret,” Aedan promised magnanimously.
“Good. Very well. I have decided to use the painted landscape already in place on the wall. I will freshen it up with some details, and then add scenes from the legend.”
“The legend?” Christina asked. She glanced at Aedan.
“The Dundrennan legend. It was the original intention of the mural.”
“It was. Go on,” Aedan said.
“I will arrange several scenes in medieval fashion, with past, present, and future seen in the foreground, middle ground, and background. Like some medieval psalters that present a long story on one page.”
“I know the sort of thing you mean. It seems fitting,” she said.
“On the wall by the doorway, the prince will arrive with his Celtic warriors—golden torques, armbands, plaid cloaks, shining weapons. Then we will see the meeting of the prince and princess in her father’s hall, and in the next scene, the Druid prince teaches the princess to write.”
“To write? Perhaps she knew already and taught him,” Christina said.
“Unlikely, but it could go either way,” John said. “They fall in love then, you see, so it will be a tender scene. Next, her father imprisons her in a tower when she refuses to wed a rival king. The prince climbs up to meet her in secret.”
“That scene could go on the wall beside the window,” Christina said.
“Just what I was thinking. On the last wall, she holds her newborn son, then escapes from the tower. She is caught by the evil rival, who casts a sleeping spell over her. Then the prince discovers her fallen in the briar. The last scene shows his grief and his devotion as she lies asleep forever.” John waved a hand.
“And the entire mural will be bordered in a pattern of Celtic knot work and rose-briar vines.”
“I love it,” Christina said. “But it is up to Sir Aedan. It is his mural.”
“I like the concept. We can keep the plan quiet until you finish it. We could ban others from the room until you are ready for your work to be seen.”
“Thank you. I need to do sketches first and work those into the walls. I have asked some of the others to pose. Miss Amy and Lady Balmossie, along with household staff.”
“A nice idea. Amy would be beyond delighted,” Aedan said.
“She wanted to be the princess, but I asked her to pose for other roles—the queen, a nurse, the princess’s sister. I would like you two to pose for the prince and princess.”
Christina blinked at her brother. She glanced at Aedan, who frowned. Neither spoke.
“Please agree. You are perfect for this couple,” John urged. “I saw it the night you played Romeo and Juliet. That gave me the idea for the last image in the mural. Her deathbed, or the place where she sleeps in the briar.”
Christina shook her head. “I cannot.”
Aedan glanced at her and frowned. “Your sister is not interested. I am sure Amy would leap at the chance.”
“Miss Amy was disappointed, but seems content to be included. The two main characters must be perfect for this, or it will not be as good as it could be,” John said.
“Now that I have a scheme, I could do the sketches and rough in the figures in a short time, and then attend to the final painting at leisure. With the right models, the work will go faster.”
Aedan looked at Christina. “He has a point, Mrs. Blackburn.”
She shook her head mutely.
“Christina, remember that Stephen’s painting of the princess is here, too,” John said.
“How could I forget that?” she said. Her voice nearly cracked.
“If both images of the princess agree, it enhances the romantic appeal, and adds a sense of reality to the legend. It would be magical, here at Dundrennan.”
“Another good point,” Aedan commented.
“I cannot,” Christina said firmly. “I will not.”
“Only you could model for her,” John said. “Sir, would you agree to pose as well?”
“If the princess agrees, the prince is willing.”
She scowled at Aedan, then at her brother. “She does not agree.”
“We could begin today,” said John. “It would just take a few sessions for sketches. Evenings might be best.”
“Providing Mrs. Blackburn is amenable,” Aedan said.
“Truly, I just cannot do this.” She felt trapped, desperate. Both men watched her, and she felt they could not understand. But the thought of posing for the briar princess again made her breath catch in her throat.
She was reminded suddenly of Stephen’s gaze, hungry and critical while she lay half clothed, feeling vulnerable, wanting so to please. She had been so young, na?ve, succumbing easily to his charm, believing utterly in his talent and the ideal of true love. Fooling herself.
Yet—if she posed with Aedan, she would have time with him, hours perhaps in his arms, at least near him. She wavered. It would be a small piece of heaven. She could find solace, comfort, a secret joy to keep when she had to leave Dundrennan.
Biting her lip, she looked at her brother, tempted. Then she remembered that others would see the pictures. She shook her head. “I cannot do this again.”
“Christina, please,” John said. “It would be different this time. It will be wonderful.”
“Different?” Aedan frowned.
She sighed, turned to him. “You may as well know, since you own the painting. I brought about tragedy and scandal when I modeled for that picture. Stephen’s death, and the painting itself, only brought scandal and sorrow and embarrassment to my family.
” She stood, dropping her napkin on the breakfast table.
“Sit, both of you,” she snapped when they began to stand out of courtesy. “Find another princess.”
She fled, slamming the door behind her.
*
“Stay, sir,” John said when Aedan rose to pursue her. “Let her cool a little. She has a temper.”
“Trust me, I am acquainted with it.” Aedan subsided into his chair. “I knew she did not like the original painting, but I did not realize she would feel so strongly about this.”
“Perhaps she will listen to you later. Not now. Between us we can convince her.”
“I will not convince her to do something she does not want, John. Why press the matter?”
“Because in a way, she is the princess. There is no other, to my thinking. Even when I was younger and read your father’s poem, before Stephen ever painted her, I imagined my sister as the briar princess.
She has a natural elegance, that quiet, dark beauty.
She is delicate, yet strong. There is a timeless quality to her. She simply is that character.”
“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 it is a beautiful work of art. Scandal is not uncommon among painters, begging your pardon.”
“The female body is considered a thing of beauty in art. But when the model’s identity is widely known, followed by the artist’s death—well, there was an uproar.
The Blackburns are artists, mind you, and we could handle it.
But Christina was devastated. She lost her husband, her dignity, her ideals, respect, all at once. She lost faith in herself.”
“What happened to him?”
“He drowned,” John said bluntly. “He was found in the river just after the painting was exhibited at the Royal Academy. It took a prize that year, as you no doubt know. He should have been pleased. They had been married less than a year—he should have been happy. The police declared his death an accident, perhaps suicide. I believe he fell in, coming home late one night. Drunken fool,” John muttered.
“Was that a usual state for him?”
“Sadly, 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. That inner darkness intensified his art. He was twenty-three when he died; my sister barely nineteen. She was willful and passionate too, brilliant in her own way.”
“Not always a bookish wee thing, then?”
“Intelligent and keen on her studies, but hotheaded and eager for independence. Stephen was older, a third cousin, worldly and already praised 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 she know about his difficult nature when she married him?”
“Not really. She was young, headstrong, and so was he. They eloped. He was a distant cousin on the Blackburn side, so they were not strangers. He was charming and handsome, and she fell desperately for him. Our families were furious. But by the time she realized her 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, gray skirt swinging like a bell. “So she married for true love?”