Chapter Nineteen
“I have finished redoing this bedroom, Aedan. Come look!” Amy opened a door along an upper hall. “Now it is nice enough even for the queen to use, I think!”
Aedan followed her into the room. “Dark green, a nice choice,” he commented, looking at the newly painted walls. “Stylish and economical.”
“Paint costs less than wallpaper, as you pointed out in other rooms,” she said.
He nodded. In his boyhood, the bedroom had been his mother’s, and Amy had kept the maple furniture, while redecorating with paint and fabrics. The adjoining door that separated the two bedrooms used by his parents had always stood open. Now it was closed.
“The Prince Consort could use the other room,” Amy said. “I left it as it is, because it belonged to Sir Hugh, who was one of the queen’s favorite poets. I added tartan pillows.”
“I see.” Truly, it seemed a good deal of fuss and expense for just a day or two of a royal visit; the rooms had been excellent on their own.
But his father had desired changes throughout the house, and Amy was helping in that.
He gestured toward the plaid coverlet on the bed and the fabric of roses and vines on the bed canopy and in the drapes.
“Plaids and flowery stuff everywhere is becoming your signature mark, cousin,” he said with a smile.
“If a room is awash in tartan and chintz, Miss Stewart has been here with enthusiasm.” He chuckled to see her wide smile.
Aedan walked around the room, noting bowls of fresh flowers, a lemony polish on the furniture, gilt-framed landscapes on the dark-green walls, and poufy cushions on the chairs. The lovely touches did make the room cozy, he had to admit.
“And more tartan carpet underfoot,” he said, looking down. “There must be acres of it in the house by now.”
“It is very in vogue now, considering the queen’s love of Scottish things,” Amy said.
“What is this?” Aedan walked toward the marble fireplace. “You had Blackburn’s painting of Robert the Bruce with Isabella moved here. Interesting.”
“It looks very handsome in this room. I hope the dining-room mural proves half so nice as this one.”
“From what I’ve seen, the mural will be a splendid thing. Very special,” he added.
“Oh good! Mr. Blackburn will not let me see it yet, but I will pose for one of the characters and see it then. He has been educating me about art, you know. We’ve been looking through books of engravings and having discussions.
Did you know he trained under his father, and then with some of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, as they call themselves?
He is a remarkable talent. His work will be an attraction at Dundrennan. ”
“If we charge visitors to see it, we could pay for even more carpeting,” he teased.
She wrinkled her nose. “You really should sell some old things. We do not need to keep it all. Sir Edgar Neaves is willing to take some off your hands, though Auntie Lillias thinks you and Sir Edgar may come to blows over some matters.”
“No doubt,” Aedan agreed, and left it at that.
“Aedan, I’m reminded of that painting you keep in your private study off your bedroom, painted by that other Blackburn, Christina’s late husband.
It’s beautiful but rather shocking as I recall—I haven’t seen it since you moved it to your rooms. It’s a dark and rather passionate thing.
Christina posed for that one, did she not? ”
“She did. Stephen Blackburn was a brilliant artist, though I understand he had a troubled nature.” He did not want to say more.
“Is that why she is such a quiet little thing, despite her portrayal in the painting? She keeps to somber colors and seems bookish and academic. I wonder if she hides herself in some way. Without those dull colors and the spectacles, she could be a dazzling beauty, if she ever woke up to the fact.”
“An odd way to put it, waking up. But very apt.” He gave her a tight smile.
“Asleep like the girl in the painting, which I think is the fairy tale of the Briar Rose.”
“Similar to the tale of the princess of Dundrennan,” he murmured.
“Christina is a dear girl. I like her very much. I will be sorry to see her leave when she finishes her work on that hill.”
“Aye,” he said. “Though I think she is not always sober and bookish.”
“We will not find out, will we, for she will leave soon. Though when she is with you, she fairly sparkles. Have you noticed? And you are much improved in her company as well.”
He raised a brow. “Am I?”
“Not nearly the grumpy as you sometimes are. Auntie Lill says Christina brightens your old tarnished soul and does you good. You smile more these days.”
“Do I?” He felt a bit stunned. He had not noticed that, yet others had.
“You look a bit thunderstruck, Auntie says.”
“Thunderstruck?” He made sure to scowl to counter that.
“Do not be a daft, Aedan. What are you going to do about it?” Amy asked.
“About what?”
“Your interest in Christina Blackburn.” Amy pouted. “I wanted to mention it to you, but hesitated to bring up the subject.” She paused. “I thought that, well, someday we might…” She stopped. He waited. “Aedan, I am truly fond of you. But I do not think I could marry you.”
He stared as if he did not comprehend her words. “That was blunt, my dear.”
“I am sorry. I do not mean to disappoint you, but I think we are just not suited to one another.”
“Ah.” Her revelation was unexpected but welcome. He had never been keen on courting his cousin, even if it was expected. Avoiding love was a way to void the curse.
“Dear, kind Aedan. You can be so secretive and a bit dull, if I am honest. So practical and involved in your work. You do not notice dirt on your clothing or boots, you spend long hours in the field and let the sun brown your cheeks. And you hardly notice changes I make in your own house until I point them out to you.”
“I do notice. And I am sorry if it seems dull.” He shrugged, a bit bewildered, yet feeling a sense of freedom, a burden lifted, though Amy would always be a close friend.
“Sir Hugh called you steel and numbers, I remember. He was a poet, but you are a man of the earth. He was right. You have a good bit of steel in your character, and I have always admired that strength.”
“Even if it is dull?” He let his eyes twinkle.
She leaned close to whisper. “May I confide a secret? I am growing fond of Mr. Blackburn. I think he likes me in return. He might wish to court me, but will not if he thinks I am promised to my cousin through a family arrangement.”
Aedan nodded, feeling unabashed relief. “I am very fond of you, but I believe we will be better off as friends. I care about your happiness.”
“Of course you do! You want me to finish doing your house!” She dimpled prettily.
He laughed. “You are doing a marvelous job. And it’s wonderful that you’ve found someone who will be more interested in colors and whatnot. You want that.”
“You loon, I want more than that.” She tilted her head, considering him. “I know you hoped I might be a safe wife for Dundrennan. But I know you might never love me.”
“Come now. I’m very fond of you.”
She rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He loved her very much in that instant, as a sister and a friend. “Aedan, if you were to fall in love with Christina, what then?”
“My dear,” he said, “I’m not so daft to fall in love and risk all here.”
But he was, and he knew it, and had no idea what he would do at all.
*
Quiet footsteps startled Christina as she sat at a table in the library. Turning, she saw Aedan, and warmed at his quick smile. Immediately remembering their encounter in the souterrain the day before, she felt her cheeks flame.
She was uncertain, a day later, how to respond to him, whether to show affection or act as if that impulsive, secret interlude had not happened.
Since the moment they had heard the Gowans return once the rain ended, they had hastened out of the souterrain and had not seen each other privately since.
“Christina,” he murmured. She noticed he held long rolled pages under his arm. “I don’t want to disturb you. I only needed to pick up some maps. You were so involved that you did not hear me a minute ago.”
“I’ve been trying to translate a very old parchment in the Dundrennan Folio.” She indicated some sheets spread out on the table. “I do not think Uncle Walter found this when he went through the folio. Some of this is unfamiliar, although he told me about his work.”
He came closer. “You mentioned finding the princess’s name here somewhere.”
“Here.” She reached for one of the two parchments and pointed with a gloved fingertip. “Just along the margin. You may need the glass to see it clearly.”
He took up the magnifying glass and bent to examine the script she had indicated. His arm brushed her shoulder, and she caught the scents of spice, soap, and the earthy musk that seemed part of him, a scent that excited her subtly whenever he was near.
“I see it. Liadan. What does that line say?”
“Liadan nighean a’ Bhèir. It means ‘Liadan, daughter of the bear.’”
“Bear? Interesting. The legend says her father was a Pictish king. Perhaps this Bhèir fellow.” He pronounced the Gaelic hesitantly.
“It might have been Bearach or Bernard or something similar. Or a nickname based on his size or appearance.”
“There is a Bernard or two in the family tree,” he said. “Possibly carried along.”
“It could be. Names based on animals were common among early Celtic peoples who used such names for their kin groups, clans, and individuals too. Old documents include names that translate to wolf, eagle, raven, and so on.” She tilted her head.
“If you had lived then, you might have been ‘Aedan the Raven’ for your coloring, or ‘Hawk’ for your keen eyesight or your decisive manner.”
He leaned against the table, looking amused, hands folded. She could easily imagine him as an ancient warrior, exuding the quiet but powerful presence natural to him.
“And you might be called a lark. Or a dark swan.” He smiled.