Chapter Twenty-Five
“One of the Jeanies will bring tea soon,” John told Christina. “I asked that it be brought here in the dining room, if you do not mind. I am glad you came to join us, Aedan,” he added, crossing the room, leaning heavily on the ivory head of his cane.
“I would not have missed it, since you are letting see more of the mural,” Aedan said.
Christina stood near Aedan, hands folded calmly, heart beating fast. He had his back to her, studying a partially finished section of the new mural.
She had been surprised to find Aedan here when she had entered the room a few minutes ago.
Oddly, she felt shy near him now: so much unsaid, yet so much secret passion between them made her uncertain rather than sure.
For days, they had only exchanged banalities—polite greetings, remarks that the weather was pleasant; the rain was back again; twilight was coming earlier these days; and would there ever be an end to the mud?
He had seemed so rushed, often surrounded by the work crew. She craved to be alone with him, feel his arms around her, share her thoughts—and finally, hopefully, hear more about what he had said days ago. I love you fiercely. Did he, and what did it mean?
Smoothing her hands nervously over the bell of her dark-green skirt, she smiled. “I took tea with Lady Balmossie and Amy yesterday,” she said. “We missed you, Sir Aedan. And you, John—in the sitting room. Thistle was with us too,” she added.
“Did she agree with Sir Edgar?” Aedan asked.
“She quite fancied him. He was rather inept in fending off her attentions, and he had to change his coat after she put cake in his pockets.”
“Fickle lass,” Aedan drawled. “She used to mess up my coat.”
“I am sure she loves you best,” Christina said.
“Does she?” Aedan murmured.
“Tea at last!” John said as a knock sounded and he went to the door to open it.
“Good afternoon.” Sir Edgar strode past John. “Ah, Christina. I was told I might find you here. And Sir Aedan, too! You’ve been a bit scarce.”
“I’ve been out blasting the hills,” Aedan said. Crossing his arms, he leaned a shoulder against the wall between the mural panels as if daring Neaves to answer him. Christina glanced anxiously from one to the other, sensing frank tension from Aedan and Edgar’s cool disdain.
Edgar strolled past the long table covered in cloths and the chaos of John’s art materials. “And here is the famous mural, revealed at last!” He leaned to examine sections of wall where elaborate compositions were partially completed in line and color.
“Neither famous nor ready for a reveal.” John limped forward to stand protectively between Edgar and his work. “It is not ready to be seen. Only a few have seen it.”
“I feel so privileged,” Edgar said without remorse.
Christina frowned, aware John had not invited the man to share tea with them. She exchanged a quick look with Aedan, who leaned casually, his gaze steady on hers.
Edgar perused the walls. “We are friends, after all, and since your sister and the laird are here, I assume you meant to include me as well. Parts of this are quite good.”
“And the rest?” John barked.
“Not bad. Unfinished, so we will reserve our opinion. Will it be done in time for the queen to see it when she visits?”
“It should be presentable enough by then, with luck,” John said.
Nodding, Edgar crossed the room to examine the other part of the mural, still in charcoal sketches on whitewash. “How fortunate for you that I am here. The museum is contemplating a large mural for the Industries Hall to be opened early next year.”
“I had not heard,” John said.
“No one has. You should submit sketches for the project. Lord Neaves, my father, heads the committee. Winning that assignment would be quite the plum. And the Blackburn name might be good for the museum, in that sense.”
“It is considerate of you to suggest it, Edgar,” Christina said, when John murmured his thanks. Aedan said nothing, still and watchful.
“I am pleased to help Christina’s brother.” Edgar locked his fingers behind him as he walked, studying each scene. “Your mural has a medieval sense. This is the legend of the Dundrennan princess, I take it?”
“Aye,” John said. “But I do not care to have it examined closely just yet.”
Ignoring the artist’s discomfort, Edgar peered closely at an image of the prince and princess. They faced each other, hands joined, framed by a painted stone arch. Christina blushed to recall posing with Aedan—and what had followed between them later.
Edgar frowned. “Christina,” he said, “this is you and Dundrennan himself?”
“Aye,” Aedan answered for her.
Neaves turned. “But you promised to reform your behavior.”
She stared at him, speechless. Then she remembered.
When Stephen’s painting of the briar princess had been exhibited at the Royal Scottish Academy, Edgar had ordered the picture taken down early.
She had been grateful to end her public embarrassment, and she had told Edgar then that she would never pose for such a thing again.
“It is not nearly the same,” she said, feeling her cheeks burn.
“Sir, that was ungentlemanly.” Aedan stepped forward.
“Considering her unfortunate past experience, I cannot approve of her posing again. And not even alone this time, but with a man. It is most unseemly.”
“She does not need your approval,” Aedan answered.
“Edgar, there is no harm in it,” Christina said. “I am proud to be part of John’s mural.”
“Others are posing too,” John said. “Lady Balmossie posed for the princess’s mother, as you see.” He pointed to one of the figures. “Miss Stewart modeled for another. Those ladies were willing to model for the mural. So was Christina.”
Edgar frowned, studying the wall as he walked toward the last scene, charcoal sketched on white plaster. Here was the scene of the prince lifting his unconscious princess in his arms. Slipping a monocle from his pocket, Edgar leaned forward.
“Really, Christina!” He sounded shocked.
Aedan took a step toward him. “The mural is not ready to be seen. I’m sure you understand. The door is there.” He gestured toward it.
Edgar inclined his head. “Sir, I’ve been meaning to speak with you, and this seems a good moment. Since you have not met the conditions of your father’s will, the museum’s advocate will summon your advocate to meet and discuss the transfer of the house.”
Christina gasped. Aedan, moving past, stopped beside her to whirl on Edgar. “No need for advocates. The conditions will be met,” he growled.
“Consider the situation. The renovations are not yet done, including the mural Sir Hugh wanted. And with ancient walls now discovered on the property, that may very well void your claim to the house, according to the stipulations of the will.” Edgar smiled.
“You said the stones had little significance,” Chistina pointed out, sensing the hostility building between the two men.
“Regardless, it is a historic site,” Edgar said. “But we at the museum are not so heartless as to take away your ancestral home. The museum board discussed some conditions before I came out here. I am authorized to make an offer to you.”
“What offer is that?” Aedan asked flatly.
“Dundrennan’s historical collection belongs in a museum, not kept from the public.”
“I will not sell my father’s collection.”
“The cost of renovations here must be enormous. Your father’s fortune dwindled, as I understand it. One wonders how you pay your creditors.”
“None of your concern.”
“Your fund will not last long if the remodeling continues. But we will not render you penniless or homeless. The board members ask that you donate your father’s historical memorabilia to the museum.
We cannot offer a fee, but we can safely house and maintain the objects.
In return, we will relinquish our claim on the house itself. It is a fair offer.”
Aedan frowned. “Father wanted those objects to be kept here.”
Christina looked up at him. “House the collection in the museum and save your house? Would you consider it?” she asked softly, wanting peace.
Aedan studied her, black brows lowered over cool blue eyes. “No,” he said, and looked at Edgar. “No.”
“It is a good compromise,” Edgar said. “The house would remain yours. In the final meeting, I might cast my vote for that. It benefits you and your family line.”
Aedan gave him a stony glare. “And what would be your price for that vote?”
“Stephen Blackburn’s painting.”
Christina gasped. “What?”
“I offered to purchase it years ago, but Sir Hugh would not sell it. Give it to me in return for my influence, and you will get the house and lands. A good bargain.”
Silence filled the room. Aedan stared at Edgar. Christina stepped closer to his side. “That painting is not mine to give or to sell,” he said. “It belongs to Mrs. Blackburn. And I doubt she would give it away.”
Astonished, she stared at Aedan, then looked at Edgar. “Aye. It is mine now. Why would you want it?”
“Yours! Interesting. Well, think about it.” Edgar went to the door, which John yanked open, clearly wanting him to leave. “My dear,” he said, turning. “That painting of you should belong only to your husband. Since I plan to fill that role, I plan to own the painting.”
“None of that will happen,” she said.
“No?” He smiled. “Sir Aedan, if you want to keep the house, then release that painting to me. It is as if Mrs. Blackburn has fallen under a spell at Dundrennan. No common sense whatsoever. My dear, I am disappointed. You are a worthy scholar, but the rebellious side of your character has returned. I thought you learned a lesson when Stephen died.”
Before she could reply, Aedan crossed the room toward him, but Edgar ducked through the doorway.
John lunged forward too, and Christina rushed after them.
She snatched her brother’s sleeve and grabbed Aedan’s arm.
John subsided back into the room, but Aedan jerked away from her. She hurried after him.
“Stop!” She caught his wrist. “Aedan, please, he is not worth it!”