Waking the Princess

by Susan King

  "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

  A blazing sunset illuminated the city of Edinburgh, touching reflected fire to countless windows, reddening house facades, highlighting the rugged outlines of the castle and hill. Aedan stood watching the changes in sky and town, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. From Doctor Connor MacBain's front window in his house on the slope of the Calton Hill, the view over most of Edinburgh was expansive and stunning.

  Aedan gazed at the castle on its high, black rock and the rugged cone of Arthur's Seat, the great hill that sheltered the city from winds and pocketed fog on wintry days. Below, he saw the long ribbons of streets and buildings and the moving flow of carriage traffic on Princes Street opposite the drained loch, a small valley now filled with bright gardens. He could see part of the long slope of the High Street, which divided the city, and clusters of tenement buildings, closes, and narrow streets. Laundry hung like pale, tiny tiles, and people moved about like so many bustling ants up and down the innumerable inclines.

  "Lovely, isn't it?" his sister asked.

  He turned to see Mary Faire entering the drawing room where he stood. Her wide skirt of dark brown satin complemented her slender figure and gleaming black hair. Quietly she closed the door of Connor's examining room, where Dora and Effie MacDonald were closeted in consultation with Mary Faire's husband. She crossed the room toward Aedan. "I love this view of the city at sunset—the colors are so vibrant and the silhouette of the castle so powerful, watching over us all."

  "Beautiful, aye, but I prefer a Highland sunset."

  "You always did." She slipped her arm into his. "It's good to see you, Aedan, and I'm glad you brought Dora here."

  "Does Connor think he can help her?"

  "I think so. He'll explain when he's done examining her. And it was good of you to bring her here and offer to pay any expenses on her behalf. That is the generous, warmhearted little brother I remember."

  "I haven't changed," he answered pragmatically.

  His sister angled a little to study his face. "Oh, I think you have. For a long time, you seemed determined to keep others away. You built a wall around yourself, especially after Neil's death. It grew higher and thicker after Elspeth, and then Father, too, passed on. But you're breaking out of that at last."

  "I didn't realize... I had done that," Aedan said quietly.

  "Yes, to some extent. I haven't seen you for several months, but you seem changed now. I thought perhaps that you might have fallen in love with someone. Only that would soften a lad like you. Is it... Dora, perhaps? Or dear Amy?"

  Laughing a little, he shook his head. "Both Dora and Amy have stolen someone's heart, but not my own." His own belonged to Christina now, but he was not about to admit that to his sister. Difficult enough, he thought, to acknowledge it to himself.

  "Well, you've definitely changed for the better, my dear. When I saw you last spring, you were brusque and cold, glowering and rumbling like a bear disturbed in his den."

  "You might do that, too, if you lived at Dundrennan, with Amy and Aunt Lill going full bore with painters, carpenters, and upholsterers," he drawled.

  Mary Faire laughed. "I'm sure of it—neither you nor I would have much patience with that."

  Aedan smiled faintly and looked over his sister's head as the sunset fire deepened to purple. "I built that wall for a reason," he said. "You know I felt as if Neil's death, and Elspeth's, too, were my fault." He was surprised how easy that was to say, after years of carrying it about inside.

  "Aedan, you were not even there. Neil died on a battlefield half a world away. And we all knew the hazards of that dreadful war when he left Scotland. I saw it for myself. Connor and I met there, on one of those horrid battlefields."

  He nodded. "Even you were there, and I was not. I should have gone, but I chose to stay here and pursue my engineering work. I might have saved him—pulled him out of the way or taken that lethal wound myself. You know what an impulsive, idealistic lad he was."

  "And you were the levelheaded lad who saw the importance of staying home with our ailing father, when both your brother and sister had trotted off to jump into a pointless, brutal struggle. You saved Father, I think—added years to his life. If anything, Neil's death is on my hands," she added softly.

  He reeled at that, drew back to look at her. "Yours? Why on earth would do you say that?"

  "You know they brought Neil into the field hospital where I was working—I had just met Connor that morning, I remember, for we had a fierce argument, silly as it seems now, over bandage supplies. But I could do nothing to save my own brother, could scarcely make him comfortable while Connor tended to him and while Neil... died. If it was anyone's fault—" She stopped.

  He put his arm around her. "You did your utmost. It was in God's hands. I know that now. You had best remember it, too."

  "As for Elspeth's death," she went on, "I know you think the curse brought that on when you became heir to Dundrennan. Is that why you think your fiancée met tragedy?" She peered up at him.

  He shrugged a little. "I've certainly wondered."

  "Of course. Anyone would. But Aedan, you are a pragmatist in most things. Surely you realize that it was only coincidence. And besides, you were not the laird then."

  "No," he said slowly. "But I am now."

  She glanced up at him. "So there is someone."

  "If there were, what does it matter? I will not risk that dreadful curse again. Love and happiness are not for me."

  "What if you are wrong?" Mary Faire slipped her arm around his waist. "I think sometimes we can hold on to pain and fear as familiar things in a world full of the unknown, when all we need to do is let go and... well, free ourselves. Miracles do happen."

  He was silent for a moment, thinking, hoping. Finally he nodded. "As always, you are the steady, wise one." He kissed the top of her head. "Miracles, is it? I promise to consider that."

  "Good," she said. "Now, tell me—what is the state of things at Dundrennan? Will the house be finished by year's end, as Father's will stipulated?"

  "It might be done in time for the queen's visit," he said, more brightly than he felt. Aedan still did not know if he would be able to keep the estate, though he had not yet told his sister the full truth of the ancient find. "The house looks marvelous."

  "Marvelous? I thought you hated chintz."

  He grinned. "I'm growing fond of it. And the mural in the dining room promises to be a beautiful thing. Father would have been very pleased."

  "What about the old wall you discovered on Cairn Drishan?"

  "It may be the location of an ancient settlement. That is yet to be determined. Mrs. Blackburn has n
ot finished her work with that, and the museum will send others to investigate."

  "Mrs. Blackburn?"

  "The antiquarian sent by the museum, Christina Blackburn, has been digging in the hill. Her brother is the artist who has taken over the mural project. And Mrs. Blackburn is posing for the figure of the briar princess. I... well, you will be surprised, but I am posing for the prince in the painting."

  Mary Faire smiled in delight. "You? I must meet this Mrs. Blackburn if she talked you into that. She must be rather wonderful to convince—" She looked at him closely. "Aedan Arthur MacBride... are you smitten with your Mrs. Blackburn?"

  "Smitten? A laird of Dundrennan? Hardly."

  "Stop hedging. Is she the one who has changed you so?"

  "Oh, I doubt—" He stopped, realizing that he did feel different—lighter within, made of finer, kinder stuff in thought and emotion, finding it easy again to show that he cared about others. He laughed more, too. Felt younger and less burdened overall, yet with the hard-won wisdom gained of experience.

  Watching the sunset glow pour through the window, he felt that incandescence within himself. Love filled him, and he knew it, and at last must face it. Though he might not be ready to take the risk, he suspected it was far too late to choose.

  "I believe their consultation has come to an end," he said, turning as he heard a door open. Voices and laughter sounded out in the hallway.

  "Oh, Miss MacDonald, Mrs. MacDonald, please come in," Mary Faire said, stepping forward to welcome Dora and Effie into the drawing room. A tall, fair-haired man accompanied them. Aedan strode forward to greet them.

  "Thank you for seeing her, Connor," he said.

  Blond and handsome, his appearance more like a Viking marauder than a studious physician, Connor MacBain smiled. "I think we have good news, Aedan. It's very possible that I can help Dora." He smiled at the girl and indicated to Aedan that he wanted to speak to him privately. They strolled together to the other side of the room. "Dora has cataracts of the eyes, an unusual condition in a girl so young and otherwise robust."