The Crickhowell School for the Muses

by Waxman, Rachel

  Francis shot a glance toward his father, moving only his eyes.

  Understanding the gesture, Awen forced herself to look normal again.

  Sir Robert either noticed none of this exchange, or pretended not to. “Do sit, Awen,” he said. “There’s a setting for you right here.” He motioned toward a spot to his left, halfway down the table, and she obliged. “Abigail’s made us a ham quiche tonight. Francis’s favorite.” He winked at his son. “Now, we were just discussing his recent business travels. Not always the most exciting thing for an artist to hear, but he was telling me about a few of his adventures on the road, weren’t you, Francis?”

  “Indeed, Father.”

  “Mmm,” added Awen through a mouthful of quiche.

  “Apparently, he ran into a band of gypsies up north. And another time—not too long ago, it seems—he saved a lost girl on the road! How noble! I always knew I brought him up well.”

  Awen forced a cough. “Do tell me about the gypsies,” she cut in, before Sir Robert had too much time to ponder the story of the lost girl.

  “The gypsies, yes,” Francis began, and cleared his throat. “Well, I’m up north one afternoon, traveling to Ashbrooke, when I hear some music off in the distance, farther up the same path I was traveling on.”

  Holding her fork askew, Awen rested her chin in her hand and leaned toward Francis to listen.

  “I am curious, of course, so I urge my horse on a bit faster, until the music becomes clearer and clearer. And then, I hear the yearning sound of the primàs!”

  “Primàs?” Awen asked.

  “Yes, the primàs.” Francis’s face grew more animated with each word. “The first violinist—lead violinist—in a gypsy band. Beautiful. What those musicians can do is incredible, really!” His eyes were focused on Awen’s, and he seemed to speak only to her.

  “Hmm, fascinating,” Sir Robert cut in, though the tone of his voice was unconvincing—dry, with a hint of sarcasm.

  Awen glanced at him, her eyebrows slightly raised at his tone.

  Sir Robert cleared his throat loudly, and suddenly his voice and expression were back to their normal pleasantness. “Well, Son, did you approach them? Make a deal? Buy me any paints?” He chuckled. “I do hope they didn’t steal anything from you!” Sir Robert winked.

  “Now, now, I’ll get to all of that,” Francis replied. He turned back to Awen. “Once I can hear the music clearly, I slow my horse down to a walk. I knew that I—one man on horseback—could travel much faster than a whole caravan of gypsies, so a walk would be sufficient to catch up. I didn’t want them to hear me coming.”

  “Yes,” Awen said, “I know the sound of approaching horse hooves.”

  Francis smiled back at her with his eyes and one side of his mouth. “So, I come upon this caravan of gypsies. It’s rather small—just the band walking alongside two horse-drawn carts, and some children running about, leaping in and out of the moving carts. ‘Hello there!’ I call out, trying to be heard over the music. It takes me a few shouts, and then suddenly, the music stops. And the horse-drawn carts stop. And the children stop running and playing. Everyone turns around and looks at me!”

  Awen’s eyes widened until her forehead crinkled, and then she laughed as she realized how drawn into the story she had become. “What did you do next?” She kept her eyes on Francis as she speared a bite of quiche with her fork.

  “To be quite honest,” Francis chuckled, “I thought they were going to kill me! I was still mounted on my horse, so for a moment I considered turning around and galloping the hell out of there.”

  “But you didn’t,” Awen said.

  “But I didn’t. No, I had to talk to them. ‘Hello there,’ I say again. ‘My name is Francis. I heard your wonderful music from a distance, and I just had to come and see it for myself.’ They continue to stare at me, slightly bewildered I think, and I almost give up a second time. But then, this tiny old lady hops out of the cart nearest to me, and she begins to gesticulate wildly. Like this.” Francis waved his hands around in the air, making circular motions with his arms.

  “Son, this is all very enjoyable, but could you get to the point? I have some more work to do tonight, and I’m sure Awen is very tired.”

  “Yes, Father. So, this old woman is making these crazy motions at me, so I have no choice but to dismount and follow her into the horse-drawn cart. I was terrified my horse would be stolen—and that perhaps I, too, would be taken away by the gypsies. Then, this woman sits me down on a stack of hay, and suddenly she grabs my hand! Like this.” Francis leapt up from his chair and into the one right beside Awen, then took her left hand, flipping it over.

  Awen tried not to smile as he traced a line across her palm, but alas, she could not help but giggle.

  “And the woman says to me—”

  Sir Robert cleared his throat loudly.

  “The woman says…” Francis changed his voice to imitate the old lady, “‘Young man, I will read your palm for some of those golden coins in your pocket. I sense a major event coming into your life. Soon. Very soooooooon. Yes, I see…danger in your life. I see love. I see…’” Francis threw a glance at his father. “‘Great business deals!’” Francis laughed—mockingly, as it sounded to Awen.

  “All right,” Sir Robert sighed, hoisting himself out of his chair, “I’ve got work to do, and I sense this story is simply a silly creation of yours. Wonderful to see you again, Son, and please let Awen go up to sleep. I will need her bright and early tomorrow morning—and every morning, from here on out.”

  Awen watched as he left the room, brushing his hands off on his clothes as he went. A moment passed in silence, as both Francis and Awen listened to Sir Robert’s fading footsteps.

  “Well,” Francis sighed, finally releasing Awen’s hand. “I do always love to see my father.” His blue eyes looked wistful as he spoke, as if he regretted something.

  Awen bit her lip, not sure of what to say. “The gypsy story—was that true?”

  Francis grinned. “No, not really.” He folded his hands. “Well, I did come across some gypsies, and I did hear their music…but I never actually got close enough to see them, much less get my fortune read by an old woman.” Francis paused, and an urgent expression appeared on his face. He whispered, “Awen. Why are you here?”

  Brows knit, she replied in a whisper of her own: “I’m…Sir Robert is my patron. Don’t you know?”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but…” He sighed, then stood. “My father is right: you’ll need your sleep. Goodnight, Awen.” Francis turned and left the room, his footsteps rounding the corner and moving away, toward the front of the castle.

  Awen sighed and stared down at her hands. Her fingernails were clean, but she picked at the imaginary dirt under them, anyway. Though she had been there hardly two days, she had almost been starting to enjoy this new life as the muse of Sir Robert Thomas. The good food. The peace and quiet. The chance that she might not actually have to sing, but just sit there on a stool all morning and afternoon. But now, there was Francis. The young man who had found her lost in the forest was back, and with him came all the regrets about the life she could never have.

  The free life, where the music was her own.

  Eighteen

  Awen lay on the floor of her room, only a pillow between her back and the stone surface. She watched the light from the lantern on her trunk gradually dwindle.

  The image of Francis—his water-blue eyes, his golden-brown hair—danced in her head, and she wondered how things might change with him around. Or maybe nothing would change. After all, Sir Robert would need her in his painting studio, and Francis probably had things to do, places to ride out to for the day. But it was not so much his physical presence that perturbed Awen—no; he could leave tomorrow without ever saying goodbye. It was something else, something he represented…but her mind was too muddled to sort it out.

  Awen flipped around, face smooshed into the pillow. She sighed loudly and closed her eyes. She considered mo
ving back to her bed, but there was something comforting about sleeping on the floor.

  A tentative knock sounded at the door.

  Awen’s head jerked up, her heart beating a bit faster.

  Another knock.

  She started to rise from the floor but then stopped, figuring it must be Abigail, come to light a candle or blow one out. “Yes?” Awen called softly, lying back down.

  Another knock.

  “Come in.”

  The door inched open, and for a moment Awen could see only darkness beyond it. Then Francis’s face appeared.

  “Oh!” Awen immediately sat up on the pillow and tried to rearrange her nightgown before he could see too far into the room.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Francis whispered. “I know it’s late, and probably completely inappropriate that I’m in here at such an hour. And you were probably going to sleep.”

  “No,” Awen fumbled for the right words, “I was just…er, sitting here.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, yes,” Awen said more loudly, motioning him in.

  Francis closed the door softly behind him and then leaned against it. “I was wondering…” His voice was light-hearted again, no longer an urgent whisper. “If you wanted to go out riding with me tomorrow.”

  “Well…” Awen fiddled with the edge of the pillow. “I wish I could, but I am sure I’ll have to help Sir Robert in the studio.”

  Francis made a half-grimace.

  “What?” Awen cut in—with more sharpness than she had intended.

  “Nothing.” Francis laughed. He raised his hands in surrender. “I just find it a bit funny when you call my father ‘Sir Robert,’ that’s all.”

  “Oh.” Awen tilted her head downward, trying to hide her blushing face.

  “You do have a point, though; hmm.” Francis tapped his heel against the door. “Maybe I can get you out of it…unless you enjoy being his muse?” There was a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Well, I…I don’t exactly enjoy it. Although when I’m not required to sing, but just sit for his paintings…it can be all right. Amusing, even. But, still…”

  “Let me guess,” Francis cut in. “But still…” He pretended to search for the right words. “You want something better for yourself.”

  Awen looked him straight in the eye—then quickly glanced away. “Of course,” she murmured.

  They were silent for a moment. Then Francis tapped his heel against the door again and made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Well, I’ll be going out riding tomorrow. It’s your choice if you want to come with me or not.” He watched Awen for a moment, pressing his lips together, gauging her reaction—or waiting for an answer.

  Awen said nothing. She knew full well that if Sir Robert needed her, there would be no getting out of it.

  Francis turned and left her room in silence, opening and closing the door so quietly, it was as if he had never been there.

  Awen lay back down again, burying her face in the pillow. An unfamiliar feeling began to course through her: anger. Frustration, too. Why did Francis have to come here? She liked the castle. She felt calm here, and Sir Robert was a nice enough man. This could be the right life for her. But the presence of Francis would always be a looming shadow—a reminder that this was not the only way.

  Awen began to feel uncomfortable on the stone floor, and after a minute of twisting around, she gave in and crawled into the four-poster bed. She lay on her back, half under the covers, and closed her eyes just as the light from the lantern finally gave out.

  * * *

  Awen awoke before Abigail called her down for breakfast. The curtains had not been closed, and the rising sun lit up golden strips across her room.

  Awen slid out of bed and drifted to the window, pressing her face against the glass. She smiled, for the early morning outside her window looked like something Sir Robert might paint. It was brown and red and gold, with the tiniest hint of blue from the river that ran through the hills. She heard the faint chirps of a bird, and unlatched the window to open it. It seemed no one had opened these windows in a very long time—they had been painted shut and were warped so that each window squeezed against the other. Awen held the left side shut and pulled on the right with every bit of her strength and frustration—until it opened with a bang.

  The chirping outside stopped. Awen stuck her head out the window, sucking in the early morning air. It smelled like honey and lavender. She frowned. This was not the first time she had smelled honey on the air. She wracked her brain, trying to make the connection. The scent made her uneasy.…

  “Are you awake, Awen?” Abigail called from the hallway. “Breakfast is ready.”

  “Yes, I’m awake. I’ll be down soon.”

  The forest. The forest into which she had escaped from Beaufort had smelled of honey, too. All over again, she was reminded of Francis—and of the horseback ride she would miss today.

  Awen sighed. She had not been outside since her arrival.

  * * *

  Awen was not expecting anyone else at breakfast. But there they both were, Sir Robert and Francis, eating toast and disagreeing about something.

  Francis was the first to greet her. “Good morning.” Then, as Awen took her new usual seat to the left of Sir Robert, Francis turned to his father. “I am planning an outing today. Just a casual ride around the area, pack some lunch, possibly. I’ll chance a guess that Awen hasn’t yet seen the ground, and further, that you won’t be needing her today.”

  Sir Robert made a grumbling sound.

  “You’ve managed all these years.” Francis spoke with a suspicious smile on his face. “What’s one day without your muse?”

  His father shook his head.

  “Please?”

  “No. I will not argue about this. Come now, Awen, let’s get started. You can bring your toast with you.”

  Awen turned to Francis with a desperate look—but then shook it off. “Have a good ride,” she said on her way out. “It’s beautiful out there. Maybe…I can go another time?”

  Francis stared down at his plate and grunted.

  “So,” said Sir Robert over his shoulder as the pair entered his studio, “I see you’re getting on well with my son.”

  “Mmm,” Awen responded.

  “Yes, he’s quite the boy. Very talented in his business deals.” Sir Robert began to unscrew tubes of paint and arrange his brushes. “He plays the piano, too. And quite well, at that. I imagine he could be a performer if he put his mind to it.”

  Awen’s eyes widened at this, but she remained silent.

  “Speaking of music…” Sir Robert gazed at Awen a moment. “I think I’d like to hear you sing some more today.”

  Awen tried to hide her disappointment. She flopped down on the piano bench as Sir Robert finished preparing his paints. He did not seem to notice her dismay.

  “I was thinking of something…” He stared at the painting on his easel. “Light. No! Earthy. Yes: dark and earthy. I want to add some density to the forest today.”

  Awen nodded, trying to decide how she might sing “earthy.” She usually sang something light and liquid. Something silver. She cleared her throat and sang a scale to warm up.

  Sir Robert started to paint. Awen would have preferred to listen to the brush, to the bristles tickling the canvas with color. But instead, she would have to cover that sound with her own voice.

  Awen started with a song that she already knew, but she changed the key to lower it. Sir Robert smiled as he worked—no doubt, Awen figured, at what he perceived to be the ease with which she sang. Yet for her, it felt like hauling bricks. Having to sing for somebody else sometimes created a strange sensation in her head, like a fuzzy rock pounding in her brain, threatening to give her a headache. She wondered what it might feel like to sing just for herself again.…

  Not like this, hopefully.

  Sir Robert nodded when she finished her song, then requested a second song, then a third. After that,
he kept working and did not ask to hear another.

  Awen resituated herself on the piano bench and again listened to the sound of the paint brushes. She held her breath, afraid that eventually he would ask for yet another song.

  “You know, Awen…”

  Sir Robert’s sudden interjection made her jump.

  His voice sounded serene, but also serious. He did not look up from his canvas. “You will be here, essentially, forever. Or until I die, at least. Which I hope won’t be for a long while yet. And then, I imagine you go back to Crickhowell, and they find you a new patron and a new home.”

  “Yes, of course,” Awen replied matter-of-factly. But she had never considered that part of her future. She had never been told she would end up back at Crickhowell, tossed from patron to patron like an orphan, no matter how old she was.…Or would there become a time when she was too old, no longer pretty, no longer with such a voice, and she would be thrown out like a dusting rag, thin with overuse?

  She decided, right then, that this was it. This would be the only patron she would ever have. But she would have to keep that decision to herself.

  “Which reminds me…ah, yes!” Sir Robert’s eyes brightened. “There is a wonderful, well-off family down the way, with a daughter just a bit older than you.” He pointed at her with his paint brush, and Awen flinched. “It seems Francis has taken quite an interest in her”—he clapped his palms together, sending a spatter of paint off the brush—“and may soon be engaged.”

  Awen’s jaw dropped, but she shut it quickly, almost biting her tongue in the process.

  “He’s still young. But it’s such a wonderful match, how can I not favor it?” His eyes twinkled—and then, for a moment, Awen thought he narrowed them at her. But the rest of his face looked so pleasant, she swore she must have imagined it. “Anyway, I just thought I’d mention it. But don’t say anything about it to Francis! I wouldn’t want to embarrass him.”

  “Certainly,” Awen replied, moving her mouth as little as possible. She sat for a while with her lips pursed and a sour look on her face. She wondered why Francis had not said anything about this girl. But then again, she supposed, why would he? And when would he have had the chance?