The Crickhowell School for the Muses

by Waxman, Rachel

  “But he’ll know these garments were hers,” Awen protested.

  “Yes, of course he’ll know. But as long as her name isn’t spoken, he can still pretend she never existed. I think he might like the look, actually. In fact, I would bet he’ll want you to sit for a portrait.” He paused. “Hmm…unless you would hate that.” He smiled.

  “I would much prefer sitting for a portrait,” Awen mumbled, “than singing for one.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. Sometimes I wonder what it might feel like to sing just for myself again. But now, I’m not so sure I want to do even that.”

  “Do it,” Francis said simply. “Sing for yourself. That’s what I think music should be about, anyway. Many would argue with me—but either way, I play the piano for my own pleasure.”

  Awen tapped the toe of her shoe against the floor. “I suppose,” she pondered. But what was the point of unshared art? Art hidden under beds, behind layers of dust? Was she actually better off before Crickhowell, when her song was unknown to all but herself, tucked away like cobwebs in an unused room? A forced art, though, an unloved art, sounded just as useless. “Well,” she said, pulling at a lock of hair, “it’s something to consider.”

  Twenty

  Awen chewed in silence on a small chunk of tough beef. She sat in the same spot at the dinner table as she had since Francis’s arrival, in between him and his father. She slunk down in her seat, trying to keep the new dress hidden from Sir Robert, and crossed her ankles to conceal the shoes. What if he dropped something and peered under the table? She was not even sure she should bother with the precautions—Sir Robert had not looked at her once since she had entered the room. He and Francis were deep in some serious business conversation.

  “How much did you get for them?” Sir Robert asked gruffly, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. “Nothing more than two hundred, I hope!”

  “Father! I do say your sense of competition has gotten the better of you. Are you saying that you’d rather your son take home less money, just so you can say your paintings are worth more than some other painter’s?”

  Awen watched Francis’s animated expression from the corner of her eye. There always seemed to be something ironic and jocular in his behavior, especially when in the company of his father.

  “I suppose you could say that,” Sir Robert answered. “As proud of you as I am, I don’t see a cent of your money—you always seem to hide it away somewhere. Therefore, I don’t give one care what you make on a painting…unless it’s the painting of my rival, and in that case, I want you to make as little as possible.” He laughed at his own words.

  “Then you’re a silly man.” Francis smiled, but he seemed to mean what he said.

  Sir Robert turned abruptly. “Awen.”

  She nearly jumped out of her chair—then crossed her arms over her chest, afraid he might say something about the dress.

  “You look confused.”

  “Confused?” Now she was confused—but only because she did not know what she was supposed to be confused about. She struggled to come up with a question before Sir Robert composed one for her. “I simply wonder what you were discussing,” she tossed off quickly.

  “Ah,” Sir Robert said, leaning back in his chair. “Francis, you see, is a man of business. He is in the art dealing business, to be precise.”

  Awen glanced at Francis, who simply shrugged.

  “He rarely involves himself with my artwork,” Sir Robert continued, “because I like to deal with those sales myself. However, he sells many other works, which often include those of my chief rivals. And, of course”—he smiled—“I always hope he makes very little on those sales.” He winked and, leaning toward the table, turned back to Francis. “All right, Son; you never told me how much it went for.”

  “Two seventy-five,” Francis replied with satisfaction. He forked a bite of food into his mouth to drive home the point.

  “That bastard!” Sir Robert slapped his knee. “Ahead of me this much”—he made a space between his thumb and index finger—“every time! I’ll get him, one day. My masterpiece is almost done. Well, all right—it’s nowhere near being done. But it will go for five times his number!”

  “Is that the painting you’ve been working on since my arrival?” Awen asked quietly, then stared down at her hands.

  “No, that’s something different. My masterpiece, my chef-d’oeuvre, as I like to say, has been stored for some time now. I’ve lacked the inspiration to go on with it. But now, with the help of a muse, I suppose I can finish it!” His eyes lit up. “Yes! That is precisely what I must do.” He shifted in his seat as if he might rise straightaway and dig the painting out of a closet.

  “Wonderful, Father. But please,” Francis protested, “not right now. Wait until tomorrow, at least.”

  Sir Robert sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll wait till the morning to start.”

  The room was silent. Awen looked at her plate, desiring to take another bite of her dinner—but she stopped herself. She was afraid to break the silence with an awkward clink of her fork.

  “Well,” Sir Robert finally said, pushing himself out of his chair, “I’ll be heading off to my study now. Have some work to do.” He moved to the entrance of the dining hall.

  “No dessert, Father?” The jocular quality had returned to Francis’s voice.

  “None for me.” He shifted his eyes to Awen. “I suggest you head up to sleep now; I’m planning to start early tomorrow.” He began to turn, but stopped. “And Francis, tomorrow why don’t you head to young Miss Bryn’s home, down the way? I know she would love for you to pay her a visit.” He walked off.

  There was a long silence as Sir Robert’s footsteps faded away. Awen recalled the conversation she’d had with him in his studio—about the girl who lived nearby, to whom Francis might soon be engaged.

  Francis finally broke the silence: “I don’t know about you, but I’m always in the mood for dessert!”

  Awen smiled faintly.

  “Is something wrong?” Francis asked. “You don’t actually have to run off to bed right now, even though my father told you to.”

  Awen said nothing. She had already forgotten about that part of Sir Robert’s suggestions.

  Francis sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. This Bryn girl—”

  “I already know about her,” Awen interrupted. “I didn’t know her name until now, but Sir Robert had said something about an engagement. He also told me not to tell you he’d told me.” She blushed, realizing her words had begun to jumble. “That’s wonderful, though.” She bit her lip, then added, “Good luck.”

  “Wait a moment; just listen. I hardly know Bryn. I’ve met her on only a few occasions, and although she’s nice enough, I certainly have no intention of marrying her!”

  Awen nodded, but without enthusiasm.

  “It’s all in my father’s head. She has a name, money, and connections. So naturally, he’s hoping for an engagement.” Francis rounded his lips and exhaled.

  “If your father wishes it, and if indeed she does have those qualities, I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry her.” Those weren’t the words she had wanted to say.

  “I don’t need a name, or money, or connections!” Francis nearly shouted. “I have what I need, and I’ve been successful in my business. My father, too, has been very successful in his art, and so I cannot understand why he wants even more—and at my expense!” He crossed his arms in resolve. “I will do whatever I please, and for whatever reasons I choose. My father knows he cannot actually force me into anything.”

  Awen had to smile. “Count yourself lucky.”

  Francis regarded her seriously. “Don’t say that. You make it sound as if you don’t have any power of your own.”

  “I don’t,” Awen said. She was still smiling, but she could feel moisture in her eyes. She did not feel sorry for herself—she had simply spoken the truth.

  Footsteps sounded behind Awen, and a s
tartled expression arose on Francis’s face.

  Awen whipped her head around:

  “Would anyone care for some flourless chocolate cake?” It was only Abigail with the dessert.

  Francis rose—but he leaned in close to Awen. “Some day,” he whispered, “you will learn that you don’t have to wait for anybody to give you anything.”

  Awen looked down at her dress—then up again, opening her mouth to speak…but Francis had already glided off toward the hallway.

  “Save me a piece for tomorrow, Abigail,” he said over his shoulder, eyes focused on Awen. “I’m heading upstairs, but I’m sure Awen will have some.”

  Then he winked at her and left.

  Twenty-one

  Go ahead and sit on that stool while I mix up these paints. Some day, I will teach you how to prepare the paint, but now is not the time. We have so much to do!”

  Awen tapped her new shoes together, then yawned so hard she had to close her eyes.

  Sir Robert glanced at her over his spectacles. “Didn’t go to sleep late, did you?”

  Awen shook her head. She had no idea what time she had gone to sleep. Likely late.

  “This is the painting about which I told you at dinner last night.” He rotated the easel, inch by inch, until it faced Awen.

  She tried to discern an image on the canvas, but at this point it contained merely blobs of silver, purple, and blue.

  “Turns out it’s even less done than I thought it was!” He chuckled, contemplating his work. “But I have decided I must finish it as soon as possible. I’m just going to have you sit for this one, for now.” He turned his gaze on her; his forehead wrinkled. “Say, something looks different about you.…”

  Awen’s heart sped up, and she held her breath. She was wearing the dress with the peridot gems on the waist—all white, sleeveless, with a square neckline. She tried to hide the shoes by folding her legs back under the stool.

  “Hmm…” Sir Robert tapped his fingertips against his bearded chin. “Whatever it is, I like it. Interesting…” His eyes lingered on her for a moment—and then he returned his attention to the easel.

  She exhaled.

  “Well, let’s begin, then! No time to waste.” He turned the easel back around and resumed the mixing of his paints.

  The circular movement of his wrist put Awen under a sort of hypnosis: it was not until he had been painting for some time that she even realized he had finished preparing the paint. She was still staring at his supply table, her eyes drooping, nearly dozing.…

  “I do hope Francis has started on his way down to Bryn’s home.”

  Awen’s head shot up to look at him.

  “She may be our closest neighbor, but it still takes a good hour to get there. Hmm…this needs another color,” he muttered to himself, turning to his worktable. “Anyhow, I’ve been talking to Bryn’s father, working out a deal for the marriage. Most of the details have been arranged. We just need Francis to—”

  “Francis told me he didn’t plan to—” She could not believe she was saying it.

  “Nonsense!” Sir Robert nearly shouted. “Francis will do what I tell him to do. He will marry that young lady whether he wants to or not. And you, my dear…” He set his palette aside, and pointed at her with a brush. “You will not get in the way!” He lowered his voice. “Don’t you forget what you are, and why you are here. You are a muse—my muse—and you are here because I paid for your education. That beautiful voice you have may as well be mine!”

  Awen shifted back on her stool, startled by the sudden onslaught. “I…I didn’t do…”

  “I know what you’re up to. I see the looks between you two, and I know you’re in confidence with each other. You will not sabotage this engagement! From now on, I think you should permanently take your breakfasts and dinners in your room, and your lunches in here. I would prefer that you no longer see or speak to my son.”

  Awen opened her mouth to protest; she did not understand where these sudden, ridiculous demands were coming from.

  “No, don’t say a word. You will stop seeing and speaking to my son, and that’s that.”

  Awen closed her mouth, but a deep scowl remained on her face, which she failingly attempted to suppress.

  “Now, where were we? Ah! The green.” His voice had reverted into its normal calm, and he was the kindly, weathered wizard once again. He took up his brush and palette and bent down to paint on the bottom half of the canvas.

  Awen’s brow was knitted in confusion, for he was acting as if his outburst of decrees had never occurred. The way he slithered from one demeanor to the next made her wonder just how many layers were hidden behind his golden glasses.

  She pressed her lips together, determined to speak to him no more.

  * * *

  Awen sighed in relief when Abigail finally entered the studio, lunch basket in one hand, large mug of coffee in the other. The early morning hours had passed quickly, as Awen had struggled to stay awake; after Sir Robert’s strange outburst, however, time had crept.

  Sir Robert swiveled his body around. “What’s on the menu today, Abigail?”

  “I’ve made up some spinach-tomato tarts,” she said, handing the basket to him. “There’s also a bit of cheese in there, for later. And some coffee for you.” She placed the cup on his work table.

  “Thank you, dear. Mmm, these look delectable! Oh, one thing before you leave. Did Francis happen to go out this morning?”

  “Um, yes,” she replied—looking, Awen noticed, suddenly uncomfortable. “To the home of a lady. Bryn, I think it was.”

  Awen shot her a glance.

  Abigail responded with a look that implied she had more to say.

  “Wonderful. Did he say whether he’d be gone long?” He looked down at a spot on his painting and picked at something with the end of his brush.

  Abigail, keeping one eye on him, sashayed noiselessly to Awen and tossed something small and light into her lap. “He said he would be out all day,” she replied, and slipped back to her original position.

  “Good to hear.”

  Without moving her head, Awen shifted her eyes down to the object on her lap: a rolled-up piece of ivory parchment, tied with a thin red string. She itched to obscure it, but dared not move while Sir Robert was facing her.

  “Did he say if he would be back for dinner?” Sir Robert took a gulp of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I don’t believe he will.”

  “In that case, both Awen and I will be dining downstairs. However, for future evenings, Awen will be eating upstairs.”

  “Certainly, sir,” she said, offering a small curtsy. “Enjoy your lunch.” She glanced at Awen one last time, then left the room.

  Sir Robert turned to the basket of food on his work table and reached for a tart.

  Awen quickly threw both hands over the parchment in her lap, hiding it from view.

  “Go on; help yourself.” Sir Robert motioned to the basket, then bit into his tart. “Mmm, scrumptious.”

  Awen removed her left hand, pressing the parchment against her dress with her right as she stood. She took a small step forward, half hopping, and reached awkwardly toward the basket. She turned her body away from Sir Robert. As she returned to her place, she slipped the paper into her right hand, clenching it in her fist.

  Awen had little hope of unfurling the note any time soon, as Sir Robert had no desire to abandon the canvas: he simply painted with his right hand and held his coffee with his left. Awen’s palm began to sweat. She imagined the moisture from her skin mushing up the paper, smudging the ink and obliterating whatever message was inside.

  * * *

  “Wait a moment here, Awen.” He eyed his empty mug. “I must step out of the room for a bit.”

  Awen lifted her gaze from her hand. Some hours had passed since lunch, and she had spent the entire time imagining what the note said, and whom it was from. Francis? Her skin tingled at the thought. But more likely, it was fr
om Abigail herself.

  Awen nodded, then watched warily as he rose and moved toward the hallway. Her grip tightened on the paper—she did not think he could move fast enough. As soon as Sir Robert disappeared from view, she flung off the red string, wrapping it hastily about her left wrist. The parchment had been rolled tightly into a scroll. Awen unfurled it, all the while fixing her gaze at the hallway, in case Sir Robert should reappear.

  The note was short—three lines of curly black ink letters, printed in the center:

  Not at Bryn’s.

  In town all day—don’t let my father know.

  Bringing something back for you.

  Awen smiled, but she wasted no time re-rolling the slim parchment and sliding it down the front of her dress. She glanced at the red string around her wrist, wondering if Sir Robert would notice it. She placed her right hand over it, just in case.

  A thumping sound of horse hooves on dirt sounded from the path outside; heart skipping, Awen whipped around to face the front window. It was not Francis on horseback, but rather an open carriage, pulled by two large, cream-colored horses. There was something about the wagon that could only be described as eccentric. Awen rose from her stool and glided toward the window for a better look.

  The frame of the carriage had been painted gold, though even from this distance, Awen could see that the color was chipping. As it curved around the path, she noticed that each wheel had its own hue: one was white, one purple, one blue, and one green. The man driving the carriage was its only occupant; the other seats overflowed with wooden boxes and rolls of tan material. As the coach neared, Awen heard the distinct sound of bells through the window. She pressed her face to the glass for a better look, and before the carriage disappeared out of her line of sight at the very front of the house, she saw that the reins were lined with tiny silver balls.

  Awen heard footsteps from the hall, and she slipped back to the stool just as Sir Robert walked in.

  “Back to work, shall we? There’s still some time before dinner.” Sir Robert picked up his palette just as a loud series of knocks echoed in from the front entrance. “Hmm, who could that be?” He set the palette back down again and moved toward the hallway, eyes alert.