by Jackie Ivie
This baby wasn’t unwanted or unloved. As she had been.
~ ~ ~
“The dressmaker comes today, Averill,” Lady Brighten said. “And don’t you dare quibble. The voyage will take some weeks…and you can’t travel with only one outfit.”
“I won’t accept clothing if I can’t pay, my lady. You’ll have to accept another painting.”
Perhaps her voice gave her away. Averill glanced down as Lady Brighten frowned and her eyes sharpened.
“How about if we consider your clothing an advance on the painting you’re doing of me? Will that suffice?” Lady Brighten asked.
That was very generous, but Averill hesitated. It sounded like charity. “I won’t accept more for this painting than it’s worth, Lady Brighten.”
She’d lost her train of emotion as she studied Lady Brighten’s hair. The woman didn’t realize the effort needed to capture images on canvas. Nobody did…except Tenny.
Averill lifted her brush an instant before the tremor hit it. At that moment Lady Brighten laughed, the sound akin to little bells tinkling. And that was exactly what she needed! Averill’s brush flew to capture the sound. The hair needed some yellow to bring it out. Touches of Parma violet! A hint of blue lapis! She mixed the paints messily, so the color in her mind would transfer before she lost it.
“You underestimate your talent, Averill.”
Oh, no. Tenny had said that.
Averill’s brush skittered through several strands of painted hair. She stepped back. She couldn’t steady her hand for several moments. And she’d lost the emotion. Perhaps she should ask the lady to keep quiet. She wiped off her brush and waited while Lady Brighten walked around to study the likeness.
“This painting is coming along nicely. I believe it will be worth an entire wardrobe.”
“I’ll accept two or three serviceable gowns, my lady, but no more.”
“Oh. No. I insist. That, in addition to an evening gown, accompanying lingerie, some shoes… and at least one hat.”
Averill smirked. They were haggling like women at the marketplace. “I can’t accept so much.”
“Averill, look at me.”
Averill looked up from her solvent pail.
“What I offer is cheap, against something so priceless. May I be honest?”
Averill’s eyebrows rose.
“There’s a mystery about you. And I love those. You see…I come from a long line of Venetians. We’re noted for this particular shade of red hair. It’s something we’re proud of. If you see this hair color, you’ve met a Venetian. Or a descendent. Which brings me to your mystery. You have such blue eyes. I couldn’t miss them. I’m certain I’ve seen that particular shade before. Long before arriving here. It’s bothered me since we met. I want to solve your mystery and take you to Venice at the same time. I so look forward to introducing you to society there. ”
Averill hand jerked, revealing the horror. She couldn’t be introduced. Not now. Not ever. And what if she chanced across Tenny? And worse. What if she met him with his socially acceptable bride at his side?
“You’re a very talented painter. So much so, I think you’ll take Europe by storm. I’m honored to sponsor you. I can’t wait! I’ll make certain you have so many commissions you’ll have little time to sit and ponder your self-worth, or lack thereof. Someone has filled your head with nonsense.”
Lady Brighten snorted, but it was a well-bred sound.
“You are also one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. I should’ve guessed it when I first saw you. I’m surprised Tenny didn’t notice. That boy’s got an eye for a comely girl.”
Averill winced and looked down quickly.
“So. There you have it. Your future is before you. Please don’t deny it. You’ll be the rage of Venice…and since I’m sponsoring you, no one will dare turn down my invitations. It’ll be mutually beneficial, I promise. Please say you’ll come. Please?”
~ ~ ~
Averill looked down at the blue of the Mediterranean, wishing she didn’t feel so ill. The cabin Lady Brighten booked for her was so spacious and luxurious that Averill had backed out of it when she first saw it. It didn’t feel right. It was as if she was looking above her station again. She had yet to stop Lady Brighten’s plans to introduce her to society, too.
She swallowed hard and tried to calm her stomach. The slightest bulge betrayed her pregnancy. Averill was grateful European fashions dictated a high waistline and that Lady Brighten insisted Averill be dressed in them. They’d hide her condition, and she needed that. As insistent as Lady Brighten was about a mystery, Averill’s child’s parentage would be difficult to keep from the woman.
The fact that Captain Tennison had fathered a child out of wedlock was going to be scandalous, to say the least. The thought was too horrid to consider. So she didn’t. If the captain entered her sphere, she’d just have to disappear again.
She should have insisted on at least one pair of serviceable trousers, or at least native attire. What good would lace-encrusted gowns, almost invisible under-things, and silk stockings do Averill when she was forced to return to her own world?
“Oh. There you are,” Lady Brighten said. “I’ve been looking for you. You’re not ill, are you?”
Averill pushed back from the rail. “I’m…not a very good sailor, I’m afraid.” Her attempted smile went awry; she could tell by Lady Brighten’s expression.
“Come back inside then. I’ll have my maid, Vernon, prepare something for you. I can’t have my world-class artist falling ill on me.”
Averill followed her patron through the door to the salon.
“I’ve been wondering, Averill. And please. Tell me if I pry...”
Averill sat in one of the salon’s red velvet chairs, busying herself with arranging her skirts. Lady Brighten was an expert at prying, and her queries seemed to always start with those words.
“Your mother was Egyptian. Isn’t that what you said?”
Averill nodded and stared at her bootlaces. Boots were such uncomfortable pieces of footwear. She preferred sandals, but Lady Brighten had been very insistent on what Averill wore. She was beginning to wonder if there was any time that Lady Brighten didn’t get her way.
“I’m just trying to think where I could’ve seen your image before. It’s truly bothersome in the extreme.”
Averill smiled at her boot tops. Lady Brighten refused to give up the idea there was a hidden aspect to Averill’s lineage that would explain away her talent and spirit her into social acceptability.
If only anything could...
“I’ve been told that my mother was...a dancing girl.” Averill trembled, recalling Father Sander’s lust-filled words. “She was a common woman...from the streets.”
It was painful to reveal. Perhaps if she did, however, the Lady Brighten would leave her alone.
“My father could’ve been any nationality. I like to think that he...perhaps, he was a soldier.” Her heart twisted under her bodice, and she caught her breath.
Perhaps he had been as handsome and dashing as Captain Tennison.
“But that does nothing toward explaining your extraordinary talent. Who could’ve told you such a story? They were boshed in the head.”
Averill sighed. Lady Brighten was like a dog, worrying over a bone. “I was raised in an orphanage, my lady. That’s the story they told me.” She shrugged.
“Well, it’s utter nonsense, that’s just what it is. Someone will have to answer for it, too. Mark my words. I have a second sense when it comes to these things. I do.”
Averill rubbed at her temples. Lady Brighten’s inquisitions seemed to create headaches. “May I retire, my lady?”
She was heading for the door before receiving permission.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Averill dabbed the last of the charcoal-colored touches to the gown and stepped back. The portrait was finished. She was as surprised as Lady Brighten was to see how well it turned out.
“It’s done, my
lady.” Averill knelt to add an “A” and date to the corner.
“Thank heavens! I haven’t had to sit this still for ages!”
Averill ignored the woman’s complaints. She referred to having to keep her mouth still, something Averill had insisted on when they reached her house. Keeping silent was very annoying to Lady Brighten. She complained about it constantly afterwards.
“Oh. Averill. It’s magnificent,” Lady Brighten said. “I must unveil it tonight. I have a party planned. The timing is perfect.”
Averill watched her patron leave the room she’d given Averill for a studio. Lady Brighten’s voice trailed behind her as she gave instructions to Vernon. Averill shut the woman’s voice out. And her words. She’d already refused to attend an unveiling party.
Averill moved the portrait from the easel and glanced out the massive windows of her studio. Lady Brighten didn’t own a mansion such as those on the Grand Canal. She hadn’t mentioned anything, but her voice held a wistful note when they’d first arrived. Her home did sit on a waterway, however, but the back looked out over nothing save rooftops. Averill’s studio room was on an upper floor. Her patron was very lucky to have a house like this and the freedom to go anywhere she wished. She was doubly lucky that her old, stuffy husband didn’t seem to care what she did, either.
Averill had heard all about Lord Brighten. She knew about his manor house, dogs and horses. It didn’t sound a horrid chore to be wed to him. It was a mystery why Lady Brighten complained when she had so much.
She was still pumping Averill for information, too. She didn’t take no for an answer. She was certain Averill would answer, just as she was sure Averill would attend her soiree this evening. There would be lots of people, and Averill hated crowds. Even worse, she hated the attention people were sure to give her. But Lady Brighten just wouldn’t listen.
She leaned Lady Brighten’s portrait against a wall and sat at the window seat to examine it. Somehow, Averill had captured the woman’s vibrancy. She couldn’t say if it was in the glint of her hair or the mischievous tilt of her mouth, but it looked like the woman on the canvas was ready to open her mouth and ask yet another question to satisfy the curiosity so clearly painted in her eyes.
Averill regarded her paint-smudged fingers, turning them over in the sunlight. What wondrous streak of talent was she blessed with? And where could it have come from? Lady Brighten brought it up so often, Averill was beginning to wonder if there might be something to it. Complete nonsense…or was it? Could talent be inherited, like red hair? Strangely, the notion didn’t seem as far-fetched when she looked over her work.
Averill swiveled to look out her window again. She must have been around Lady Brighten and her fanciful notions too long. The view was uninspiring, although some of the houses had window boxes with flowers, making patches of vivid color. She also had the sunlight. It drenched this side of the house, but the heat wasn’t at all like Egypt. It was warm, enough…just different.
Tears filled Averill’s eyes. She quickly wiped at them. How could she possibly be homesick? It hadn’t been that good to her. But, she was lying to herself. It wasn’t Egypt she mourned. She twisted her fingers together. The memory of the trek to Istanbul was still a vivid, haunting memory.
As was her love for the captain.
And at the thought, the baby within her moved. For the first time! Averill cupped her palms about the little bulge, as a tingle happened again. It transferred into a burst of energy that jolted. She couldn’t seem to move fast enough. Averill raced to the closet, pulled the painting of her knight out, and settled it on the easel. She grabbed up her pallet, another brush and started mixing. She could almost feel love flowing through the brush tip, highlighting the blaze on Sabin’s nose, adding sparkle to a bit of chain on her knight’s armor…putting a light to a castle turret in the background. Averill had never seen a real castle. She’d grown up listening to fairy tales about them and dreaming of them. Castles were as real to her as the knight from her dreams.
She painted until the sun disappeared behind buildings and she could no longer see well enough. She set the palette aside. The painting was mostly finished, but she kept coming back to it whenever the mood struck her. She gave it one last lingering glance before walking to her suite.
Although she argued with Lady Brighten until she was weary, she’d eventually accepted these rooms just to gain peace. Lady Brighten needed instruction on propriety. Averill knew her place. She was little more than a servant. She wasn’t a pampered member of society. And she was never forgetting that lesson.
She thanked the maid who prepared her bath, and then dismissed her. While she soaked, she considered what to wear. Lady Brighten had given her two ball gowns, but one was out of the question. She’d never wear the peacock-blue one. It was too expensive-looking. It was crafted from a vivid blue satin, while the lace adorning it was in a winter white hue, making an extravagant contrast.
The other gown would have to do, but it was almost as spectacular. Made of deep coffee-colored material, it made Averill’s skin look much whiter than it should. She couldn’t believe that when she recalled how dark her hands and face had once been. Nor, did she like how it had reminded her of Tenny’s words. He said her skin would surprise her with how white it could be. How right he’d been.
She stifled the memory, put on the dress, tied her hair back with a matching ribbon, and awaited her summons.
~ ~ ~
“Here she is,” Lady Brighten announced loudly. “Come, my friends! Congratulate me. I’ve discovered the artistic genius of the age.”
Averill ducked her head, her entire frame aquiver at this unpleasant experience. She told the maid, Vernon, she’d only make a brief appearance after their dinner, when the portrait was displayed. Now that she was here, she regretted that much.
Everyone applauded, as Averill moved to stand beside her patron.
“C’est magnifique!”
A florid-faced gentleman bowed before her, his words effusive enough to make her wince. Averill glanced at his face before quickly looking down again.
“Comte Pierre Dachon? Allow me to introduce Averill.”
Lady Brighten was projecting her voice somehow. Averill dipped into a curtsey, as she’d been taught at the mission.
“I’m very pleased to meet the tres belle mademoiselle.”
He raised Averill’s hand to his lips. She snatched it free before he could kiss it. He reminded her of Salazar, although he didn’t look a bit like him. The comte was dressed expensively and elegantly. His plum-colored, short jacket was of crushed velvet, while the white pants fit him closer than a man with extra poundage should employ. It was probably the height of fashion, but it was looked strange and rather feminine.
“She is shy! Where did you find such a beauty, Lady Brighten?”
He spoke in French. Averill was surprised when her patron answered in the same language, although her voice was tinged with a schoolroom accent.
“Averill accompanied me from Cairo, dearest comte. She’s under my protection. She’s ready to accept commissions to paint. Nothing more.”
The comte bowed and moved away. There had been a strange note in Lady Brighten’s voice. Unpleasant. Warning. Averill had only a second to wonder about that before the Princesses Maria and Pietra were introduced, along with their mother, who possessed such a high-sounding title and name that it escaped Averill. Did they say Her Excellency? What did that signify?
She eyed the older woman uneasily. The woman was gifted with a bountiful bosom. She looked very proud of that. Her bodice was designed so low, it looked like a disaster in the making. She reminded Averill of the ship they’d sailed from Egypt in, with her prow leading the way and slicing through every wave. She hoped the woman wouldn’t want a portrait. If so, Averill would insist on a high neckline. The woman’s chest would be the focal point, otherwise. She wondered if the woman knew how outrageous she looked.
Averill narrowed her eyes as all three ladies dipped int
o condescending curtsies, showing even more bosom. That’s when she knew the woman wanted it so! Then, the large-breasted woman asked Lady Brighten if Averill would paint the twin’s portraits. Averill eyed the two plump girls, wondering if she could do justice to their images without emphasizing their rotund appearance.
“Averill’s price may be too steep, Excellency,” Lady Brighten replied.
The woman was so encrusted with diamante that Averill wondered how she moved in that gown. It had to scratch her skin. The Lady Brighten must not know the value of clothing if she doubted the woman’s ability to pay.
“Price is no object where my darling daughters are concerned, Lady Brighten. How much would it cost?”
“Well. Let’s see. We’re in the Kingdom of Lombardi-Venice. I believe the currency here is the lira. True?” Lady Brighten answered herself. Averill certainly didn’t know. “That being the case, it will cost twenty liras…” Lady Brighten paused as if for dramatic effect. “...each,” she finished.
And the woman merely laughed!
“Ah. You are correct, Lady Brighten. That is a very steep price, but if the portraits are anything like yours…it will be worth it. I look forward to seeing them. Ladies?”
Averill’s knees quivered as the women walked past in a cloud of perfume. Several bits of diamante fell off the mother’s gown and sparkled from the floor. The woman was incredible. She was immodestly dressed, losing wealth from her dress as she walked, and willing to pay a fortune for Averill’s services. Her entire wardrobe had cost less than that. And, not so long ago, she was bemoaning a crust of bread from the street! Averill had to keep from pinching herself. She was so grateful to Lady Brighten she was going to force herself to be sociable, if that’s what the woman wanted.
