Averill: Historical Romance (The Brocade Collection, Book 3)

by Jackie Ivie

  “Will you...have a seat?”

  She was grateful the woman offered. She hadn’t taken the voyage from Venice well, and the child was getting large. Of course, any child that Andrew Tennison sired would be so, but Averill looked close to confinement rather than three months from it. She sank into a large chair, padded with several embroidered pillows. She looked about. The walls were dun-colored but covered with vividly colored tapestries in sunset shades. Vermillion. Crimson. Yellow ochre. The hall was furnished intermittently with low-lying, dark wooden tables. The floor was of charcoal-hued tile, meticulously maintained. The windows were high in the walls and covered over to keep the interior cool.

  Averill had dressed in European attire. Her day gown was voluminous. The skirts crafted from two layers of dove-gray satin atop more layers of petticoat. Her bodice was of the finest linen, covered over with a short jacket of the same dove-gray fabric, embellished with black piping. Her hair was intricately piled atop her head, disguising the short length. A large hat with small veil covered any lack. She wore a small gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. It was only visible if she shed her gloves. She kept a lace-bedecked handkerchief in one gloved hand. She looked like a recently bereaved widow.

  The aura of grief wasn’t an act.

  Her account at Antonio’s family bank had held what seemed a fortune. More than enough to find a dressmaker that would hide her, outfit her, and gain passage on a ship. Averill had left Venice two days after the masque. The voyage across the Mediterranean hadn’t been rough, but she still wasn’t a good sailor, even in a first-class cabin. She was extremely grateful for both the attire and her funds. They helped with travel arrangements, gaining the attention of porters, and receiving deference – for her condition, but mainly, she knew, for her gold.

  That day, when she’d gone to meet her father, she’d carried a parasol and small satchel. She’d placed both on her knees, lifted the veil over the hat’s edge, and unfastened the buttons at her wrists so she could remove her gloves. She should’ve brought a fan, too. In the Ben-Masiz mansion foyer, she looked out of place and over-heated. Exactly as she’d felt.

  “I understand you claim kinship with Avery Ben-Masiz, young woman!”

  An imperious woman walked into view, her voice challenging with both the words and tone. Averill stood awkwardly and waited while the woman approached. They were a like height. She met the woman’s gaze, refusing to look away or down. Her chin rose. The woman’s eyes went wide.

  “Not only do I claim it. I have proof.” Averill’s voice was strong. Confident.

  “Proof?” The woman visibly paled.

  “I have inherited some of my father’s coloring. I definitely inherited his talent…and I have this.”

  Averill turned to pull a small blanket from her satchel. She spent time unfolding it before handing it to the woman. Averill watched as the woman turned it over and eyed the corner in surprise at the inscription there. She didn’t appear to be able to read it. The words were in Italian.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Averill asked softly.

  “I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”

  “You were the one that sent me to the mission.”

  The woman flinched.

  “Did you hope I’d die by being treated lower than the camels in the streets? Was that your intent?” Averill’s voice rose slightly.

  “It was a mistake to wrap you in this. I didn’t notice the corner. I should’ve known Avery was up to something.”

  The woman handed the blanket back to her.

  “My father knew I was being sent to an orphanage?” Averill couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice. It wasn’t supposed to matter. She glanced down at the inscription and read it for the hundredth time.

  For Averill, beloved child of Avery Ben-Masiz and wife.

  The blanket told the story. Averill wasn’t a bastard by-blow, and she wasn’t unwanted. She was beloved. That meant Averill’s mother hadn’t given her away.

  “No,” the woman answered. “He believed me when I told him you had died.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  To Averill’s surprise, the woman looked back at her with tears in her eyes. “Because I’m married to Avery Ben-Masiz.”

  Averill gasped. “But the blanket says—”

  “I know what it says!”

  The woman tossed back her head and laughed. It wasn’t a joyful sound. It seemed to bounce about the space, ricocheting off dun-colored walls. Averill waited. She didn’t know what to say.

  “I knew this day would come. I just knew it. From the moment that woman came to this house dragging her daughter with her, and screaming of things Avery wasn’t capable of. I knew she was wrong. Avery couldn’t rape. He wouldn’t hurt anything.”

  “Rape?” Averill’s throat choked her.

  “I didn’t say that! That’s what the woman’s mother accused him of. Avery wasn’t capable of such an act. He’s a loving man. He always was. You say you have his talent? Then you must know. It’s impossible for him to hurt anything. He was a lustful man, though. I couldn’t stop him. We were not yet wed. And. Well…” She stopped and put her hand out, palms upward. “Men have always been men, no?”

  Averill didn’t look away. She worked at containing any outward emotion. She’d already guessed what Avery was like from Dona Francesca. Besides, it wasn’t her place to judge anything her father had done. She just wanted the truth.

  “It wasn’t rape, then?” she prompted.

  “That woman screamed of it, but what could she know? She was a foreigner! I hate them. They take over our country and ruin everything! They take something natural and make it evil. She assumed since Avery was an Egyptian, her daughter couldn’t possibly have given herself to him. Therefore it had to be rape. It was a horrible time for everyone living here.”

  “You lived here?”

  “Of course I lived here. We were betrothed. There was nothing I could do. That woman threatened Avery Ben-Masiz with British soldiers. So. She forced him to accompany her. They went to a foreign building. He and that Hortense were wed. It was the ultimate insult. He’d been saving for years to get my bride price.”

  The woman turned hate-filled eyes on Averill.

  “Is that why you left me at the mission?”

  The woman’s eyes softened and Averill watched. “I wouldn’t have turned my emotion on you, child. You weren’t even born, yet.”

  “My mother is dead, isn’t she? She died birthing me…and you rid yourself of a complication. Is that why you did it?”

  “Oh. Hortense is not dead. That woman is much too stubborn to die.”

  “I don’t understand. You said you’re Avery’s wife, yet you know he wed my mother. And this blanket…?”

  The woman smiled. Averill stiffened.

  “The entire Ben-Masiz family is Islamic. That faith allows more than one wife.”

  “But...I don’t understand. If Hortense isn’t dead, why...?”

  “Why did she leave you with me? Is this what you ask?”

  Averill nodded.

  “She and Avery had nothing in common...nothing! He’s an artist! He lives in a world few can enter. It’s especially obvious when he paints. It…intrigues and attracts. That is what interested Hortense when he painted her, just as I’m certain it interested other women. You say you possess his talent. Perhaps you also know what I speak of?”

  Averill didn’t answer, although she knew exactly what the woman described.

  “Without his brush and his canvas, however, Avery is a difficult man. Moody. Disrespectful of others. Argumentative. He goes into a shell and stays there. Solitary and quiet. Hortense tired of that after only a few weeks. You should’ve seen her. She had no business marrying him, or any Ben-Masiz. She hated the heat. She disliked the food. She didn’t learn the language. She was an embarrassment to the family name. She was barely capable of having a child. I was glad to see her go. We all were.”

  Averill looked
down for a moment to regain composure. Stoicism. She’d been abandoned by her mother, after all. The silence lengthened as the other woman waited. She didn’t speak again until Averill looked back up.

  “She paid for us to keep you. Foster you. And sometimes, I admit…I missed you. We never had children, you see. And I would have kept you and raised you as my own, except you have such blue eyes. They announce your parentage without words. I couldn’t accept that. Perhaps, it if had been your hair that was foreign, we could have managed.”

  Averill didn’t want to hear any more. She’d had the same thoughts about her appearance once. “Thank you for your time. If you will tell me where to find my mother, I’ll be on my way. I shan’t bother you again.”

  “Don’t you wish to meet your father?”

  “Why would I want that? He’s uncaring. A bigamist. Unfaithful. I’m not certain I wish to meet with such a man.”

  “The lessons they teach at that mission have blinded you, child. Avery is none of those things. He didn’t know my actions, and I have never confessed them. His grief was great. Your death almost destroyed him. He has no other children. And now? He’s an old man. There is not much time left to him. You say you have inherited his talent? That will bring great joy to him. His hands shake too much to hold a brush, and without his art, he is a lifeless man.”

  “Perhaps my return from death will be too great a shock.”

  “I will prepare him. I will send for you in a few moments. I wish you to know before I leave, that I have regrets about my actions. I always have. I do not ask your forgiveness, I only ask that you understand, Averill.”

  The woman’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears and Averill knew hers mirrored the emotion. How could she possibly feel empathy, when it was by this woman’s actions that Averill lost her identity, her past...and Tenny?

  What the woman said about Avery must be true. It was impossible to inflict hurt. Averill nodded her head.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “You say Avery Ben-Masiz sent you? You dare interrupt my dinner soiree with such a note? Well? Speak up. I have guests this evening.”

  The words carried a threatening tone. Averill shook herself mentally before turning from contemplation of the portrait. She’d been so caught up in her reverie, it took a moment to realize that she wasn’t in the heat and sun of her father’s mansion. She was in the fog and cold of London. At the Limley townhouse. Unwelcome. Uninvited. And unwanted. She slanted her eyes at the beautiful woman who stood just inside the door, her hands on her hips and her head flung back.

  “Hello, Mother,” Averill said.

  She watched Hortense’s eyes go wide, her mouth followed, and then she sank slowly to the floor, her expensive gown spread around her.

  “You! Oh no! No! Avery was never supposed to allow this to happen!”

  Averill glanced toward the door. The manservant had closed it behind Hortense. That demonstrated at least one thing. Hortense had been worried over what the note contained enough to prevent eavesdropping. Averill walked to a chair and sat. It had been a long voyage, a longer day, and the extra weight of her baby made her back ache.

  “Was he supposed to leave me in an orphanage in Cairo, unwanted and unloved, too?”

  “An orphanage? You don’t know what you’re saying. Of course not. He and his Islamic wife raised you. I paid them to do that and to keep silent about it!”

  Hortense struggled to her feet, smoothed the satin of her skirts down before moving to a mirror to tidy her immense coiffure. All of it used to gain time. The woman’s hair was still perfectly in place. And then Hortense turned back to her.

  “You can’t stay here.”

  Averill looked at the blue eyes, so close in shape and color to her own, and saw no love, maternal affection, or even interest. All they held was fear.

  Averill sighed. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mother.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  Averill stifled any reaction. It shouldn’t matter. Her mother had already proved the inability to love her child. Still, it hurt.

  “Avery’s Islamic wife placed me in an orphanage in Cairo. She told my father I’d died. I was sent to the Catholic mission. Until last month, I didn’t even know you existed, Mother, but I won’t leave. I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Go back to the father of your child…if he’ll have you.”

  The sneer on Hortense’s lips ruined her beauty. Averill almost recoiled.

  “You probably don’t even know who the father is, do you? It’s no matter, you’ll learn soon enough about life. We all do. Avery was a mistake, just as you are. Now go, before my husband asks about your visit.”

  A mistake?

  Averill narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps I should’ve asked to see him first, then. He might be interested in the documents I have.”

  “Documents?” Fear had returned to Hortense’s blue eyes.

  “Marriages and births leave records…Mother.”

  Averill smiled, but it probably looked as sad as she felt. She folded her arms across her child’s bulk as she stressed the title.

  “What...do you want?”

  Hortense choked on the words. Averill met her gaze squarely. Knowing she was legitimate and a member of two socially acceptable and influential families did astonishing things. No one would recognize her as the cowed child she’d once been.

  She tried to phrase her request carefully. She thought of it often enough as she sailed here from Egypt. She’d had plenty of time, especially once they cleared the Straits of Gibraltar and entered the Atlantic. The journey had seemed intolerably long and impossibly rough.

  What did she want? She wanted to be accepted for who she was. She wanted her child raised with full recognition, too. And she wanted to reach Tenny…find him and love him and be with him.

  She didn’t speak those words as she and Hortense eyed each other. She didn’t know how, but she sensed the woman was plotting ways to be rid of her. A chill touched the back of Averill’s neck as she continued looking into her mother’s eyes.

  “Do you…have the documents with you?”

  Averill looked away at the question. She wasn’t stupid enough to say. It was shocking to sense Hortense calculating against her, and to know that’s what her mother was doing. Averill knew what Tenny meant now when he’d told her how expressive her eyes were. Tears pricked them now before she could prevent it. And she’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry!

  “Well? Do you?”

  “I’m your daughter, Hortense. Credit me with that much sense, at least.” She hardened her resolve and turned back to her mother.

  “Damn you!”

  Hortense cursed and stamped a foot, then both of them. She was wearing slippers and didn’t make much sound. Then woman grabbed a vase next and threw it at a wall. And then she stifled a scream and jerked taut, glaring at Averill as she did so. Averill regarded her tantrum for a moment before her lips curled. Her expression probably mirrored her disdain.

  “Oh! You’re just like him!” Hortense’s voice shook. “Do you know that? You act like the world should be at your feet. Ready to be trod upon. Avery could say more with one glance than most people who talk all day.”

  Averill didn’t answer. She just waited, and a moment later, Hortense sighed heavily.

  “Oh, very well. Out with it. What do you want? Speak up. I have other places to go tonight. And you’re making me late.”

  Averill’s back stiffened at the change wrought so swiftly. She felt the baby roll with her motion. She’d prepared herself for Hortense, but it was still a surprise. Despite what Avery and his Egyptian wife had told her. Hortense was like a child, happy one moment, in the dregs of depression the next. Temperamental. Mercurial.

  “It saddens me that my father painted you as a lovely person. I heard he was better than that.”

  Hortense gasped. Averill rose to her feet. The move probably looked as ungainly as she felt.

  “Instruct your staff to assign me a
room, Mother. I’m not sure how much the servants overheard. Your husband may already know of our conversation.”

  “He’s in the country at the moment. Thank God.”

  “Well. Sounds like you have a bit of a reprieve. Perhaps you can persuade me to tell him that Avery Ben-Masiz has been dead all these years. Perhaps not. It doesn’t matter to me. I already know what life tastes like at the fringes of society.”

  Her mother finally looked worried. She even looked a bit paler, although whatever cosmetics she wore on her face almost disguised it.

  “It’s not going to stay a secret forever. I am your daughter. I am legitimate. And you are a bigamist. I have the documents to prove it. I wonder what this husband of yours would say to all of that?”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking!” Hortense may be whispering, but the words sounded filled with something akin to horror.

  Averill lifted her eyebrows. “I know exactly what I ask. It’s little enough, as you’ll see. I’m looking forward to speaking with you tomorrow, Mother. Now go. Attend your party. See that I’m attended to first. Go.”

  Averill sounded imperious, just like Avery’s Islamic wife, but she didn’t feel that way. She was so tired, she almost didn’t care.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I want to apologize for my actions last night, Averill. May I come in?”

  Hortense asked it from the door of a second floor bedroom located at the back of the house. The room Averill had been given overlooked the mews. It wasn’t one reserved for prestigious guests, but it wasn’t a servant’s room, either. And it wasn’t a cabin aboard a ship, it didn’t rock, and Averill had fallen asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

  “Good morning,” Averill replied.

  It wasn’t morning. It wasn’t even pre-dawn yet. Averill was amazed that Lady Hortense would rise so early. Perhaps she hadn’t managed to sleep. Averill maneuvered some pillows behind her back in order to sit. Lady Hortense set the lamp she’d brought atop a bureau, the only other piece of furniture in the room. The light was golden, yet eerie, projecting a giant-sized shadow of Hortense onto the wall behind her.