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

by Jackie Ivie

  “I don’t suppose you are that girl?”

  The earl sounded so awestruck, Averill wondered if he was the same man she’d been speaking to earlier. She nodded. He clapped his hands.

  “Excellent! Truly. I can’t believe the way things happen.”

  “You…can’t?”

  “I wouldn’t put another painter in your place, my dear. Why…if you can do this, sight unseen, you must be the best. It’s uncanny. I’m grateful to Lady Limley for sponsoring you, and I will admit, for making certain you arrived safely. I look forward to posing for you.”

  Averill closed her eyes and let the wash of warmth fill her. The knight had won her the assignment. She was allowed to stay! Tenny had never felt closer. She dabbed at her eyes with the edges of her apron. Let it fall back atop her skirt. Slid her hands across it, modifying any creasing.

  “...wife will want another one, too.” The earl was still speaking. Averill forced herself to listen to him. “We planned on giving the first one to Queen Victoria, as you’ve already heard. Perhaps I can persuade you to paint one more of my nephew?”

  Averill caught her breath. Now, she thought. Now is the time to ask of him. That’s what you came for! Ask where Tenny is.

  She opened her mouth, but the earl forestalled her.

  “I’d like it for his wedding gift,” the earl continued. “He’s getting wed this fall. It’ll be the event of the decade. My cousin, the Queen, has even promised to attend. I can’t think of a more fitting present for it than a portrait done by you. Come along, my dear. We’ll see to the arrangements.”

  Averill’s spirits went from complete elation to such blackness, she felt near fainting. She clutched at her stomach, wondering if she’d be able to follow him at first. And then her legs decided they would work. All it required was concentration on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Oh…why had she been so stupid? Harvey had opened her eyes to the reality of the world for one in her position. Antonio had even showed her. She just never seemed to learn.

  ~ ~ ~

  “You can say I have a fever,” Averill said. “I shake too much.”

  “Nonsense! With all the trouble I went to getting you into the Hall? The earl loves your work. You’re painting him more handsome than he is. You want to leave? On the verge of Her Majesty’s birthday celebration? Oh, Averill, how could you do this to me?”

  Anguish filled Hortense’s voice. Averill glanced at her over Andrew’s head. Everything Hortense said was about herself. What about me? The earl spoke to you, Averill, but not me. How can he do this to me?

  Averill saw exactly what Avery’s Islamic wife meant about Hortense – she filled the days with grievances. She should be rejoicing over the chance to ingratiate herself with the earl and his countess, rather than complaining nonstop.

  Averill wished Tenny was there, and then stopped the thought. She’d spent so much time and effort and money trying to reach him and give him proof of her legitimacy so he would...what?

  Marry me?

  She was afraid to breathe the words. How could he marry her if he was already engaged? He was no better than the Comte Dachon, or his son, or Antonio. Or even Salazar. Love didn’t matter in his world. The fact that she’d borne him a son probably meant less. It wouldn’t even matter if he hated his prospective bride. He’d have to marry with the Queen as a witness because of who he was…and the title he would someday hold.

  Mistress was the only position Tenny could offer her. Andrew didn’t deserve life in that shadow-world, and neither did she. She had to make certain Tenny knew that. She wondered how. She had never been able to resist him. Venice had been proof of that. How was she to stay and manage it now?

  Averill’s thoughts made her brush quiver sometimes. When that happened, she’d be forced to lift the brush. She wasn’t far wrong when she’d told her mother to speak of a fever. It felt like her entire body suffered chills. Alternating with faintness. Shakiness. And she couldn’t seem to get warm and stay that way. Not even snuggled in her bed, swathed in every blanket she could find and holding Andrew close while minutes passed with the slowness of days.

  And then, it got even worse.

  News had come that Tenny’s fiancée would be arriving for a stay at Tennison Hall. She was coming to sit for her portrait. She’d probably received a hand-engraved and sealed Tennison invitation.

  Averill had forced the snide thought aside. She needed to set her life on a new path. Nobody else could do it. So what if Andrew Tennison was lost to her? Or, that she’d been too blind to see what everyone had been showing her? She had a son. He was her primary focus. Little Andrew was enough. But she had to support him. And for that, she needed to paint. Rampant thoughts did nothing to help.

  She moved to place Andrew in his cradle as she did each morn. She watched silently as the nurse came in to watch over him. The earl found little Andrew too disruptive at the sittings. This was the arrangement that had been made. Averill wasn’t even consulted. She hated letting another woman have an experience that should be hers. But what choice did she have?

  Averill sighed and followed Hortense. She hoped, briefly, that Tenny’s intended was pockmarked and overweight, and ugly.

  ~ ~ ~

  The countess was incredibly difficult to paint. Averill spent hours trying to get the pinkish complexion right, only to scrape it off and try again. The woman wouldn’t spend more than a few moments on any one thing and Averill’s tumultuous thoughts didn’t help.

  “This is a lovely home, my lady.” Averill spoke directly to her, searching for a spark of personality that would make her brush fly.

  The countess looked in Averill’s general direction. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Averill already knew the woman had poor eyesight. That explained her general air of confusion and her constant squinting. She almost ran into the walls when she walked through doorways, too.

  “Do you and the earl entertain much?” Hortense asked from the corner.

  Averill worked at the paint mixture on her palette again, trying to ignore her mother’s manipulating. Hortense loved entertaining, especially if she could be one of the guests.

  “What? Entertain? Oh, no. No. I don’t believe so.”

  Averill almost smiled at what expression was likely to be on Hortense’s face. She spent the next few minutes embellishing the portrait background and tipping the miniatures on the wall behind the countess with some sunlit tones, but the countess still evaded her. Maybe Averill needed more sleep.

  She blamed lack of sleep on little Andrew, but, deep inside, she knew it was a lie.

  “But, my lady Tennison, I know the perfect dressmaker...”

  Averill lifted an eyebrow as Hortense’s spoke again. She wouldn’t really ask for clothing, would she? Averill’s cheeks flamed as she considered it. She couldn’t believe such a thing!

  “...if an engagement ball could be arranged.”

  Averill added charcoal, sienna and burnt umber, smashing the mess of dark paint into the center of her palette, pushing her hate into it. How could she possibly paint Tenny’s intended wife? She was actually afraid of what she might create. She had a foretaste in her current paint mixture.

  “Lady Hortense?” Averill lifted her brush, looked it over, and then moved her gaze toward her mother. “Perhaps you could fetch me another brush? I believe I have a spare one in my trunk.”

  Hortense gave her an angry look. Averill waited silently, until with a huff, her mother went to do her bidding.

  “Oh. Look. Is that...a kitty?”

  Averill glanced back to her subject. The countess had moved. She had her face pressed against the glass to look out at one of the estate lawns. Averill caught her breath. That’s the look I want! Full of love!

  “Do you…have kittens, my lady?” she asked.

  “Oh yes. In my chamber. They’re so sweet, aren’t they?”

  Averill raced to the bell-pull, and sent the servant who responded scurrying for the cats. She had the pai
nt scraped off her palette when the basket arrived. She studied the countess’ glowing face as she lifted a kitten from the basket. Averill started with white again, this time adding a bit of apricot blush for the woman’s cheeks, as her normally vapid appearance gave way to animation.

  She had to move fast. Color got transferred from palette to brush to canvas. More color got mixed. She had the perfect light. It caressed the woman’s sweet expression, usually hidden by her struggle to see. Averill decided not to paint the dress the countess wore. It was too strong a color. She designed one in her mind, one made of soft, light, cornflower blue. She was busily transferring it to the canvas before she lost it. The door opened behind her. Shut. She ignored it. And then Hortense interrupted with a squeal in her voice.

  “Averill? Who do you think is arriving?”

  She almost threw the brush at her mother. The moment Hortense spoke up, the countess set the kitten back into the basket and went back to her vacant expression.

  “Well?” Hortense put her hands on her hips.

  Averill’s fingers tightened on the brush for a moment before she consciously released her grip. She finally shrugged.

  “I have never seen the like! It’s outstanding. They traveled in a coach and six. Can you imagine? I ran into His Lordship while I returned with your brush, so I was there as the coach pulled up. The earl is a wonderful host! Truly. Why, we were discussing a possible ball. I think he likes me, Averill.”

  Averill didn’t answer that, either. She knew the truth. She’d seen it when she’d painted him. The earl avoided Hortense. If he spoke with Hortense at length, it was because she probably had him trapped.

  “Here’s the artist I was speaking to you about, my dear.”

  The door opened, and the earl came in. At his side was a woman. Averill turned her head and knelt to rinse her brush off, hoping they’d leave. She would refuse to paint her. No one could make her do it.

  “Why, this is very good, indeed.”

  A glance showed what the earl was referring to. He had his monocle out and was examining the portrait of his wife.

  Stupid people! Averill thought. She wondered if he’d ever see his wife’s look of love. Or cared. How could they be married?

  She sent a quick glance up at the woman who’d accompanied the earl. She was lovely. Young. It would be easy to paint her. She wasn’t outstandingly beautiful, just small, blonde…and equipped with the proper lineage.

  “How do you do?”

  She smiled, revealing perfect, white teeth. Averill fought the impulse to snarl.

  “Averill is very talented.”

  The earl was speaking. Averill continued swishing her brush.

  “I daresay, Averill is going to be very popular in London. Why, my cousin may even commission the entire royal family. I so look forward to introducing you.”

  “That would be so exciting, my lord!” Hortense clapped her hands. “Averill and I look forward to being your guests.”

  Averill would have laughed at the expression that was bound to be on the earl’s face, but such an emotion was beyond her. She dipped her chin further and tried to ignore all of them. That’s when she decided she really did have the ability to hate. It was a like a cloak of black descending before her eyes, dulling everything. Insidious. Massive.

  She could easily hate all of them.

  “I look forward to posing for you…Averill.”

  Averill looked at her cleaning solution for another long moment before forcing herself to stand. Lift her head. And face the girl. Averill’s knees shook. Her belly hurt. Her eyes burned. But avoiding Tenny’s fiancée didn’t help matters. Nothing did.

  “This is Miss Petunia Abbington-Withers, Averill,” the earl said. “She’s exceptionally lovely, wouldn’t you say? And near your age. I’m certain both you young ladies will get along splendidly.”

  Her name’s Petunia?

  Averill would’ve giggled if it wouldn’t quickly turn into tears. She forced herself to continue looking at Petunia, wishing she weren’t so fragile and angelic-looking.

  “I saw His Lordship’s painting, Averill, and the one of the knight. I’m so impressed. You’re very good.”

  The girl smiled. Averill regarded her without expression.

  “Averill?”

  The earl gained her attention. The way he intoned her name was a warning. She didn’t need to ask. His face darkened. He was almost Tenny’s height. That gave him a decided advantage to look down his nose at her with eyes narrowed and brows drawn together. She told herself she didn’t care.

  “Perhaps I’m not grand enough, my lord.”

  “Oh. I’m certain Averill won’t find you deficient in any way, my dear,” the earl turned from Averill and smiled down at the angelic-looking Petunia. “She just has paint to clean and brushes to tidy up. Come along. Don’t you worry. I’ll speak with her later.”

  The closing door shut out the rest of their words.

  “Oh! How could you be so horrid, Averill?” Hortense shrieked the words. “After all I’ve done for you! You’ve ruined everything! To sit and watch you snub the future countess of Tennison! I should—”

  “Shut up, Mother!”

  She couldn’t explain. No one, except maybe Harvey, would understand. She couldn’t paint Petunia. She didn’t know what might come out of her brush.

  “Did you just say…Mother?”

  The countess asked it from her perch by the window. Hortense’s face fell. She even looked to lose her color.

  “Explain as you will, Mother,” Averill told her. “That’s what you’re best at. If I’m needed further, my lady, I’ll be in my room.”

  She almost made the stairs before tears obliterated them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “I believe I owe you an apology, Averill, my dear.”

  The earl was speaking. She’d had a two-hour reprieve before the summons came. She was required to attend the earl in Tenny’s study. She was marched there, accompanied by a maid and another tall manservant. It felt like punishment, alleviated only slightly by the presence of the knight, his painted image silently watching from over the earl’s shoulder. He looked so much like Tenny that her heart constricted more than once. But her eyes remained dry.

  “I spoke with Lady Limley. I had no idea she was married before.”

  Averill shrugged, met his glance momentarily, and then moved her vision back to the painting.

  “I heard about your father, this Avery. He was an outstanding painter, just as you are, yourself.”

  Tenny’s likeness looked down at her over his uncle’s shoulder. It felt like he was actually there. It was akin to being wrapped in a down-filled blanket. Held. Calmed. It was almost enough to get through the chilled feeling that was her constant companion anymore.

  “You’ll accept my apology?”

  “You owe me nothing, my lord.”

  Averill spoke in a monotone as she waited for him to dismiss her. She kept her face entirely blank. Hortense was unhappy that they were leaving, but Averill didn’t care. Hortense could stay, but Averill was taking Andrew away the moment this interview was over. She didn’t care if she had to walk to the posting house.

  “But you’ve been treated as a paid servant.”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t even blink.

  “I’m correcting the oversight, immediately. I’m having you moved to a state bedroom, one next to Petunia. Perhaps, when you get to know her, you’ll find her as charming as I do. I do hope you’ll accept this as further proof of my…regret?”

  Averill moved her gaze from the knight to the earl. She watched him through her lashes for a bit. He looked as discomfited as he’d sounded. That was probably an odd feeling for him. She returned her focus to the painting.

  “Miss Petunia’s portrait will grace the gallery alongside generations of Tennisons before her, and those that are still to come.”

  Averill stiffened while the knight smiled down at her with eyes so filled with love, that goosefle
sh roved her skin warningly. Averill shifted her glance to the bookshelves to her right before she disgraced herself. It took a few moments to find composure. And her voice.

  “You’ll need to find another painter,” she finally answered.

  “No artist compares! You know that. None could do her justice. I selected you from several other applicants, my dear. I’ve apologized for any other slight you’ve experienced, and now I’m asking you to stay to paint my nephew and his bride. It won’t be difficult.”

  If his expression matched his voice, he was smiling at her, his brown eyes looking very like Tenny’s. She didn’t dare look. The thought terrified her.

  He sighed. “You are a wonder, Averill. You just wrought a miracle with my wife. You brought back her former beauty. I’d almost forgotten it existed. Petunia Abbington-Withers will be child’s play to you. As for Andrew…well. I’m not speaking lightly when I say that boy makes me proud. You already know how easy it will be to paint him, however. Look at the knight behind me.”

  She felt a twinge under her ribs, the stab of sobs right behind her eyes, a rush of shivers along her scalp. How could she stay and paint when each moment brought misery? No one understood. And she couldn’t explain.

  “If I refuse?” Her voice shook.

  “You have a future, Averill Ben-Masiz. I’m offering to sponsor you. I am not boasting when I say I can assure you many commissions. I can also assure the opposite. Think of what I’m saying. That babe of yours will need the security, even if you toss it aside so lightly.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She watched the book spines blur and distort as she studied them through a veil of unshed tears. She didn’t answer for long seconds that a far-away clock counted out for her.

  “You understand me?”

  Of course she did. If she walked out on Miss Petunia’s portrait, the earl would use his social power to assure she’d never get another commission. He might have enough reach to include the continent. He certainly sounded it. Averill told herself that it didn’t matter. Hortense could be pressured into making certain Averill and Andrew didn’t starve. There was also Avery’s home in Cairo. The Ben-Masiz family could be forced to accept her into their fold.