Averill: Historical Romance (The Brocade Collection, Book 3) (35 page)

Averill didn’t hear the rest
of Stanley’s words. A young maid had touched her shoulder. It was an indication to follow. Averill didn’t need a second tap. She’d known not to use the front door. The maid took her to another hall, down the length of it and into another hall, and then another, each one growing a bit more dim, a bit less ornate. She sensed where she was going. To the entrance she should have used. She felt like she was growing smaller. She hugged Andrew to her tightly enough he wriggled and almost awoke.

“We wasn’t expecting a baby, Missus.” 

They’d finally arrived at an area that felt like a lobby of some kind. Averill suspected it was where they dealt with tradesmen and servants, and the like. The entire area looked and felt different, from the dark beams bisecting the ceiling a few feet above their heads, to the lack of ornamentation on the walls.

“I hope the room
we’ve readied will be sufficient.”

“There won’t be any problem
,” Averill replied. “I tend my own child. We’ll try not to be any trouble.”

The maid led the way
up a narrow staircase next, one floor, and then another. On the third landing, she turned, walking past a row of plain wooden doors to open the one at the end. Averill got the first look at her new quarters. She appeared to be in one of the oldest sections of the castle. The walls were of stone. She had a window, but it was small and recessed so far into the wall, she didn’t think the glass was reachable. The room contained a chair. Wardrobe. Wash stand with ewer, bowl, and towel rack. A screen stood beside the wash stand. It had probably graced one of the state bedrooms at one point. It was made of ornately carved wood with a red velvet inner section that had faded to a sunset hue of oranges toward the center. The bed was box-shaped and larger than she’d expected. There looked to be storage drawers built into the base of it. Three sconces were mounted in the walls to hold torches. A woven rug was placed in the center of the floor, trying vainly to make the space look warm and welcoming.

The maid
asked Averill if it would be satisfactory. She didn’t wait for Averill’s nod before she left, closing the door sharply behind her. Averill smirked. The entire episode was to put her firmly in her place. She understood it. She didn’t belong at Tennison Hall. She didn’t even belong in a third story room. She walked over to the chair and sat, looking about, while subconsciously rocking her baby.

Her impression of Tennison Hall had
certainly changed. The castle had seemed so beautiful. So stately. So warm and wonderful. Now, it was cold. Mean-spirited. Overwhelmingly ostentatious. The Hall seemed to suck her breath away. She almost considered leaving, but she didn’t know where she was, and how to find her way back. And she was here. Tenny was closer than ever. Nothing else mattered.

She
hoped they’d take care with her painting supplies and her portrait carrier when they brought her things. She should’ve left instruction.

No
. She should have had Lady Hortense Limley do it.

Her trunk was brought up to her,
and later, some dinner. When she lifted the cover, she was surprised at such a display of food. For someone hovering in the netherworld between servant class and nobility, it was stunning. They’d sent up two of everything. Two plates held slices of beef and a visual array of carrots and greens, two small loaves of fragrant bread. Two pats of butter. A small teapot with two cups. Averill smiled and shook her head. They were feeding two. Someone had forgotten to mention one was a small babe, or no one cared enough to check.

Eventually, she went to bed
. It was a waste of oil to stay up later, and she instinctively knew she had a big day ahead of her. She snuggled into the amazingly comfortable bed, pulled the quilts to her chin, and held little Andrew close.  

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“You say you have no formal training,” the earl said, “yet Lady Limley gushes praise. I suppose you may show us what you’ve brought.”

Averill turned quickly to hide
any reaction. He was actually worse than any foreigner she’d observed in the marketplace. She pulled out the portraits of Charles and Lady Hampton and let the earl and the countess examine them.

“These are very good,” the earl said
. “This is that Hampton woman. Isn’t it?”  He lifted his glass toward his wife, who nodded.

Averill nearly snorted
. The woman seemed half-blind.

“Is this all, then?” he asked in a bored tone.

I have to be good enough
, she thought fiercely.

She pulled out the portrait of her mother and set it before them
. A glimmer of interest showed on the earl’s face. She’d painted Hortense against dark wood tones, bringing out the beauty of her hair, but also highlighting the scheming look in her eyes. Hortense wasn’t pleased with it.

“Why, it’s Lady
Limley! I can’t imagine a better rendition. You caught a certain look on her face, too. You’re very good, young lady. Very good.” 

He gazed at Averill through his glass, and she caught the giggle
. It still made his eye seem huge and his face lopsided.

“Have you any others, or perhaps, a recommendation
? I have several artists to choose from, you know.”

This isn’t enough?

Averill stifled what felt like panic settling into her lower belly, took a deep breath that lifted her shoulders, and wondered how Hortense managed to act so unaffected. And furthermore, why she didn’t appear to have inherited one bit of that talent. She cleared her throat. The first words were still shaky-sounding.

“I’ve
…p-painted several portraits of the nobility in Venice last year. I did members of the Dachon family, the
Marchese
Antonio Dilan-Fiorri, as well as his grandmother. I was much in demand, I assure you.”

“Come with me, young lady.” 

He stood and gestured for her to follow him. She longed to shrink back. She kept her eyes on the flagstone floor, trying to ease her anxiety. It was so important that she stay, at least until she found out where Tenny was! She wondered what she’d done wrong.

“This is my nephew’s study.”

Oh, dear Lord!

She
forced her feet to continue moving. She followed him into another large room. Books lined the walls. There were crimson drapes, a circular desk in the center, and a large, overstuffed chair. Averill took one trembling breath after another, while her eyes stung with tears that she daren’t shed.

“My nephew brought this back from Venice,” the earl was saying
. “I never saw anything to compare it to. Now that I think on it, he mentioned that a girl painted it.”

The earl moved to the side and Averill could see now what he referred to.

It’s the knight!

Shock hit first with the force of a blow
. It was followed with such a flood of emotion, it felt like a whoosh from a fire receiving a huge influx of air. Tears overflowed, making it difficult to see. She swiped at them quickly. Surreptitiously. Hoping the earl wouldn’t notice
.

The knight
picture dominated the room, taking up an entire wall panel. She’d known the canvas was enormous when she chose it. The setting couldn’t be more perfect, with the deep-red drapes and dark wood. Someone had framed it in gold leaf, and that only amplified the effect.

“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…w
hy 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 a
s 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 a
n 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 paint 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.