Page 78 of A Prince Among Pirates
“That was hers?” I ask without thinking.
He’s a little startled, but then he looks down at the silk and nods. “Ah… yes, this was hers,” he says. He leans forward and holds the small parcel out to me. “I’ve held on to it all these years.”
I reach for the parcel and am more than a little horrified when King Henry wraps his hands around mine after placing the silk bundle into my palm. He squeezes my hand gently, then releases me.
I sit back as if burned, breathless and shaken by the brief moment of contact. I am not used to being touched so purposefully by someone who isn’t trying to bed me or dress me. I swallow hard and stare down at the parcel in my hands. The silk issoft and worn, and somehow, as I stare down at it, tiny dots of moisture appear on its surface, darkening the blue to indigo. I sniff and blink a few times, then finally reach up to wipe the tears from my cheeks.
“She was a rare beauty,” Henry says as he watches me slowly unwrap the small bundle. “I’ve never seen her match.”
Inside the scrap of silk is a tarnished brass oval with a black velvet backing. I brush my trembling fingers over the velvet as I draw in a shaky breath. The small, round frame in my hands is no bigger than my palm, and the edges of the brass are worn down to an almost silvery shine, as if it had been handled constantly.
But that’s preposterous. Impossible.
I glance up at Henry, unable to stop the tears from pouring freely down my face. I’m not ready to look at it. I’m not ready to see her face.
Mercifully, he says nothing. He just watches me and waits.
My gaze drops back to the portrait in miniature that lies in my lap. I force myself to flip the small frame over, and there she is.
A sob escapes me as I stare into her face—myface. For I can see now that Henry was right when he said I resembled her. Her eyes are green like mine, but the drab olive color is enchanting under her long lashes, lined in black just like the man with the unusual pipe. Her hair is a tumble of beautiful curls that fall around her shoulders. Never before have I seen a woman in portrait with her hair down. It feels like a violation to see her like this, but I am grateful all the same.
She wears no jewelry, save for pearl drop earrings, and her dressis a simple white frock that might have shown her shoulders if her hair had not been there to hide them. She has high cheekbones, and the curve of her nose is identical to mine. Her cheeks are flushed in a way that appears not to be rouge, but the natural color of youth and life. Her mouth is drawn and relaxed, but something in her eyes stares back at me with pure, unadulterated melancholy.
I have lost all control of my emotions now. I am glad my father isn’t here. I can do nothing to stop the way my breathing hitches and shakes as I sob into my hands.
Some part of me hates King Henry for seeing me this vulnerable. No one but Captain Sharpe and Tristan have ever seen me weep like this—and even then it wasnothinglike this at all.
Why does he have this? My entire life I thought no portrait of my mother existed. I never once allowed myself to hope I might gaze upon her face. She’s so beautiful, it hurts to look at her. I turn the portrait back over and wrap it in the small scrap of silk, though my hands are trembling as I do.
When I finally feel able, I lift my gaze to King Henry. He’s watching me with a grim expression on his face. But he nods and does not chastise me. “Keep it,” he says. “It’s yours.”
I can’t thank him. I can’t bring myself to speak, so I merely nod and clutch the miniature to my chest, swallowing around the heart-sized lump in my throat. I can’t help but wonder if he would have shown me this sooner had my father not moved us away from court.
Then I wonder if thisisthe reason he moved us away from court.
“Her name was Yumna, daughter of Devran,” Henry says in the lazy lilt of one telling a bedtime story to a child. “He was a coffee merchant from the Ottoman Empire. My father invited him to court one day to teach the courtiers how to drink coffee. He had both of his daughters with him, as his wife had long since passed and there was no one to care for them at home. His youngest daughter was not yet ten, but his eldest was fifteen, and she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.”
As he speaks, I am able to steady my breathing somewhat, though my breaths are still coming in little hiccups here and there. I no longer feel like I may pass out, but now my mind is reeling.
“The moment I saw her, I knew I had to have her,” he continues. “I wooed her. I sent her jewels and chocolates. She was shy. Their women are not allowed to look a man in the face unless they are married, you know.”
Ididn’tknow… nor do I think that is true. I saw my fair share of Muslim women at ports, and they were standoffish but not unfriendly. I bought a flower from one such woman, who smiled at me and bowed her head but never once refused to meet my eye.
“I fell in love with her,” Henry is saying when I come back to his story. “And eventually she with me. In a moment of passion you were conceived.”
Everything inside me goes still. I stare at King Henry as the room around me fades into blackness. Nothing exists but he and I and the distant crackle of a fire I can no longer see, which does nothing to warm the chill in my veins.
“I…?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer me but continues with his story. “I was married, of course… and she would have been ruined had anyone found out. I wrote to your father, my dearest friend. I begged him to marry her and raise the child as his own.”
Another punch to my gut. “No,” I breathe, rising shakily to my feet.
Henry is on his feet as well, and before I can get away from him, his arms are around me. He clutches me to him, and my skin crawls, but I can’t bring myself to move. “You are my son, Christopher-Henry,” he whispers into my hair. Whatever semblance of control over my emotions I managed to achieve is lost entirely as my knees buckle, and I sink down into his embrace.
Every moment my father shied away from my touch and called for the governess to whisk me away plays back in my mind. Every moment he looked at me with contempt in his eyes. Never once did he feel love for me, and finally I understand why.
“You’re all right,” Henry says, and as I scramble to collect myself, I realize he’s been saying it over and over again. One last sob escapes me before I suck in a shuddering breath and push at his chest. I need air. I need space.
