All the Sweet Tomorrows (11 page)

“You have been most kind, my lord,” Skye said sweetly, but her eyes were blazing with anger. “How fortunate I am that my husband-to-be is in such fine health.”

“Indeed, indeed, madam!” Lord Burghley murmured, and then turned and hurried off into the crowd.

“You are no mean opponent,” Edmond de Beaumont laughed.

“What miniature?” Skye demanded.

“Of you? I intended to paint it tonight,” he answered her.

“You are an artist?”

“I do competent portraits,” he said. “If you would give me but a few minutes I shall do a quick sketch of you for your miniature.”

“Would it be easier if I sat for the portrait, Edmond?”

“You would be willing?” He was delighted.

“I would be willing. Besides, your company is far preferable to that of the hangers-on here at court. I am sure that the Queen will excuse us if we ask her.”

Elizabeth Tudor was delighted, yet at the same time she felt irritated. She was relieved that Skye was accepting this marriage to the Duc de Beaumont so easily, but she wondered why. What were Skye’s thoughts? She had become friendly quickly enough with the duc’s charming dwarf nephew. Was she planning some sort of mischief? The Queen smiled brightly at Skye and Edmond de Beaumont.

“Of course you may be excused, M’sieur de Beaumont. You also, dearest Skye. I hope that M’sieur has been able to answer your many questions.”

“Indeed, Majesty,” Skye replied sweetly. “He is a veritable font of knowledge, and I am now most anxious to reach Beaumont de Jaspre.”

The Queen murmured politely and held out her hand for Edmond de Beaumont to kiss. He did so with exquisite grace and elegance, and Elizabeth remarked, “Gracious, sir, your lack of height does not seem to impede your manners. Such delicacy and style!”

“Was it not you, madame, who once remarked that what a person is physically should not deter him in any way.”

The Queen laughed heartily. “You are welcome at my court at any time, M’sieur de Beaumont. I like men of beauty and wit, and although your beauty is small, your wit is great!”

Skye curtseyed politely, and then she and Edmond de Beaumont made their way from the hall. When they had exited the overly hot and noisy room Skye asked, “Where are you taking me, m’sieur?”

“I am housed here at Whitehall. My apartments are not far.” He moved swiftly along, his short legs seeming to take greater strides than her own long ones. Finally he turned down a corridor and entered the second apartment on the left. Skye recognized the section of the palace as the one in which state visitors were housed.

A swarthy man hurried forward as they entered the antechamber. “Good evening, M’sieur de Beaumont,” he said.

“Guy, this is Lady Burke, who is to marry my uncle. I am going to do her miniature tonight and ship it off to the duc tomorrow. Fetch my paints!”

“My felicitations, madame,” Guy said. “Your paints, m’sieur. At once!”

“He has been with me since my childhood,” Edmond de Beaumont said. “Sit over there, on that tapestried chair, Skye. Damn me, my dear, you are beautiful, aren’t you? Your skin! I don’t think I have the skill to capture its luminescence. When we get back to Beaumont de Jaspre I want to do a full portrait of you.” He rattled on nonstop while Guy brought him his easel, a canvas, his paints and brushes. He was quickly and totally absorbed in what he was doing.

“Would Madame enjoy some chilled wine?” Guy was at her elbow inquiring politely.

“I should, thank you, Guy.”

The servant was quickly back with a delicate Venetian crystal goblet of a fruity pale-rose-colored wine. “It is m’sieur’s favorite,” he explained. “I think you will enjoy it,
Madame la duchesse.
”

Madame la duchesse!
God’s bones! Skye thought. I am to be Madame la Duchesse! Then she thought of how Cecil had lied to her about the duc’s health. Well, there was nothing she could do about that now, but if the duc turned out to be a kind man she was going to try to bring her younger children to Beaumont de Jaspre. Ewan and Murrough were old enough to survive without her. Her poor O’Flaherty sons; they had had so little of her. She sighed. There was no help for it now. The others, however, she
must
have with her. True, Robin and Willow were already away from home for part of the year; but she had always been able to see them. Being sent to live in another country was a totally different thing.

The Lynmouth holdings would be safe from plunder for their little earl was an Englishman. Richard de Grenville and Adam de Marisco would see to it for her. Uncle Seamus would have to oversee the Burke lands, and she would ask Elizabeth FitzGerald Clinton, the Countess of Lincoln, to help him. Beth was an Irish woman, and would understand her plight. It was a chance that would have to be taken, for Skye could not leave her babies. With the Queen’s support and her strong family ties, she felt she could protect her children’s wealth even from as far as Beaumont de Jaspre.

How heartless of Cecil! He knew that the duc was relatively
young, and healthy; and yet he had deliberately misled her into believing otherwise so she would agree to go and aid his mistress, the Queen, by her sacrifice. It mattered not a whit to Cecil that Padraic was but newly born, and wee Deirdre yet an infant. He cruelly and selfishly tore her from her children simply in order to advance the Queen’s political aims.
I will never trust the English again
, she thought. Yet there was her beloved Geoffrey, who had never hurt her, and Adam de Marisco and Robbie, and Dame Cecily.

“God’s nightshirt!” she swore.

“You’re frowning,” Edmond de Beaumont said. “Don’t frown, sweet Skye. Give me that little half-smile you have when you are deep in thought as you have been.”

She smiled at him. “Tell me about Beaumont de Jaspre,” she said.

“It’s a fairyland,” he answered. “It is no more than five miles in width, sandwiched in between Provence and the Languedoc. It extends inland a little over ten miles from the Mediterranean. We are fortunate that above our town of Villerose, the land plateaus until it reaches the mountains that are the border of the duchy. The plateau is fertile, and so between our fine crops and the sea we are quite self-sufficient. That is how we have managed to remain independent from the French, although they would like to gobble us up. France’s Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, offered our duc her daughter, Marguérite, to wife.”

“And the duc asked the English queen for a wife instead? I find that hard to believe, Edmond. A French princess would have been quite a prize for your duc.”

“The offer was not genuine, and Uncle Fabron knew it. The Princesse de Valois is meant for Henri of Navarre.”

“What is your uncle like?” she asked.

“He is a serious man, Skye. Bookish and learned. I will be frank with you; I think that he would have been happier as a religious man, rather than having the responsibility of a duchy such as ours. Still, he is a man who accepts his obligations well. You will be his third wife. The first, Marie de Breil, died after many years of stillbirths and miscarriages. The second, Blanche de Toulon, died giving birth to Garnier, the duc’s son. It is a great pity that he, too, did not die, for he is a half-wit. My uncle has been widowed now for five years. Until recently he could not bring himself to wed again. That is why he made me his heir, but I have convinced him that a healthy male child of his own
blood would serve the duchy better than the dwarf son of his younger brother.”

“You have no brothers?”

“I have four very normal and, to me, very tall sisters.” He laughed. “They are all older than I, and after I was born my parents felt they could not take the chance of having another such as myself. Consequently there are no other legitimate male de Beaumonts except my uncle Fabron, Garnier, and myself. My father died when I was twelve. That is why it is so important to me that my uncle remarry and have a son. If I inherit the duchy I must marry, and what woman would have such a fellow as myself? What kind of children would we produce?” He put down his paintbrush and came over to stand by her knee. “Dear, sweet Skye! You are our last hope!”

She shivered. “Do not say that, Edmond! It frightens me to be the hope of survival for a duchy such as Beaumont de Jaspre.”

He smiled his incredibly sweet smile at her, and Skye thought what a pity it was that it could not be he whom she was to marry. Edmond might be small in stature, but he was kind and amusing, and obviously quite intelligent.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her.

“Honestly?”

He nodded.

“That I wish it were you I was to wed.”

He looked stunned for a moment, and then he said slowly, “Madam, never have I received such a magnificent compliment!” Then, taking both of her hands in his, he kissed them passionately. “I have not regretted my height in many years, Skye, but this night I do.”

“Then I have done you a disservice, Edmond, for I would not hurt you for the world.”

“You have not hurt me,” he answered, his marvelous violet-colored eyes looking warmly into her Kerry-blue ones, and she knew he desired her. Then he quickly changed the subject back to his uncle. “What else would you like to know about the duc, Skye?”

“What he looks like,” she said with feminine curiosity.

“He stands about two inches taller than you, his eyes are black, his hair the same.”

“He has not your beautiful coloring?” she said, disappointed.

“No. His mother was Florentine, mine Castilian. I inherited her honey-colored hair and violet eyes. Uncle Fabron is more
imposing than I am, for his features are regal whereas mine are soft.” He turned and went back to his easel. “We have plenty of time to talk, Skye, but let me finish this miniature while we do. You must indulge my curiosity now. Who is this Sir Robert Small you will not leave England without seeing?”

“Robbie?” She smiled broadly. “Robbie is one of the two best friends I have in this whole world! He is my business partner, a marvelous man, and I adore him! He has never married, and his sister, Dame Cecily, is a childless widow. My second husband was a Spaniard, and he died before my eldest daughter, Willow, our only child, was born. Robbie and his sister adopted her and made her their heiress. With all the bad feeling between England and Spain, it is better for my daughter that she have an English surname, be an Englishwoman. Although her parentage is no secret, little is thought of it because she is Willow Mary Small.”

“This Sir Robert? He is due back from a voyage shortly?” Edmond de Beaumont asked.

“Aye. His advance ship arrived in Plymouth a short while ago, and Robbie could appear any time between today and the end of the month,” she said happily.

To Skye’s surprise, Robbie appeared the very next morning, shouting her name as he entered Greenwood’s paneled reception hall.

“Skye lass! Dammit, Skye, where are you?” Sir Robert Small, sea captain and owner of Wren Court, an exquisite Devon house, stood with his legs spread wide, his homely, freckled face anticipatory.

Skye’s secretary, Jean Morlaix, came hurrying downstairs from the library where he had been working, a smile upon his usually serious features. “Good day to ye, Jean. How is your Marie, and the children?”

“Very well, captain,” Jean Morlaix greeted Robbie. “It was a good voyage, I trust?”

“Splendid!” was the enthusiastic reply.

“Robbie!” Skye stood at the top of the staircase’s second landing. Her long black hair was tousled from sleep, her feet bare, her pale-blue quilted silk dressing gown open at the neck. With a glad cry she flew down the stairs and into his arms. “Oh, Robbie! You are home safe!”

He hugged her lovingly. She was the daughter he might have
had, had he ever taken the time to marry. Then he kissed her on both cheeks, asking as he did so, “Is Niall with you, lass?”

Jean Morlaix stiffened, and Skye’s smile faded. “Niall is dead, Robbie. He was murdered this past February by his first wife, the nun. That bitch, Claire O’Flaherty, insinuated herself into St. Mary’s Convent, attached herself to poor, mad Darragh like a bloodsucking leech, and then tortured her with the idea that Niall was coming to reclaim her. Claire terrorized Darragh to the point that she was amenable even to murder to save herself. Darragh told the Mother Superior of her convent that she stabbed Niall several times, and there was a great deal of blood. Then she and Claire dragged his body to the beach, and the last thing Darragh remembers of the event is the waves lapping at Niall’s body. When the Mother Superior and the other nuns hurried to the beach they found the tide fully in, and Niall’s body gone.”

“Christ’s body!” Robbie swore softly, and then his arms went back around her. For a moment she wept softly, moving her head into his shoulder for refuge, and his weathered, square hand stroked her dark hair comfortingly. “Ah, lass, ah lass, Robbie is here now, and I’ll make it all right! See if I don’t, Skye lass.”

“The MacWilliam is gone also, Robbie,” she said, regaining some control. “I kept his death a secret, and came to England to gain the Queen’s protection for my infant son, Padraic. She will confirm his title and his lands, but only for a price. I am to become the wife of the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre. I must leave England by mid-May.”

“The Devil you say!” he cried. “This is some plot of William Cecil’s, I vow. What of your children? Has that old spider thought of your children? Aye! I’ll wager he has! He’s thought what fine hostages they’ll make. Would he separate a mother from her babies? Aye, he would to serve the Queen!”

“Beaumont de Jaspre is at the moment of vital interest to England, Robbie, and the duc requested that the Queen send him a wife. I am the bride they have chosen. I must go,” Skye sobbed.

“It’s indecent!” Robbie raged. “You’ve not even had the proper time to mourn Niall decently. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit! What is this duc fellow like, tell me? Does the Queen know the sort of man she’s sending you to wed with? She’s as quick to send you off to marry as she is to sidestep the issue of marriage herself.”

“I met the duc’s nephew only last night at Whitehall, Robbie.”
She slipped from his protective embrace and took him by the hand. “Come upstairs with me, and we will have something to eat. I have not eaten yet, and I’m ravenous.”