Skye O'Malley (60 page)

At last Skye and Daisy allowed two of the other servants into the sickroom to take over. The children needed rest and light food to rebuild their strength while their two devoted nurses needed sleep before they dropped of exhaustion. Daisy sought her own room and fell, fully clothed, across her bed. Skye stumbled into her chamber to find a steaming tub awaiting her.

“I can’t,” she said. “I must sleep.”

Geoffrey Southwood led his wife to a chair and sat her down. “You’ll sleep better for being clean, my darling,” and he gently undressed her, drawing off her gown and petticoats, slipping off her shoes and rolling down her silk stockings. Placing her in the tub, he smiled at her sigh of bliss and gently washed her. He dried her off, slid a nightgown over her, and carried her to their bed and tucked her in. Bending, he dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Sleep well, my dearest,” she heard him say before blackness reached up to claim her.

Skye slept for almost two days, and awoke to find her world in shambles. Daisy had awakened first, and was standing over her mistress’s bed. One look at Daisy’s open country face caused Skye’s heart to accelerate.

“What is it?”

“The young master, little Lord John! White throat! The Earl is nursing him.”

Skye tumbled from the bed, reaching for her velvet dressing gown, struggling into it as she ran. “Where are they?”

“The floor above the nursery, m’lady.”

Skye’s first instinct was to rail at Geoffrey. How dare he keep Johnny’s illness from her? Why had he not awakened her? Then she realized he had tried to spare her for a few brief hours so she might regain some strength. She sped down the corridors of the castle, climbing the stairs to the wing above the nursery floor, and pushed into the room.

“No!” she cried.

Geoffrey sat stunned, tears running down his face, the limp body of baby John in his lap. He looked up, his eyes mirroring such acute pain that she could not tell if her grief was for him or for the son they had just lost.

“I did everything you did,” he wept helplessly. “He couldn’t breathe, Skye! He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and I couldn’t help him. His eyes, Skye! His blue eyes … so like yours … pleading for help, and I couldn’t! I couldn’t do anything.”

She fell to her knees to gaze upon the body of her youngest child. He had looked so like her, with his fair skin, sapphire eyes, and dark hair. He had been Geoffrey’s favorite, not Robin his heir, but Johnny, her elfin child, everyone’s favorite, who was more of Ireland than of England. A muffled sound in the doorway caught her attention, and she raised her head to see Daisy, a fist stuffed in her tear-streaked face. Johnny had been her favorite too.

Feeling very old, she pulled herself up and, taking the limp body from Geoffrey’s lap, gave the child to Daisy. “See to it, lass. I must comfort my lord.”

Daisy fled from the room, holding the little boy close to her chest. Her weeping was quite loud now. Skye put an arm about her husband. “Come, my love. Come with me,” she begged him. He rose to his feet and, stumbling along by her side, allowed himself to be led downstairs to their apartments. “Hot wine!” she ordered her husband’s body servant, and when it was brought she added herbs to it and helped him drink. Mistress and servant undressed their lord and got him into a silk nightshirt. Skye nervously noted that Geoffrey was warmer than he ought to be. Tucking him into bed, she asked, “Do you feel all right, my darling?”

“Tired. So very tired,” he muttered. Then, “Too hot,” and he threw back the coverlet.

Skye put her hand on his forehead. It was burning. His fever was spiraling quickly. “Get me a bucket of cold water and some clean cloths,” she ordered Will, the manservant. The Earl coughed, a sharp, barking sound, and fear gripped Skye. “No!” she whispered. “Dear Holy Mother,
please
, please no!”

Will returned with water drawn from the deepest well on the lands. It was so icy that it burned Skye’s hands when she dipped a cloth into it. The Earl winced when the cloth touched his skin. “I must get your fever down, my love,” she apologized, but he did not hear her, for he was lost in delirium. In the hours that followed they kept him well wrapped in bedclothes while his forehead was bathed constantly. Both the sheets and the Earl’s nightshirt were changed three times, the used linen all burned to prevent the spread of infection.

Then suddenly Daisy appeared. “I’ve brought you a tray. It’s in the anteroom.”

Hollow-eyed, Skye looked up at her servant and then glanced away distractedly. “I couldn’t eat.”

“My lady, it will not do my lord any good if you fall ill, too. The children need you also, for they are badly frightened by their little brother’s death. Now the Earl is ill, and that will be hard on the little ones.”

I am frightened too!
Skye wanted to shout. But she nodded wearily, glad for Daisy’s firmness, and went into the anteroom. The tray had been lovingly prepared with a silver dish of small scallops broiled in sweet butter and herbs, ham, a little bowl of new lettuce and young scallions, a bread pudding, an iced cake, and a carafe of wine. Skye ate mechanically, not tasting any of it, simply chewing and swallowing until the dishes were empty. Rising quickly, she went back into the sickroom to find that the Earl’s fever had broken. He was shivering violently and Daisy was piling more coverlets on his bed.

“Hot bricks,” commanded Skye, and Will rushed to obey.

Geoffrey began to cough violently and gasp for air. Skye forced his mouth open and peered in. The Earl’s throat was covered with dirty white patches, and a grayish membrane was forming that constricted his breathing.

“Keep his jaws open,” said Daisy to her mistress. And with one quick motion, the girl reached down and hooked the membrane out of Geoffrey’s throat. She threw it in the fire. The Earl was now
able to breathe. “If we can keep that scum from cutting off his air then we can save him, m’lady. If it hardens he will die,” she said straightforwardly.

“No!” Skye shook her head grimly. “I will not lose him!”

Together they began the tedious process of laying on hot camphor cloths. Several more times Daisy pulled an ugly mucous membrane from her master’s throat, easing his breathing. The hours crept by until one full day had passed and it was night again. The fever came again and went again. He was having more difficulty breathing as the membranes formed much more quickly now and were becoming more difficult to get out. His color was pasty and his chest labored harder with each harsh breath. Skye could feel panic beginning to creep upward from deep within herself. They could not seem to conquer the disease, only to slow it down.

Suddenly Geoffrey Southwood opened his lime-green eyes. “Skye!” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed that terrible barking cough.

“I am here, my darling.” She bent anxiously over him.

His marvelous eyes roamed slowly and lovingly over her face as if committing it to memory. “Take care of the children, Skye.”

“Geoffrey, my love, you must not say things like that!” Her voice was edged in hysteria.

He smiled a gentle smile at her and, reaching up, touched her cheek with his elegant hand, as though bestowing a benediction. “What a joy you’ve been to me, my darling,” he whispered, and then he gave a deep sigh and died.

The room was silent. Neither Daisy nor the manservant dared to move.

“Geoffrey! Please don’t frighten me so,” Skye begged. “You’re going to get well, my love! You will! And we’ll go to Ireland this summer as we planned, to see my family and so that Ewan may formally pledge his fealty to the MacWilliam.” She went on talking to him of family things and plans they had made.

Finally Daisy gently put an arm about Skye. “He is dead, my lady.” She began to sob. “The Earl is dead, and you must face it now. The children must be told and the funerals for wee Johnny and his father must be planned.”

To Daisy’s immediate relief, Skye burst into wild sobbing and flung herself across her husband’s body. “Not gone!” she wailed. “No! No! No! Not dead! Not dead!”

Her cries could be heard throughout Lynmouth Castle, and the cry was quickly taken up by others. Daisy and Will pulled Skye
from her husband’s form. She fought them like a madwoman, but finally their combined strengths prevailed and they were able to get her to her own bed. She collapsed there, sobbing.

“Get the children,” Daisy whispered to the manservant, and when he had brought them, Daisy brutally roused her mistress from her grief. “My lady! The children are all here with you now. They need you, my lady! They need you now.”

Skye raised her ravaged, tear-swollen face to stare at the frightened group of youngsters clustered together in the bedroom doorway. Geoffrey’s three daughters from his second marriage—Susan, nine, with her father’s haunting green eyes, and the eight-year-old twins, Gwyn and Joan—these three were now orphaned. Her own three—Ewan, ten, Murrough, nine, and Willow, six and a half—looked confused and tried to hide their fright. And Robin, three,
their
son, was now the Earl of Lynmouth.
Go away and leave me to my grief!
she wanted to shout at them. But then she heard Geoffrey say again, “Take care of the children, Skye.”

Gathering herself, she stood up and smoothed her rumpled gown. “Your father is dead, my children,” she said quietly. Then she lifted little Robin to a table, where he sat, wide-eyed, staring at her. “Robin, you are now the Earl of Lynmouth. To you, my lord Earl, I pledge my fealty.” And she curtseyed to him.

Then the other children were standing before Robin, and pledging their fealty. Robin was confused. “Where is Papa?” he lisped.

“Gone to Heaven, my son,” said Skye softly.

“Like Johnny?” His little brow was furrowed.

“Yes, Robin, like Johnny.”

“Can’t we go too, Mama?”

Susan sobbed, but was quelled by a fierce look from her stepmother.

“No, Robin, we can’t go yet. One may only go when God calls, and God has not called us yet.” Skye could feel strength flowing back into her limbs. Geoffrey had been right. The children needed her. She lifted her son from the table and gathered the other children about her. “We must all be brave, my dears,” she told them, and kissed each in turn. “Now go back to your rooms, and pray for your father and for Johnny.”

The children dutifully filed out. “Fetch the priest,” she said to Daisy. “Will,” she turned to the manservant, “I want you to ride to London with a message for Her Majesty. Wait in the anteroom while I write it.”

The note informed the Queen of Geoffrey’s death, and requested royal confirmation of Robin’s inheritance. Will left immediately. The priest was told to schedule the funerals for the following day. The sixteen-month-old John, Lord Lynton, would be buried in the same grave as his father. Then Skye called for a bottle of cherry brandy and drank herself to sleep, an act she had cause to regret when the morning dawned clear and far too sunny for her throbbing head. It was tragically ironic. The April weather had turned mild overnight and there were no new cases of white throat in the castle or in the village. Having taken the Earl, the epidemic seemed to have satisfied its lust for lives.

CHAPTER 22

R
OBERT
D
UDLEY, THE FOPPISH
E
ARL OF
L
EICESTER, HUMMED
a merry tune as he traveled the road down to Devon. About him, his escort echoed this mood. The Earl was on a mission for Her Majesty, which lent great importance to this trip. Added to this was the fact that it was June and England was enjoying beautiful, sunny weather. Roses of every possible hue peeped from dooryard gardens and tumbled extravagantly over rock walls. In the green meadows fat young lambs gamboled amid the sweet clover. Every millpond had at least one family of swans, elegant snow-white parents with their gray cygnets, sailing as proudly across the barely ruffled waters as treasure-laden Spanish galleons.

Lord Dudley was in an excellent mood. Unwittingly, the Queen had given him something he wanted very much. Bess could not possibly have known when she sent him off to see to the welfare of their godson, the little Earl of Lynmouth, that the child’s mother concerned him far more than Robin did.

Geoffrey Southwood’s death had been a terrible shock to the Queen and the entire Court, for the Angel Earl had been very well liked. True, he and his lovely Irish wife had not been to Court for two years, but they always came up to London to give their Twelfth Night masque, always the best party of the year. Only a few short months ago they had astounded everyone once more by the marvelous originality of their costumes, coming to their last masque as “The New World.” The beauteous young Countess had been gowned in cloth of gold trimmed lavishly in rich dark beaver and set off by Colombian emeralds, while Lord Southwood had been
equally resplendent in his cloth-of-silver suit trimmed in fox, and sewn all over with Mexican turquoise.

So much for earthly glories, thought Robert Dudley wryly. Southwood, so lively and virile in January, was quite dead and buried on this glorious June day. Now perhaps his wife would be more amenable. And if she was not, there were means through which he could persuade her to be more cooperative. So pleased with himself was the Earl of Leicester as he came in sight of Lynmouth Castle in early evening that he burst into a currently popular and very bawdy song, much to the grinning delight of his soldiers.

Watching his approach from the open ramparts of the castle, the widowed Countess of Lynmouth was filled with trepidation. It had taken the Queen several weeks to answer Skye’s letter announcing Geoffrey’s death. When she did, Elizabeth had confirmed little Robin’s inheritance. But she had also appointed Robert Dudley the child’s guardian. Skye had protested, pointing out as diplomatically as possible that Geoffrey’s will had made her the sole guardian of all their children. But the Queen was adamant. Skye had full control over the others, but the little Earl of Lynmouth was to be under royal protection from that time on.

Skye was most unhappy. She did not trust Dudley. To be sure, his behavior had been most circumspect since the incident of the Twelfth Night masque two years before. But she knew he would not give up easily. And in her widowed state she was unprotected and easy prey. He would not hesitate to use the young ones to force her hand, and so Skye had quickly done what she could to protect herself and the children.