Darling Jasmine
Page 41
Daisy Kelly, her faithful tiring woman and dearest confidante and friend. She had died suddenly just over a year ago, and nothing had been the same ever since. Just gone to bed one evening and never awakened in the morning. Young Nora had been a great comfort to the old woman, but it was not the same. Nora had not been young with her mistress, nor shared her many adventures or her secrets. No. It hadn’t been the same, nor would it ever be again. Her time was long past. Her eyes strayed to the windows beyond. It was almost sunset now. The sky was slowly becoming streaked with gold, lavender, pink, scarlet, and orange. It was, she thought, the most beautiful sunset she had ever seen. Soon the midsummer fires would begin leaping from the hillsides. It was a most magical night.
“Grandmama?” Jasmine placed a kiss on her forehead. “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” she answered the young woman. Jasmine. Darling Jasmine, her husband called her. Her favorite grandchild, although she had certainly never had a favorite until Jasmine had come into her life. She felt no shame at all in loving Jasmine best of all of them. She had arrived a month ago for her English summer, with her beloved Jemmie, and her eight children. India, who at fifteen, was already a great beauty; Henry, now fourteen, and his father’s image; Fortune, at thirteen outgrowing her coltishness, and promising to rival India shortly; Charlie, the not-so-royal Stuart, now eleven, and, like his elder brother, every inch his father’s son. And the four little Leslies; Patrick, Adam, Duncan, and the old woman’s youngest descendant, Janet Skye, who had been born just over six months ago on her own eighty-second birthday.
She turned toward the windows again, and it was then that she saw them as they came walking toward her out of the sunset. Niall Burke as she had first known him, his smoothly shaven face tanned by the outdoors, his short-cropped hair as midnight dark as her own. Her father, and Eibhlin, who was smiling at her. And Khalid el Bey, with his long oval face, with its well-barbered black beard and those melting amber eyes fringed in the outrageously thick lashes she had always envied. And here was Geoffrey Southwood, lean, blond, and arrogantly handsome, his lime green eyes laughing at her surprise. And her darling Daisy! Not old and wizened as she had been but a year ago, but apple-cheeked, and gap-toothed, and young again. The old woman strained to see them all, yet something was missing.
“Come, little girl, it is time for us to go now.” Her eyes widened, and he was there before her, holding out his hand for her to take.
“Adam!” she said, reaching for his hand, and Jasmine gazed anxiously at her.
Skye rose from her sickbed, gazing long and lovingly at each of them; her smile was as bright as the morning. Her heart was filled to overflowing with the deep, pure happiness she felt. She would miss her children and grandchildren, of course, but one day they would meet again. For now another door was opening. Another wonderful adventure was beckoning to her. Never fearful of a new venture, she eagerly accepted their invitation. “Gentlemen, lead on!” she cried; and then, linking her arms with those of Adam de Marisco and Geoffrey Southwood, she hurried off toward the sunset and down the road to forever, without so much as a regret or a backward glance.
“Jemmie!” Jasmine’s hand went to her heart as she felt the pain of the separation. She looked up at her husband, stricken.
“Aye, she is gone, darling Jasmine,” he said gently, putting his arms about her. “She is gone from us for now. Do not weep, sweeting. She would not want it. She would want you to be brave as she was brave.”
“They say I am like her,” Jasmine said brokenly, “and I wish it were so, but it is not. There will never be a woman like Skye O’Malley ever again, Jemmie. Never again!”
James Leslie, the duke of Glenkirk, leaned over, and gently closed the old woman’s now sightless Kerry blue eyes, but upon her face he saw there was a tiny smile. She had been glad to go, he thought. No. There would never ever be a woman like Skye O’Malley. Godspeed, Skye, he said silently. Godspeed until we meet again!
Bertrice Small lives in the oldest English-speaking town in the state of New York, which was founded in 1640. She writes her novels in a light-filled studio surrounded by the paintings of her close friend, cover artist Elaine Duillo, and the many mementos of the romance genre she has collected. Married thirty-four years to her husband George, she is the mother of Thomas, a sportscaster, mother-in-law of Megan, and the doting grandmother of Chandler David Small, age two. Longtime readers will be happy to know that Nicky (the charming Cockatiel, almost ten), Checquers (the fat black-and-white cat with the pink ears, now fourteen), and Sebastian (the long-haired greige-and-white feline, almost three and better known as Pookie), are still her dearest companions. Readers are invited to write the author at:
P.O. Box 765,
Southold, NY 11971-0765
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Copyright © 1997 by Bertrice Small
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7292-8