All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “I do not understand, Lady Burke, why you agreed to this marriage,” Edmond de Beaumont said. “I have been told that you are outrageously wealthy in both monies and lands, and now you say you have children much too young to leave. Surely you are not one of those women who seek a great title?”

  “If the choice were truly mine, M’sieur de Beaumont, and your uncle the Holy Roman Emperor himself, I should not wed with him; but the choice is not mine. It is the Queen’s will that I do so, and therefore I must.”

  “Why?” He was distressed for her.

  “Because I am Irish, M’sieur de Beaumont, and the English have had a stranglehold on my homeland for several centuries now. I agreed to marry your uncle because if I did not, my infant son’s lands would have been parceled out among the Anglo-Irish, those sycophants of the English monarchs.

  “I am a realist, M’sieur de Beaumont,” Skye continued. “I could not hope to beat the English in a fair fight, for unfortunately the Irish are not a nation able to unite behind one ruler. If we were the English would not be in our homeland. My duty is to my children, and to the memories I have of their fathers. I am responsible for the lands of four families, as well as an enormous commercial interest and a fleet of vessels. Should I beggar myself and my children for an ideal? I think not.”

  “Madame, I wonder if you are the right woman for my uncle.”

  “Why?” She smiled at him. “Because I am outspoken, m’sieur?”

  “My uncle is used to a more complacent type of female,” he smiled back, and she thought that he had a beautiful smile.

  “If you complain to the Queen that I am not suitable,” she said in a more serious tone, “Elizabeth will wonder what I have done to incur your displeasure, m’sieur. That would endanger my infant son, Lord Burke. I promise you that I shall be exactly the type of wife your uncle seeks. They tell me that he is old, and not in good health. I vow to nurse him most tenderly.”

  “Who on earth told you that my uncle is elderly, Lady Burke?” Edmond de Beaumont was surprised. “Uncle Fabron is but forty-five, and is in excellent health.” He saw the shock upon her face. “My God, they have lied to you in order to gain your cooperation!”

  She was very pale, and he placed a surprisingly warm hand over her trembling, clenched ones. “Lord Burghley said that your uncle was an older man in ill health. That I should be home within a year or two at the most. Dear God, my babies! I shall never see my babies again!”

  “This is infamous!” Edmond de Beaumont accepted the fact of arranged marriages, but this beautiful woman was being used in a terrible way. “I shall speak to the Queen myself,” he said. “You cannot be made to leave your children like this!”

  “No!” Her blue eyes were huge and frightened. “M’sieur de Beaumont, you must not speak to anyone of this! You will do me no kindness, and I shall lose everything. I have accepted my lot, and so must you.” She turned her hand so she might grasp his tiny one. “Please, m’sieur,” she said.

  “Madam, I am already your devoted servant,” he answered. “It will be as you wish. I would be your friend.”

  “You already are, M’sieur de Beaumont, and since you are, I think you should call me Skye.” She calmed herself now, assured by his gentleness and air of concern.

  “With pleasure, Skye, if you will call me Edmond.”

  Across the room Robert Dudley sneered to the Queen, “Look how she simpers at the dwarf so sweetly. It sickens me! Is the duc a dwarf also? How amusing that would be, Bess! It would take two of them to equal one Geoffrey Southwood, or Niall Burke!” He laughed nastily.

  “Are you jealous, my lord?” Elizabeth Tudor’s voice was sharp. “I thought you had gotten over your passion for Lady Burke. Do not try my patience, Robert. I have been most generous with you, and you will repay my kindness.”

  “I adore you, Bess! You well know it, but you will not marry me. I am only a man, madam!”

  “Fie, Rob, lower your voice,” the Queen chided. “Others are looking at us, and in answer to your question the Duc de Beaumont is not a dwarf. His nephew showed me his miniature, which was sent for his intended bride. He is a well-favored gentleman. Lady Burke should not be overly unhappy in Beaumont de Jaspre.”

  “She will be out of the way,” Dudley answered. “You do not fool me, Bess. I know you far too well. Lady Burke is in your subtle mind an enemy. By sending her to Beaumont de Jaspre you rid yourself of that particular enemy.”

  “I also gain a spy against France, Spain, and the Papal States,” the Queen said quietly. “I have no doubt that Lady Burke will hear many interesting things that she can pass on to us.”

  “By God, Bess,” Lord Dudley said admiringly. “You are totally ruthless!”

  The Queen smiled archly at the Earl of Leicester. “Dance with me, Rob,” she said, “and we shall discuss what to give Lady Burke as a wedding gift.”

  Skye and Edmond de Beaumont were watching the Queen and Lord Dudley capering merrily to a sprightly tune played by the musicians, when William Cecil came up to sit with them.

  “So you have made friends with the Petit Sieur de Beaumont, Lady Burke, and you, m’sieur, see the exquisite prize we are sending to your uncle. Do you think that he will be pleased?”

  “How could he not be, Lord Burghley?”

  “The Queen has decided that you will depart here at the end of April, Lady Burke. M’sieur de Beaumont will travel with you and your party to Beaumont de Jaspre.”

  “The Queen has promised me that I may remain in England until Sir Robert has returned, my lord. I will not go until then! What is all this indecent haste about? I will leave by mid-May. I must first have a trousseau made, for the gowns I have to wear here in England and Ireland will be totally unsuitable in a warmer climate. Would you have me arrive to wed the duc in my shift?”

  Edmond de Beaumont chuckled aloud at the look of discomfort upon the face of the Queen’s Secretary of State and Lord Treasurer. “There is no great rush, Lord Burghley,” he said. “After all, my uncle is in robust health, and the miniature I shall send him tomorrow of Lady Burke should increase his ardor. If we leave in mid-May as Skye suggests, we will be in Beaumont de Jaspre by June, a perfect time for a wedding, especially there.”

  “Ah … yes, yes!” William Cecil began to edge nervously away.

  “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 exqu
isite 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?”