All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “Aye,” he grudgingly gave in to her. “I don’t know why you have to run off and marry some foreigner anyways, Mistress Skye.”

  “I made a bargain with the Queen, MacGuire.”

  “She’s not our Queen.”

  Skye snorted her impatience. “Ireland has no queen, MacGuire! It has no king. What it has is a thousand lordlings, a thousand cocks, each on its own dung heap, crowing its own song. Do you know the song those cocks sing, MacGuire? They sing of freedom from England and the English, but not one of those cocks would give up his rights to another man so that Ireland could be united under one Irish king, so we might drive the English from our homeland and be ruled by an Irish king. No, my old friend, they sing, they get drunk, they weep of the grand, great days of yore, but in the end they do nothing except make widows and orphans. Is it a wonder the English abuse us?

  “Well, if that’s the way it’s to be, then I must think of my own first. England rules Ireland, and I’ll not lose the Burke lands over a dream. The price of the Queen’s protection is that I marry this duc, and I will marry him! I will marry him lest Niall and the old MacWilliam rise from their graves to haunt me for losing what the Burkes have fought and died over for a thousand years. Now you nosy old man, that’s the last I’ll speak on it!”

  He grinned wickedly at her, and drawing his pipe from his pocket, he lit it. “You needn’t get huffy, Skye O’Malley. I remember you when you were wearing nappies and crawling about the decks of yer father’s ship, may God assoil his noble soul.”

  “Are we sailing on this tide or not?” she demanded, attempting to regain her dignity. It was damned well time MacGuire retired, but she knew he’d die aboard his ship one day, as her father had done.

  “If ye weren’t so busy talking, lass, you’d see that we’ve already weighed anchor, and are underway.” He chuckled at her chagrin. “You’ll find that pretty piece that serves you, as well as the little foreign lord, waiting you in your dayroom.”

  “Where’s Kelly?”

  “Sleeping. It’s agreed between us that I’ll captain the ship during the day and he at night.”

  She nodded. “A wise decision, considering we’ve got to avoid the French, the Spanish, and the Barbary pirates.”

  “We’ll get there safe and sound, Mistress Skye,” he said, puffing comfortably on his pipe.

  By evening they had rounded Margate Head and were out into the Strait of Dover. The next morning they were in the English Channel, where a light but steady breeze and a spring rain and fog protected them and their escort from detection by any foreign vessels. Several days later the gray weather left them, and they sailed briskly across the Bay of Biscay under bright blue skies. They were far enough out to sea to avoid coastal vessels. Rounding Cape Finisterre brought them into the Atlantic Ocean. The weather had been magnificent, and Skye was reminded of her first voyage to the Mediterranean. Ten years ago. Had it really been ten years ago? She gazed out over the dark blue sea to the cliffs of Cape St. Vincent rising steep and red-brown above the water. Khalid. Geoffrey. Niall. She shook her head. All gone. She seemed fated to be alone. Perhaps the duc would change her luck.

  Seagull, Mermaid, and their escort sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean Sea, swinging north once more as they set a course for Beaumont de Jaspre. Several times now they sighted other vessels, but the size of their escort discouraged any unfriendly encounters. As they drew nearer to Beaumont de Jaspre Skye thought that she would even welcome an encounter with Barbary pirates. Anything to stave off the inevitable: her arrival—and her marriage to a total stranger.

  “We should be docking in Villerose in less than a half an hour, Mistress Skye,” Bran Kelly told her, coming into the dayroom where she was writing a letter to Willow describing the voyage.

  “Thank you, Bran,” she replied quietly, and then turned to address the man across the room. “Well, Edmond, I have brought you safely home, haven’t I?” Her tone was affectionate and amused.

  “I admit I do not like sea travel,” he said, “but this voyage has been magnificent, Skye! It would have been quicker if we had crossed the English Channel and driven across France, however.”

  “Quicker if the French allowed Elizabeth Tudor’s emissary free access to their roads and inns. Do you think they would have, Edmond?”

  He chuckled and hopped down from the window seat in the stern window, where he had been sitting. “Stand up, Skye, and let me have a good look at you.”

  Finished with the letter, she pushed it aside and stood up. She wore an exquisite gown of delicate lilac-colored silk, styled in the Italian manner. The skirt was full, over several starched petticoats, the underskirt embroidered in silver thread and pink glass beads showing a design of windflowers and dainty, fluttering moths. The sleeves of the gown were full to the midarm, and slashed to show a lilac and silver-striped fabric beneath. The neckline was low and draped with a soft lilac silk-kerchief added for modesty’s sake. About her neck Skye had chosen to wear a dainty necklace of small pearls and amethysts set in gold, and from her ears bobbed pearls falling from amethyst studs. Her hair was parted in the center and drawn back over her small ears into a full chignon that had been dressed with purple silk Parma violets and white silk rosebuds.

  “You are incredibly beautiful,” Edmond de Beaumont said quietly. “How can my uncle fail to love you, Skye? You are love incarnate!”

  “You are extravagant in your praise, Edmond. Remember you have told me that your uncle is a reserved man. Perhaps I shall shock him rather than please him. I have never liked arranged marriages for just this reason. My first marriage was arranged when I was in the cradle, and it was a disaster from the outset. It is better that people get to know one another. Still, I am older than when I was first married, and your uncle has known sorrow also. Perhaps we can console each other, and be happy in the bargain.”

  “I know it can be so,” he said fervently. “Be patient with him, Skye. If anyone can reach him you can.”

  What a strange remark, she thought, but before she could ask him exactly what he meant, Captain MacGuire was entering the cabin to announce, “Well, we’re here, and there’s a pretty fancy carriage on the dock, which I suspect is your betrothed’s. He’ll probably come aboard as soon as we’re moored securely.”

  She panicked. “Where is Robbie? I must speak to Robbie before I leave the ship!”

  “Easy, lass,” MacGuire soothed her. “I’ll have Mermaid signaled immediately. You’re as fretful as a virgin going to the marriage bed for the first time.”

  “MacGuire!” she shouted at him, outraged.

  The old seaman chuckled and, turning about, left the day room.

  “You mustn’t be fearful, Skye,” Edmond de Beaumont said. “My uncle is the kindest man alive. You have nothing to fear from him.”

  She drew a deep breath, dispelling some of her panic. “I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I am behaving like a green girl.”

  “I shall go ashore,” Edmond de Beaumont said, “and greet my uncle. Then I shall bring him back to introduce him to you. It will be far more private if you meet here for the first time, than if you meet on the dock or at the palace.” He gave her a quick smile and then hurried out, his short legs pumping eagerly.

  She was alone. For how long? she wondered. In a few minutes he would walk through the cabin door, and she would no longer be free. She did not delude herself that this would be like any of her other marriages. Lord Burghley had sworn that the duc would sign the marriage contracts that left her her own mistress, but then Lord Burghley had also sworn that the duc was old and ill, which his nephew had most certainly attested he was not. Edmond had signed the contracts for his uncle in England, but Fabron de Beaumont must ratify them. She would insist he do so before she wed him! It was the only way. She could not after all these years find herself at anyone else’s mercy. It was bad enough to be wedding a stranger.

  The door to her dayroom opened and Robbie came in. �
��It looks a fair place, Skye lass,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “MacGuire signaled you wanted to see me.”

  “You’ll not leave me, Robbie?” Her voice was anxious.

  “I’ll not leave you, Skye. You’re my lass. I’ll be here whenever you want me.” He reached out and took her hands in his. They were cold despite the warmth of the day. “He’ll love you, and perhaps you’ll love him.”

  “I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’m a grown woman with four marriages behind me. I’ve six children!” She whirled, and her gown whirled with her. “God’s nightshirt!” she swore, using the Queen’s favorite oath. “What is the matter with me?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing that won’t be solved by your meeting the duc and getting to know him.”

  “There’s no time. We are to be married immediately. Edmond told me that that was the agreement; but Robbie, you must stand behind me. I won’t marry the man until he ratifies the marriage contracts agreeing that what is mine remains mine. I won’t even get off Seagull until that is settled. You’ll help me?”

  “I will handle it for you, my dear,” he said. “Let me do it. These Mediterranean types are not your Englishman.”

  “Oh, yes, Robbie! Please take care of it for me!”

  A knock sounded at the cabin door. Skye froze, but Robbie said in a loud voice, “Enter!”

  The door opened, and Edmond de Beaumont entered, followed by another gentleman. Fabron de Beaumont’s almond-shaped eyes widened just slightly, but other than that he showed no emotion; his expression remained unsmiling. He was exactly as Edmond had painted him; a serious, aristocratic man of medium height with fierce dark eyes and severely cropped, curly black hair. It worried Skye that she could see no emotion in those eyes, but then perhaps he was as nervous of her as she was of him. If Edmond had been flattering at all to his uncle, it was only in the fact that he had softened the duc’s sharp features; the long, narrow nose, the large, thin mouth, the very square jaw. For a long moment there was silence in the room, and then Edmond spoke.

  “Lady Burke, may I present to you my uncle, the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre.”

  Skye curtseyed gracefully.

  “Uncle Fabron, may I present to you Lady Burke, your betrothed.”

  “Welcome to Beaumont de Jaspre, madame,” the duc said. His voice was deep, but musical in tone.

  “Thank you, monseigneur,” was her reply.

  “Uncle, this is Sir Robert Small, Lady Burke’s business partner.”

  Fabron de Beaumont raised an elegant eyebrow. “My nephew tells me that you are a woman of commerce, madame. Is it true?”

  “Yes, monseigneur.” Skye looked to Robbie.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “There is the matter of the ratification of the marriage contracts, M’sieur le Duc.”

  “I must read them first,” was the reply.

  “Then I will get them,” Robbie said quietly. “The Queen has forbidden Lady Burke to leave her vessel until the contracts have your signature. Until then she must remain on what is technically English soil.”

  “But the marriage ceremony is set for this evening,” the duc protested.

  “There is nothing unusual about the contracts, M’sieur le Duc. Lady Burke brings you a very generous dowry, but the contracts permit her to keep her own wealth and to continue to administer her lands and those of her children.”

  “But that is outrageous!”

  “Nonetheless, M’sieur le Duc, that is what the contracts say. Englishwomen are perhaps more independent than other women, but certainly that is why you wanted a wife from Bess Tudor’s court.” Robbie smiled in a man-to-man fashion at the duc. “Your nephew saw nothing unusual in Lady Burke’s request when Lord Burghley explained it to him. He signed believing you would agree with him. Lady Burke’s dowry is very generous.”

  “Do you believe yourself capable of administering such wealth, madame?” The duc looked closely at Skye.

  “I have been my own mistress in such things, monseigneur, since my father’s death. It was he who put me in charge of his fleets and his wealth until my brothers were old enough to manage. At their request I still manage both my family’s ships and their monies.”

  “And what else do you manage, madame?”

  “The estates of my young son, the Earl of Lynmouth, and of my eldest son, Ewan O’Flaherty, although Ewan will be old enough in another two years to manage on his own. Then there are the estates of my youngest son, Padraic, in Ireland; and my daughter, Willow’s, wealth from her father, my second husband. Then, too, there is my own wealth, monseigneur, from commercial enterprises in which I am engaged with Sir Robert.”

  “You take a great deal upon such beautiful shoulders, madame,” he noted.

  “Nonetheless I am capable of it, monseigneur,” she countered.

  “A woman’s first duty is to give her husband heirs and to raise those children.”

  “You will not find me lacking there, monseigneur. I have given children to all of my husbands—five sons, of whom four are living, and two daughters.”

  He nodded. “And would you indeed refuse to marry me if I refuse to sign and ratify this marriage contract?”

  “Yes, monseigneur, I would,” Skye answered, and she lifted her chin slightly as she said the words.

  “You are a woman of strong character, I can see,” the duc replied, “but that can be a good trait in a woman if you pass it on to our sons. I trust you will do so, madame.” There was just the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

  “I will try,” she answered him in as serious a tone.

  “Then there is nothing for it but I must sign the contracts,” he answered, taking them from Robbie. Edmond de Beaumont quickly handed his uncle an inked quill from Skye’s desk, and the duc as quickly wrote his signature at the assigned place.

  Skye then came forward to place her own signature upon the documents. She had refused to sign them in England, protesting that until the duc himself agreed to her demands her signature was not necessary.

  “You sign yourself Skye O’Malley, madame,” the duc noted.

  “It is simpler, monseigneur, that I use my maiden name. I have had four husbands, and all their names added to my own would make another document.” She looked up at him with her marvelous Kerry-blue eyes, and the duc allowed himself a small smile.

  “Now that the formalities are over, madame, will you allow me to escort you to your new home?” He held out his hand to her, and after a small hesitation she placed her hand in his. His grasp was firm. “I have planned that we be married immediately,” he told her as he led her from the ship and up to his carriage. Nervously she looked about to see that Robbie was coming, too. Noting it, he asked, “Are you afraid of me, madame? Your eyes constantly seek out M’sieur Robert.”

  “I have never married a stranger before,” she said quietly.

  He nodded. “A difficult position for you, I can see, but I have never married a woman that I knew. It didn’t really matter, madame. They, like you, came to me for but one purpose, to give me heirs. Pastor Lichault says the Bible claims that ‘whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord.’ King David wrote in his psalms ‘Lo, children are a heritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are the children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them: they shall not be ashamed.’ I, however, am ashamed, madam. I have but one living child, a babbling, drooling idiot who can barely hold his own head up at the age of five. The rest of my children either died in their mothers’ wombs or shortly after birth. I want children! I need heirs!”

  “You have a fine heir in your nephew, monseigneur,” she said.

  “Yes, Edmond is a good man, but he will not marry for fear of bearing children like himself, and what normal maiden would allow herself to be possessed by the monster my nephew is?

  “If I die without heirs the French will take my duchy, and
Beaumont de Jaspre will cease to exist. There have been ducs de Beaumont de Jaspre since the days of the great Charlemagne. That is why I have agreed to remarry. I asked the Queen of England for a noble wife because I felt I needed new blood for my line. Procreation is, after all, the prime motive for marriage.”

  “So we are taught by Holy Mother Church,” Skye replied.

  “Are you of the old Church?” he demanded. “I would have thought that you were of the new faith coming from the Tudor court.”

  “I am not English, monseigneur, I am Irish. I am of the one true Church. The Queen, however, is tolerant of all faiths. I am sure that I was sent to you because the Queen assumed you, also, would be of the true faith.”

  “I was born to the old faith,” he said.

  “Your nephew said nothing to me of your religion,” Skye replied.

  “When he left Beaumont de Jaspre, madame, I still practiced that ancient faith, although I had become interested in the teachings of Pastor André Lichault. While Edmond was away, however, I became convinced that Pastor Lichault was correct in his teachings, and I converted to his faith. You, too, will convert when you have been taught.”

  “And have your people converted to the teachings of your Pastor Lichault, monseigneur?”

  He frowned. “They persist in clinging to their old faith. It is wrong, though! I have driven their priests out, and I have torn down the painted and gilded idols that they persist in worshiping. Still they resist me, but I will overcome them, for I am their lord and their master!”

  The duc’s carriage had moved away from the docks, and through the window of the coach Skye could see Edmond and Robbie following them on horses. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was appalled to find that the duc was not only a Huguenot, but a bit of a fanatic as well.

  “Is it not better, monseigneur, that a people have a faith than not have a faith? As long as your people are God-fearing and hard-working souls, does it make any difference how they worship God?” she said.

  “Yes!” He looked earnestly at her. “You are very beautiful, madame, but you are only a woman. How can you possibly understand?”