All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “Put me down, you great oaf!” she scolded him laughingly. “You are destroying my coiffure, and what will your lovely Skye think of me if you do!”

  “She will think what I think. She will think you are the most beautiful, the most marvelous mother in the whole world!” He set her gently on her feet.

  Gabrielle de Saville’s glance softened with the fondness a mother harbors for her firstborn, then quickly she demanded, “Well, where is she, my son? Where is this paragon you have written me about?”

  Skye felt her cheeks coloring as she heard Adam’s mother’s words. As she stepped down from the coach, her small hand in Adam’s big one, she had no idea of how lovely she looked. She was wearing a simple light silk traveling dress of leaf green with a soft scooped neck and comfortable hanging sleeves, which were cool for coach travel. She had only a simple strand of pearls about her neck and matching earbobs in her ears. She looked fresh and very beautiful.

  “Maman, may I present to you Skye, Lady Burke, better known as Skye O’Malley. Skye, my mother, the Comtesse de Cher.”

  “You will call me Gaby, my dear,” Adam’s mother said graciously, “and I shall call you Skye. You are every bit as fair as Adam has written. Welcome to Archambault! I hope you will stay with us for a long visit.”

  Skye blinked back her sudden tears. “Madame … Gaby … your welcome is most kind. I am so grateful for your hospitality.”

  Gaby de Saville put a motherly arm about Skye. “There, my dear, you are safe now. Here at Archambault nothing will hurt you. Adam has written to me a little bit about your bravery and how you sought to rescue your poor husband from Morocco. I am so sorry about his death.”

  Skye bowed her head.

  “Come,” said the comtesse, “we must not stand here. The family is gathered inside waiting to meet you.”

  As they walked up the steps and into the château Skye looked admiringly at Adam’s mother. She had borne her eldest son when she was fifteen. She was now fifty-seven, yet her thick, dark blond hair was still full of warm golden lights, and her eyes, the same smoky blue as her son’s, were bright and knowing. She was nearly as tall as Skye herself, and she was as slender as a girl, with fine, full breasts. Adam, Skye decided, did not look like his mother except for the color of his eyes and his nose, for Gaby de Saville had given her son her aristocratic, elegant French nose. The comtesse’s face was that of a little cat, though, with a pointed chin, and a provocative rosebud of a mouth. As they followed her into a lovely salon with long windows looking out onto a colorful garden of brightly colored flowers Skye thought that she was going to have a friend in this charming Frenchwoman.

  The salon was filled with chattering people who all stopped in mid-sentence and stared as they entered the room. In the moment of heavy silence that followed a scholarly looking man detached himself from the group and hurried forward to place an arm about the comtesse.

  “Skye, my dear, this is my husband, Antoine de Saville, Comte de Cher.”

  “M’sieur le Comte, you are so kind to offer me your hospitality,” Skye said, holding out her hand to be kissed. She liked the look of this balding, somewhat paunchy man whose brown eyes twinkled appreciatively at her.

  “Madame, how could I refuse such beauty,” the comte said, kissing Skye’s hand fervently.

  His greeting seemed a signal for the room to erupt. “Adam!” three of the women shrieked, flinging themselves at him. With a delighted roar Adam de Marisco managed to envelop them all in a crushing embrace.

  “Mes enfants! Mes enfants!” Gaby cried. “You must wait to greet your brother until after I have introduced our guest.”

  “Pardon, maman,” the three said with one voice as they stepped away from Adam.

  “Skye, my dear, these three ill-mannered creatures are my daughters. This is Isabeau, and Clarice, and Musette.”

  The three women curtseyed, as did Skye in return. She knew that Isabeau Rochouart and Clarice St. Justine were Adam’s full sisters, children, like him, of Gaby’s first marriage to John de Marisco. The two sisters looked like their mother, but their hair was dark, as was their brother’s. Musette de Saville Sancerre was Adam’s half-sister, and she, a miniature of her mother, was just twenty-five, the youngest of Gaby’s children.

  Now the others came forward to be introduced. Alexandre de Saville, the oldest child of the comtesse’s second marriage, a widower with three young children. Yves de Saville and his wife, Marie-Jeanne, with their children. Robert Sancerre, Musette’s husband, and their three children. Then there was Isabeau’s husband, Louis, and their daughter, Matilde, who was sixteen. The last to be introduced was Henri St. Justine. He and Clarice were the parents of four children ranging in age from nineteen to eleven, and they had all come to see their Uncle Adam.

  Skye was both delighted and astounded by the size of Adam de Marisco’s family. This was certainly a side of him that she had never known or even suspected existed. For her, he had always been the rather lonely island lord whose mother had remarried and lived in France. He had mentioned his sisters, Isabeau and Clarice, in passing, but she had never realized that his mother had had a second family, and that Adam was so obviously beloved by them all, even his two younger half-brothers. She stood now almost shyly as they clustered about him, kissing and hugging him, and chattering all their news.

  Then she felt a hand on her arm, and she was led off to a comfortable settle. “They will all talk at him for the next ten minutes until they realize he is really here, and intends to stay for a time,” said the Comte Antoine de Saville, smiling at her.

  “I did not realize that his family was so large,” Skye said.

  “He does not talk about them?”

  “No,” she answered slowly, “but now I suspect he kept this knowledge to himself lest he grow lonely for you while living by himself on Lundy. He would not neglect his small holding.”

  “Perhaps now,” the comte said, “that will change, madame.”

  “Of course it will, darling,” Gaby said, seating herself next to them. “Adam tells me that he plans to wed with our lovely Skye.”

  “No!” The word burst harshly forth from between her lips as Skye reddened with embarrassment.

  “Oh dear,” Gaby murmured, looking equally chagrined.

  “You don’t understand, Gaby,” Skye said in an effort to explain. “I love Adam, but I will not marry again. Each of my husbands has suffered death. I am a jinx! Besides, I want to be my own woman now, not someone’s possession. Has Adam told you that I spent close to a year in the harem of a wealthy Moroccan in my effort to rescue my husband? For the Arabs a woman is a possession like a sword, or a hawk, or a garment; and I was treated exactly like that. I have had all I can take of that sort of treatment at a man’s hands, and I have been most frank with Adam about it. Still he persists!”

  “You say you love him, my dear,” Gaby said.

  “I do! It is a strange love, for it has grown during the time I have been happily married to others, yet love Adam I do. I want his happiness, Gaby, but I am not that happiness. He must understand that!”

  “Of course, my dear, of course,” Adam’s mother soothed. “Men can be so obstinate when it comes to women. They simply do not understand us.” She smiled at Skye, thinking what a lovely daughter-in-law she would be. The Irishwoman was everything Adam had written of her. She was beautiful, intelligent, and warm. That she did not know her own mind right now was most apparent to Gaby de Saville. When the shock of her experiences in Morocco and the death of her husband had worn off, then she would see clearly that Adam de Marisco was the only man for her. “We are going up to Paris in a few weeks,” she said brightly to Skye. “King Henri of Navarre is marrying with our own Princesse Marguérite de Valois on the eighteenth of August. You will naturally come with us.”

  “I should love it!” Skye exclaimed. “I have never been to Paris.”

  “Then that is settled,” Gaby replied. She stood up. “Come, my dear, I will show you to your apartments n
ow. You must be exhausted after eight days on the road.”

  “I am,” Skye admitted. “We passed through some lovely cities—Avignon, Lyons, Nevers, Bourges—but we didn’t stop. Adam very much wanted to get to Archambault to see you all.”

  Gaby de Saville led her guest from the salon, where Adam was still surrounded by his family. Catching Skye’s eye as she passed him, he grinned and shrugged helplessly, and she was forced to smile back at him. He blew her a kiss with his fingertips. “He is a good son,” the comtesse was saying as they moved up the main staircase of the château to the bedroom floors. “You have no idea how hurt and ashamed he was when that wretched Athenais Boussac spurned him, and then, not satisfied with merely refusing my son, made his bad luck a public thing. He has, of course, told you of her?”

  “I have heard the story,” Skye replied. “He never mentioned her name to me.”

  “How like my Adam! A gentleman even in regard to that one!”

  “She was a fool, Gaby! The fact that he cannot sire a child has had nothing to do with his abilities as a man.” Skye stopped a moment as they reached the carved door of what was to be her apartment while at Archambault. “You know that we have been lovers, Adam and I.”

  “But of course, my dear!” the comtesse laughed.

  “It does not shock you?”

  “You are both free of any spouses, and of an age, my dear Skye, if you will forgive my mentioning it, that should allow you both to choose your own course in life. You and my son are good for each other, and despite what you say, I suspect that one day I shall welcome you as my belle-fille. No!” Gaby put two fingers on Skye’s lips to stifle her protest. “Do not argue with me, my dear. Leave me some hope!”

  Skye had to laugh. Gaby’s attitude was so very much like Adam’s. “Now,” she said, “I know where Adam gets his stubbornness.”

  Gaby chuckled back as she opened the door to the chamber and ushered Skye into the small salon. “His father was equally pigheaded,” she said. “Oh, the fights John and I used to have! They fairly made the old walls of Lundy Castle ring. He’s been dead over thirty years now, my dear, and I still miss him! Without my dearest and kindly Antoine I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “Then Lundy was still whole when Adam was young?” Skye looked about the little salon. It was a most charming room with its linenfold paneling and a wall of diamond-paned windows that overlooked the river and the fields. There was a small fireplace flanked by stone greyhounds with a fire already laid and ready to light.

  “Yes,” the comtesse replied. “John de Marisco unfortunately got into an argument with Henry Tudor over the favors of a rather amply charmed lady of the court. She was more than willing to take on both King and courtier. The King, however, was not of a mind to share even a temporary mistress. In a temper King Harry sent one of his ships out of Bideford, and they blew the castle almost to bits. Both my husband and the lady in question happened to be in residence at the time. They were killed.”

  “How terrible for you!” Skye sympathized.

  “The loss of the castle, or the loss of my husband?” was the reply.

  “Both,” Skye said.

  Gaby de Saville laughed. “Yes,” she answered, “it was terrible. John occasionally strayed, and I knew it, but then I am a Frenchwoman, and we are taught to ignore such things. Still, this particular piece of foolishness cost my children their home, and Adam his full birthright. The King was furious, and could not bear the sight of us, having transferred his anger to all the de Mariscos now that John was dead. When Adam, then but eleven, accused the King of murdering his father, our fate in England was sealed. We were banned from court, and having no other place to go, I brought my children home to France. We were welcomed at King François’s court, as my father had been one of his most trusted advisors in his younger days. The King gave us a small pension, took Adam on as a page for Queen Eleanor, and the next thing I knew he arranged a marriage for me with my dear Antoine.” She smiled. “Sometimes things work out for the best, even when it doesn’t seem they will.”

  “Sometimes,” Skye agreed, “and then again sometimes not.”

  The comtesse, ignoring the last part of Skye’s remark, said pleasantly, “I hope you will be comfortable here, my dear. Your bedchamber is to the right, and Adam’s to the left. I see that you have not traveled with a servant, and so I shall choose a competent woman for you, if I may.”

  “Please, Gaby, do. I did not take my Daisy to Morocco with me, as the dangers involved were far too great. She is now back in England, and I did not like to bring a girl from Beaumont de Jaspre only to have to send her back.” A mischievous smile turned up the corners of her lovely mouth. “Adam has been a most helpful maid to me these last few days.”

  Gaby laughed. “A role in which I do not see my son as successful, but I shall take your word for it, Skye. Is there anything I might get you now?”

  “Oh, if I might only have a bath! It was impossible along the road, and my hair and the very pores of my skin are filled with dust.”

  The comtesse nodded with understanding. “I shall see to it immediately, my dear. Now, I shall leave you to yourself. A servant will attend you presently.” Then with a quick smile Gaby turned and was gone, closing the door behind her.

  Skye looked more closely at the salon. The wide floorboards of the room were clean and polished, and the windows were hung with natural-colored linen drapes with a rose and green design. On one wall was a long dark oak table flanked by chairs on either side, and on either side of the fireplace were tall wooden chairs, their high backs and seat cushions embroidered in rose and cream tapestry. Before the fireplace was a fine oak settle with a dark green tapestried seat cushion. Built-in bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes lined another wall of the salon. Skye smiled to herself. She was not of a mind to read right now, but she would eventually see what reading matter the de Savilles had furnished this guest apartment with.

  There was a door on the bookcase wall, and opening it, Skye peered into a tiny, windowless chamber furnished with a narrow cot and a small trunk. This would be a servant’s room. Walking to the end of the room, she opened the door to what Gaby had said would be Adam’s room. It was a medium-sized chamber with a small fireplace, a bed, and a small candlestand. Next to the fireplace was another door, and Skye walked through it to find herself in her own bedchamber. This room was furnished with a much larger bed, two candlestands, and a comfortable chair by its fireplace. It had two other doors, one leading back into the salon, and one opening into a fair-sized garderobe. Skye looked with pleasure at the bedchamber’s dusky rose velvet drapes and bed hangings. High-breasted stone maidens flanked the small fireplace, and upon the mantel was centered a little bowl of pink roses that perfumed the room. The windows looked out over the gardens with woodlands beyond. There was a warmth about the room that appealed to Skye, and she knew that she was going to be happy here.

  “Bonjour!” The voice came from the salon, and Skye hurried back into the main room of the apartment to confront a tiny, black-eyed woman of middle years dressed neatly in the clothing of an upper servant.

  “Good day,” she said.

  “Bonjour, madame. I am Mignon,” the woman smiled. “Madame la Comtesse has sent me to take care of you.” She turned quickly as she heard the door opening behind her. “Ahh! The footmen with your bath, madame. Into the bedchamber, mes amis! Vite! Vite!” She hurried ahead of them, leaving Skye standing rather amused.

  The footmen who struggled with the bulky oak tub were followed by a brisk procession of their fellows, each lugging two buckets of steaming water until, finally, the tub was filled. Mignon stood in the bedchamber door, and said, “Come, madame. I am ready to begin.” Skye nodded, and walked into her bedchamber. Mignon had flung the windows wide, and the soft warm summer air was easily dispelling the dampness of the room and mingling the fragrance of the cut roses in the bowl with the many flowers blooming in the gardens below.

  Mignon quickly undre
ssed her new mistress, saying as she did so, “I have prepared a basin of warm water, madame, and I will first wash your hair. Mon Dieu! Never have I seen so much dust! Did you roll in it, like a naughty puppy?”

  Skye laughed. “I might as well have,” she said ruefully. “It was eight days of travel, and no rain to hold the dust down on the roads.”

  “We do not need the rains now,” Mignon replied. “The more sun, the sweeter the grapes, the better the wines this harvest.” Gently she pushed Skye over so that her long dark hair was in the porcelain basin. Then with quick, deft movements she began washing Skye’s hair.

  Skye sniffed disbelievingly. “Damask roses!” she exclaimed.

  “Mais oui,” came the calm reply. “Is it not your scent?”

  “Yes, but how did you know?”

  “Madame la Comtesse told me.” Mignon rinsed, and began a second washing.

  How much had Adam told his mother about her? Skye wondered. Obviously he had written quite a bit to Gaby. Skye was touched. He really did love her, she thought, and realized that when he had turned her away saying that she needed a greater, more powerful husband than he could be, he had done so because of that love. Khalid, Geoffrey, Niall—all had loved her deeply; but had they loved her as much as Adam de Marisco obviously did? Comparison was unfair in this instance, Skye knew, yet she was touched by his devotion to her, and sad that she could not accept his proposal. Adam deserved to be happy, but could she bring herself to marry again? Not now. Perhaps, and the thought slipped into her mind unbidden, much to her annoyance, perhaps later. He had said he would wait, but would he? Suddenly Adam de Marisco was of a mind to marry, and he might grow tired of a woman who could not make up her mind. Well, if he did, Skye thought mutinously, then so be it! She had had all she could bear of being owned.

  Mignon was now wringing out Skye’s long black hair, having emptied a final bucket of rinse water over her head. Vigorously she toweled her mistress’s waist-length hair, then politely said, “If you will sit for a few moments, madame, here on the window seat with your hair spread out in the sun, I shall prepare your bath for you.”