All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  Skye rose from her chair and, bending down, kissed her aged uncle, hugging him hard. “Seamus O’Malley, I love you!” she said.

  The old man smiled over her shoulder at Adam, and hugged her back. “Whist, lass! Next ye’ll be weeping all over me!” he scolded her lovingly, but his expression was one of pleased delight at her open show of affection.

  They stayed the entire day, and overnight as well. It was a happy time for them all. In the morning when they were ready to leave Skye hurried to her uncle’s rooms to bid him farewell, Adam following. Seamus O’Malley sat by the fire once more, his head upon his narrow chest, his hands resting quietly in his lap. The fire crackled noisily, but it seemed not to disturb him. Skye smiled down on him, and called softly, “Uncle, I must go now.” There was no answer. “Uncle?” She reached out to gently shake him, and he was cold to her touch. Skye’s hand flew to her mouth. “Adam!”

  Adam de Marisco knelt to inspect the old man. When he rose there were tears in his eyes. “He’s dead, Skye,” the lord of Lundy told his wife, and then gathered her into his arms while she wept stormily.

  The Bishop of Mid-Connaught, Seamus O’Malley, was buried on his favorite niece’s thirty-fourth birthday. He had been waked for five long days, for it had taken that long to gather all of Skye’s brothers and sisters and their families on Innisfana. Looking around at Skye’s sisters, Moire, Peigi, Bride, and Sine, Adam was startled by their plainness in comparison with his wife’s beauty. He had never noticed that plainness in Eibhlin, for the nun was so full of life and her work. The others, however, were prim women who openly disapproved of their youngest sister’s liaison with an Englishman. Only the fact that Adam de Marisco shared their faith made him barely tolerable to them. Hearing their tales of their struggles with the English, he could understand their bitterness. They were old before their time with childbearing and the harshness of the land in which they lived. None had attained either the wealth or the fine matches that their youngest sister had. They had come with their husbands, bluff, red-faced men, none of whom could speak the English tongue. Adam, fortunately, knew enough Gaelic to converse briefly with them; and it was decided among Skye’s brothers-in-law that if her English husband could speak the Gaelic, he mightn’t be too bad a fellow. It was also noted with approval that he could hold his whiskey, and seemed to have firm control of his wife, who was thought to be too forward for a woman.

  Michael O’Malley said the mass for his uncle, and afterward the coffin was carried to the family burial ground by the bishop’s four younger nephews, his great-nephew, Ewan O’Flaherty, and Connor Fitzburke. In the hall afterward, Moire said what they were all thinking.

  “ ’Twas our last link with the past and Da. Now ’tis gone.”

  “We’ll always have the memories,” Sine said hopefully.

  “Pah!” Peigi said sharply. “The age has ended, and that’s all there is to it!”

  “Uncle Seamus was the one thing that kept this family close, and together,” Bride volunteered. “Now, I suppose we’ll all go our own ways.”

  “We’ve been doing that for years,” Moire replied.

  “ ’Tis the way of it,” Eibhlin said quietly. “All families scatter at one point in time. Especially the daughters, and God knows Da had his share of daughters.”

  “We’ve made Da proud,” Moire said, “at least some of us have. I’ve borne eighteen children, thirteen of whom lived. Peigi has twelve living, Bride nine, and Sine eleven. Even you, barren stock though you chose to be, would have made him proud with yer medicines and piety.” Moire looked around at her siblings. “Aye, Da would be proud of some of us.”

  “Da would be proud of me also, Moire,” Skye said quietly. “You’ve been most obvious in leaving me out, but let me tell you that I’ve done just what he would have wanted me to over the years, and I’ve borne eight children as well. I’ve overseen three estates for my children as well as great wealth, and I’ve done well, Moire, by the O’Malleys!”

  “Ye lost the Burke lands with yer carryings on!” Moire snapped.

  “I lost the Burke lands because I was married in France without the Queen’s blessing,” Skye retorted angrily. “The Queen broke her word to me, for we made a bargain and I kept my part of that bargain. Had I returned to England without a husband Elizabeth Tudor would have used me again, and I will never be used again by anyone, Moire! What in Hell could you possibly know about it, living in a backwater manor house in an out-of-the-way village in Ireland?”

  “Brian tells me that ye’ve advised him and our brothers to go into service with the English Queen.”

  “Nay! I’ve advised them to obtain letters of marque from her and to go plundering along the Spanish Main. ’Twill keep them out of trouble here in Ireland, and fill our coffers as well, Moire. Should they keep on the way they’re going, they’ll lose everything, and Da wouldn’t want that.”

  “The Spanish are our friends,” Moire protested. “We share the same faith!”

  “Spare me your religious qualms, Moire,” Skye replied impatiently. “The Spanish use us the same way the French use the Scots. ’Tis to their own advantage. Religion plays no part in it. If the Spanish occasionally give the Irish arms ’tis only so they’ll harry the English, which is to Spain’s interest and certainly not Ireland’s. Do the English punish the Spanish? Nay! Rather they come with a vengeance to us, and ’tis Irish blood that flows in the streets, and Irish women who weep tears of pain and shame, and Irish children who starve for lack of their fathers to feed and defend them. Our friends never suffer; rather we, the Irish, do, and ’tis our own fault! We will not unite beneath one banner, and until we do there will be no peace or real freedom in Ireland!”

  “Ye were always different,” Moire countered, and then she spoke no more on it.

  The next morning Skye’s sisters and their families departed for their own homes, bidding their youngest sister farewell with little warmth. The years had treated them quite differently, and sadly, Skye was as much a stranger to them as a woman taken in from the streets would have been. She understood them all too well, for her life experience had been broad. They understood her not at all, for their experience had been narrow. Still she kissed them and bid them God speed.

  “Good riddance!” Eibhlin muttered as the last of them rode off down the road, and Skye laughed, tucking her hand through her favorite sister’s arm as they walked back into the hall.

  “Why is it that you understand and they don’t?” she asked.

  “Because they are more cloistered in their lives than I, despite my religious calling, have ever been. My medicine has allowed me to see more of the human condition and the world than they have. Besides they have always been jealous of your beauty, Skye, as well as your husbands. Think on it, sister. For thirty-one years Moire has been humped by but one man, and from her sour face I wager he scarce comes near her anymore. And I’ve always suspected that she says the rosary while he is atop her. I’ll wager you don’t say yer rosary while Adam makes love to you!”

  “Eibhlin!” Skye blushed rosily, and Adam, overhearing his sister-in-law’s wry remarks, roared with laughter.

  “Nay, Eibhlin, she says not her rosary, for I keep her far too busy saying other things!”

  “You’re shameless!” Skye cried, “and ’tis worse with you, Eibhlin, for you’re a nun!”

  “True,” her older sister agreed, “but I’m also a woman.” Then she changed the subject. “What think ye of Mistress Gwenyth?”

  “That I’m overyoung to be a grandmother,” Skye laughed. “Isn’t it wonderful, Eibhlin! You’ll be with her when her time comes, won’t you?”

  “Aye, Skye, I will, and believe me, Ballyhennessey is a far better place today in which to have a child than it was when you birthed Ewan and Murrough. I’ll not forget the snow drifting across the floor while I tried to keep you and the baby warm.”

  “Ewan is nothing like his father,” Skye replied. “Neither, thank God, is Murrough! They’re my sons, and
they are good boys.”

  “Tell me of my newest niece?” Eibhlin said.

  Skye looked at Adam, and they smiled. “Velvet’s an impossible baggage, Eibhlin, but we love her dearly!”

  “In other words,” Eibhlin chuckled, “she is her parents’ child.”

  “Aye!” they both replied with one voice, and then laughed.

  “When will you return to England, for I imagine you are anxious to be with your child.”

  “We sail tomorrow, Eibhlin. Brian has promised me he will immediately disassociate himself and the O’Malleys of Innisfana from Grace O’Malley and her pirates. ’Tis easily done right now, for the winter is upon us and they’ll be no more ships to chase until spring. By then I hope to have the letters of marque for the O’Malleys, and they can sail west to play havoc with the Spanish in the New World.”

  Eibhlin nodded with approval. “Ye’ve saved those four dolts, though they know it not. If they’d continued on their merry course, they’d have ended up on the gallows for sure, and then ye’d never be free of the O’Malleys. Give Brian the office as soon as you reasonably can, Skye. ’Tis past time ye had yer own life.”

  Adam silently agreed with Eibhlin O’Malley, and he was not sorry the following day to bid farewell to Brian, Shane, and Shamus O’Malley, and their mother. Anne, of course, was worried for her youngest, Conn, who was to sail with them, but Adam saw that the young man was anxious to free himself of both his mother and his three older brothers. Secretly Adam wondered if his youngest brother-in-law would ever go privateering in the New World. From Conn O’Malley’s questions about Skye’s trading business, Adam suspected he’d not.

  They reached Devon several days later, anchoring in the harbor of Lynmouth Castle, and then rowing ashore. Daisy hurried to her cottage to see her small sons, while Skye sent out messengers to Dame Cecily at Wren Court and to the Queen saying that she had returned and would be keeping Christmas at Greenwich with her Majesty. Then she put her mind to the task of turning her brother into a gentleman worthy of the Tudor court.

  Conn roared like a lion as his shaggy hair was shorn from his head, and his thick bushy beard cropped neatly. He howled like a banshee to find himself in a steaming tub that smelt of lavender while his own sister, her sleeves rolled above her elbow, plied the scrubbing brush herself.

  “Ye’re killing me!” he yelled in Gaelic as she scrubbed his newly barbered hair.

  “Speak English, you clod!” she roared back at him. “You’ll be laughed right out of the damned English court unless you do!”

  “To Hell with the English!”

  “My sentiments, too,” Skye laughed, “but you need the bastards, Conn! Besides, the court is filled with pretty girls just dying to meet a big, handsome man like yourself. If you don’t speak their language, how will you communicate with them?”

  “I’ve not done so bad to date, sister,” he replied.

  “With the serving girls?” she mocked him. “Haven’t you ever learned the difference between a lady and a wench, little brother? You’d best if you’re to be a success at court, and you’d better be a success at court, Conn. Your brothers need those letters of marque.”

  Conn O’Malley put his mind to becoming a gentleman. He was nineteen years old, and stood several inches over six feet in height. Like his sister, he was fair with midnight-black hair. A recalcitrant lock tumbled over his brow, giving him a look both innocent and rakish. Of all the O’Malleys he was the only one whose eyes were neither gray nor bright blue. His, instead, were a grayish green. He was an enormously handsome man with a straight nose, high forehead, and square, chiseled jaw.

  He looked marvelous in decently tailored clothing, having long, elegant legs, narrow hips, slim waist, and a broad chest and shoulders. Seeing him suitably garbed a week after they had arrived, Adam swore softly, saying, “By God, the women will be throwing themselves at his feet. We’ll have to fight every father and husband at court, Skye.” Conn grinned back engagingly with a flash of white, white teeth. “I promise not to be too hard a man on all the little darlin’s, Adam,” he said.

  “God help us,” Adam muttered.

  Conn was quick, and he easily learned all that Skye and Adam could teach him. Dame Cecily worked with him too, drilling him in his speech so that by the time they were ready to depart for Greenwich, Conn spoke English fluently, albeit with a soft trace of a brogue. It only added to his charm.

  They departed for London several days before Christmas, and riding within the coach with Skye and Adam, Conn O’Malley could scarce be pulled away from the windows. His young eyes devoured the passing countryside with its neat farms and orchards and houses. The same eyes widened as they passed through the towns with their bustling shops and open markets and four-story houses. He had never in his young life seen the like of it, and he was fascinated by it all. He asked questions unceasingly, and Skye suddenly realized how different this last child of her father’s was from his siblings. He was, she decided, more like herself and Eibhlin than any of the others. She could just imagine Brian seated in Conn’s place, a dour face on him, grumbling the entire way. Skye was rather happy to get to know Conn better, and she found that she liked him.

  “Look, Conn!” Leaning out the coach window, Skye pointed. “London!”

  Conn O’Malley’s jaw dropped in honest surprise as the city came into his view. The churches were enormous with spires that soared skyward as high as the mountains in his homeland. The houses were all jammed in together along with the shops, and there were more people than he’d ever seen in one place at one time. The noise was ferocious, but it was the stink of the streets that surprised him more than anything else.

  “ ’Tis worse than an unshoveled cow byre,” he said.

  Adam laughed. “In a sense that’s exactly what it is, Conn. The sanitation isn’t the best in London. You’d best be careful when walking the streets lest you get the contents of a slop jar poured over you. Should you hear the cry of ‘’Ware!’ get out of the way, lad!”

  “Where are we going?” Conn asked his sister. Not realizing the size of London, he hadn’t thought of where they might stay, assuming it would be another of the comfortable inns they had stopped at along the way. Now he wasn’t quite so sure.

  “I have a house in a small village just bordering the city, called Chiswick on the Strand. The house is on the river, and within easy barge ride of Greenwich. Your nephew, the Earl of Lynmouth, has a house next door to mine. His is very grand, but mine is quite simple. You’ll be comfortable there, brother.”

  Conn O’Malley’s eyes widened again as the coach trotted smartly through the gates at Greenwood. A small man holding the gates open doffed his cap respectfully, and an equally small lady with a smiling face curtseyed from the gatehouse door. Skye waved gaily at both of them. “ ’Tis Bates and his wife,” she said to her brother. Conn sat still and silently. The coach made its way through the beautifully landscaped park and up the curving drive to the house. Skye’s brother took in the lovely house of mellowed pink brick, partly covered in shiny green ivy.

  Before the house now stood several men in green-and-white livery, who hurried to open the carriage door, take down the steps, and help the occupants forth. As they entered the house a slightly more elegant liveried man hurried forward, saying, “Welcome home, m’lady!”

  “Thank you, Walters,” Skye replied. “This is my youngest brother, Master Conn O’Malley. He’s come to court.”

  “Welcome, sir,” was Walters’s reply. Then he turned back to Skye and Adam. “A message came for you from Greenwich with Lord Burghley’s man. It was verbal, and I was asked to repeat it to you. You are to let Lord Burghley know as soon as you arrive in London. He will inform Her Majesty, and a date will be set for you to be received at Greenwich.”

  “Send someone at once,” Adam instructed. “I’ve not a doubt the Queen is anxious to see us.”

  “Very good, m’lord.”

  Skye moved up the main staircase of her house to the libr
ary, her husband and her brother following. Behind them the baggage was being brought in, and Daisy busily directed the footmen with each piece. Velvet, in the arms of her nurse, Nora, a younger cousin of Daisy’s, was carried up to her nursery to be put to bed. As Nora hurried past Conn, he stopped her long enough to place a soft kiss upon his niece’s head.

  “Good night, kitten,” he said softly. “Have happy dreams.”

  “You spoil her,” Skye noted, but she was pleased that Conn had developed such a deep affection for her little daughter, an affection that was quite mutual, for Velvet adored her handsome uncle. Velvet, her mother thought, liked all the gentlemen, and Lord knew the men were easily enamored of her child.

  “You’re smiling,” Adam said as he poured them each a goblet of red wine.

  “I’m thinking that Velvet already knows her powers with regard to the gentlemen,” Skye replied.

  “Aye,” Conn grinned. “She’s a proper minx, Velvet is. She’s but nineteen months old, but I’ve no doubt ye’d best find her a husband early. With luck ye might turn her into a well-brought-up little lady, but I doubt it!” he chuckled, and then he sat down by the fire opposite his sister.

  “We have more important things to think on now,” Skye said. “I’ve turned you into the perfect courtier, Conn, provided you don’t lose your fine Irish temper and spoil it. There are plenty of Irish at court who are civilized, despite what some of the greater snobs will say. Don’t let those idiots make you ruin your reputation, brother. The worst of them are the least among the English, and they only naggle at us in order to bolster their-own puny egos. If you don’t let them get to you, they will soon grow tired of their silly game and devour each other.”