All the Sweet Tomorrows (82 page)

“It is perfect!” Skye said excitedly. “Velvet Gabrielle Marie. Velvet de Marisco!”

Velvet de Marisco chose that moment to get a bout of the hiccoughs, much to her parents’ amusement; and then the baby, not the least bit impressed by the importance of the occasion that had elevated her from nameless infant to Velvet de Marisco, fell asleep. Over her daughter’s head Skye looked lovingly at her husband, and Adam de Marisco smiled back. For the moment there was no longer any need for words.

W
HEN
she was three days old, Velvet de Marisco was baptized in the family chapel of Archambault by the château’s priest. To everyone’s surprise, Queen Catherine and her daughter, Marguerite, arrived from Chenonceaux, where they had celebrated May Day. The princesse insisted upon standing as godmother to the baby.

“She is not Navarre’s child,” Skye said boldly. “I would have no misunderstandings between us, Highness.”

“She is too pretty to be Navarre’s child, madame,” the princesse laughed. “No, I choose to be this little girl’s godmother because if I were a good wife I should now be giving birth myself. I am not a particularly good wife, but then Henri is not a good husband. Humor me, madame. I shall be good to the child.”

Skye bowed her head politely. “You do my daughter great honor, Highness.”

“Who is the other godmother-to-be?” Catherine de Medici asked.

“Elizabeth Tudor,” Skye said softly.

“Ha ha!” the Queen laughed. “You play your cards well, Madame de Marisco. Well, it cannot hurt the little one to have both an English queen and a French princess on her side. Who knows where she may end up someday. Who is the godfather?”

“M’sieur le Comte,” Skye replied, “and her half-brother, the Earl of Lynmouth.”

“A good choice,” the Queen approved. “Again you chose to straddle both sides of the channel.”

The wars of religion were giving everyone a nervous summer. A nearby wealthy Huguenot merchant decided to relocate to the Protestant stronghold of La Rochelle, and was very grateful to find in Adam de Marisco a buyer for his small château, Belle Fleurs. Belle Fleurs was only four miles from Archambault, a fairy-tale gem of a house located upon a small lake and set in the middle of an enormous garden on the edge of a forest.

Skye was charmed by her new home, which had been built in the early fifteenth century by an ancestor of the previous owner’s wife. Belle Fleurs had an air of enchantment about it with its witch’s cap roofs and its moat, which spread into a small lake on one side. The château appeared to hover on the smooth surface of the water, and seemed even more mysterious by virtue of the surrounding forest of Archambault. Built of flattened, rough-hewn blocks of reddish-gray schist, it had four polygonal towers crowned by dark slate roofs shaped like witch’s hats which defended each corner of the building. Access to the
cour d’honneur
could only be gained through a tall, heavily fortified châtelet flanked by rounded and corbeled towers that rose high on either side of the entrance arch. Surrounded by water on three sides, the château was on its fourth side planted in an exquisite and colorful garden filled to overflowing with sweetly scented blooms. The creatures of the forest were kept from the garden by a low stone wall. It was this magnificent garden that had given the château its name.

It was not a large home, but it had a fine hall where the family might gather, and where they could entertain on a small scale; and there were enough bedchambers for all of the children, and room for a decent staff of servants. There were good-sized stables for the horses, a respectable kennel for the dogs, and a suitable place for the falcons. The former owner had sold the château furnished, and it was filled with pleasingly good furniture and hangings. Adam had a bed made to his own specifications for himself and Skye; she purchased both table and bed linens from a nearby convent; and they were ready to move into their new home. Mignon and Guillaume came with them from Archambault, along with a full staff of servants provided them by the comte.

They spent the rest of the summer settling in, surprisingly isolated from France’s unpleasant religious wars. They were the contented parents of nine children, six of Skye’s, her two stepdaughters, and their own baby daughter, Velvet. Skye could not remember a more content and domesticated period in her life. Ewan and Murrough were home from the university in Paris for several months, and along with their younger brother, Robin, and their stepfather, they spent long days on horseback hunting or sprawled lazily by the lakeside, fishing. Then, too, the older boys had suddenly become very aware of Gwyneth and Joan Southwood, to whom they had been betrothed since childhood.

Skye’s stepdaughters, the children of Geoffrey Southwood’s previous marriage, were pretty girls with long, dark-honey-blond hair and soft, gray eyes. They were now fourteen, and had been in Skye’s care since they were five. The twins adored their stepmother, and Skye loved them back with all of her generous nature. She had placed them with Anne O’Malley when she had left for Beaumont, and under that sweet lady’s tutelage the Southwood girls had learned all that needed to be known by a good wife and mother. As little girls they had been rather plain, and their new prettiness delighted Skye and greatly pleased her sons.

In this happy summer Gwyn and Joan and their stepsister, Willow, were content to be with Skye, who took them riding and boating, and on wonderful picnics in the nearby forest. It was not long before Adam and the boys began to join them on their
al fresco
outings, and soon Deirdre and her little brother, Padraic, were clamoring to come also. It was a good time. In the evenings the family would gather in the Great Hall for the meal, and afterward Adam and Ewan would play chess while Murrough and Robin, both once pages at Elizabeth Tudor’s court, would play upon their lutes while the ladies sang.

Skye watched her children with pride, and glowed herself in their reflected happiness. It had never been quite like this for any of them. In France they were far from the Anglo-Irish situation; they were far from the intrigues of Elizabeth Tudor’s court. For the first time, Skye thought, we do not have to be wary. We do not have to be afraid.

In the autumn Willow, Gwyneth, and Joan went up to Paris accompanied by Ewan. Murrough had decided he had enough of education, and went off to sea with old Sean MacGuire. The girls were to take their places for a few months in the household of the young French Queen, Isabeau of Austria. Young Robin
Southwood grew restless with his elder brothers gone and Adam concentrating on the running of the small estate.

“You want to return to England,” Skye said understandingly.

Robin, now ten, looked sadly at his mother. “I am an Englishman, Mother,” he said. “I am the Earl of Lynmouth. I know that I am but half grown, but I belong at the court where my father spent his youth, and I belong on my estates. My lord de Grenville cannot truly act for me.”

“If you go,” she said, “we may never see one another again. Neither Adam nor I dare set foot in England for fear of the Queen’s wrath. She will not recognize our marriage, and she has branded wee Velvet illegitimate.”

“She is not a happy woman,” Robin replied wisely. “She longs for, yet she fears that which other women have. She is not so much angry at you, Mother, as she is at herself.”

Skye was amazed at her young son’s apt appraisal of Elizabeth Tudor, but then Robin had been the Queen’s personal and favorite page, and he was not a stupid boy. “I will write to both Robbie and Dickon de Grenville to see if your return would be a welcome one,” she said with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” he said in an effort to comfort her. “Bess Tudor cannot keep me from you if I desire to be with you. I am Southwood, the premier Earl of England!”

Skye looked hard at her son. He had grown taller over this summer, and she suddenly realized that the arrogant tilt of his head, the fierce pride in his voice, the very way that he stood made him his father’s son. “Yes, Robin,” she said softly, “you are indeed Southwood.”

Skye kept her promise to Robin, and wrote that very day to both Robbie and de Grenville. For several weeks the correspondence flew back and forth between France and England. Skye insisted that she receive the Queen’s word that Robin would be allowed to come to his mother and stepfather whenever either of them should desire it. The Queen wrote back that Robin might certainly come to visit his mother, Lady Burke, and Lord de Marisco, her lover, whenever he chose. Elizabeth Tudor wrote in her elegant hand, that she knew the pain of parental separation from her own personal experience, and she would certainly not visit it upon the child of her late, dear friend the Earl of Lynmouth. However, the Queen primly noted that she did not think the living arrangements chosen by Lady Burke, as well as the
presence of her bastard daughter, were conducive to correct moral behavior; and young people were so easily influenced.

“Ohhhh, the jealous bitch!” Skye spit furiously. “If she could retain her maidenhead and still entertain a randy cock nightly, she would! The hypocrite! I’ll not let Robin go!”

Adam roared with laughter, but then he grew serious. “You must not make him stay, Skye. I would go home too if I could, and if Robin desires it then he should go. He is lord of a vast estate, and his people need to see him. He has his place at court, Skye, even if we don’t. It is his right.”

Young Lord Southwood rode out from Belle Fleurs on an early November day. He had bid his tearful mother a loving good-bye and, accompanied by his stepfather, made his way to Nantes, where he would embark for Plymouth on one of Skye’s ships.

“I’ll soften the Queen up so she’ll recognize your marriage, Mother,” he promised gallantly. “It is not right that she not do so, and I will not have my sister Velvet’s honor compromised.”

Skye hugged him, muttering motherly things about getting enough sleep and eating properly and not allowing himself to be seduced by anyone either male or female, for the pages were always prey to such debauchery, especially when they were as handsome as Robin.

His lordship flushed at his mother’s words, and Adam swallowed a guffaw at Skye’s concern, saying, “Enough now, sweetheart, else we miss the tide, and old MacGuire won’t be happy with you then. Besides, you know how treacherous the Bay of Biscay can be at this time of year.”

Skye understood her husband’s silent message, and pulling herself together, she kissed Robin soundly on both cheeks, saying, “God go with you, my son. Remember I love you.”

She watched them disappear down the forest road, and then Skye walked quietly through the château and upstairs to the bedchamber she shared with Adam, where she had a good cry. After a while she began to giggle as she remembered Adam’s remark about the tide, realizing that, as always, her tears would have rendered him helpless. The tide mattered not, for it was two days’ ride to Nantes from Belle Fleurs! Her sense of humor restored, and facing the fact that she really could not keep Robin from his heritage, Skye put it all behind her and set to work to keep busy while Adam was away.

There were now only three children left at the château, her Burke son and daughter and little Velvet. Since they were all cared for by their nurses Skye could spend her time at other
things. The previous winter had been a cold one, and neither had the spring and summer been successful growing seasons. The fourth French religious war raged on, but was thankfully confined to La Rochelle and Sancerre. Yet the coming winter would bring famine and shortages to all of France. Skye had already seen to the import of grain from the Barbary coast, which was brought into Nantes on her ships. This grain she shared with Archambault, and the miller there had seen to the grinding of the wheat into flour, which was then stored in a guarded stone granary hidden within the forest. Throughout the winter, the flour would be parceled out to the peasants so that they might survive.

In a burst of generosity, the Comte de Cher and his sons-in-law permitted hunting in the fields and forests of Archambault twice monthly on specific days. Poachers caught at any other time were subject to severe punishment. Both Skye and Adam knew the forest of Archambault abounded with rabbits, far more indeed than could ever be eaten. It was understood among the peasants of the neighborhood that the Seigneur de Marisco and his wife were known to look the other way when coming upon snares, and fishing discreetly in the Belle Fleurs’s lake was not discouraged.

“You are too kind to them,” Gaby scolded Skye as she visited with her daughter-in-law while Adam was away.

“They have to eat,” Skye argued. “By letting them snare rabbits without ceasing we make the rabbits wary enough to avoid the gardens, which means the vegetables have time to reach maturity. We will need the cabbages and carrots and the leeks and onions this winter. It is simply a matter of careful planning.”

“You have managed an estate before?” Gaby was surprised.

“Did Adam not tell you of my estates, Gaby? It seemed to me that he told you everything else about me,” Skye laughed.