Skye O'Malley (31 page)

Although it was a seaport town, it was not situated directly on Barnstable Bay. In order to reach Bideford, one had to cross the estuary, avoiding the dangerous bar that stretched across its mouth. The estuary was situated almost midway between Hartland Point and the Rock of Death. Facing the bar estuary, some twenty miles away, was Lundy Island. Its rocky, cloud-capped hills made Lundy Island a favorite haunt of Devon pirates and smugglers and their counterparts from all over the world.

Safely across the bar and into the estuary, which flowed upland, was the village of Appledore. At Appledore, the estuary forked, becoming the Taw River to the left and the Torridge River to the
right. Now the countryside became lush with rich meadowland and fruit orchards. A few miles up from Appledore the river reached fertile, green Bideford. It was here, in the Bideford hills, that Robert Small had his house, Wren Court.

Captain Small had made arrangements to be met at the dock when he and Skye and the French couple disembarked, and the four rode through the town and up the hills on two chestnut and two gray mounts. The little party made a delightful picture riding against the trees, trotting up the bright green hills.

As they approached Wren Court, Skye cried, “Oh, Robbie! Why have you never told me what a beautiful estate you owned?” She reined in her chestnut mare at the crest of a hill, and sat gazing rapturously at the red brick manse. Jean and Marie pulled up beside her, and Robbie was forced to stop with them.

He blushed. “It’s been in the family—the land at least—since the time of Henry V. Wren Court itself was built during the reign of Henry VII. That’s why the house is shaped like an ‘H’.”

Skye turned her brilliant blue eyes on him laughingly. “You’re far too modest, Robbie. I wasn’t expecting anything so lovely.”

“The family is landed gentry, Skye. There’s always one or more of us standing for Parliament. Unfortunately, I never married and got myself an heir, and my sister Cecily was widowed before she could have children. I suppose I’ll leave Wren Court to a family of distant cousins.” He sighed, then shook his reins and the gray gelding bolted for home, the other three mounts racing close behind.

The house was exquisite, a small and perfect jewel of mellowed red brick, covered in places with shining dark ivy and surrounded by green lawn. The crossbar of the “H” was two stories high, the sides were each three stories high. Skye would later find that this two-story section contained a long and light entry foyer on the ground floor. This foyer had two sweeping staircases on either side, both of which led to the second-floor open picture gallery. As the entire second floor was open, the first and second stories together made a huge two-tiered room. The wings of the main floor, to either side of the entry, were the kitchens and dining rooms. The second floor, beyond the gallery, was given over to the library and salons and the entire third floor to bedrooms.

As they rode up the gravel drive, Skye was further enchanted by the streams of sunlight catching the many leaded windows, and the profusion of late roses perfuming the air. Above the circled doorway was the family’s red-and-gold coat of arms. As they
reached the house, four grooms came running to take the horses, and Robert Small carefully lifted Skye down from her saddle.

A small, plump woman with snapping blue eyes, silver hair, and rosy cheeks appeared in the doorway. “So, you’re finally back, Robbie! Is this Mistress Goya del Fuentes?” And without waiting for an answer, she held out her arms to Skye. “You poor dear! Well, you’re safe now, and we’ll take good care of you and the child. Come inside now!”

Dame Cecily swept Skye and Jean and Marie into the house to a small receiving room where a cheerful fire blazed. “Sit down, all of you. Why Robert made a lass in your condition ride from town I’ll never know. A cart would have been slower but safer. No matter, you’re here and well. Robert! See what’s keeping that shiftless Martha! There should be wine and biscuits ready for four tired travelers!”

“Oh, please Dame Cecily, you must call me Skye. Mistress Goya del Fuentes is such a large mouthful.”

“Thank you, child. Now, I am a plainspoken woman, so I am going to say what I have to now and then we will know where we stand with each other.” Dame Cecily nodded to Jean and Marie, who were seated on a couch to the right of the fireplace, listening attentively.

“I know I may speak before your servants, as they are also your friends and Robbie has written to me about them.”

Skye nodded. Dame Cecily took a deep breath. “My brother has told me something of your history. Poor lamb! How terrible to remember nothing of your life until a year ago. I do not approve of your late husband’s business, but I can see you are a lady born. That’s plain. And Robert has always spoken highly of Khalid el Bey. That, my dear, is good enough for me. I welcome you to England with all my heart. Our home is yours as long as you wish it. Forever if you like.”

Skye felt tears prick her eyelids. “Thank you, Dame Cecily! Thank you with all my heart! Not just for myself, but for my servants too.”

“Lord bless me, child, I almost forgot! Robert, I had the old cottage at the end of the garden cleaned and refurbished for you,” she said, nodding to the French couple. “I thought you might prefer your privacy.”

Jean and Marie were deeply touched. The cottage given them sent Marie into joyful delirium. It, too, was of soft red brick, with a newly thatched roof and small leaded windows. There were two rooms in the cottage. The first was a large chamber with a big stone
fireplace, the other a small bedchamber with a fine varnished oak bedstead. The entire cottage was furnished in sturdy carved oak furniture. The stone floors had been scrubbed and swept. There were late hollyhocks and michaelmas daisies growing outside by the door. Dame Cecily, it appeared, had thought of everything. A small booklined room off the library was set aside for Jean to work in. It had an entry into the garden.

Skye was thrilled to see her two servants so well provided for. She could not thank Dame Cecily enough, but the Englishwoman brushed her gratitude aside, her blue eyes twinkling. “No need, child. What are friends for, may I ask?” And she then led Skye back to the main house and upstairs. Skye’s apartments took up the southwest corner of the second floor. The sitting room had a large gray stone fireplace with a carved mantel. The two large windows, diamond-shaped and lead-paned, were hung with deep-blue velvet draperies. A deep bay window looked south over a rose garden, now in late bloom. The wide, polished oak floorboards were laid with thick red-and-blue Turkey carpets.

At the far end of the room on either side of the fireplace were arched and paneled doors, both of which led to the bedchamber. Here were windows facing both south and west, which made the room sunny and bright all year long, particularly in the winter. The fireplace here, which backed up to the one in the sitting room, had a pretty tiled border. The draperies here were of rose velvet and matched the bed hangings and bedspread. Here again was a fine Turkey carpet, this one in blues and golds.

Off the bedchamber was a small dressing room. The furniture everywhere was of fine carved oak. There were bowls of fresh flowers in all three rooms. Skye was sure she would be happy here.

Dame Cecily drew forward an apple-cheeked young girl. “This is Daisy, my dear, I’ve chosen her to look after you.”

The girl smiled a friendly, gap-toothed smile, and bobbed Skye a curtsey. “I’m glad to serve you, mum.”

Skye smiled back. “Thank you, Daisy. I’ve been at sea for several weeks now, and more than anything I long for a bath. Could that be arranged?”

“Yes, mum! Let me get your boots off, and while you rest a bit I’ll see to setting up the bath.”

Dame Cecily smiled approvingly. “I leave you in good hands, Skye. Daisy will show you to the hall in time for dinner.”

Less than an hour later Skye luxuriated in a hot tub set before her bedroom fireplace. A pretty curved screen had been drawn
about the bathing area. The oak tub was deep, and she sank gratefully into the warmth, feeling the weeks at sea ease away. The air was fragrant with the scent of damask rose soap. Daisy moved quietly around the room, unpacking Skye’s trunks, setting out fresh clothes. Skye had been amazed to find in her cabin aboard the
Mermaid
two trunks filled with the latest English fashions. Robbie had laughed, saying, “Algiers is an international port. One can find anything in Algiers.”

Daisy came behind the screen and, chatting cheerfully, picked up the soap and began to wash Skye’s hair. “Ah now, mum, we’ll soon have your crowning glory free of that sticky sea salt. Lord! What a fine color it is!” She scrubbed the dark thick mass, working up a good lather, then rinsed it free and pinned the damp curls on top of Skye’s head.

Skye stepped from the tub and Daisy wrapped her in a warm towel. Once dried, she stood before the pier glass examining her figure. Her breasts were certainly fuller than before, and she was beginning to notice a slight rounding of her belly. Khalid’s child. What would he look like? Would he have his father’s dark hair and golden eyes? Oh, Khalid, I miss you so!

Silently she stepped into her undergarments and let the little maid slip a dark-blue silk gown over her. It was a simple but elegant gown, befitting her station as a wealthy merchant’s widow. The only jewelry she wore were the rings given her by Khalid, a sapphire and her gold wedding band. Her hair was brushed dry, carefully plaited, and then wound about her head in a crown effect. Upon it she wore a soft white lawn cap.

The household was small, consisting only of Skye and Robert and Cecily Small, so the evening meal was a simple one. Jean and Marie preferred to remain in their cottage. Skye couldn’t blame them, for this was the first time in their married lives that they would actually be alone. How she envied them! She shook herself. Khalid el Bey was dead, and she would have to go on with her life.

Robert Small had created an identity for her that would satisfy curiosities. She would admit to being Irish-born, and the absence of a maiden name and past would be explained in this fashion: She had been brought as a child to a small French Christian convent in Algiers by a sea captain who claimed that her parents, passengers on his ship, had died on board. Since they had paid for their passage in advance, in gold, the sea captain did not know their names. The child, who seemed to be about five, and who called herself Skye, was raised by nuns in the Algiers convent. When the young orphan was sixteen
she had been seen by Señor Goya del Fuentes while praying in the church. He had applied to the nuns for her hand, and his suit had been accepted. He had been a wealthy merchant and a respected man. When he had died suddenly, the young widow could not bear to remain in Algiers. Since her late husband owned a house in London, she decided to settle in England. Robert Small, as her late husband’s partner, had taken the lady under his protection.

Of course, Dame Cecily knew Skye’s real story, but she agreed with her brother that the less spectacular history he had invented was a better one.

Skye’s arrival with her two servants and her resettlement at Wren Court was accepted easily by the Smalls’ friends and their few relations. The servants, gossiping from house to house, were sympathetic to the beautiful, pregnant widow. Skye was modest and kind, a true lady, even is she was a papist. The memory of Mary Tudor was still too fresh for the people of England to be very tolerant toward Catholicism.

It was almost Christmas before the first frost arrived and that caused the people of Devon to mutter about a hard winter to come. Skye had confided the secret of her memory loss to the local priest. Elderly, kindly Father Paul retaught her the tenets of her religion. Though it evoked no memories, it was strangely comforting. Skye did this because she knew that never to attend church in a Christian land would promote suspicion. It seemed that everyone needed a label, and even a papist label was more respectable than none.

Shortly after Candlemas in February, Marie gave birth to a fine big boy who was baptized Henri. Skye had embroidered some little gowns for the child. She loved sitting in Marie’s cottage near the fire, watching while Marie nursed her son. Her own babe was strong and kicked vigorously, to her discomfort and her joy. She had decided to call him James, which was the English equivalent of Khalid el Bey’s Spanish name, Diego. As her time drew near she was eager for the baby’s birth.

On the fifth of April, Dame Cecily hadn’t even time to summon a midwife before Skye’s child was born. Marie handled everything, and the birth was a quick and easy one. No sooner had the child slid from between its mother’s legs and given its first cry than Skye slipped into unconsciousness.

Handing the squalling infant to Dame Cecily, Marie whispered, “My poor mistress! Ah, well, it’s God’s will.”

When Skye opened her eyes she found herself in a clean nightgown,
her long hair freshly brushed and braided. “Give me my son,” she whispered to Dame Cecily.

“It’s a wee girlie you’ve birthed, my dear, and never have I seen a prettier child.” She placed the sleeping infant in Skye’s arms.

Skye looked down at her baby. It was a lovely little creature with a mop of damp dark hair, long dark eyelashes, pink-tinted cheeks, and a red bow of a mouth. The skin was as fair as Skye’s own. “A daughter,” she said softly, “I didn’t expect a daughter.”

“What will you name her, my dear?” inquired Dame Cecily gently.

Skye gazed out the windows opposite her bed. In the garden beyond, the spring flowers were all in bloom, and a willow tree drooped its newly sprouted yellow green leaves by a small pond. “I shall call her Willow,” she said. “It is fitting that Khalid el Bey’s daughter be named after the tree of mourning.”

Willow, though she had been born in sorrow, was a child of gladness. Everyone in the house adored the infant, from her mother to the lowliest little maid. All tried to make her smile.

When Willow was five months old, Skye decided it was time to go to London. Robert Small had made only one brief trip away, down the coast of Africa, in the ten months since he had brought Skye to his home. Though it had pleased his sister to have him home, he itched to take the
Mermaid
off on a good long voyage. First, however, he had to go to London and see if Lord de Grenville could obtain letters giving him royal patronage. Skye was prepared to invest in this latest venture, and she, too, desired to go to London.