They arrived in London some four days later and, passing through the bustling city, entered the tiny, quiet village of Chiswick where Skye’s house was located upon the Strand on the Green, which bordered the River Thames. It was the last house in a prestigious row that included the great homes of Salisbury, Worcester, and the Bishop of Durham. Next to Skye’s home, Greenwood, stood Lynmouth House, which now belonged to her little son, Robin.
Greenwood, a three-storied house of mellow pink brick, stood within its own private grounds. As Skye’s coach drove through the open iron gates past the bowing and smiling gatekeeper, and his brightly curtseying wife, she remembered how shabby the house had been on her first visit seven years ago. Now the manicured lawns edged with their private woods stretched out invitingly toward the house. A thought crossed her mind: It’s good to be home. She smiled to herself. Greenwood had always been a happy place for her.
“Welcome home, m’lady,” the majordomo said as they entered the house. “I have a message from Lord Burghley for you. Where shall I have it brought?”
“The library,” she said quickly. “Willow, my love, go along with Daisy and Dame Cecily.” Skye hurried to the library, drawing off her pale-blue, scented kid gloves and flinging them on a table as she entered. She unfastened her hooded cloak, pushing back its ermine-edged, dark-blue velvet hood to shrug the garment off. The attending footman quickly caught the cape and hurried out with it as the majordomo hurried in with her message upon a silver salver. Skye took it up, and said, “I wish to be alone.” As the door closed shut she quickly opened Cecil’s letter.
Greeting, madam, and welcome to London. The Queen will receive you at eight o’clock this evening at Whitehall. You are not to wear mourning, as the Duc de Beaumont’s nephew will be present, but rather dress to suit your rank and your wealth.
A sarcastic smile touched her lips. She would have to mourn Niall in her heart, for she was not to be allowed a decent period of grief by the Crown. Oh no! She was to be paraded this very evening before the duc’s representative, and had been ordered to dress in her finest feathers. Cecil had never even considered the possibility that she might not show up in London, that she might run for Ireland and barricade herself in Burke Castle! With his customary efficiency he had known that she would arrive today, and had sent his message. She laughed, seeing the dark humor in the situation, and left the library to climb the stairs to her apartments, where she instructed Daisy which dress she would wear that evening.
At a few minutes before eight o’clock Skye’s town coach arrived at Whitehall Palace. As her footman helped her down, some half a dozen gallants stopped and stared openmouthed at her. She wore a magnificent gown of deep purple velvet with a very low square neckline. Her breasts, pushed up by a boned undergarment, swelled dangerously over the top of the gown. Its sleeves, full to just below the elbow, were slashed to show their lavender silk inserts, and the turned back cuffs of the sleeves were embroidered, as was the lavender silk underskirt, with gold thread, tiny seed pearls, gold and little glass beads. Beneath her gown Skye’s legs were sheathed in purple silk stockings embroidered in twining gold vines. Her slender feet were encased in narrow, pointed high-heeled purple silk shoes.
Her hair, parted in the middle, was arranged in the French fashion that she preferred, a soft chignon at the nape of her neck. There were silk Parma violets and white silk lilies of the valley sewn to a long comb, placed at the top of the chignon. The silk flowers were a delicious extravagance from France.
About her neck Skye wore an incredibly opulent necklace of diamonds and amethysts set in gold, and in her ears were her famous pear-shaped diamonds that fell from baroque pearls. She wore but one ring this night, a heart-shaped pink sapphire on the third finger of her left hand.
She had faintly highlighted her eyes in blue kohl, and reddened her lips, but her cheeks were pink with a combination of excitement, anger, and nerves. Wrapped in a gentle cloud of her damask rose perfume, she moved forward into the palace.
One of the young gallants foolishly stepped into her path, doffing his feathered cap, and bowing low. “Just a word, oh exquisite one, and I shall die happy!” he lisped.
“Stand aside, you silly puppy!” Skye snapped irritably. The reality of why she was here was beginning to sink into her soul.
The gallant almost fell back at the sharp tone in her voice, and she swept on by him, finding her way with quick familiarity as old memories began to assail her. Turning a corner, she bumped into a courtier and, stepping back to apologize, gasped as the courtier caught at her hands, imprisoning them in his own. “Dudley!” she hissed at the smugly grinning Earl of Leicester.
“Sweet Skye,” he murmured. “I could scarcely believe my good fortune when Bess said you would be returning to us, widowed once more.” The implication was plain, and it was all she could do not to shudder with disgust. Robert Dudley slipped an arm about her waist and pulled her close. His mustache tickled her ear as he kissed it, and then he whispered, “You do run through husbands, sweet Skye. Marry me, and I’ll never let you wear me out!”
Angrily she pulled away from him, looking at him with distaste. Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, was as handsome and elegant as ever, but she still found his manner offensive and overbearing. “Unhand me this instant, Dudley! I am here because the Queen has special plans for me, and if you should attempt to attack me again I shall make the most outrageous scene this court has ever seen! Lord Burghley will protect me this time, you swine!” She tore his arm from about her waist. “You will crush my gown!”
“And what special plans has Bess for you, sweet Skye?” He was completely unperturbed by her anger.
“I am sure that you shall know that shortly, my lord. Now you will excuse me. I am expected in the Queen’s chambers.”
“I will escort you,” he said, taking her arm. She did not deny him that courtesy for she knew that once her betrothal became public knowledge, Dudley would be forced to leave her be. Silently they made their way to Elizabeth Tudor’s privy chamber, where the doors were flung wide at their approach by the Queen’s own guardsmen. As they entered, Skye recognized only two faces among the women in the Queen’s rooms, Lettice Knollys, and Lady Elizabeth Clinton, born a FitzGerald. Lady Clinton was the Countess of Lincoln in whose household Skye’s second son, Murrough, was a page.
Suddenly a small blond boy dressed in pale blue velvet and silver lace stepped forward. “Good evening, mother,” he said.
“Good evening, Robin,” Skye answered, her eyes devouring her son. She wanted to hug him, but knew she could not do so publicly.
“Skye!” Lettice Knollys came forward smiling. “How good to see you again.” Her eyes flicked to Dudley.
So that’s how it is now, Skye thought amused. “Lettice dear, it is good to see you also.” She turned slightly. “Beth, how are you?”
Lady Clinton nodded. “I am well, and your Murrough is a delight, Skye. Never have I had such a gracious, well-mannered page in my household. I hope you will let me keep him for a while longer.”
“He writes me that he is happy,” Skye replied. “I see no reason to remove him from your care, Beth. He is a lucky little boy to be in such a fine house. I hope, however, I may see him while I am here at court. My visit is not to be a long one.”
“Send word whenever you want him,” Elizabeth Clinton replied graciously.
“Dearest Skye!” Every head in the room turned at the sound of Elizabeth Tudor’s voice, and Skye swept the Queen a low and graceful curtsey. “We welcome you back to court, dearest Skye,” the Queen said.
“I am grateful that you have let me come, Majesty,” returned Skye, rising as she spoke, and thinking Bess Tudor had aged little. She was still a handsome and elegant young woman.
“Come into my privy chamber, Skye,” Elizabeth said. “The rest of you are to wait here at my pleasure.”
The two women entered into the Queen’s small private library, and Elizabeth Tudor sat down, motioning Skye into a chai
r opposite her.
“You know why I am here, Majesty,” Skye began.
“Aye, I know. You wish me to confirm little Lord Padraic Burke’s rights so that the English in Dublin Pale will not seize Burke lands now that there is no adult male Burke to defend them.”
Skye nodded.
“You are willing to aid me in return?” the Queen demanded.
“I have ever been Your Majesty’s most loyal servant,” was the reply.
“Even when pirating my treasure ships,” Elizabeth said drily.
“That was never proven,” Skye replied quickly.
“Ha!” the Queen chuckled. “That handsome brute de Marisco saved your pretty neck that time, Skye, but I know it was you! It had a woman’s fine hand about it. It was subtle, yet hurtful. Men are more blunt, dearest Skye.” She fixed Skye a piercing look. “You are willing to go to Beaumont de Jaspre as the duc’s bride?”
“I am not willing, Majesty, but I will go. If you will guarantee my son’s rights, I will go.”
“You understand that we will also expect you to listen, and pass on to us any interesting and pertinent tidbits you learn with regard to France, Spain, the Papal States, and the Holy Roman Empire?”
“I understand, Majesty.”
The Queen nodded. “Then I will confirm your son’s rights, madam. Cecil tells me that you wish your uncle, the old Bishop of Connaught, to be the boy’s governor.”
“Aye, Majesty. He is a good man, and a wise one as well.”
“Very well,” the Queen said. “I can find no reason to object. The Duc de Beaumont will be quite surprised to see the beauty that I am sending him. Too many state brides are a disappointment to the grooms.”
“Too many grooms are an equal disappointment to the brides,” came the pert reply.
The Queen chuckled again. “I remember when poor Anne of Cleves arrived as fourth wife to my father,” she reminisced. “Anne was far plumper than her portrait would have had you believe, and nervousness had caused her fair skin to blotch. It was instant dislike on both parts, and my father was furious with his artist, Hans Holbein, who had painted the Princess of Cleves’ portrait. Of course my father was no prize either, having grown fat and middle-aged, but he didn’t see himself as such. He was plagued with gout in his right foot, and could be very irritable, especially when his foot hurt, which unfortunately it did on her arrival. She graciously gave him a quick divorce.” The Queen smiled again at the memory, and then she said, “It is time for us to begin the dancing, dearest Skye. We will introduce you this evening to the duc’s nephew, Edmond de Beaumont. He has come to escort you back to Beaumont de Jaspre. You will find him an interesting man.”
“I cannot leave London until Sir Robert Small has returned, Majesty. He is due back sometime this month from a most successful voyage. His advance ship is already in Plymouth, and I have had word that the spices he carries will enrich Your Majesty’s coffers greatly.”
Elizabeth Tudor smiled. “You do not have to leave us until Sir Robert has returned, and you have had time to make your arrangements with him. I know the businesswoman that you are.” She took Skye’s arm in her own, and together they strolled from the Queen’s privy chamber. “Come, ladies! Come, Dudley! My feet itch to dance, and it grows late.”
The Queen’s party made their way through the corridors of Whitehall Palace to a large room with walls of linenfold paneling and a fine parquet floor. The musicians were already set up in a corner of the room upon a small raised platform. Elizabeth and her party passed through a line of bowing courtiers as they walked to a gilt throne set up at the end of the room. The Queen sat gracefully upon the red velvet cushion set upon the throne, and motioned Skye to one of the low maid-of-honor chairs by her side. The other women quickly found their seats, one being forced to stand behind the Queen’s chair; and the courtiers began to come forward to pay their respects to the Queen. Some faces were familiar to Skye, others were not, and she paid little attention to the pageant about her. It bored her. Court usually bored her. Only when most of the courtiers had paid homage to the Queen and the majordomo called out, “Edmond, Petit Sieur de Beaumont,” was her interest revived, and she looked up.
Although her Kerry-blue eyes widened slightly, Skye gave no other sign of her surprise and shock, for the man coming toward her was one of the handsomest she had ever seen. He was also a dwarf. He was not misshapen like so many dwarfs, but rather well formed, and he was certainly dressed in the height of fashion. His doublet was made from cloth of gold, sewn all over with tiny golden brilliants and edged in gold lace at the neck and the sleeves. His short, round cloth-of-gold breeches were lined in stiff horsehair in order to puff them out fashionably. His stockings were gold silk, embroidered in gold brilliants and tiny black jet beads, and his flat-soled shoes were of gold leather with black rosettes. His short cape was of black velvet, lined in cloth of gold and trimmed in silver fox. At his waist hung a gold sword, proportioned to his size, and twinkling with rubies and diamonds.
As he reached the foot of Elizabeth Tudor’s throne he bowed smartly. “Majesty,” he said in a deep voice, a rather large voice for one so small.
“Welcome, Edmond de Beaumont,” Elizabeth said. “I hope that you have been enjoying your stay here in England.”
“English hospitality is justly famous, Your Majesty,” was the reply.
“Lady Burke, come forward,” the Queen commanded, and Skye rose from her low seat, and came to stand next to the Queen’s chair. “M’sieur de Beaumont, may I present to you Lady Skye Burke, who has agreed to go to Beaumont de Jaspre as your uncle’s bride.”
Around them there was a hum of surprise.
Skye curtseyed to Edmond de Beaumont, noting with some embarrassment that as she bowed low he was treated to a fine, indeed almost indecent view of her breasts. As she rose he said softly, “My uncle is a very, very fortunate man, Your Majesty.” Skye blushed to the roots of her raven hair, yet as she raised her eyes to Edmond de Beaumont, she saw that though his face was polite and serious, his violet-colored eyes were laughing.
“I can only hope your uncle is as charming as his nephew, M’sieur de Beaumont,” she replied.
“I do not think that charming is a word one would use in connection with Uncle Fabron,” was the reply, and again the eyes were laughing at her.
“Oh, dear!” Skye said without thinking, and she bit her lip in obvious worry.
Edmond de Beaumont burst out laughing. “Are you always so honest, Lady Burke?” he asked.
“Our dear Skye is most candid, is she not, Dudley?” remarked the Queen.
“Indeed, Majesty,” Dudley replied. “Lady Burke always says what she thinks. A most refreshing, and often stimulating trait, M’sieur de Beaumont.”
Skye shot Dudley a look of undisguised venom, which Edmond de Beaumont was quick to note. Now why, he wondered, does the lady so obviously dislike the Earl of Leicester? Did he perhaps rebuff her? No, de Beaumont thought. She did not look like the type of woman who would chase after a popinjay like Lord Dudley.
“You are to go with M’sieur de Beaumont, dearest Skye, for you will have many questions to ask him about your future home, I am sure,” the Queen coyly simpered.
Skye stepped from the Queen’s side and accepted Edmond de Beaumont’s outstretched hand. Together they turned, bowed to the Queen, and, turning again, moved through the crowded room. They made an almost comical sight for the petit sieur was only three feet four inches tall, and Skye stood five feet seven inches in her bare feet. No one, however, dared to laugh, for the Queen was a tyrant where good manners were concerned, and this little man was her honored guest.
“And do you have many questions to ask me, Lady Burke?”
Skye paused a moment, and then said, “I suppose I shall, m’sieur. I am only now getting used to the idea of marriage with your uncle.”
Edmond de Beaumont led her to a quiet alcove with a window seat. She sat, and he helped himself to two goblets of chilled white wine from a s
erving man’s tray. Handing her one, he sat facing her. “Do you not wish to marry my uncle?”
“I do not have a real choice, m’sieur. I must obey the Queen.”
“Is there another gentleman that you prefer to my uncle?”
“No, M’sieur de Beaumont, there is no one else. My husband is dead but two months, and I shall mourn Niall for the rest of my life.”
He drank deeply. He was relieved that there was no one else. It was possible that she would learn to love his uncle, and that they would be happy. God only knew that it would save him a great deal of difficulty. His cousin, Garnier de Beaumont, his uncle’s only living child, was a half-wit; and so his uncle had made Edmond his heir. But if he became the Duc de Beaumont then he must marry, and what girl would have him? Oh, he was well enough favored, but he was tiny. How often he had been mocked by men and women alike because of his height. His size certainly did not affect his intelligence, but no one ever bothered to find that out about Edmond de Beaumont, because he stood only three feet four inches tall.
This extravagantly beautiful woman, however, did not seem either amused or appalled by his size. She spoke to him plainly, and without guile. He looked up at her again, and said quietly, “I respect your grief, Lady Burke.” Then to change the subject he asked, “Do you have children?”
Her smile lit her whole face, and she said, “I have four living sons and two daughters.”
“They will like Beaumont de Jaspre,” he assured her. “The climate is mild and pleasant most of the year, and your children will enjoy bathing in the sea.”
“My children will not be coming with me. m’sieur.”
“But why?” He was surprised, and now he understood the reason for the sadness that lurked deep in her fabulous blue-green eyes.
“My eldest son, Ewan, must remain on his lands, m’sieur. His full brother, Murrough, is a page with the Earl of Lincoln’s household, and must remain with the court if he is to earn lands and possibly a peerage of his own. My third son is the Earl of Lynmouth. He is the Queen’s favorite page, the small boy who now stands on Her Majesty’s right. As for my youngest son, Lord Burke, he is but two and a half months old. He, too, must stay on his lands, and he is much too tender to travel besides. My daughters are to remain here also. Willow is nine, and heiress to my business partner, Sir Robert Small. Deirdre is just sixteen months old, and, like her baby brother, too young to travel.”
All the Sweet Tomorrows Page 7