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 sixteenshe 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 theMermaidoff 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.
TheMermaidwas berthed in Plymouth on the channel side of Devon. Jean would go to London with Skye, but Marie would remain at Wren Court caring for both babies. She had already taken over the nursing of Willow, her large peasant breasts producing more than enough milk for the two children. To Dame Cecily’s relief, Skye considered the mild air of Devon more salubrious for her daughter than the climate of London. Dame Cecily could not have been happier. Skye had become the daughter she had never had, and Willow her grandchild. It pained her to part with one, but to part with both would have broken her heart.
Skye was feeling the pain of separation as well. “Oh, I wish you would come with me, Dame Cecily! I have so much to do, and your help would be invaluable. Heaven only knows what condition the house is in, and I shall probably have to refurnish it. Promise methat when it is done, you’ll come up to London with Marie and the children.”
“Of course I will, my child. Lord bless me. I’ve not been to Londontown since I was a girl and that’s thirty years past! I believe I’ve a hankering to go again, and I’ll come when you’ve got your house in order.”
They rode out from Wren Court on a bright, early autumn morning. Skye had lingered with Willow, loath to leave the baby. Finally Robbie had shouted at her in exasperation, “Dammit, lass! The sooner you get to London, the sooner she can be with you again!” Skye kissed her daughter and, mounting her horse, rode off. The countryside through which they traveled was hilly. They rode by grain fields ready for harvesting, meadows of sheep and Devon cattle, and thriving orchards. Ahead of them the flat granite tableland of Dartmoor thrust up from the rolling hills, and it was there in an inn calledThe Rose and Anchorthat they spent the night.
When they had arrived the inn was empty, so Robbie decided they could eat in the taproom. But as the meal was served, a party of riders arrived and trooped noisily into the inn.
“Damn,” muttered Robbie irritably, “I wish I’d asked for a private room. They’re noblemen, and if they get rowdy we’re in for it.”
Suddenly a voice boomed across the room and a man detached himself from the crowd. “Robert Small! Is that you, you old sea trout?”
Robbie’s eyes lit up, and he quickly stood. “My lord de Grenville! It is good to see you. Join us in a cup of wine.”
De Grenville had reached the table. “Your manners, Robbie,” he chided. “You’ve not introduced the lady to me yet.”
The sea captain flushed. “Your pardon, Skye. May I present Lord Richard de Grenville. My lord, this is Señora Goya del Fuentes, the widow of my late Algerian business associate. I am escorting her, and her secretary, Jean Morlaix, to her house in London.”
Skye slowly extended her hand and de Grenville kissed it. “My lord.”
“Madam. A pleasure, I assure you. I find it most reprehensible of Robbie to have such extraordinary luck.”
“Luck, my lord?”
“To be escorting quite the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen to London.”
