“Godspeed, my lord. I do not envy you your trip.”
“I sleep quite heavily upon the road,” he replied with a twinkle in his eyes. “I do not hear anything.”
“Thank God for that!” Skye said, and then she turned to her granddaughter, Sybilla. “Are you breeding again, Sibby?”
Sybilla chuckled. “Aye, madame, I fear I am, and ’twill make five. The babe will come in early June. Perhaps it will cheer Mama.”
Skye nodded. “Take care of each other,” she told Sybilla, and her husband, Tom Ashburne, the earl of Kempe.
Deirdre Burke was teary, but she struggled to maintain her composure as she bid her mother farewell.
“Now, Deirdre,” Skye scolded the most fragile of her children, “you’re just going home, and God knows you live near enough to see me whenever you like, but for mercy’s sake give me a few days of peace.”
Deirdre swallowed hard and nodded, as her husband, John, helped her into their coach.
“I don’t like leaving you like this,” Padraic Burke said.
“I need to be alone,” Skye told her youngest son. “There is plenty of family nearby should I need them.” She gave him a hug. “Yer like yer father. You don’t think I can take care of myself, but I can, Padraic. Now let me be to mourn my Adam.”
“Get into the coach, Padraic,” his wife, Valentina, said in a firm tone. She kissed her mother-in-law’s cheek, and gave her a wink.
The last to depart was the earl of Lynmouth and his family. Angel and her children had bid Skye good-bye. Now it came time for Robin Southwood to say adieu to his mother. “Will you consult with me, Mama, before you do anything rash?” he asked her wryly.
“Most likely not, Robin,” she said, smiling at him.
“You’re already plotting,” he accused her.
She smiled mischievously. “How can you tell? It has been years since I did any serious plotting, Robin.”
He laughed. “I remember the look, madame.” Then he grew serious. “I am glad I was here this Twelfth Night instead of giving my fete in London. The damned thing has become outrageously expensive. I count it good fortune that I came to Queen’s Malvern this year.”
“I loved your father’s fetes,” Skye said, the memories rising to fill her heart. “Especially the Twelfth Night one. I can still see the queen’s barge making its way up the river to Lynmouth House. Twelfth Night has always been special to me. I knew I carried you one Twelfth Night, Robin. And do you remember that Twelfth Night just a few years back when Jasmine almost caused a scandal because Sybilla caught her in bed with Lord Leslie. And now Twelfth Night will always be etched in my memory with Adam’s passing.” She shivered, and drew her cloak about her shoulders. “I shall never enjoy the holiday again.”
“Though I know you need your solitude,” Robin said, “I dislike leaving you, madame.” His arm was tight about her.
“I feel fragile at this moment, Robin,” she admitted to him, “but it will pass. It did with your father, and it did with Niall.”
But you had Adam to be your bulwark each time, Robin considered, but kept the thought to himself. “Tell me before you leave England,” he said. “And tell that niece of mine to come home.” He kissed her soft cheek, then hugged her hard.
“Godspeed, Robin,” Skye said to her son, then stood watching as his coach made its way down the drive and around a bend, out of her sight.
“Yer a devious old woman,” Daisy told her mistress as she helped her into the house. “You have no intention of telling him when yer leaving for France, do ye?”
Skye chuckled. “Of course not,” she replied. “If I tell Robin, he will tell the earl of Glenkirk who will seek to follow me to Jasmine and the children. Nay, I’ll not tell him a thing.”
“He’ll tell the earl anyway when he passes through London in a few days,” Daisy said.
“Which is why I’ll already be on my way to France,” Skye answered her tiring woman. “They’ll not use me to force my darling girl back to England. She’ll not come unless she chooses to come.”
“Oh, yer a wicked creature,” Daisy said chortling, but then she grew serious. “How will ye mourn his lordship if ye go, my lady?”
“I do not have to remain at Queen’s Malvern to mourn my Adam,” Skye told her servant. “Adam is always with me no matter where I go.”
“I’ll begin packing this very day, m’lady,” Daisy said, “and I’ll pray for a calm sea when we cross to France.”
“You do not have to come with me, Daisy. I can take a younger lass to serve me. I think Martha would do, do ye not?”
“I do not!” Daisy said indignantly. “Yer not going off without me this time, Mistress Skye. We’re of an age, you and I. If you can travel, then so can I! Martha indeed! Why the chit is a slattern, and not fit to serve a child. Martha, humph,” Daisy snorted. Then she bustled off to begin packing for their trip.
Skye had not yet removed her cloak. Pulling the hood up, she slipped from the house and, walking through the barely ankle-deep snow, made her way across the lawns and up the gentle hillock to her husband’s grave. A small wooden cross marked the spot although later there would be a more impressive monument of stone. She stopped and stared down.
“Well, now, old man,” she said softly, “and didn’t you give us a Twelfth Night to remember. How could you leave me, Adam? Ahhh, I know ’twas not your fault.” She sighed deeply. “They’ve all gone now. I don’t know when I’ve been quite so irritated with Willow. Yes, yes, I know she means well, but you know how I dislike it when she tries to run my life. Three daughters. One who brays constantly like a donkey; the second, a dear mousekin; and the third, in Scotland. God’s boots!”
A gentle wind ruffled the fur edging the cloak’s hood, and a small smile touched the corners of Skye’s mouth. “Now don’t go trying to wheedle around me, Adam de Marisco,” she said. “You know that I’m correct. Not one of my girls is a bit like me. Only Jasmine is like me, old man, and well you know it. I’ll have to leave you for a while because I’m off to France to tell her of how you left us. She’s enjoying her freedom, I can tell, but ’tis past time she came home with the children and settled down. She won’t have an easy time with Lord Leslie until she makes her peace with him. You were right, old man. I should have insisted she come home long since instead of encouraging her in her rebellion. Ahhh, Adam, I can almost hear you laughing with my admission. I didn’t often say you were wiser than I, but you were, my dearest.”
Two days later, before the dawn had even begun to tint the eastern skies, Thistlewood, the de Marisco coachman, climbed up onto the box of his mistress’s great traveling coach where his assistant already waited. “Well, me boy,” he said, his breath coming in icy little puffs, “we’re off for France we are. At least this day appears to be coming on fair, but Jesu, ’tis cold!” He settled himself and, turning, asked the younger man, “Are ye ready then?” And at his companion’s nod, Thistlewood cracked his whip over the horses’ heads. The coach lurched forward, moving slowly down the drive of Queen’s Malvern toward the main road and southeast toward the coast.
