All the Sweet Tomorrows (70 page)

Although there were many disreputable inns along the highway, the comte seemed to know the best places to stop; and despite the fact the roads were thick with other travelers on their way to Paris and the wedding, there always seemed to be places
to sleep and a private dining room for them. Skye shared a chamber with Gaby, and her two older daughters, Isabeau and Clarice, while her youngest daughter, Musette, shared with Isabeau’s sixteen-year-old, Matilde, and Alexandre’s eight-year-old, known as petite Gaby, and Clarice’s two daughters, Marie-Gabrielle and Catherine. The three youngest girls were in a positive frenzy of excitement, for it was their first trip to Paris. Their elder cousin, Matilde, a betrothed young lady, had been there twice, and was quite superior about it. Skye cheered the younger ones by telling them it was her first trip, too.

Suddenly they were there! Paris! Skye swiveled from one side of the coach to the other, looking, looking, looking. If anything, she was a bit disappointed, for it reminded her of London with its narrow, crowded streets. They would have to be ferried across the Seine, for the house they had rented from a wealthy Huguenot was next to that of the Duc de Guise in the Marais district on the Rive Droite. The Huguenot, unlike most of his persuasion, had been forced to remain in the country to mourn a recently deceased wife.

The de Savilles were not wealthy in the sense that Skye and Adam were wealthy. They had Archambault and its lands; successful vineyards; and a happy, productive peasantry. They had a small house in Paris, but as Adam gently pointed out to his stepfather, the small house in the Rue Soeur Celestine would simply not shelter them all, and no one had wanted to be excluded from the wedding of Henri of Navarre and Marguerite of Valois. The lord of Lundy suggested that the Paris house be rented to someone else coming up to Paris for the festivities, and it had been quickly and easily done. Then the larger house was rented for the Comte and Comtesse de Cher and their family. Adam discreetly insisted upon paying the lion’s share of the rental.

“Our own mansion on the Rive Gauche was in a far better location,” Gaby declared emphatically. “I don’t care if the de Guises have made the Marais fashionable, this place was once a swamp, and the air is still bad if you ask me! I’m only sorry we couldn’t all squeeze into our Paris house, but it only has six bedrooms, and we need a minimum of nine. Drat! I dislike renting other people’s homes. They are never clean enough to suit me! You wait! The place will be thick with dust, mark my words!”

“Now, now,
ma chérie,”
Antoine soothed. “Huguenot housewives are known for their cleanliness.”

“But the lady is dead, and how long since she was last up to Paris? No, the servants will have to turn everything out!”

A little to the comtesse’s chagrin and, Skye thought, amused, even her disappointment, the rented mansion was fresh and welcoming to its guests. The owner, though bowed by grief, was nevertheless not so overcome that he forgot his wife’s ways. He had sent orders to his caretaker to hire the necessary help to clean the house for its tenants. The windows sparkled, the draperies and the upholstery were cleaned and brushed. There were bowls of fresh flowers in every room.

“You see,
ma chérie,”
the comte said to his wife, his brown eyes twinkling. “It is all quite in order. We have but to enjoy ourselves.”

They had barely time to rest from their long journey. The royal ball was to be held the following evening, and the de Saville servants spent almost all the night and the following day pressing out ball gowns for all the ladies. Skye had chosen to wear a magnificent creation of peacock-blue silk, its shockingly low-cut bodice embroidered in tiny blue crystals and silver beads to match its embroidered cloth-of-silver underskirt. Skye lived in nervous apprehension that if she took a deep breath her entire bosom would be freed of its restraints. Adam chuckled with delight at the prospect as he fastened the diamond necklace about her throat.

“I do not remember this necklace,” he remarked casually as he fussed with the clasp, “but then you have a great deal of jewelry.”

“Nicolas presented me with it as a going-away gift when we left Beaumont,” she said, deciding to hide nothing from him. “It was really quite thoughtful, and typical of his nature, for he knew that I had no jewelry, Daisy having returned to England with my own things.” Skye stood very still wondering at Adam’s reaction as he stood behind her, his hands yet on the clasp.

The hands moved slowly from her neck and smoothed over her shoulders. “Is it ducal jewelry?”

“No. He had it made especially for me when he believed that I might come back. It was before he was even contracted to his little duchesse. I would not have accepted it otherwise, Adam.”

“I wonder that you accepted it at all.” She heard the jealousy in his deep voice, though he strove hard to hide it. Funny, Adam thought, I have never been a jealous man before. Then he smiled
to himself. I have never been betrothed to Skye O’Malley before, either.

“I cannot return the jewels without hurting Nicolas, but if it displeases you I will put them away for my daughters, and never wear them again,” Skye said, and then she turned to face him. “I love you, my lord of Lundy!” Smiling, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him sweetly. “The damned jewels mean nothing, and well you know it, Adam de Marisco!”

He grinned ruefully down at her. “You can hardly go to the most elegant court in Christendom without jewels,” he admitted, and that was the end of it.

The carriages were at the door, and as they exited the house into the courtyard Skye could see that next door’s inhabitants were also preparing to leave for the Louvre.

“The Duc de Guise!” hissed Adam’s eldest sister, Isabeau de Rochouart, to Skye. “He is the Princess Marguerite’s lover.”

“Guard your tongue!” Gaby snapped at her daughter. “Like your late father, you do not know when to be quiet!”

“Well, everyone knows it,” Clarice St. Justine declared, coming to her big sister’s defense.

“What people know and what is said are two different things,” Gaby replied, “and you two are more than old enough to comprehend that!”

The two sisters flushed under their mother’s rebuke, and made a great pretense at smoothing down their ball gowns as they prepared to enter their coach. They would be sharing it with their husbands, Isabeau’s daughter, Matilde, and Clarice’s eldest daughter, Marie-Gabrielle. In the first coach Skye found herself wedged between Adam and his eldest half-brother, the widowed Alexandre, while across from them Comte Antoine sat between his wife and granddaughter, Catherine-Henriette St. Justine who was but eleven. It was her very first ball, and the child was almost sick with the excitement. In the third coach the rest of the party, Yves and Marie-Jeanne de Saville, Musette and Robert Sancerre, and their two nephews, Henri St. Justine, and his brother, Jean-Antoine, were crowded. The three younger children, who would be left behind, stood with their nurses watching sadly as the coaches pulled away.

Once out of the courtyard the coaches moved briskly through the streets of the Marais district, quickly gaining the Rue St. Honoré, which would take them directly to the Louvre Palace. Now, however, they were forced to join a long line of carriages
that were also bound in the same direction, and their pace slowed considerably. Adam took Skye’s hand in his and squeezed it lovingly.

“I am indeed blinded by the presence of so much beauty, maman,” Alexandre remarked. “Both you and my
belle-soeur
are radiant tonight.”

“Beware, little brother,” Adam warned teasingly. “I have only this evening discovered how jealous a man I am.”

“If I were betrothed to so glorious a creature as Skye I should also be jealous, Adam, but fear not. I don’t believe I could steal her away from you. Now that my period of mourning for Hélène is over I shall have to find myself a nubile young heiress to wife. Little Adam, your godson, is a healthy fellow, but one son is not enough for Archambault.”

Gaby, beautiful in midnight-blue silk, suddenly pointed. “Look! The Louvre! I have not seen it in over ten years. We were last at court during the brief reign of little François II and his lovely Queen, Marie of Scotland. I think Queen Catherine was almost glad to see her son die so she might be rid of the beautiful Marie. How they disliked each other, those two. I understand that it has not gone well for Marie since she returned to Scotland.”

“The Scots are not an easy people, Gaby,” Skye said. “Their rulers have ever had difficulty with them.”

The de Saville coaches were now pulling into the grand courtyard of the Louvre Palace, which was magically lit up. Footmen in elegant livery were stationed everywhere and others ran back and forth with torches lighting the way for the guests who were disembarking from their vehicles. As they exited the coaches Comte Antoine said, “Let us all remain together,
mes enfants
. We will first present ourselves to the King, and then the evening is ours. Follow me, for I remember the way.”

A court is a court, thought Skye as she hurried along clutching Adam’s arm. She studied the faces of the other guests as they moved into the palace, distinguishing the ones who had just come into Paris for the wedding from the truly important who belonged with the court, from the hangers-on, and those hopeful of gaining entry into the fabled circle. One thing she did note was the magnificence of the clothing worn by almost everyone. She knew that only the most wealthy nobility did not have to make sacrifices to be decently clothed and coiffed tonight. On that score she had nothing to fear, for her gown was as elegant as any, and her jewels magnificent. Skye couldn’t help the tiny
smile that played at the corners of her mouth. Bless Nicolas for his marvelous French foresight!

At the wide double doors to the formal reception room their names were given to the majordomo who was presiding. Then, as their names were called, they advanced into the room toward the throne where France’s royalty awaited their guests. Led by Comte Antoine and Gaby, Skye and Adam reached the King and his party.

Antoine de Saville bowed low. “Your Majesty, I am honored to have been included along with my family in this festive occasion.”

“Merci, M’sieur le Comte,” Charles IX replied in a bored voice. He had absolutely no idea who this provincial fellow was.

“You will remember the Comte de Cher, my son,” crackled the dry voice of his mother, Catherine de Medici. “I have certainly never forgotten him, for he supported my marriage to your father from the moment it was proposed. Welcome back to Paris, Antoine de Saville. We are happy to see both you and your lovely Gabrielle.”

Skye was fascinated. They could say what they would in England about Catherine de Medici, but by God she was politic.
Madame le Serpent
, she was called behind her back, and Skye could well imagine it was justified. She had no beauty, in fact she was rather plain—a small dumpy woman with olive skin and dark hair now streaked with iron gray, which showed beneath her cap. Her eyes, however, were incredible. Sharp and as black as raisins, they were the most alive thing about her. They were intelligent eyes; thoughtful eyes; secretive eyes. They saw all, and passed it on to her facile brain, which sorted and used every piece of information obtained. Here was a power to be reckoned with, Skye thought.

Antoine de Saville had introduced his large family to the King, young Queen Isabeau, and Queen Mother Catherine. Now Skye heard him say, “And this is my stepson, madame, Adam de Marisco, the Seigneur de Lundy; and his betrothed wife, Madame Burke.” Adam bowed beautifully while Skye curtseyed low.

“You are English?” Catherine de Medici queried Adam.

“Yes, Majesty. I was born there. My father was an Englishman although my mother is French. My lands and title are, however, English.”

“And your betrothed is English?”

“I am Irish, your Majesty,” Skye replied.

“Irish. Ah, the Irish! Forever giving poor Elizabeth Tudor problems.”

“No more problems than she gives us, Majesty.”

Catherine de Medici stared hard at Skye, and then she cackled with laughter. “It is all in how one looks at it, eh madame?” Then her laughter died. “You are Catholic, madame?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“And you, M’sieur de Marisco? Are you a member of England’s church, or the true Church?”

“I was raised in the holy Catholic faith. Majesty,” Adam replied.

The Queen Mother nodded satisfied with his answer. “This is my daughter, the Princesse Marguerite,” she said, “and her betrothed, our young King of Navarre.”

Again Skye and Adam made obeisance to the royal couple. The princess had her mother’s coloring, but fortunately, she looked like her Valois relations and was quite lovely. Henri of Navarre was a very tall, powerfully built young man with dark hair and merry amber eyes. Boldly he assessed Skye, his eyes dropping to her extreme décolletage. His eyes widened appreciatively, caressed lingeringly, and then shot up to meet hers in a daring challenge. Adam, being occupied with the princess, fortunately did not notice; but Skye grew warm with embarrassment.

“M’sieur!” she scolded the King of Navarre, gently determined that he should not even contemplate her encouragement.

“Madame cannot blame me,” he replied. “I am a connoisseur of beauty, and you, madame, are the most beautiful creature it has ever been my incredible good fortune to meet. But tell me when and where we may meet! I must make love to you!”

“M’sieur! You are to be married tomorrow. What of your bride?”

Henri de Navarre smiled charmingly. “Margot? She won’t mind.”

“I am an affianced woman.”

“Then we have something in common.”

Skye was exasperated. She must discourage this impetuous man. Taking a deep breath, she said, “You are naught but a rude boy of nineteen, m’sieur. I am a woman past thirty.”

“Ahh,” he smiled warmly at her. “You are experienced then, and I adore women of experience.”

While Skye tried to extricate herself from this very difficult situation, Catherine de Medici watched from beneath hooded
lids. Deciding that her daughter’s conversation with de Marisco was boring, she listened in on Skye and Henri de Navarre. So the Huguenot with the prodigious appetite for women was interested in the Irishwoman. Here was a situation that could perhaps be used to her advantage. Henri was going to need to be diverted soon, and the beautiful Irishwoman looked as though she could certainly divert him if only she were willing.