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 mat 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 Senor 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 sym- pathetic to the beautiful, pregnant widow. Skye was modest and kind, a true lady, even if 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 de- cided 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 bom. 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 night- gown, 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.
The Mermaid was 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 me that when it is done, you’ll come up to London with Marie and the children.”