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Chapters (71)
  1. Copyright Notice
  2. Dedication
  3. Part One
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Part Two
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Twenty-Four
  29. Twenty-Five
  30. Twenty-Six
  31. Twenty-Seven
  32. Twenty-Eight
  33. Twenty-Nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-One
  36. Thirty-Two
  37. Part Three
  38. Thirty-Three
  39. Thirty-Four
  40. Thirty-Five
  41. Thirty-Six
  42. Thirty-Seven
  43. Thirty-Eight
  44. Thirty-Nine
  45. Forty
  46. Forty-One
  47. Forty-Two
  48. Forty-Three
  49. Forty-Four
  50. Part Four
  51. Forty-Five
  52. Forty-Six
  53. Forty-Seven
  54. Forty-Eight
  55. Forty-Nine
  56. Fifty
  57. Fifty-One
  58. Fifty-Two
  59. Fifty-Three
  60. Part Five
  61. Fifty-Four
  62. Fifty-Five
  63. Fifty-Six
  64. Fifty-Seven
  65. Fifty-Eight
  66. Fifty-Nine
  67. Sixty
  68. Sixty-One
  69. Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford
  70. About the Author
  71. Newsletter Sign-up

Now here he was, tucked up in a bed with a downy pillow, a soft mattress that seemed to cradle him, and a lovely white sheet. He smoothed his hand over it once again. It felt like silk, but he knew it was cotton, often washed, and yet it was so white it was the color of new snow.

On top of the sheet was a large red tartan blanket, which Aunt Eileen had folded in half earlier, explaining, “Doing this makes it feel like two blankets, and it’s much warmer.”

He liked his aunt, and she had helped him to unpack his suitcase earlier and put his clothes away. He was a poor boy and didn’t have much, although he had been unusually lucky this past week. Mrs. O’Malley had given him the two jumpers she had knitted for him and Dennis’s old socks in a bag. Her Ladyship had sent castoffs with Siobhan and had included a nightshirt that fit him. Michael had told him it had belonged to Lord Lassiter, who was tall like he was. Cook had given him the suitcase. Brand-new, it was. He felt a flash of sadness again for her as he remembered her son, Conor, killed in an accident in India. It had been his case.

Blackie’s eyes roamed around the room, and he took in the lightly patterned wallpaper and the cream curtains at the window. He noticed the book on the shining desk, “French polished,” his uncle had said.

He smiled to himself. It was Father O’Donovan who had handed the book to him when he went to say good-bye to the old priest, who had christened him when he was born. It was his favorite book about the Tudors, and he had been touched by the gesture.

Those people stayed in his mind for a few moments. That monstrous king, Henry VIII, who thought nothing of killing off anyone who annoyed him, including two wives, many advisors, and even his greatest minister and truest friend, the great Thomas Cromwell, the Lord Privy Seal. He wasn’t too enamored with Mary Tudor either, who had become Queen and had the bad habit of killing—her non-Catholic citizens were the victims. But, ah, there was the great Elizabeth, the Queen of his delight, the best and the bravest. He loved to read about her.

As these thoughts of the Tudors slid through his busy head, he began to grow drowsy. Remembering the small candle in the jam jar on the little table next to his bed, he leaned over and blew it out.

And then he pulled the tartan blanket up to his chin and drifted off, feeling as if he were cocooned in soft feathers. Sleep came easily this night, his first in a new country, a dreamless sleep with no nightmares.

Nine