The Maiden's Hand (16 page)

“Gone,” Crispus called. “Took the wherry toward Londontown, he did. The queen summoned him to court, or so says his manservant.”

Lark grabbed the banister at the first landing and fairly swung around it. Oliver caught a glimpse of her face. It was white with terror and with something he had to force himself to acknowledge.

By God’s eyes. She really did love the old man.

Lark dropped to her knees beside the bed. The air
whooshed
from beneath her travel-stained skirts. The branched velvet pooled around her in a gray lake.

“Spencer!” she whispered.

“He ain’t been awake save for a few minutes now and then.” Goody Rowse got up from the armed chair where she had been seated, knitting. “Took some broth, but no more than a sip or two.”

“I see.” With a nod, Lark dismissed the woman. An awful sense of guilt assailed her. He ate best when
she
spooned the broth, but she had been off on an adventure with a man she found fascinating, a man who kissed her at will, a man who was not her husband. “Spencer?”

He lay in repose like a corpse, his head centered perfectly on the pillow, his spotted hands crossed upon his chest.

She could not remember the last time she had touched him. It was not that they were averse to one another; quite the opposite. Spencer was simply not one for touching. He had always relied on the powers of the mind.

But what happened, Lark wondered helplessly, when touch was all that was left?

Spencer was so unlike Oliver.

She formed the comparison before she could stop herself. Oliver didn’t simply
like
touching; he seemed to crave it. To need the contact as most men needed food.

And when she was near him, she needed it, too.

Ashamed of her straying thoughts, she said more loudly, “Spencer!” She needed to banish her mind of Oliver de Lacey. Emboldened, she laid her hands upon Spencer’s. “’Tis Lark,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

His hands were cold. The flesh felt thin and dry, excruciatingly tender. But slowly, almost magically, it grew warm where her hand covered his.

The warmth brought on memories of long ago. For the most part, he had been stern and demanding. But always, his deep, abiding regard for her underlay the rigid exterior. Every so often she would catch a glimpse of affection and warmth.

Suddenly she had a clear picture of him lying beneath an apple tree in springtime. She must have been four or five at the time and had managed to climb the blossoming tree. She remembered laughing with delight as she shook the branches, causing a rain of petals to fall on him. He,
too, had laughed, his face covered with snowy petals. He was so handsome when he smiled.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“None of that.” Spencer had awakened. He was hopelessly weak, but a fire of discontent still burned deep in his eyes.

She smiled and swallowed the lump in her throat. “I was just remembering how good you’ve always been to me.”

“Good. Hmph. Whatever good there is in you, Lark, you were born with. Had I been able to lecture it out of you, I’m sure I should have done so.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” The Spencer she knew would never question himself. He knew right from wrong as if the Lord had handed it to him on a stone tablet.

“Nay,” he said. “Dying is a marvelous thing. It forces a man to be honest with himself, and with those he loves. Where is Oliver?”

“Why would you wish to see him?”

“I need him. Please. There’s not much ti—”

“My lord, I am here.” Unbidden, large and golden as an archangel, Oliver strode into the chamber. Skirts swishing, Richard Speed bustled in after him.

Lark jumped to her feet. “Were you listening at the door?”

He touched her cheek briefly. “I’m so sorry you came back to this. I—”

She ducked her head and stepped away. “Spencer, this is Richard Speed.”

“Ah. The one who just escaped Smithfield, praise be to God.” Spencer turned his head toward the door, looking past Speed. “Move aside, mistress. I cannot see the reverend.”

Speed bowed, the movement awkward and stiff. “My lord,
I
am Richard Speed.”

“Odd vestments,” Spencer muttered.

Speed’s cheeks colored. “It’s a disguise. I must remain in costume until it’s safe to leave England.”

Spencer closed his eyes. “God save us from an England that puts godly men to death.” He opened his eyes again. “Sir, your presence is a great comfort to me.”

A transformation came over Richard Speed. Despite the ridiculous costume, he became a man in his element. He alone knew what to do in the presence of a dying man. His beautiful young face was suffused with a comforting glow of reverence.

“The Lord is with thee,” he whispered, and despite his soft voice, certainty echoed through the chamber.

“In that, I do have faith.” Spencer was quiet a moment. “I stand between two worlds. One foot here, and the other elsewhere. I want to go.”

A whimper jumped in Lark’s throat. She felt Oliver’s hand at her back, steadying her.

“And yet I linger here,” Spencer said.

“Don’t be afraid, my lord.” Speed cupped his hand over Spencer’s brow.

“I’m not. But I have unfinished business.”

“Perhaps that is why you suffer still.”

“Is our legal matter concluded?” Spencer asked Oliver.

“Kit has taken the suit to court. You need worry yourself no further on that. Wynter will never take over Blackrose.”

Spencer sighed. His lips were blue, and Lark knew she was losing him. He took a labored breath and said her name.

“I’m here.” She went to the side of the bed, sank back to her knees and took his hand in hers. The warmth she had imparted earlier was gone.

“You are a remarkable young woman, Lark.”

Never had he paid her a compliment. She was too stunned to reply.

“There was a time when I might have claimed the credit for your noble heart, your honor, your learning. I know better now. I have done you a terrible injustice.”

“Pray do not say that,” she whispered. “You have been my savior, my guiding star, for all the days of my life.”

Speed moved to stand at the foot of the bed. Oliver was on the opposite side from her, and his eyes met hers.

It shouldn’t have happened, but when she gazed at him, she felt an overwhelming sense of connection, an intimacy she had never shared with another person.

How could it be that the man who had raised her from infancy seemed so distant and remote, while a man she had known but a few weeks seemed to hold her heart in his hands?

Spencer cleared his throat with an alarming rattle. “I brought you up as I thought best, hammering away at your spirit, trying to grind out the qualities that glowed brightest within you—your lively mind, your fervent craving for learning, your inborn tenderness, your…” He seemed reluctant but plunged on. “Your womanliness. I was wrong. You were just too
alive
for me, Lark. Your vigor frightened me. I tried to kill the spark that lights your soul.”

She suffered a brief memory then, of being made to kneel and pray, to study and spin and sew, to suppress her laughter with sober thoughts, and to stifle her opinions in favor of parroting proverbs.

“You did your best,” she protested. “You—”

“Hush. I did try to douse that ember in you, but the fire never died despite my efforts. Do you know how I know that?”

Tears blurred her eyes. “No, Spencer. You have ever been a mystery to me.”

“I know it because I now realize that one man kindles that spark. I see it in your eyes when you look at him.”

“No!” Guilt prickled like a rash over her. Oliver made a strangled sound in his throat.

“Do not deny it, Lark,” Spencer said. His chest convulsed, but he conquered the gasping through sheer force of will. “Rejoice. Here I am, at the end of my life, and I see so clearly now. I was bitter. I thought all marriages were bound to bring naught but pain. Now I know better. Marriage between two who hold each other in such tender regard is a gift from God. I need to know someone will care for you and protect you.”

His voice grew stronger and wavered less. “That man is Oliver de Lacey.”

She dared to peek at Oliver then. He wore a stunned expression, as though he had just eaten a poisonous mushroom.

Spencer managed a weak squeeze of her hand. “I want you to marry him as soon as I’m gone.”

“Never!” She lifted her hands to her ears. “Please, God, I am not hearing this.”

His bony, wavering hand lifted, reaching like a claw, uncovering her ears. “Do not tarry and grieve for me. Don’t even wait until I’m cold. Swear it, Lark! Swear you’ll take him as your husband.”

“Please, I can’t—”

“Swear it,” he pleaded. “I’ll have no peace until you do.”

Her mind whirled in an agony of confusion. Of all the deathbed requests Spencer could have made, this was the most unexpected, venial and unthinkable of entreaties.

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“Lark, I beg you.” Though his eyes were dry and rimmed with red, he seemed to be weeping.

She had never seen Spencer weep. She so wanted his passing to be peaceful. But how could she marry Oliver? He was reckless, capricious and unpredictable. He made her feel like a woman. Made her tremble inside with wanting him. Made her remember why she could never, ever succumb to fleshly desires.

“Please,” Spencer whispered, his voice a dry rustle in his throat.

“For God’s sake,
swear
it!” Oliver burst out. “He’s begging you, Lark!” Frustration darkened his face as he grasped Spencer’s other hand. “If it will give you peace, my lord, then I will vow to make Lark my wife. I’ll cherish and protect her, and God strike me dead if I fail.”

At Oliver’s startling words, Spencer seemed to relax. His chest rose and fell more easily, and a tiny smile curved his blue-tinged lips.

“Then we are halfway there.” The reedy whisper thrummed with hope. “Lark, say you’ll have him. And none of this in-name-only blather. You’ve been trapped in a marriage of convenience for twenty years. Time to take a real husband.”

She looked in desperation at Richard Speed. He simply stood amazed, his hands clasped in prayer. Then she studied Spencer, who seemed to be drifting farther and farther away even as she watched.

“Please, Lark.”

She could barely hear his whisper, but even now she felt his strong will pressing at her heart. How could she deny him at such a time?

“Very well,” she said in a stranger’s voice. “If marrying Oliver is what you wish for me, then that is what I’ll do.”

“Do you swear it before God?”

She hesitated. If she made such a vow, it would be ir
revocable. Her chin lifted; her gaze clashed with that of Oliver de Lacey. She saw a flawed yet exuberant man, one who coaxed passion from her, who listened to her opinions, who respected her will, who made her feel protected, cherished, important.

Her heart said
yes.

“Very well,” she said in a rush. “I swear to God I’ll do as you ask.”

Silence hung in the room for a moment. Then Spencer took each of their hands and joined them with his own.

A pale, distant light glowed in his eyes. “It is done, then.”

His blue lips smiled. Neither Lark nor Oliver dared to move their hands, though it felt odd to have them entwined with Spencer’s.

Richard Speed prayed softly.

Lark had no idea how long they stayed there. After a time, Spencer’s breathing seemed to change. It was shallow, irregular, punctuating Speed’s ceaseless prayers. Then Lark heard an odd clicking sound, followed by the softest of sighs.

He was gone.

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. In life he had never let her kiss him, and the piercing injustice, the sense of chances lost, tore at her heart. His lips were cool and dry until her warm tears wet his face.

She and Spencer had shared an unusual yet deep love, one that she would carry like a precious relic for all of her days. By her own words she had tied herself to Oliver de Lacey, but she could not think of him now, could not take time to wonder if he was capable of that sort of abiding love.

“How will I live without you?” she whispered. “In God’s name, Spencer, how will I go on?”

“How can I possibly shackle myself to the one woman who cares nothing about me?” whispered Oliver. The cool breath of the wind stole in through the cracks around the chapel windows.

Three days after Spencer’s death, he and Kit stood on the threshold of the chapel at Blackrose Priory. At the altar Lark and Richard Speed waited, both wearing dark mourning gowns relieved only by the pleated white barbes that covered the bodice from neck to waist. Lark’s peaked mourning veil covered her hair and contrasted starkly with her pale cheeks.

“It’s a bit late to cry off now,” Kit said. He had returned from London, the lawsuit neatly concluded, the day before.