“Or it could be exactly as this man Jubal has said. Him and his mother. I hardly think we’ll be overrun with the enemy.”
“Spencer, I hate to say this, but this Jubal fellow said there are a lot of … them living out there. I mean his kind. Now, while he might be an upstanding citizen, what we don’t know is how all of … his fellows feel. And if they’re living in that swamp, there’s got to be a reason.”
Spencer made certain his level gaze met his cousin’s. “Perhaps the reason they are has nothing to do with them, Edward. Perhaps it has more to do with people like us. White people. That swamp may be the only place Jubal and his fellows feel safe.”
Edward let go of Spencer’s arm. “Certainly a wretched existence for them, no doubt. I’m sorry. I … just worry. And I would feel the same way if that swamp were inhabited by white people, or orange people, because we don’t know who the enemy is.”
“I thank you for your worry, but I don’t feel it’s warranted as I’ve reasoned this out. Remember, Jubal said Victoria goes out there all the time. She must feel safe with him, with them. And she must know this swamp. That gives us two edges, so I will defer to her on this matter. It’s the best I can do.”
“No, the best you can do is not go. But, since you’re determined, Neville and I are going with you. I can add a gun to your arsenal, and Neville has all those teeth and a short temper.”
“I thank you for your offer, but neither of you is going,” Spencer assured him. “Four people—or, rather, three and a dog—are more likely to be missed than two would be. At any rate, I need you here to cover for us until we get back.”
Edward raised his eyebrows. “And exactly where do I tell people you two are?”
“Oh, come now, Edward. You are a most inventive fellow. You’ll think of something. It shouldn’t be hard, given how chaotic the household is today. Cite our need for privacy as loving newlyweds. Say we went for a walk together. Or a carriage ride. That should do it. And then keep everyone from talking to each other.”
“A carriage ride? And should someone question one of the grooms and he knows nothing of having brought around a carriage for you, a carriage still clearly visible in the inventory? What should I tell them then?”
“Obviously, Edward,” Spencer said through gritted teeth, “the carriage ride was a bad suggestion. I will instead rely on your penchant toward … inventiveness to adequately confuse and keep off our trail anyone who should ask. I trust you can do so brilliantly since I expect to be hard pressed to come up with answers to the questions I’m likely to get regarding the tales you told to the lady callers in Savannah. I refer to my alleged infirmities. A tropical fever that left me covered in red spots, Edward?”
He suddenly looked ill. “You know about those stories, then?”
“Obviously I do or I would not bring—”
“Hey, over there!” Along with Edward, Spencer pivoted to face Jubal, who glanced around nervously. “You got to go git Miss Victoria and come with me now in that there jonboat.” He, of course, pointed to the flimsy piece of carved wood riding queasily atop the brackish water and tied to the dock.
Spencer’s heart sank. He’d thought he and Victoria would go with Jubal in his larger, sturdier craft. “How are we supposed to do that, Jubal? Perhaps that … pretentious hollowed-out log would hold my wife’s weight but not our combined weight. It will sink.”
“It ain’t sunk yet. I ride in it with Miss Victoria all the time. Tell her I’ll wait just outta sight where cain’t no one see me. Hurry, now. We ain’t got much time.”
CHAPTER 18
Seated in the stern of the jonboat, and clothed again in the same pants and shirt of Jefferson’s she’d worn on her last trip into the swamp, Victoria openly enjoyed the sight of Spencer’s backside as he poled the craft through the swamp. The poor man. He’d been shocked when she’d appeared in her masculine attire, yet she’d quickly quelled his protests with one question: How would you fare, Your Grace, in that jonboat if you were attired in a dress? With his protest silenced, though his lips remained compressed with disapproval, they’d quickly stolen down a back stairway and out of the chaotically busy house. From there, the two of them had hurriedly made their way along the fringes of the more civilized border of River’s End down to the dock. And now, Victoria tried to see the swamp through Spencer’s eyes. How terribly strange and frightening it all must be. Not that he would admit it, big, strong man that he was.
She wondered if he appreciated the wild beauty of the place. She thought not. He was too terrified of the very real possibility of being eaten by an alligator at any moment. But still, what was Spencer seeing? The determined rays of sunlight dappling the glittering greenery, the musty earth and the brownish water alike? The knobby cypress knees poking their conical heads up as if they must surface to breathe? Buzzing and flitting insects of every size and appetite crazily circling the occupants of the jonboat and occasionally lighting on them? The tangled vines hanging down like so many ropy tentacles? Or the giant fronds of stunted palms dripping menacingly with a dew that slithered down their spines?
All around them, the swamp was alive with life. A bird called in a strange warbling voice. A shy snake of astonishing size slithered through the underbrush and disappeared inland. And an occasional bubble broke the water’s calm surface as a fish gulped an unwary insect.
She loved it in here. Victoria sat, with her knees together, her hands clasped in her lap, and again settled her gaze on her husband’s broad back as he followed Jubal’s lead and poled through the murky waters and dripping air of the swamp. Sweat had plastered his shirt to his skin, making the fabric almost transparent where it clung to him. Such an inspiring sight the man was … his long and muscled legs encased in the black Hessians he wore, the pleasant masculine whole of him.
A small part of Victoria’s smile resulted from Spencer’s explanation for his ease with poling. Grinning rakishly at her, he’d cited merrily drunken incidents in Venice in his misspent youth. No doubt, he’d misspent it every chance that had come his way. In some ways, Victoria wished she’d known him when he was younger. But for the most part, she was happier to have him as the fine man he had become.
She marveled at her own happy mood, given the troublesome nature of their present mission. But she couldn’t help it. Life was so different today. Her husband loved her, and she loved him. This knowledge made the world a brighter place, a friendlier place, even this swamp. Victoria saw its jeweled aspects now through new eyes and sensibilities. Had the swamp always been this lovely? This jade green, this blood red, this velvety brown? Why hadn’t she noticed before the soft yellow of the sun’s rays? Or the magnolia-white splotches of water-lily blooms? So very … alive.
Startling her was how alive she felt, too. How serene and secure. She had tarried in bed this morning until the sickness had passed, but she’d spent the time looking, with joy, down the years ahead of her and Spencer’s life together. She had envisioned their children, happy and running in the fresh air at Wetherington’s Point. She’d seen them pink-cheeked and chortling on sleigh rides through the winter snows in England. She could picture this scene thanks to her family’s occasional winters in New York City. She knew firsthand that snow was cold and blindingly white, a muffling blanket. Lovely. The thought of snow brought her thoughts forward to the Christmas presents her and Spencer’s children would tear open with happy delight under the indulgent eyes of their parents.
Victoria brought her thoughts forward to that most amazing of moments much earlier this morning when Spencer had simply reversed himself, when he’d said he would claim her child as his own, birthmark or no, despite everything he stood for, despite hundreds of years of birthmarked Whitfields, despite hundreds of years of blueblood purity and pride and honor—
Victoria’s smile abruptly fled. She could not allow him to do that. Yes, he’d said he loved her, which had freed her to admit she loved him, too. And, certainly, she’d been thrilled to learn she would not be put
aside, not cast adrift with a broken heart and in a frightening world alone with only her child and her allowance to sustain them both. But not once—not one selfish once—had she given the first thought to what Spencer’s sudden decision would do to him. After all, what if this child was a boy and clearly Loyal’s and was named the heir? Why, it would be a travesty, no matter how much she would love her child, to pass the duchy on to him.
Even worse, what if she and Spencer had a second child, another boy, the rightful heir but one who could not inherit because he wasn’t, publicly, the firstborn? How soon would it be before Spencer came to regret his decision? Dear God, what would that do to him every day of his life when he knew his duchy was going to Loyal’s blood and not his own? And what would it do to her and Spencer every time they looked at her firstborn, or even each other? She knew the answer: It would tear their love apart. Victoria covered her face with her hands and shook her head. Only by exerting a strong effort of will did she not cry out and alert Spencer to her distress.
She should have made more than a token protest when he’d said it didn’t matter whose child she carried. Of course it mattered—and in every way she could imagine. Spencer would soon realize that, if he hadn’t already. Why had he said he would acknowledge this child, no matter what? And why hadn’t she thought before now about why he might have? Victoria fisted her hand and gently conked herself in the head. I am such an awful person. Just awful. I’m selfish and spoiled, that’s what. All I saw was a neat solution being handed to me, and I took it.
That he loved her enough to say what he had only made Victoria love him all the more. And that was exactly why she couldn’t allow him to do this wonderfully noble thing he’d said he’d do. She rushed her thoughts into the future, to the day this child she carried was born. She pictured Spencer staring down at the child and trying to keep off his face the knowledge that it was not his and that it did, in the end, matter. It mattered to her, too, but for Spencer’s sake.
She had to tell him they were right back where they’d started … to the not knowing, to the doubts, to the not being able to be together. Victoria’s bright and sunny world she’d created only moments ago evaporated, along with the determined rays of sunshine as Spencer poled them smoothly under an especially dense canopy of cypress, pine, and oak, and into the miasma of the swamp’s sulfurous air. She had to do what was necessary. She had, at the very least, to tell him that she would release him from his declaration, should her child turn out not to be his.
“It’s not much farther to Miss Cicely’s, Spencer,” was her overture to speaking her heart and mind. Her breaking heart. Her protesting mind. With bittersweet pleasure, she gazed upon her silent husband’s finely formed and masculine self. Suddenly, to her, he looked so … achingly fragile, almost transparent in his lightness.
Suddenly she doubted if this moment was the proper time for such a discussion. Maybe she should put it off until another day. No, that was the way of a coward. If she waited, she might lose her courage and never speak up. She had to do it now. Swallowing hard, gathering her courage, she spoke up again. “Spencer, did you hear what I just said? It’s not far now.”
“Um-hmm,” he grunted, no doubt concentrating totally on his poling task and looking out for alligators. She’d explained the reptiles slept or lazed about during the day and hunted at night, but he was not to be mollified … especially after a particularly monstrous example had leered at their passage earlier on and then slid easily into the water as they passed.
“Spencer, I have something I have to say to you.”
“Then say it.”
So bittersweet, the realization was to her, that not two minutes ago, before her own painful realization of what she had to say and do, Victoria would have smiled indulgently at his rigid intensity. But right now she could not force her mouth to perform the happy task. “Spencer, I’ve made up my mind about something.”
“And what would that be?”
“It’s about us.”
“Us? Everything has been decided between us.”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Victoria, although I have no idea to what you’re referring, I must ask: Do you really think this is the time for this? More to the point, have you seen that blasted alligator anywhere?” He hadn’t once glanced her way over his shoulder. The man was endearingly terrified.
“No. Quit worrying about him. He probably went in the other direction.”
“I should like confirmation of that.”
“I’m sorry, but they do not generally announce their intentions.”
“The bloody monsters should be made to—by law, if necessary.”
She loved him so much. The realization was blinding in its intensity. But now, she had to end it. What a cruel fate: to yearn for love, to be shown love, to win love … and then to destroy love willfully. How, she wondered, was what she intended to say now any different from the act of putting an early end to her baby’s fragile life? She remembered those horrible moments all too well … the parlor at Wetherington’s Point, her misunderstanding Spencer and thinking he meant for her to undergo an abortion. And now, here she was, in a sense, doing exactly that … ending love. “Spencer, I can’t let you claim this baby if it’s not yours.”
“Madam, who or what I claim as mine is not up to you.”
Victoria could only stare in exasperation as Spencer smoothly lifted the long, dripping pole from port and dipped it into the water on the starboard side of the jonboat, expertly seeking resistance, finding it, and moving them through the water. The easy play of his muscles, the vigorous flexing of them, was very affecting. Still, Victoria had to admit that this was not a sight she would ever have expected to see … the Tenth Duke of Moreland poling through a Georgia swamp. “Spencer, you must listen to me. You cannot claim this baby if it is not yours.”
“And you must listen to me. I have said I would, and I will.”
“No you will not.”
“Victoria, do you see what I’m doing up here? And have you looked around? Do you actually see where we are?”
“I’m fully aware of where we are, Spencer, and it’s the perfect place for this discussion since neither of us can stomp off angrily. I’m serious about not allowing you to claim this child if it’s not yours. And don’t you dare tell me to shut up, as you do Edward. I won’t be shut up.”
“I am fully and painfully aware of that, madam.”
“However,” she said with sober determination, “I will have my say. I have been thinking—”
“Dear God.”
Behind his back, she made a face at him. “I have been thinking should this child I carry not be yours but be male and you claim him as yours, he will be your heir. I worry how you’d subsequently feel, should a second male child be born to us, the true heir who cannot then inherit. I ask myself what that knowledge will do to you.” Hot, heartbreaking tears pricked at Victoria’s eyes. “I could not bear knowing what it would do. And I can’t allow you to live with such hurt. I won’t.”
“A very interesting argument, madam. And convincing. Put that noble way, I do see your point.”
She hadn’t expected this. She’d expected more pomposity and denials … had perhaps hoped for them. But they were not to be. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m saying you are absolutely right, my dear. In fact, jolly good thinking. All right, then, I won’t claim this child if it’s not mine; and you will be free to live your life elsewhere in England, divorced from me. Will that make you happy?”
* * *
Of course, Spencer assured his thumping heart, he’d said that simply to get her to leave off the subject. It wasn’t open to discussion—and especially not in this alien and harrowing environment. Good Lord, the place teemed with predators. It was like being dropped into the Roman Colosseum, in the fight of their life, and all his darling wife wished to do, as lions and tigers and gladiators rushed them, was talk about the state of their marriage. Unbelievable.
His back to an ominously silent Victoria, Spencer waited, half believing he’d be pushed, at any moment, over the bow of the jonboat and into the brackish water that, he just knew, teemed with ravenous reptilian life. Or … she could shoot him. Not that she was armed. But he was. He blatantly checked, though he still felt his pistol’s reassuring weight at his hip, to see if it still resided in its holster. No sense giving an incensed woman a ready weapon.
“Your gun is still there, sir. I’m not going to shoot you.” Very chilly voice, despite her dulcet Southern tones.
“You will imagine my relief, madam.” His voice … droll, British, upper class. Teasing. Of course he didn’t want—and would not permit—her to leave him under any circumstances … even if he had to cling, begging, to her skirts. However, he remained prepared to die hideously before he would admit that to her. Still, she deserved what he’d said. Did she not think him a grown man who knew his mind and his heart? He’d said he would accept her child as his, and so the matter was closed. He would not revisit it.
Just then, up ahead, Jubal signaled that they were to pole to the right. Spencer waved his understanding.
“Miss Cicely’s cabin is around this bend.”
Her chill tone of voice had Spencer’s grin widening. The brackish water should be freezing more and more with every word she spoke. “Thank you, my dear. That is indeed good news.”
He meant it, too, as he turned the boat in the direction indicated. Until now, they’d traversed an especially narrow tributary, one that had allowed overhanging vegetation to brush menacingly over one’s face and neck. A starkly frightening experience. Spencer had been certain, though he’d refused to let on, with each touch of something against his skin that a snake or spider of fantastic proportions and evil intent had fallen on him. So it was with infinite relief that he now saw the widening pool of water ahead that afforded one a more open vista and assured more maneuverability should this be, as Edward had feared, a trap.
Spencer feared the same thing. He was far from oblivious to the possibility. Given the appallingly unwelcoming environment of this overgrown jungle, a dangerous stand of water such as this one was the perfect place to commit a murder and get away with it. One could simply claim the wildlife got the victim. Or perhaps the victim drowned. Or became lost and blundered into unforgiving quicksand or, again, a hungry reptile.
To Make a Marriage Page 29