Or, worse, a nasty-tempered serpent, such as a water moccasin. On the way into the swamp, Victoria had explained these creatures to him, regaling him with tales of how the snakes sometimes slithered out of the water and into a boat—right into one’s boots … just because they could.
The indignity of it all was hair-raising. Damn Edward and Victoria, anyway, for putting notions of murder and hostile wildlife into his mind. Between his cousin and his wife and their dire tales, Spencer pronounced himself absolutely jumpy. And then, to top it off, Victoria had renewed that nonsense about the child she carried. He believed he had settled that account at about four o’clock this morning. But even if he hadn’t, this moment was hardly the appropriate one for a discussion of the laws of primogeniture, now was it?
More appropriate to the setting was how to describe what lay before him as the watery avenue opened and revealed not only Miss Cicely’s cabin—he realized now he’d expected only the one—but an entire village of rough-hewn and elevated cabins, some at the water’s edge, some farther back on apparent land but still raised on stilts to several feet above the water’s surface and—even more incredulously—built into the sturdy lower branches of huge trees. Amazing. A network of piers and jetties and docks and catwalks and ladders seemed to connect each cabin with the others, much like streets and sidewalks. Even now, the dark-skinned and soberly staring denizens of all ages and sizes slowly emerged from various dwellings to watch the approach of the two jonboats.
Even more amazing than this unexpected village was the grottolike or cavelike feel of the place. To Spencer, it seemed they existed under an overturned woven basket. Despite glimmers of sunshine that broke through in thin rays and speckled the scene, the treetops had grown together in such a way that one could imagine a giant having actually woven the thick branches into a naturally protective embracing dome. He found himself wondering if this was the only such community in this swamp. Certainly it was the first one they’d come to, but that did not mean there weren’t others situated down other meandering and watery offshoots.
“Victoria,” Spencer said quietly over his shoulder as they glided ever nearer a long pier Jubal had tied up to and motioned them toward. “This is the most astonishing and unbelievable sight I’ve ever seen.”
“Yes. It is, isn’t it?” Her voice held a note of pride and sympathy. “They’ve done so well for themselves in many ways. But, still … the poor souls.”
“Indeed. Why are they all out here? Even in London, in the poorest sections, I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“True. They’ve banded together out here for protection, really, and to be among their own kind with no outside interference. For some of them, it was simply choice. No, that’s not true. No other choices really existed, especially for those like Jubal.”
“He said something earlier about that when we first met. He said this was his home but not by his choice or liking. What happened?”
“Oh, it was awful, Spencer. Awful. Three white men—drunk, trashy sorts—caught his sweet little wife alone on a country lane and raped and then killed her.”
Anguish tore at Spencer’s heart. “The bastards!”
“Yes. Callie. She’d never hurt a soul.”
“What did Jubal do?” Spencer knew in his heart what he’d do if such a thing happened to his wife.
“He caught them, one at a time, at night and slit their throats.”
Though he winced at the brutality, Spencer also nodded. His thinking had been along those same lines. “And now he’s wanted for murder. That’s why he was so nervous about being seen out of the swamp.”
“Yes. He’d be lynched on sight. But he’s safe in here. No sensible white man dares to venture in here. But those who have … haven’t come out.”
Though, on the one hand, this turnabout form of justice seemed entirely fair, alarm raised the hairs at the back of Spencer’s neck. Despite being engaged in bringing the jonboat alongside the dock, where Jubal already waited for Spencer to toss him the line so he could secure the craft, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder at his wife. “A lovely story, Victoria, when here I am, one of the whitest men you’ll ever see.”
“Uninvited white men, I mean. If you’re invited, and you were, then you should be fine.” Her blue eyes glittered with humor.
He focused again on the task at hand but said: “You’re quite enjoying this, aren’t you, my dear?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But if I were you, I wouldn’t stray too far from my side.”
“Have I yet?”
“No. Oh, there’s Miss Cicely!” Victoria abruptly stood in the boat and excitedly waved. “Miss Cicely, hello! It’s so good to see you! How are you?”
The jonboat’s response to her enthusiasm was to rock threateningly from side to side and frighten the life out of Spencer—for his pregnant wife’s sake, of course—and have him insisting stridently: “Victoria, be careful. Sit down before you fall down.”
Of course, she did neither. Instead, as Spencer threw the line to Jubal and he had no more than caught it, she scrambled past Spencer and crabbed up a ladder to the dock above. Spencer firmed his lips together in determination and followed after her. Above him, he heard the sounds of a happy reunion. From the babble of voices greeting his ears, he surmised that everyone was talking at once and laughing—until he pulled himself head and shoulders above the dock’s planked deck. An immediate silence fell over the assemblage. Inhaling for courage, Spencer hauled himself up onto the precariously swaying dock, constructed seemingly of scrap pieces of wood and rusted nails.
From a few paces away, Victoria stood facing him, smiling hugely and sincerely, her hands clasped together in front of her. Behind her and to both sides ranged a veritable sea of dark faces that seemed to run the length of the pier. No one seemed inclined to greet him. Or kill him. Some seemed merely curious; others were shy; and, still others, defiant, even hostile. A few did smile at him, but no one spoke to him. Spencer settled his gaze on Victoria’s face, intending to take his cues from her. She subtly darted her gaze to her right, to the older woman standing next to her.
Spencer followed suit, seeing a tall, slender, attractive woman of color with her black hair pulled back tightly from her face, perhaps secured at the nape of her neck. Sober of expression and possessing impossibly high cheekbones, her dark eyes radiated intelligence and inherent sensuality. Dressed in a clean skirt of homespun and a simple blouse with a drawstring neckline, she separated from the throng flanking her and walked with gliding grace toward Spencer. Here then, he knew, was Miss Cicely … who knew everything, according to her son. It suddenly struck Spencer what a loving tribute that was to his mother.
The woman stopped in front of him and quietly ran her assessing gaze up and down him, from his head to his boots and back again. Spencer had no choice but to submit, even when Miss Cicely slowly walked around him as if he were a prize bull and made little noises like tsk-tsk and hmmm and um-hmm. Neither appreciative nor demeaning, but sounds a doctor might make during a patient’s examination. Frowning, Spencer caught Victoria’s attention. She winked at him and nodded reassuringly. Apparently, Spencer surmised, this was some test he must pass.
When Miss Cicely once again stood in front of him, she settled her hands at her waist, raised her head and looked him in the eye. “I know now whose baby my Victoria got growing in her belly and whether it be a boy baby or a girl baby.”
Victoria’s gasp arrowed Spencer’s attention her way. “Why, Miss Cicely,” she said, in a pout, “I asked you that when I was out here before. And you said you didn’t know.”
In one fluid movement that made her skirt sway, the woman turned to Victoria. “That’s right, baby, and that’s because I didn’t know.” Her voice and mannerisms softened considerably, revealing the depth of her caring for Victoria. Reason enough to like her, Spencer believed. “Sometimes it takes a while for ‘the sight’ to come to me. And sometimes it don’t come at all, you know
that. And sometimes I got to see the man before I know. That’s just how it works.”
Spencer looked on with cynicism coloring his reactions. Miss Cicely could tell who the father was and the sex of the child just by looking at the man? Why, if she had any degree of accuracy, she could make a fortune among the peers in London. Still, he found all this rather fantastic. But not for all the diamonds in the crown jewels would he voice that opinion out loud in this place.
“Well, child?” Miss Cicely questioned Victoria. “You want to know?”
Looking bereft, Victoria covered her face with her hands and spoke in a muffled voice through them. “Not if it’s going to be an answer I don’t want to hear.”
“The truth is the truth, child. Got to face it.” Chuckling, clearly teasing, Miss Cicely shrugged her shoulders. “But it don’t make me no never-mind. I won’t tell you, if that’s how you feel.”
Spencer watched silently, trying to decide if he wanted to know the answer. No one had asked him. Victoria quickly pulled her hands away from her face and darted her anxious gaze between him and Miss Cicely. “No. You have to tell us, Miss Cicely. You just have to. You’re right: it’s best I—we—know.”
“Hmm,” the older woman said. She pivoted around to face Spencer. “You want to know? Both of you got to want to know.”
Startled that Miss Cicely seemed to have picked up on his thoughts—pure coincidence, he assured himself—he found he did want to know. Whether or not he would believe her was another thing. But even if he hadn’t wanted to know and had said as much, he feared Victoria would later kill him in his sleep. Put that way, what choice did he have? Spencer assumed a formal stance and bowed politely in respect. “I and my wife would be honored, Miss Cicely, if you would give us the benefit of your knowledge.”
Holding her skirts out, the stately woman returned his gesture with a curtsy that was as good as any Spencer had seen at court. “As you wish.” Relinquishing her pose, she straightened up and said: “The baby she carries in her belly is yours”—over his own gasp, Spencer heard Victoria’s—“and it’s a boy baby.”
With that startling—stunning—announcement, Miss Cicely turned her back on him and walked regally back toward an astonished Victoria and the parting crowd. Victoria grabbed Miss Cicely and hugged her, kissing the woman’s cheek enthusiastically. “Oh, thank you, thank you. I’ve been so worried and scared.”
Miss Cicely pulled back and shook a finger in Victoria’s face. “I know you have. But you ain’t got no call to be thankin’ me. I didn’t make it so. I just told you what I see. But, listen here, child, don’t you go misbehavin’ no more in ways where you got to worry, you hear me?”
Instantly contrite—to Spencer’s utter shock—Victoria looked down at her lace-up boots. “Yes, ma’am. I won’t. I’m … married and … happy.”
Spencer’s chest swelled with emotion to hear Victoria acknowledge her feelings out loud. He watched as, with a gesture of great affection, Miss Cicely smoothed Victoria’s baby curls away from her temple. “I know you’re happy, child. You got reason to be. This here baby is a good strong boy. Like his daddy. And don’t you worry none about losin’ your babies like your mama done. I don’t see none of that for you.”
Victoria’s wonderfully blue eyes widened. “How did you know I was worrying about that? I never said—”
“What you doin’ askin’ me that?” Looking vexed, Miss Cicely clamped her hands to her waist. “I know what you thinkin’ before you do, most of the time. Now, go on over there and hug your man.”
Victoria shyly gazed at Spencer from under cover of her long and thick eyelashes. His heart full, he smiled back as she started toward him. But Spencer still had his doubts, which he would keep private. He tried to convince himself Miss Cicely was simply guessing. Or telling them what she had to know they wanted to hear. She didn’t really know everything. She couldn’t. No one would know until the baby was born and—
“Hold on right there, child.” Miss Cicely raised a hand that stopped Victoria, whose eyes widened with apprehension. Spencer tensed and looked around, ready to reach for his gun, if need be. “What’s that I hear?” Miss Cicely cocked her head as if listening for some sound only she could hear. Suddenly, she pivoted to face Spencer. “You doubting me right now in your head. But you mark my words,” Miss Cicely said to Spencer, shaking a finger at him, “this baby boy is yours. In my mind’s eye, I saw its little pecker. A big strong boy. Got the black hair and eyes of his daddy.”
Completely amazed, yet still skeptical, Spencer suddenly realized the perfect test that would satisfy him. “Miss Cicely, you must understand how … startling your, uh, gift is to me. Can you just please tell me how you know the child is mine? I mean, besides the color of his hair and eyes.”
Hearing himself speak of the child Victoria carried did something warm and strange to Spencer’s heart. He was going to be a father. The unborn child now had an identity. A burst of fatherly love and joy nearly shook Spencer in his boots, but he did his best not to show it. It simply was not done to display emotion in public.
But apparently he was transparent to Miss Cicely, who smiled broadly and nodded knowingly at him. Spencer felt certain he’d fallen into her trap more so than she had his. “Land sakes, you talking about that mark, ain’t you?”
Shocked, his jaw all but dropping open, Spencer sought Victoria’s gaze. She’d said earlier she’d already asked Miss Cicely about the child and who the father was. No doubt, she’d told Miss Cicely then, too, about the birthmark it must have to be his. There was no other explanation.
“I never, ever told her about the birthmark, Spencer, I swear it on my grandmother’s grave.”
He arched an eyebrow. “The same grandmother’s grave you swore on a few nights ago when you said you’d stay seated in that chair and yet did not?”
Her eyes widened, and she lowered her gaze to watch herself pluck nervously at her brother’s shirt. “All right, perhaps my other grandmother, whom I love more.”
“Whom you love more? Not loved? She hasn’t passed on, I take it?”
“Oh, no, she’s very much alive. You’ll meet her today at the barbecue. So I will swear to you, on my grandmother’s heart, that I didn’t tell Miss Cicely, Spencer. I didn’t.”
“No, she didn’t. She don’t need to,” Miss Cicely assured Spencer—and then rocked him further by adding: “You ain’t told her where the mark shows up on a baby, have you? You ain’t told her why she cain’t see it on you.”
Dammit all to hell, Victoria could have told Miss Cicely all of this, but Spencer would not, in this place, expose the woman. “No, I haven’t,” he admitted.
Miss Cicely grinned like a contented cat. “It’s on the head. The baby’s scalp. Right about heah.” She pointed to just behind her left ear. “It’s red, and it look like the shape of England. It show through a new baby’s thin hair, and that’s how you know. But on a man like you, your hair covers it, keeps it safe.”
An intense waiting silence permeated the crowd. Even the loudly buzzing insects all around them stopped as if they too awaited his verdict. The air of expectancy billowed and thickened … “Spencer?” The plaintive voice was Victoria’s.
With what she’d said only minutes ago as they were poling their way here uppermost in his thoughts, Spencer settled his gaze on his wife. “She’s right.”
Triumphant, Miss Cicely smiled broadly and turned to the crowd, raising her hands like a preacher exhorting heaven. In the next second, a great cry and laughing burst of joy claimed the crowd. Pats on the back and hugging and dancing ensued. At the front of the crowd, her hands over her mouth, her blue eyes dancing joyously, Victoria held Spencer’s gaze.
Just then, Jubal, who Spencer realized had been standing quietly behind him after securing the jonboat, strutted past him, following his mother. “I tole you she know everything.”
“And you were right,” Spencer agreed readily.
In the next instant, and catching him off guard, Spe
ncer’s arms were full of his happily shrieking wife. Given her running momentum, the impact of her slight body with his more solid one staggered him back a few heart-stopping, stumbling steps. Exactly where was the end of the damned dock in relation to where he stood with his arms full of excited woman? Not that it seemed to matter to Victoria as she climbed right up him and wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle. She apparently intended to kiss him senseless, right in front of the appreciative crowd. Trying to hold on to her, or pull her away, for that matter, was like trying to corral a cat. She was everywhere.
“I told you, Spencer,” Victoria cried, kissing his neck and his jaw and his chin. “I told you this baby was yours—”
“You did nothing of the sort,” he accused good-naturedly. “Only a few minutes ago—really, Victoria, move your hand; we are being watched—you gave me that—I said stop that—noble speech about how you couldn’t allow me to claim—now, I really must insist—”
“Victoria.” The single word—her name spoken as a command coming out of the mouth of Miss Cicely—worked like a charm. Victoria froze, her blue eyes wide and only inches away from Spencer’s face. He looked around his wife to the older black woman. “This child,” Miss Cicely was saying as she poked a brown finger at her own chest, “didn’t raise you to act like some no-account white trash. You git down off that man and git him and yo’self on over heah. We got some serious talkin’ to do now. Got something to show you that you need to see.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Instantly obedient again, still much to Spencer’s surprise, Victoria slid down him as he loosened his grip enough to allow her to do so and yet still support her. Once she stood on her own two feet and at his side, she soberly adjusted her brother’s shirt and pants as though she were garbed in a ball gown of the finest silk.
To Make a Marriage Page 30