by Susan Wiggs
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 irrevocable. 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.
“It was too late the moment I made that idiotic vow.” Oliver fingered his dress sword nervously. What a dilemma she had put him in. Her heartbreaking farewell to Spencer had made it clear that she would never love another.
“Kit, I am the blackest of black sheep. A rake and a rogue. A blackguard, a skirt-lifting womanizer. Surely a poor candidate for a h-h—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“Haven’t you always claimed you wish to experience all of life? To try everything? Marriage is the one adventure you have not braved.”
“I only wanted to experience the fun parts. The great challenges.”
Kit sent a significant look at Lark. Expressionless and dull-eyed, she clutched Spencer’s illegal Book of Common Prayer like a shield to her buckram-stiffened chest.
“I ask you, Oliver,” Kit said, “what greater challenge than that?”
“You are such a comfort to me, Kit.” Anger uncurled like a flame inside him. He felt used, coerced, driven to this spot by forces beyond his control. Aye, control. Even from beyond the grave, Spencer remained in command of him.
Richard Speed beckoned them with an impatient wave of his hand.
Feeling no less dread than he had the day he had gone to hang, Oliver de Lacey went to claim his bride.
Ten
While promising her future to Oliver de Lacey, Lark peered at him through the screen of a black mourning veil. He stood with his weight shifted negligently on one hip, his hair mussed as if by a lover’s hand, and a look of boredom on his too handsome face.
Richard Speed read through the betrothal agreement and marriage settlement, hastily arranged by Kit. Oliver caught her staring and gave her a broad, insolent wink.
She sniffed and glanced away, pushing aside a sudden thought of Wynter. He would be livid when he discovered what she had done. Nagged by unease, she forced herself to concentrate on Reverend Speed. His health was improving at a rapid rate; soon he would outgrow the hated gowns he wore as a disguise. He appeared almost as uncomfortable as Lark felt, his feet shifting beneath the hem of his skirt, his arms bulging inside the tightly laced sleeves. He had begged to don a cleric’s robes, but Oliver had declared it too risky.
Knowing Oliver’s sense of humor, Lark suspected he found it amusing to be wed by a minister in skirts. Kit Youngblood, standing as witness at Oliver’s side, pressed his lips together hard, as if holding in an explosion of mirth.
Kind, helpful Kit. Thanks to him this marriage would be legal, a solemn contract entered into for life. Over cups of wine the night before, Kit had recorded the betrothal. He had overseen the financial arrangements, negotiated a dowry and drawn up the marriage settlement.
Now Richard Speed hammered the last nail into her fate. He gave them one final opportunity to disclose any impediment to their union.
Lark took a deep breath. She wanted to turn and run, to declare her unwillingness. Then she heard Spencer’s last words again. I want you to marry him as soon as I’m gone. 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.
She had given her word to a dying man.
Oliver nodded to Richard and said, “Proceed.”
And so they vowed, in the dark, windy chapel of Blackrose, to be husband and wife. Lark heard herself promise to be chaste, submissive and fruitful, and was glad the veil hid her blush as she remembered that marriage had been ordained for procreation.
Then it was Oliver’s turn to speak his vows. She expected him to enumerate them as casually as if he were counting tithes.
Instead he snatched off her peaked veil and grabbed her by the wrist. Her hair, like a maiden’s now, spilled down her back.
“My lord!” She felt naked and frightened. His eyes were the burning blue of the sky on a hot day. “What—”
“I want to see your face when I make my pledge,” he said. “I want to make sure you hear me, Lark.” Without looking back, he held out his free hand, and Kit gave him a golden ring.
“I vow to provide for thee,” he said, “and to guard thee from danger and want, to be faithful and vigilant over thy welfare.” He stared down at the ring. Lark wondered if she imagined it or if Oliver’s hand actually trembled as he placed the ring on each successive finger of her hand. “With this ring I thee wed, with this gold I thee honor, and with my body I thee worship.”
Lark could not say why, but his words made her seem to float far above the ground.
“Until death us do part,” Oliver concluded. As he spoke the final pledge, the intense merriment left his eyes; they clouded and darkened, and his mouth went taut as if a sudden pain had gripped him. Then the moment passed, and Lark decided she had imagined his torment, for he was smiling down at her once again.
She barely heard Speed’s awesome proclamation: “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Oliver touched her chin, gaining her attention. “Lark? It’s over.”
“Over?” she asked stupidly.
“Aye, sweet. Well, the boring part, anyway.”
“Would His Lordship like to kiss the bride?” Speed asked.
Oliver’s grin was wry, possibly bitter. “Now the interesting part begins.”
Alone, Oliver entered the bride’s chamber and found it empty. Their wedding supper was a simple affair of bread and wine and apples set out on an oval table. Sullenly Oliver poured himself a goblet of wine and went to the window to await his bride.
The house servants and retainers had taken the news of the marriage with surprising aplomb,
as if Spencer, even in death, had the power to make them obey.
A bird alit on the ledge outside the open window. Oliver noticed that someone had left crumbs there. Lark. He imagined her alone in this room, year after year, setting out crumbs to draw the birds, perhaps craving their company while she worked at her tedious spinning and sewing.
The sky was a deep, twilight-blue pierced by the first winking stars of evening. The bird chirruped. Oliver drank his wine in one gulp and belched loudly. The bird flew off.
“I’ll have another little lark to manage tonight,” he muttered. “Pity she doesn’t scare as easily.” A twist of apprehension knotted his gut. He had no fear of making love to her, of course, but what if she became pregnant? He had often daydreamed about having a child, but it was always in the abstract, and the child in his imaginings did not have a real child’s needs. In truth, Oliver knew it would be best never to father a child. His illness was unpredictable. He had every reason to suppose it could be passed to one’s children, much like one’s looks. His own brother had suffered from the same ailment, and Dickon had not lived to see six summers.
Even if Oliver sired a perfectly healthy child, he himself was far from perfect. What good was he, a profligate likely to die young, to a son or daughter?
Damn her. She had trapped him into this marriage.
Lark came into the room a few minutes later. At first she didn’t spy him by the window, and she leaned against the door, closed her eyes and wiped the back of her hand against her brow.
“Don’t be so quick to breathe a sigh of relief.” Oliver pushed away from the window ledge and sauntered toward her. He spread his arms wide. “Madam, felicitations. You and Spencer have managed to land the Wimberleigh heir.”
A fire blazed in her gray eyes, like globed flames on a rainy day. “What on earth are you implying?”
He stopped at the table, set down his goblet and pressed his palms to the smooth surface. Leaning forward, he said, “I am implying that you and Spencer—God rest his soul—went to a great deal of trouble in order to bring me to heel. First saving me from the gallows, then using me to break the entail, and finally closing the trap just as Spencer turns up his toes. Very well executed, if you’ll pardon the expression.”