The Maiden's Hand

by Susan Wiggs

  “Then make me understand,” he snapped. “Why do you cower before him? Has he hurt you, abused you? By God, if he has, I won’t even need my sword to kill him.”

  “No! Oliver, if you truly care about my feelings, you’ll stop interfering. And I shall deliver the news about the entail.”

  “That should be interesting to watch. You can barely get three words out when he’s around.”

  She clenched her fists at her sides. “Excuse me, for I must see about supper.”

  In a whirl of stiff skirts and indignation, she was gone.

  That evening at supper, Lark served capon. She made no apology to Oliver when the hapless roasted bird arrived at the high table. She merely stared straight ahead, out at the lower tables where the stewards and overseers, footboys and maids, and occasional wayfarer took their meal.

  Ironically, her quarrel with Oliver had given her the strength to endure this evening. She had vented her temper, that unseemly, angry passion Spencer had so disliked, and she had survived the ordeal. She would survive tonight. She would not let either Oliver or Wynter make her cringe.

  Wynter sat at her right, Oliver at her left. On the other side of Wynter sat Mr. Belcumber, the portly and empty-headed mayor of Hempstead.

  Oliver chattered blithely with Mr. Nettlethorpe, a successful breeder of horses who had promised to locate a stud for Oliver’s prized Neapolitan mare.

  As she had been for the past score of years, Lark was left alone with her thoughts.

  How ironic, she thought bitterly. Spencer had been convinced that Oliver would be her salvation. That with his youth and beauty and charm, he would fling open the cage and she would soar.

  She took another sip of wine and thought back to Wynter’s arrival. She had felt that familiar thud of trepidation she always experienced in his presence.

  It was a rare gift, indeed, to be able to rip a person to shreds without even touching her. Wynter had a way of using words like a tarred lash, stripping away at her until she shrank like a defeated dog. She had given him that power over her.

  From time to time she tried to make excuses for herself—she had met him at the tender age of seventeen; her judgment had been blurred by his sleek beauty and magnetic air. But when she was honest, she admitted her own shameful weakness. The ugly past was her secret, her carefully hidden sorrow.

  Every once in a while she had tried to fight back, but always on behalf of innocent folk accused of heresy, never herself. Even Oliver had failed to repair her pride. Aye, he had put Wynter in his place, had threatened him, and she had been filled with hope. But Oliver had acted for his own benefit. Because he hurt. His pride was at stake.

  She sighed and set down her wine, having no taste for it. Of late, she had a sour stomach. Her gaze strayed to the coat of arms above the door. Spencer’s device, a hart passant, still adorned shields and hangings throughout the house.

  ‘Tis not your fault, Spencer, she thought. The fault lay with her. She could not find happiness. She never would. And two years earlier, she had flung away her own peace of mind.

  “Who is that woman there?” Interrupting her reverie, Wynter pointed at a lower table. “The one in the gown of dark blue.”

  Lark’s heart leaped as she followed Wynter’s pointing finger. Richard Speed’s outlandish disguise had proved to be unusually successful. With his yellow curls and broad face, Reverend Speed resembled a handsome, upcountry maid in simple garb.

  “Well?” Wynter prodded.

  Lark gave him the explanation they had settled upon. “Mistress Quickly is a poor widow fallen on hard times.”

  “She looks lonely. Where are your manners, Lark?”

  Before she could contrive an excuse, Wynter sent a servant to fetch the buxom Mistress Quickly.

  Lark gripped Oliver’s knee under the table.

  He smiled and whispered, “So you’re over your pique? Can’t keep your lovely hands off me?”

  Scowling with impatience, she whispered, “I fear Wynter has taken a fancy to our guest.”

  She expected Oliver to think and act quickly to avert the disaster. Instead he threw back his head and hooted with laughter. Moments later he stood to help Mistress Quickly up to the raised head table.

  Lark saw Oliver lean down and say something into Speed’s ear. Speed went pale, but that only enhanced the illusion of maidenly trepidation. His curtsy, when he was presented to Wynter, seemed endearingly clumsy. His blush, as he took a seat on the bench between Wynter and Lark, was genuine.

  When Wynter’s hungry eyes fixed on the tightly filled bosom, Lark wished she had not been so liberal with the straw.

  “Try the capon,” Wynter said, pushing the salver toward Speed. “’Tis unusually succulent.”

  Speed sniffed and waved a dainty handkerchief in front of his face. “Capon makes me bloated. You’d not want me breaking wind at the high table, would you?” Batting his huge, guileless eyes, Speed gazed at Wynter.

  Oliver made a gurgling sound, almost choking on his wine.

  Yet wonder of wonders, Wynter seemed enchanted. He regaled Mistress Quickly with tales of his travels, boasting that the queen had received him with a special kiss only a week earlier and that Bishop Bonner was considering him for an official post as undersecretary to the undersecretary of heretics’ widows and orphans. The office made certain that those who had lost their providers to heresy suffered no lapses of their own.

  “How exciting for you,” Speed piped. “Imagine, rooting out all those dangerous old women and small children. I’ve always considered them a threat to the security of England.”

  Wynter squinted at Speed.

  Speed bowed his mouth into a sweet smile.

  “Of course,” Wynter continued, “that would only be a start. Once I carry out my plans for Blackrose, I’ll surely earn a more influential post.” He leaned over to whisper in Speed’s ear, then left the table to ask the musicians to play a love song.

  Speed nudged Lark in the ribs and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “He wants to meet with me later!”

  “Oh, didn’t you know?” she said. “’Tis the lot of women to deal with noxious suitors.”

  Wynter returned as the lute player began a new tune. He settled himself next to Speed, but Mr. Belcumber distracted him with a question.

  “He’s got his hand on my knee!” Speed hissed at Lark.

  “So remove it,” she murmured.

  “I did! He put it back!” Horror and panic rasped in Speed’s voice. Wynter did not seem to notice, for he was still speaking to the mayor.

  For a moment, for one wicked, delicious moment, Lark let him suffer. Women were constantly embattled by unwanted male attention. They endured gropings and worse. Yet even virtuous men made light of women’s troubles.

  Finally, when it seemed Speed would burst his false bodice, she relented and cleared her throat. “My dear, did you ever discover the cause of those running sores on your—” She leaned over and pretended to whisper in Speed’s ear.

  Wynter sat forward to glare at Lark.

  With newfound strength, she ignored him.

  “Sores?” Speed asked stupidly.

  “Aye.” She paused and gritted her teeth. She had hoped Speed would not be so dense. “Did you find Grizzell Forrest, the healer? And did she tell you if it was leprosy, or the French pox?”

  Speed squeaked as if someone had pinched him. Wynter shot to his feet, the bench scraping the floor as it pushed back.

  “What a pity for you to leave so suddenly,” he cried. “Mortlock! Pyle!” Two maids scurried forward. “Help Mistress Quickly to the parish house. I’m certain she’ll wish to—to recuperate in private.”

  A gleam flashed in Speed’s eyes. “But what about our meeting?”

  “I—I just remembered,” Wynter said. “I have a previous engagement.”

  “I had hoped for my sake you would break it.”

  “Impossible. Quite impossible.”

  Muffled chuckles came from Oliver. Speed seeme
d to sense that he was pushing his luck. “A disappointment, my lord.” His parting curtsy was even clumsier than his first, and Lark wondered if Wynter heard Speed mutter, “Kiss my breech, you oily swasher,” under his breath as he left the hall.

  “I can see I’ll have much work to do around here,” Wynter said, fanning the air with his napkin. “Lark, what on earth were you thinking, letting a hideously diseased woman into my house?”

  Lark glanced at Oliver. She could see the laughter hiding in the blue depths of his eyes, and for a moment she took pride in his pleasure.

  The moment passed quickly, though. It merely acknowledged what she already knew in the pit of her stomach. She should delay no longer.

  She resisted the urge to grasp Oliver’s hand under the table. She told herself she did not need his help in taking this step. She gathered her courage on a deep breath of air, braced herself and turned to Wynter.

  “I take it you have not read Spencer’s will.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me the old worm fodder left you without a penny. Not that it should matter now that you’ve landed yourself the Wimberleigh heir.” He jerked his head resentfully at Oliver.

  Ill will thickened the air. Lark tightened every muscle to keep from trembling.

  Oliver’s knuckles turned white around the handle of his eating knife. Still, he kept quiet, and with dawning gratitude she realized he would allow her to tell Wynter in her own way.

  “Spencer was generous with me,” she said. “We knew he would be, of course. I brought him Montfichet as my dowry, and that will revert to me.” She dragged in a deep, steadying breath. “He was generous with you, as well, Wynter.” She was not sure what prompted her to add, “He loved you, in his way.”

  Just for a moment, sentiment softened Wynter’s handsome face. His chin trembled, and a strange, sad hunger flared in his dark eyes. Lark wondered, in that blink of time, what sort of man he might have been had he been taught to love rather than to hate.

  “How fortunate,” he muttered, holding out his goblet for more wine. He was himself again, harsh and suspicious and filled with loathing.

  “He left you half interest in the clothworks at Wycherly. Also the house in Fleet Street and the sum of a hundred pounds in silver. As for Blackrose Priory…” She forced herself to be steady of voice and demeanor. “He left it to me.”

  Wynter snorted into his cup. “Don’t be stupid, Lark. The property is entailed. Like it or not, it falls to me.”

  “The entail has been broken.”

  “Quite legally,” Oliver chimed in. “You see, a lawsuit has proven that it never belonged to Spencer in the first place.”

  “Of course it belonged to Spencer,” Wynter said. “King Henry granted it to him.”

  “Not quite.” In his cheerful, breezy style, Oliver explained the law of the Common Recovery.

  Lark barely heard. She found herself spellbound by the look in Wynter’s eyes. It was a fury so distinct and icy that she was transfixed like a mouse by the jeweled eye of a cat.

  It would have been easier to bear if he had flown into a rage. But of course, Wynter held his emotions in check. With sinking dread, she realized she was more like him than she thought. She might never be free of him.

  Wynter bathed his hands carefully in the finger bowl and dried them with a napkin. He stood, holding his fists clenched. “I do not accept this. I shall contest it.”

  Oliver grinned, but by now Lark knew him well enough to see the steel behind his smile. “Kit Youngblood is a most excellent lawyer. You’ll get nowhere, I assure you.”

  “So.” Wynter’s manner became brisk. “The battle lines are drawn.” Almost as an afterthought, he turned to Lark. “You plotted against me. I shall never forget your treachery.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Lark.

  Puzzled by the quaver in her voice, Oliver drew rein and held up his hand to signal Speed to stop. “Afraid? Wynter can’t hurt you. Whatever hold he had over you is broken.”

  Her face was pale and drawn, the shadows under her eyes making them appear larger than ever. A sting of tenderness jabbed at Oliver. He could never look at her without wanting to put his arms around her and hold her close.

  “I mean I’m afraid to meet your family,” she confessed.

  He swept his arm toward the magnificent panorama rolling out before them. His parents’ Wiltshire estate was matchless in its symmetry and beauty, from the pocked limestone gatehouse to the rambling, gabled manse, to the long gardens and mazes that led to the wild woods to the south and west.

  “I thought it only proper to introduce my wife to my family now that they’ve returned from Muscovy. Besides, poor Speed needs to escape England. If anyone can help him, my father can. At last count, I believe his fleet numbered a dozen ships.”

  “You’re right.” She sent the gowned and coifed minister a wan smile. “Reverend Speed, you have been most patient with us.”

  “Indeed.” He dug his finger beneath his starched headdress and scratched his head. “You’ve both been more than generous, and you’ve taken enormous risks for my sake.” He grinned at Lark. “I’ve even forgiven you for telling Lord Wynter I have the pox.”

  “No one will ever accuse my wife of being dull witted,” Oliver said, his chest filling up with pride.

  Lark ducked her head, and he wanted to shake her. Why did she persist in thinking herself unworthy? How could he convince her that she truly was as he saw her? Radiant with an inner beauty, fiercely clever, worthy of love.

  Aye, love.

  He threw back his shoulders. “We are at Lynacre. Do we turn back or will you meet my family? Come, Lark. Be adventuresome.”

  Her gloved hands gripped the reins tighter. “Of course I shall meet them. It’s just that I’ve never before had a real family. It will seem strange to me.”

  Oliver laughed, thinking of the menagerie within the walls of Lynacre. “Oh, they are strange, I promise you that.”

  They did not disappoint. Once the travelers had surrendered their horses to the grooms and waited in the shadowy main hall, the exuberant de Lacey clan descended like an ill-matched flock of exotic birds.

  Oliver accepted hugs from his father, his stepmother, the two girls and the twins. Hollering above the babble of greetings, he said, “I’ve gotten married, and I’ve brought my wife to meet you.”

  Instantly the babble started up again and crescendoed to a roar. To Oliver’s horror, they surrounded Richard Speed, hugging the poor man, kissing him, welcoming him to the family. Lark stood by silently, doubtless mistaken for a lady’s maid, her hands clasped and her eyes downcast.

  Simon and Sebastian, the twins who were identical in all ways but one, began nudging each other and whispering.

  Stephen de Lacey, Oliver’s father, bellowed a hearty welcome to Speed. Like Oliver, he was a big man. Aside from his wife and family, the thing he loved most was the joy of invention. Around his neck hung no fewer than three pairs of spectacles, one of which seemed to have a tiny set of backward-facing mirrors attached. Along with the spectacles were two different watches on leather thongs, and one of them suddenly let loose with a tinny gong. Speed yelped in surprise and jumped back, shaking his skirts as if a mouse had run under them.

  Stephen chuckled and turned to Oliver. “If I get this mob quieted down, would you introduce her to us properly?”

  Oliver’s chest felt as if it might burst from inappropriate mirth. “Of course. Father, Lady Juliana.”

  His stepmother, plump as a ripe peach, turned with a sparkling smile. “Please do. Oliver, this is a most rare honor.” The special flavor of her native Novgorod still lilted in her voice.

  “There’s been a mistake,” Oliver said when he could finally control his laughter. “That is the right Reverend Richard Speed.”

  “Richard Speed!” shouted Natalya, clapping her hands. “I have studied your sermons for years.” Dark, dainty and as graceful as a cat, she was an avid reader of philosophy who had, thus far, frightened
off all suitors with her intellect.

  “Ha!” Simon burst out, jabbing his twin brother in the ribs. “I told you something was amiss!”

  Sebastian, who understood such attractions, shoved Simon away and sent a boggle-eyed stare at Oliver. “You wed a man?”

  “God save me from unnatural brothers!” Simon shouted. “First Sebastian, and now you, Oliver?”

  Belinda swore, no doubt echoing invective learned during her frequent visits to the gunpowder merchant in Bath. Wearing a man’s riding clothes and armed with a leather whip, she stumbled back in horror.

  Sebastian slapped his thighs. “Of course not, merkin-breath,” he said to his twin. He pointed to Lark, who still stood frozen and silent off to one side. “That’s his wife.”

  “Sweet Jesu, thank you!” Simon bellowed, thumping his fist three times upon his chest. With the swagger of a ship’s captain, he swept across the room, picked Lark up in his arms and whirled her around.

  Oliver started forward to rescue her, but his family thwarted him. They smothered poor Lark with love. She, who had known only the stern regard of a strange man many years her senior, was suddenly swallowed by the unabashed adoration of the de Lacey clan.

  Juliana lapsed into a string of Russian endearments. Belinda insisted that Lark be entertained with a fireworks display; Natalya wanted to show her the library. Simon and Sebastian began to argue, loudly and passionately, about whom Lark more closely resembled—Artemis or Perpetua.

  Stephen de Lacey stepped back and simply wept for joy. It was like seeing a mountain weep; he was so huge and his happiness was so heartfelt.

  Oliver didn’t have the heart to tell him they had married to honor a deathbed promise. His family always worried about him, always seemed certain he avoided marriage because of his condition, which was true.

  Then his thoughts fled as a faint cry broke from Lark. Her eyes rolled up and she pitched forward, collapsing into Simon’s brawny arms.

  “My God!” Natalya shouted accusingly. “We’ve smothered the poor woman!”