Embrace the Day

by Susan Wiggs

  Genevieve felt her fists close into small knots of outrage. Prudence begged her with a glance to hold her temper. She managed, just barely.

  Edmund Brimsby cleared his throat, obviously annoyed by this small disaster in his well-ordered household.

  "Miss Moon, the children are in need of supervision. Please say goodbye to your friend and see to them."

  His wife made a sound of disgust, clearly dissatisfied with her husband's mildness.

  Hearing this, Edmund pressed on. "Miss Moon, I pay you a good wage, and for that, I expect some measure of cooperation."

  Genevieve couldn't help herself. Prudence was defenseless against the man she claimed to love and his haughty, domineering wife. She wouldn't stand by and watch her friend being ordered about.

  "You're a fine one to talk about cooperation," she shouted at Mr. Brimsby. "Prudence has done a bloody sight more than the work expected of her."

  He stared at her coldly. "I suggest you leave straight away. And don't expect my wife's patronage again. You and your common ways are no longer welcome in my house."

  "Common, am I?" she raged. "God blind me, then, Mr. Brimsby, how do gentlefolk behave? I wonder if you know just why Prudence is so ill."

  Prudence gasped. "Genevieve, no—"

  But Genevieve was too angry to stop. " 'Tis because you've gotten her with child, you bleedin' sod, and if that's your idea of gentlemanly behavior, then I believe you could use a lesson or two from a 'commoner' like me!"

  The silence that followed her tirade hung in the air, a tangible, throbbing tension. At last, pale and tight-lipped, Angela spoke.

  "Those are filthy insinuations."

  Genevieve thrust her chin up. "Mrs. Brimsby, I'm sure your husband will deny every word of it, but that won't alter the truth. Prudence is ruined, and the bugger should bloody well face up to his responsibilities."

  Prudence began sobbing softly, hands covering her face.

  "Get out," Angela Brimsby ordered. "Get out, or I'll have you thrown out onto the street." She opened her mouth to summon a footman.

  Genevieve ignored her. Her arms went firmly around her shuddering friend.

  "Will you be all right?"

  Prudence nodded weakly.

  "Pru, I know it wasn't my place to speak out for you, but I couldn't stand to see the way they treat you. There now, go up to your room and rest a bit. I'll be back soon."

  She gave the Brimsbys a glower that promised certain trouble should something ill befall her friend.

  She left the quiet avenues behind and wended her way back to the seedy East End, a maze of muddied, rank-smelling streets and alleys, shadowed by top-heavy buildings that nearly met in crooked arches over the roads. A few blocks east rose the grimy edifice of Hawksmoor's church, empty of worshipers. No one made the mistake of identifying the poor as Christians.

  Creaking carts lumbered by, and hawkers called out, offering the last of the day's spoiling fish or limp vegetables. With a stab of premonition, Genevieve studied the women who came out to barter with the vendors. They wore ragged dresses and dirty aprons and had pale, thin faces creased by worry and want. Invariably, three or four hungry-eyed, bare-legged children clung to their skirts. The women were hardly older than Genevieve's own seventeen years.

  She walked on, fighting a now-familiar feeling of restlessness. She didn't want to end up like these creatures, hopelessly trapped in the slums, destined to eke out her life and die before her time, as much from loss of spirit as from disease and want.

  As she turned down Farthing Lane, an alley of singular tawdriness, she tried not to see the poverty around her. At the head of the lane were a few crumbling, rat-infested residences inhabited by an unending procession of the transient poor. A moneylender's office, halfway down the street, operated on the very fringes of the law. Across from it a brothel was thinly veiled as a boardinghouse. Worst of all, the butcher's shop at the end of the lane strewed offal out into the gutters for all to see and smell. Some said London had sanitary wagons to take care of the leavings, but Gene had never seen one anywhere near the vicinity.

  Sighing heavily, she approached her father's tavern. The alehouse was marked by a peeling sign that bore a crude picture of a sheaf of barley. Elliot's was frequented by a regular scruffy crowd of workmen and idlers, sailors and traders from the wharves. Though unappealing, the place was packed to the walls every night because the ale was cheap and plentiful and no one objected to the illicit gaming that took place in the back room.

  Genevieve walked around back to the cramped upper quarters she shared with her parents and two brothers. She deposited her empty basket and made ready to shoulder the even more unwelcome burden of the night's work in the tavern. Hours would pass before she could return to the loft where she made her bed.

  "Well, miss," said her mother. "You took your time getting back."

  "It's a long walk."

  "Aye, well, you've missed supper and they're bangin' their tankards downstairs."

  Genevieve sighed. The meat pasties she and Prudence had shared on the wharf would have to suffice.

  "I'll go." She tied on an apron and neatened her cloud of dark-brown curls with a comb. She knew her appearance didn't matter to the revelers below, but Prudence's influence had given her a sense of propriety that made her want to present herself at her best. She kept her corner of the sleeping loft clean, her two sets of clothes well-mended. Each week she trudged to St. Martin's to bring in fresh straw for her pallet.

  Short and slight though she was, Genevieve had to stoop beneath the beams of the stairwell that led down to the taproom. The noise and smells of the room greeted her before she actually emerged. Raucous laughter and bawdy remarks mingled with the clinking of the stoneware and pewter tankards. She stepped into the taproom and was immediately met by the pungent scents of tobacco and malt and strident requests for service.

  "A pint 'ere, girl, and be quick about it."

  "Bring that tray o' rolls, will ye? We're fair t' starvin'!"

  "I'll have gin; the beer 'ere ain't fit for swine!"

  Through years of practice, Genevieve had learned to heft a tray loaded with mugs, carefully snaking her way about the crowded room. For the better part of two hours she waited tables ceaselessly, until at last the drinking slowed. Then she went to the sideboard to wash tankards, arms submerged to the elbows in tepid water.

  Her father, Watney Elliot, came to sift through the handful of coins she had in her apron pocket. He was a man of middle years, small and compact, but possessed of a crude sort of arrogance that gave the impression of a much larger man. His hair was brown and tightly curled, showing no sign of gray. His sharp, small eyes darted, missing nothing. He quickly summed up the take and pocketed it.

  "Should be more," he grumbled. "You could do much better, girl."

  Genevieve ignored him and continued with her washing. She'd endured her father's complaints for a lifetime that suddenly felt much longer than seventeen years.

  "Look at you, girl, stern as a judge, when you know well and good these men would pay extra for a smile, or a glimpse of bosom or leg."

  She whirled on him, green eyes snapping with outrage. "I don't doubt you'd bloody well have me sell my body if it would fill your pockets."

  "There's worse ways of turning a coin, miss. You're a cheeky one, always have been, when you should be thanking me for keeping your belly full and a roof overhead."

  "I owe you nothing. Everything you've given me I've earned, and if your bleedin' customers expect any more than their ale from me, they're sure to be disappointed. If it's a dockside whore you want working here, you'll have to look elsewhere."

  "Listen to you, talking like that high an' mighty governess friend of yours. You wouldn't put on airs if I—"

  Genevieve pushed past him, unwilling to listen to more. "Excuse me," she said coldly. "I've work to do."

  Through the rest of the evening she was plagued by what had transpired earlier in the day. A hundred times she wonder
ed if she'd done the right thing in exposing Edmund Brimsby. Things would undoubtedly go badly for Prudence now, but at least Brimsby would be obliged to look after her. A small pension and a house on some quiet street perhaps. That was all Prudence needed. Genevieve would settle for nothing less for her friend.

  Roarke Adair despised the city of his birth. London was a human anthill, and not a very clean one. He had a dim memory of his mother saying sadly that the soot of the wharves might never be washed off, even as she scrubbed away at his ankles in the tiny, battered tin tub. The noise and the smells and the smoke were inescapable, day and night.

  The street Piggot took him to was among the worst Roarke had ever seen. He looked away from a vacant-eyed beggar crouched in a doorway and gritted his teeth. Now that Angela had denied him a chance to escape poverty, he could well join the beggar one day.

  Stooping beneath a peeling sign, Roarke followed Henry Piggot into the tavern. The taproom was dimly lit by a single lantern on the mantel and a few candles impaled on rusty iron spikes. The crowd was a seedy assortment of idlers and day workers who swore fluently and laughed loudly. Roarke and Piggot found a table near the rear door.

  Piggot raised his hand to call for service. "See there," he said, gesturing at the girl who approached. "Not the sort of wench you'd expect in a place like this."

  Roarke raised his eyes and found himself staring at a remarkably pretty girl. She was young, maybe sixteen, with dark-brown hair rippling over her shoulders. The features of her small, heart-shaped face were fine, almost dainty. Her person was unexpectedly clean for a wench in a place like this. There was an odd poignance about the perfectly cut squares that patched her skirt, the hem of which was just a shade too short.

  As she neared the table, Roarke amended his first impression. The girl wasn't merely pretty. She was a beauty.

  "Two pints," Piggot said, pressing a coin into her hand. Her uninterested gaze swept over the two of them, and she went to fetch their ale.

  "A cold fish," Piggot grunted. "Won't even talk to the regulars."

  Roarke said nothing. He didn't blame the girl. The men in the tavern weren't fit company for warehouse rats. When she set a tankard in front of him, he gave her a smile. She hesitated just for a second, looking nonplussed at his gesture of genuine friendliness. He held her eyes with his.

  "I'm Roarke Adair. What's your name, girl?"

  "Genevieve. Genevieve Elliot." She spoke without expression.

  "Genevieve…" Even his voice was smiling at her. "I think I'll call you Gennie. That seems to suit you better."

  "It doesn't matter to me, sir," she replied tartly.

  He ignored her tone. "What are you doing here, sweet Gennie? It's obvious you don't enjoy your work."

  "What would you have me do, sir?" she said challengingly. "Go a-begging in the streets?"

  "No, you seem much too clever for that. You speak well. Have you had any schooling?"

  "Of course not. But" —she flung her head up proudly— "I can read and do figures."

  "Well done, Gennie. But what good do such accomplishments do you?"

  "Look, sir, I've not the time for idle chatter—"

  "Sure she does, gentlemen," Watney Elliot interjected jovially. He gripped the girl's arm, halting her retreat to the sideboard. Watney hadn't failed to notice the size of Piggot's purse. He fixed a fierce glare on Genevieve. "You'll speak to the men," he ordered, and shoved her onto a stool.

  Roarke almost changed his mind about talking to her when she turned the full force of her resentful gaze on him. He'd already drunk far too much at other taverns and was in no condition for entertaining a girl with conversation. But something about her compelled him to speak.

  "Your father?" he asked, jerking his head at Watney.

  She nodded.

  "He treats you badly."

  "I give him little enough in return."

  Roarke clenched his fist. His own frustration earlier today somehow projected itself onto her. "Why don't you leave, then, Gennie?" he demanded.

  "And where would you have me go?" she asked, equally fierce.

  Roarke gave Piggot a canny look across the table. "The colonies. My friend from Virginia tells me 'tis paradise on earth."

  The first spark of real interest animated the girl's face. Her eyes, fringed by dusky lashes, attained a sudden sharp sparkle that came from deep within her. To Roarke's dismay, however, that bright look was focused on Piggot.

  "I wonder if you could tell me how much truth is in all I've heard of Virginia."

  A bittersweet mood overcame Roarke as he leaned back and drew on his tankard. Virginia was Piggot's favorite subject, and he applied himself to it with gusto, expounding on the perfection of his adopted homeland: vast farms swelling with bounty, rivers and forests alive with game, cities that were shining jewels of prosperity.

  As the girl grew more interested, Roarke became more morose. He'd wanted Virginia so badly. And he'd come so close to his dream. But not close enough.

  Piggot finished his monologue and raised his mug high. "To Virginia," he proclaimed.

  Genevieve noted the surprise of several nearby patrons. They'd all heard the news of Boston's defiance the year before and hadn't heard many toasts raised to the colonies since that tea-tossing episode.

  But Genevieve Elliot smiled. The smile had nothing to do with Roarke, but its brilliance was so striking that it took hold of something deep within him. Then Piggot invited him to the gaming room behind the taproom, and he reluctantly followed.

  When her father shouted stridently, Genevieve obeyed, covering her annoyance as she always did. She hurried into the cramped, dusty little game room. A circle of men huddled over their cards, seemingly oblivious to her presence. A mug had shattered and spilled on the floor, and she began to clear it away.

  Genevieve found herself studying Henry Piggot. He was the first real colonial she'd ever met. An odd sort, not entirely trustworthy-looking yet possessed of a sort of worn elegance and an unusual turn of speech that set him apart from Englishmen. He was middle-aged and clad in clothing that had seen better days. His stubby, inelegant fingers protruded from ragged gloves, and in one hand he held an ivory toothpick, which he applied to his teeth from time to time.

  Roarke Adair, whose sharp, intense stare disturbed her, lounged in the doorway. He was striking in appearance, but Genevieve didn't like him. She'd chafed under his probing questions and the way he looked at her, seemingly reading the restless longing that possessed her. At least he had sense enough not to join in the game. Watney Elliot cheated with great competence. Under Roarke's disconcerting gaze, Genevieve let the pieces of stoneware slip, and they fell to the floor with a startling crash.

  One of the men looked up. "Gets prettier every day, does your daughter, Wat."

  "She's not for the likes of you, Sim. Not with all the fancy ways she's been learning." Watney Elliot gave a gravelly, drunken laugh.

  Genevieve grimaced and went back to clearing the mess. Mercifully, the idle talk turned from her, and the men began asking Piggot about Virginia. Between the betting and clinking of coins and tokens, she learned that he was some sort of agent for a tobacco planter named Cornelius Culpeper.

  "I'm to set sail for Chesapeake a few days hence on the Blessing, out of Bristol. Doesn't leave me much time for my final bit of business."

  Chester Molls, one of the regulars, raised a grizzled eyebrow. "I thought you were trading for household goods. Don't seem too hard, here in London."

  Piggot nodded his balding head. "I've got all that. But I've yet to find Mr. Culpeper a wife. Women are few and far between in the western part of Virginia, and he's been a long time finding one."

  "You don't say."

  Again Piggot nodded. "Years past, they used to send them by the boatload, sixty, seventy at a time. All a man had to do was pay the passage—a hundred twenty pounds of tobacco—and he had him a wife. 'Tis less common now, and we've still four men to every female in some counties. Not very good odds
for a lusty lot like the frontiersmen. Anyway, I've a decent sum for a woman, and I've found naught. Those who are suitable wouldn't go, and those who'd come along aren't worth the price of passage."

  The men had a good chuckle at the strange predicament and went back to their game.

  Genevieve gathered up the fragments and went outside to put them in the dustbin. When she returned, she noticed Roarke still in the doorway, observing some sort of argument among the players.

  "You can't be betting what you don't have," Piggot was saying to Watney Elliot. The others had laid down their hands, and the wager was between the two of them.

  "I'm good for it," Watney insisted, clutching his hand of cards to his chest.

  "What have you got to put up?" Piggot asked. He'd suddenly become quite businesslike.

  Watney's red-veined eyes flicked about the table as he sought an answer. He was desperate to stay in the game; it was clear from the set of his jaw that he had a winning hand.

  Genevieve pursed her lips. She'd heard the argument countless times before. What, she wondered, would he wager this time? There was precious little aside from the night's take, or perhaps her mother's prized new iron stove. Distracted and angry, she dropped the dustpan she was holding.

  Watney Elliot exploded. "Worthless slut! I've thinking to do, and I can't concentrate with all that racket." He leaned back in his chair and shoved her hard. "Get out!"

  Ears burning with outrage at being treated so, especially in this unsavory company, Genevieve moved toward the door. A strong arm descended in front of her face.

  "Just a moment." Roarke Adair's voice rose above Watney's grumbled curses. He stood squarely in the doorway, blocking Genevieve's exit. "I've a solution to your problem, Mr. Elliot." He looked contemptuously at Watney.

  Watney narrowed his eyes. "And what might that be?"

  Roarke strolled into the room, his head brushing the timbered ceiling. "I believe Mr. Piggot is carrying the sum for a bride price from his employer."