Embrace the Day

by Susan Wiggs

  Genevieve bit her tongue when Prudence declared her love for Edmund Brimsby. The man had done his worst to her; how could she still think fondly of him? Unbidden, another thought crept up. How could Prudence resist Roarke's cheery attentiveness, the tenderness with which he treated her?

  The ship had no surgeon, but one of the crewmen, called Brother Tandy, was known to have some skill in doctoring.

  With tar-stained hands, Tandy examined Prudence, lifting limp, birdlike limbs and shaking his head. He murmured a few questions and listened intently to her barely audible replies. His eyes passed over the tiny rounded rise in Prudence's midsection.

  When he looked up at Genevieve and Roarke, he was grinning broadly.

  "Good God, man," Roarke blustered. "Can't you see this is no time to be joking? My wife is seriously ill."

  But Brother Tandy continued to smile. "Not seriously ill, sir. Seriously pregnant."

  Genevieve held her breath, silently willing Brother Tandy not to speculate on how long Prudence had been in this state. But even if he had, his assessment wouldn't have been heard. Roarke's whoop of delight would have drowned it out.

  "A child!" he roared, his voice ringing through the decks. "Glory be, Prudence, we're to have a child!" There was a look of such naked joy on his face that Genevieve had to tear her eyes away from him.

  Roarke danced a little jig, bumping his head on the ceiling beams before kneeling at his wife's side. He took her hand firmly in his.

  "I never dreamed it could happen so soon, love," he said in a softer voice.

  Prudence brightened a little at his tone. "Are you truly happy about this, Roarke?" she whispered.

  He nodded. "There's nothing a man wants more than a child from his wife."

  "I think I'd like to start writing in my journal again," Prudence announced one day. "Genevieve, do you think you could find it in that bag under the bunk?"

  Genevieve was astounded at Prudence's rapid improvement, for she'd been so horribly weak. But Roarke's pleasure at the prospect of the baby seemed to give her strength. She searched for Prudence's little calf-bound volume, but it wasn't to be found.

  "Are you sure you brought it, Pru?" she asked.

  "Of course I did,—" Prudence's hand flew to her mouth. "Dear God, Genevieve, I left it in London! I remember now, I was hurrying so in my packing—"

  "Don't worry; you'll have another one in Virginia."

  "But you don't understand, Genevieve. That journal contains my innermost thoughts; it was my only outlet for the longest time. If anyone should read it—"

  Genevieve patted her hand. "Does it really matter, Pru? You'll never see any of those people again. I'm glad you left the journal; you don't want to drag old secrets into your new life with you."

  "You're right, Genevieve," Prudence admitted. "Ah, I'm lucky, aren't I, to have Roarke. He's been more gentle than ever since learning about the baby."

  "I'd best be going," Genevieve said suddenly. It never failed to bother her that Prudence had become complacent about Roarke, that she took all he offered her without a bit of guilt.

  With Prudence on the mend, Genevieve spent more time alone over the final two weeks of the voyage. She tried not to rise to Nell Wingfield's taunts or to fight with the women over cooking their meals on the smoky little fire-box in the galley. She found herself thinking more than ever about her new home in Virginia. She even began to wonder, as she never had before, about the husband who awaited her.

  Virginia's shores rose like a gray-green lump on the hazy horizon.

  "It won't be long now," Roarke said, coming to stand behind Genevieve at the rail.

  She looked around sharply. As he stood staring at her, she became suddenly aware of her unkempt state. It had been weeks since she'd looked in a mirror, but she knew she was at her worst. She refused to feel ashamed. She lifted her chin proudly and looked into the wind as Roarke Adair spoke.

  "You must be anxious to meet Culpeper," he ventured.

  "Perhaps."

  "It's not so bad, marrying a stranger. It worked out well for Prudence and me. Still, you mustn't expect too much, Gennie. I've been talking to Piggot, and he admits Culpeper is somewhat older than you and a bit loose with his money."

  Genevieve sniffed. "I hardly expected a prince."

  He smiled, the lines of his rugged face suddenly soft. "What an odd little bird you are, Gennie. Somehow I get the impression you don't think much of yourself."

  "Why should I? My life was spent in a house where I was treated no better than a dog. My future was gambled away for the price of a round of cards. That's hardly the way a person of any worth is treated. I have no overblown sense of my own value, Mr. Adair." She spoke matter-of-factly, without a hint of self-pity.

  Roarke smiled again. "You're hiding, Gennie."

  "What the hell—"

  "That's just what I mean. You're hiding behind the rough talk and bravado of a razor-tongued guttersnipe. But inside, I know there's a sensitive girl with a loving heart, as surely as I know that beneath the grime and ragged clothes is a woman of uncommon beauty. I saw it the first time I laid eyes on you."

  Chapter Four

  The port of Yorktown hummed with activity as the Blessing was brought to dock. Grand houses fronted the wide mouth of the river. Frame and brick buildings mingled along a few paved streets. Stores and warehouses were built with the river at one door, the street at another. Genevieve watched avidly, her attention arrested by the green palisades of the forest beyond the town, the wild, tall cedars and pines and the bushes that exploded with blossoms of a deep pink color.

  The people clustered around the wharves looked different in subtle ways from those she'd left behind. The men wore plain shirts and breeches, and the few women she saw were garbed in homespun. There was a sturdiness about these people, a certain assurance in the way they bore themselves, an aura of hope, that set them apart from Londoners. Genevieve stared curiously at the Negroes, whose coffee-colored skin and tightly curling hair were unfamiliar to her. Suddenly, she looked forward to joining this assortment of people, to being a friend and neighbor to some of them.

  She disembarked with the rest of the women, unsure of what to do. She approached Mr. Piggot, who was speaking agitatedly to Mr. Ratcliffe, the ship's merchant.

  "… couldn't have foreseen this," Piggot was saying.

  "That doesn't matter. It's up to you to come up with the money."

  Genevieve cleared her throat. "What's the problem, Mr. Piggot?"

  His eyes flicked nervously toward the ship's merchant. "Never mind, girl. I'll take care of—"

  "My passage hasn't been paid, has it?"

  "No, miss," Ratcliffe said.

  She whirled on Piggot. "You had more than enough money. What have you done with it?" A sickening dullness settled on her when she recognized the look on his face. The defensive thrust of his jaw, the narrowed eyes. She'd seen it many times in her father. The bloody sod.

  Coldly, she said, "You gambled it away on the ship, didn't you?" His lack of response confirmed it. "I suspect Mr. Culpeper will not take this kindly. Mr. Ratcliffe, as soon as my husband arrives, he'll take care of my debt."

  Now both men looked uncomfortable. For the first time, Genevieve saw genuine regret in Henry Piggot.

  "Culpeper's dead," he mumbled.

  "What?"

  "I'm told he succumbed to swamp fever a fortnight ago."

  Genevieve shook her head in wonder. "Bloody hell. I'm a widow before I was ever a wife." She couldn't mourn for a man she'd never known. All she felt was a sense of amazement at the absurdity of her situation.

  "I'm sure he left an estate," she said to Mr. Ratcliffe. "Since we were married at the time of his death, he must have left me—"

  "There's more to tell," Piggot said, growing more ill at ease by the moment. He took out his ivory toothpick and fingered it distractedly. "Cornelius Culpeper was a good man, a kindly man. But he was irresponsible. He left a mountain of debts. Everything he had has bee
n seized except for a small farm in the West. I myself am one of Culpeper's creditors. I shall have to sell the Albemarle farm in order to recoup my loss."

  Genevieve sat down on a crate. Her shoulders drooped. "Some bloody fix I'm in now."

  Captain Chauncey Button approached them, his deeply creased face thoughtful. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Culpeper," he said to Genevieve.

  She gave him a thin smile. He was probably more sorry than she; it was to him that the fare was owed. Chauncey Button didn't have long to worry. A few moments later he was smiling and watching Roarke Adair count the fare into his hand.

  Genevieve gripped his arm, wavering between relief and outrage. "I won't be beholden to you, Roarke Adair," she vowed.

  He nodded. "Exactly. Let's just call this a payment for my past mistakes."

  She frowned at him. "How did you suddenly come into so much money? That first night we met, you hadn't two coppers to rub together."

  Roarke said nothing. But, briefly, his eyes flicked to Prudence, who was standing beside their bags. In that instant, Genevieve understood. She was furious with herself for ever feeling sorry for Roarke Adair.

  "It was the Brimsbys, wasn't it?" she demanded softly. "They settled money on you to marry Prudence."

  He looked so angry that she stepped back. Anger was something she hadn't seen in him before. Genevieve stared at him, determined not to flinch if he hit her.

  "You're not to speak of this again," Roarke said, cautioning her in a low voice. "Not ever. I mean to do right by Prudence, to be a good husband to her. Where's the fault in that?"

  Without waiting for her answer, Roarke turned on his heel and stalked over to Prudence.

  Somewhat at a loss, Genevieve followed a small crowd of people to a dusty warehouse that smelled sharply of dried tobacco. Almost immediately, Roarke appeared at her side. There was no trace of anger in his eyes now.

  "I still want to be friends," he told her.

  Genevieve looked away. The women from the Blessing were gathering in the warehouse, surrounded by curious onlookers.

  "Like cattle up for the slaughter," observed a man nearby. He was lean and long-jawed and wore a fringed hunting shirt and buckskin pants. He tipped a hat of gray animal fur at Roarke. "How do? My name's Luther Quaid. I hear you're looking for a guide to Albemarle County…"

  The men fell to talking while Genevieve and Prudence watched the proceedings in the warehouse.

  The affair was demeaning. Although Nell Wingfield preened and threw back her skirts to afford a view of her strong legs, behaving much as she'd done on the docks in England, the rest of the women hung back and looked nervously at the men who pressed in around them.

  Bids were shouted at the ship's merchant from a blur of faces, old and young, grizzled and cleanshaven, grinning and frowning.

  Henry Piggot joined Genevieve and Prudence. "You'd best offer yourself," he suggested. "You'll be needing a master… or a husband."

  Genevieve narrowed her eyes at Piggot. "No …"

  "You're alone now, and penniless. You have nothing."

  Genevieve flung her head up and directed a fierce look at him. "Alone, aye, and penniless, too. But I've the strength of my hands and back. I'll get work."

  Piggot shook his head. "The only work you'll get is the kind done flat on your back."

  Her mind raced. She'd noticed a single tavern in the port called Swan's. But would they want a Londoner fresh off the boat, with the stench of the slums still clinging to her? Then a thought pushed its way into her mind. Slowly, a smile crept across her face.

  "Didn't you say that Cornelius Culpeper left a tract of land in the West?" she asked.

  Piggot nodded, "In Albemarle County."

  "Is it not mine now that he's dead?"

  This time Piggot frowned. "Aye, but not for long. I intend to have the land sold."

  She clutched at his arm. "Let me farm it, Mr. Piggot. I'll pay you what you're owed."

  He snorted and began idly working at his nails with his ivory toothpick. "You? Alone? What does a London tavern wench know of farming?"

  "Nothing," Genevieve said fiercely. "But I'll learn, I'll—"

  "Give the girl a chance," Roarke said suddenly, his eyes taking in Genevieve's look of utter determination. " 'Twas you who got her here, after all."

  Genevieve sniffed. Roarke had conveniently forgotten his part in suggesting the wager. But she held her temper; Piggot seemed to be wavering.

  "A year," she said quickly. "Give me a year, Mr. Piggot. If I fail, the farm is yours. If I'm successful, you'll be paid."

  Piggot smiled. He was never one to resist a wager, especially one he couldn't lose. He went to the ship's merchant, scratched a quill over a bit of paper, and presented it to Genevieve.

  "There's our pact, Mrs. Culpeper," he said. "Put your name to it and the farm's yours."

  Genevieve's heart swelled with enthusiasm. She read the document, then signed her name with a flourish and gave the paper to Piggot, who left in a jovial mood, to gossip over the bizarre wager with his cronies. Genevieve looked up to see Roarke grinning at her.

  "What are you looking at, you sod?" she demanded.

  Laughter rumbled from him. "I believe I'm looking at a farmer, Gennie Culpeper."

  Luther Quaid's flat-bottomed boat brimmed with eager new settlers. The buckskin-clad trader declared they were all as green as the Virginia laurel that grew in profusion along the banks of the James River, but he liked them.

  Standing at the tiller, he studied his passengers. Seth Parker, the only one not fresh from England, was solicitous of his new bride, Amy. They'd be fine, building a life on Seth's modest plot near Dancer's Meadow. They had youth and hardiness and the beginnings of what would become an abiding love.

  The Adairs were a different story. Roarke was as strong and hale a man as Luther had ever seen, with his bright hair and keen eyes and hands that looked as though they could span a white oak. He'd do well by his uncle, who ten years earlier had carved out a good tract in Dancer's Meadow. Roarke was a likely heir to that legacy.

  Pity his wife wouldn't live to enjoy it, Luther thought with a sudden, unwelcome premonition. Prudence had a look about her that he'd seen before: a pallor, a languor that spoke of some weakness of blood—and of character. That, coupled with her utter lack of interest in this whole adventure, would finish her. Virginia's bounty was a wild one; to harvest it, one needed a good supply of mettle.

  At least Genevieve Culpeper wasn't lacking in that. But looking at her, her eyes bright with interest, her movements quick and animated, Luther concluded that she had a good chance. He had every intention of helping her. There was nothing he liked better than to see someone—woman or man, white or red—take a piece of land and shape it and make things grow. Odd, that bit about making things grow. Somehow the person working the land grew right along with it.

  Genevieve noticed Luther Quaid looking at her and gave him a bright smile. He was unlike anyone she'd ever met: long-jawed and hawk-nosed, clad in strange garments he'd claimed to have hunted from the land, with shoes he called moccasins laced up to his knees.

  She crossed to the tiller and sat down beside him, trailing her hand in the silky waters of the James. Along the banks the wind hissed through the cedars and catbirds flitted among the reeds.

  "All these trees make me feel awfully small," she commented. A mosquito hummed in front of her face, and she slapped at it.

  Luther handed her a small vial. "Pennyroyal," he said. "Keeps away the insects."

  Gratefully, Genevieve rubbed it on her skin. "You know the river well, Mr. Quaid."

  He nodded. "I was born in Albemarle County, right under the Blue Ridge. My pa was an Indian trader. Last thing he traded for before he died was a wife for me."

  Genevieve's eyes widened. "Your wife's an Indian?"

  "Chippewa. I took her to my hearth when she was a mite younger than you. But she claims I'm married to this here river."

  Privately, Genevieve agreed. Luther Quaid had
an uncanny way of reading the river. He seemed to know every nuance of it, the way it reached over rocks, swirling, sucking, doing things that only Luther could anticipate. He was the proud captain of two boats, one that made the gentle run from the Falls of the James to the coast and another above the falls that braved the up-river rapids. They'd made the transfer a few days earlier. The new countryside was wild and colorful, and Genevieve decided she was more eager than ever to make her home here.

  The companionable silence on the boat was broken only by birdcalls and the constant thrum of mosquitoes and occasionally by Amy Parker's shy laughter, which Seth delighted in coaxing from her.

  Prudence stayed in the small cabin, hiding from the untouched splendor of the woods rising up all around them. She preferred being alone with her thoughts and her broken dreams, sharing little with Genevieve, sharing even less with Roarke.

  When he emerged from the cabin, looking somewhat bewildered and not a little frustrated, Genevieve caught herself smiling at him. When a biting fly buzzed near him, she held out the vial of pennyroyal.

  "Good hunting here," Luther commented. "Let's see if we can scare us a turkey for our supper."

  Genevieve watched as they brought the boat to a bank of deep-red clay. Roarke looked more rugged than ever in the Virginia wilderness, sleeves rolled up over strong, corded arms and his face growing ruddy in the sun. Although he was a newcomer to the colony, he already looked as though he belonged here.

  She settled down with one of Luther's books as the two went off to hunt. In less than twenty minutes she heard several cracks from the rifles. Shortly after, Roarke burst from the woods, his face glowing with pride as he held his quarry aloft. Even Prudence emerged from the cabin to see what the celebration was about.