by Susan Wiggs
"Look there, love," Roarke boomed, giving the limp bird a shake. "First turkey I ever bagged." He swooped down and planted a kiss on Prudence's brow. His only reward was a wan smile. As Luther took the bird off to clean it, Prudence shivered with revulsion and went back to the cabin without another glance at her husband. Roarke's face suddenly lost its boyish glow.
Genevieve felt resentment rise sharply within her. Why couldn't Prudence share in Roarke's pride? Bringing home food to his wife was clearly important to him, but Prudence acted as if it were nothing. Genevieve was inches from telling Prudence as much, but she stopped herself. She was hardly an authority on being a wife. Determinedly, she took up Luther's well-worn agrarian manual again.
"What's that you're reading?" Roarke ventured, lowering himself to her side.
She said nothing but held up the book so he could see the title.
He grinned. "You'll have to tell me, Gennie. I've no head for reading."
Genevieve looked at him in surprise. "You can't read?"
He shrugged. "Barely. Never had a teacher. I was working the docks practically from the day I could walk."
She continued to stare, searching his face. Although he was smiling and spoke offhandedly, she thought she perceived a note of wistfulness in his tone. Roarke Adair, for all his boundless self-assurance, was a man who knew his limits. Suddenly, Genevieve realized he had dreams of his own, too. She wondered why that had never occurred to her before.
" 'Tis a book on farming," she said slowly. "If I'm to be a planter, I'd best be learning what I'm about."
Two days later the craft slid up a wide estuary of the Rivanna, called Dancer's Creek. Luther poled to a weather-beaten dock. Genevieve, who had been sunning herself and talking to Amy, sat up, eyes sharp and seeking. Brambles grew down the bank, spreading over a barely discernible track, While Luther secured the boat, Roarke attempted to help Genevieve to the poorly constructed dock. She pulled her arm away quickly and scrambled up to the creaking planks.
"What is it, Gennie?" he asked, mildly annoyed.
She took a step back. The wood felt brittle and insubstantial under her feet.
"I don't like having things done for me, that's all."
Shaking his head, he handed up her bundle of things. "Bit of a heavy parcel there," he commented.
She snatched the bundle, which contained her clock, from him. "I can manage, Roarke Adair." He climbed to her side and stood looking up the bank at the farmhouse. "I hope so, Gennie," he murmured, frowning at the neglected structure, which was surrounded by an equally dilapidated barn and several outbuildings. In front of the house rose a tall hickory tree, ragged and gray of bark, at home in the setting. "You're sure to be tested if you mean to live here."
The house had been built in haste. Its walls leaned slightly, and the logs had weathered to a dull gray. The structure was buttressed at one end by a large stone chimney. But Genevieve didn't see the flaws. She stared at the two cleared hills rising behind the house, just waiting to be planted.
Luther looked at her dubiously. "Ain't much," he stated.
Genevieve shrugged. "I never wanted much." She gave another look at the hills and then she and Roarke entered the house. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smells of old smoke and disuse. There was a single crudely hewn stool and an old crate standing on end for a table. The bedstead had a mattress covered with a hide and blanket, nearly rotted through to the floor. A few rusting utensils hung on hooks over the hearth. The fireplace had deep jambs and a long crane for cooking. A money scale provided unexpected ornamentation over the mantel. Genevieve put a finger on the scale and laughed.
"I'll have to find some other use for this," she joked, moving the brass scale aside. She set her bundle on the puncheon floor and slowly unwrapped it, extracting the clock. "This will do better over my hearth than the money scale," she commented, setting the clock in place. She wound the timepiece and smiled at the sound it made.
The ticking accentuated a sudden, heavy silence. Thinking Roarke had gone, Genevieve turned.
He hadn't gone. He was regarding the clock with an expression she was hard put to read. His eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in outrage, while the corners of his mouth pulled down with a sadness she didn't understand.
"Where did you get that?" he asked quietly, his eyes locked on the clock.
Genevieve tipped her chin up. "It was to be delivered to Angela Brimsby, but I claimed it from the pawnshop instead." She grinned sheepishly. "A bit of pettiness, I admit, but at the time I wasn't feeling too kindly toward Mrs. Brimsby."
A sigh slipped from Roarke. "I see."
"Why do you ask?"
"That clock is—was—"
She squinted at him. "No doubt you think it too grand for the likes of me."
He shook his head. "No, Gennie, 'tis not that at all."
He seemed about to say more, then hesitated. "You'll give the clock a finer home than Angela Brimsby ever would have." Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes from the mantel and turned away.
Genevieve watched him, bemused. Then she went and lifted a corner of the blanket on the bed, coughing as a little storm of dust met her face.
"You can't live here," Roarke said from the doorway.
She shot him a determined look. "Can't I, Roarke Adair?"
" 'Tis little more than a hovel, girl."
"The roof seems sound enough." She stamped her foot. "And look, a good wooden floor."
He shook his head, motioning for Luther to join them. "Come with us, Genevieve. Luther says we're only three miles upriver from here. You can live with us until you get this place in better shape."
"No."
His jaw tightened in impatience. "Damn it, Gennie, why not?"
She turned about, filling the room with her presence. "Because this house is mine, Roarke. It's where I belong now."
Roarke visited almost every day, always in late afternoon, soaked with sweat from his work. He was never empty-handed. Ignoring her protests, he brought her honey and vegetables from his farm; brown eggs or a bit of butter or cheese.
"You're kind to do this," Genevieve told him sincerely, "but I don't need your generosity; I have to learn to do for myself."
"I expect you will one day, Gennie," he said assuredly.
"I can't keep waiting for one day, Roarke."
He gave her a long, measuring look. "I don't guess you can, Gennie. Very well, let's go fishing."
"Fishing!"
He grinned. " 'Tis well to grow crops, but that takes time. If you really want to be able to fill your belly, you'd best learn to fish."
It wasn't quite what Genevieve had meant, but she followed him down to the river bank for her first lesson.
"Damn, but you're an impatient woman," Roarke muttered. He frowned at the empty hook Genevieve had just hauled from the river, sure she'd caught a fish.
"You can't simply jump at the first sign of a bite," Roarke continued. "Give the devil a chance to snare himself."
Genevieve pursed her lips and baited the hook again. She didn't like appearing incompetent before Roarke. It had been three weeks since her arrival at the farm, and she wished she had something to show for it.
She cast her line into the river and gave Roarke a smug look. It was a perfect cast. The current pulled the line until it was taut, and Genevieve stood staring at it, willing a fish to take her bait.
The river was bountiful. In moments, Genevieve felt a distinct tug on her line. Immediately, she started to haul it backward.
Her motion was stopped by Roarke. Stepping directly behind her, he brought his arms around her and grasped the rod, closing his hands firmly over her own.
"No, you don't," he said into her ear. "You're not going to let this one make off with the bait." Together they watched the line being pulled to and fro. Then Roarke gave it a quick tug. Fins flashed, and the sun glinted off a yellow underbelly.
"A good-sized bass, Gennie," he said with a laugh. "Easy now… pull away, girl."
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nbsp; His arms felt hard and strong about her. He smelled faintly of leather and sweat and wood smoke. Chasing a strange quiver of feeling away, Genevieve helped him land the fish. They regarded the plump, flopping bass in the grass beside the river.
Roarke gave her shoulders a little squeeze before releasing her. "You see, Gennie, it's easy. Tomorrow I'll show you how to set a seine for them."
She looked away to hide the flush that stained her cheeks. "Will you stay to supper?" she asked. "I'm not much good at catching fish, but I know a thing or two about cooking them."
Roarke thanked her but said, "I'd best be getting back home to Prudence."
"How is she?" Genevieve asked quickly. She felt slightly guilty being here with her friend's husband, with her insides all aflutter in some strange, forbidden way.
"Doing well," Roarke said as he began cleaning the fish expertly with a thin-blade knife. "She's been asking after you, Gennie. Why don't you come for a visit? The house is plenty big for guests. You could stay the night."
Genevieve shook her head quickly. "I can't, Roarke. I've too much work to do around here." Automatically, her eyes went to the small kitchen garden behind the run-down house. It bore nothing edible yet, but Genevieve had carefully cultivated the ruined plot, hoping to coax some of the turnips and onions and potatoes from their wild state.
"You've been working too hard, girl," Roarke said. "Every time I come by, you're toiling over something or other."
"I don't mind the work. I like it, in fact. For the first time in my life, I'm doing something for me, Roarke, and I like the way that feels."
He nodded in understanding. But then he asked, "What good is it, though, if you've no one to share it with?"
"You'd best get back to Prudence," Genevieve said quickly, taking the gutted fish from him.
Genevieve shaded her eyes at the westering sun, then looked down at the neat, newly weeded rows of the garden. The rich, red-brown soil was nourishing a nice summer crop of vegetables. It was a fine thing, Genevieve decided, bringing things from the earth. She glanced up at the twin hills behind the house. The land there was rich, too. Luther had said it had borne two seasons of tobacco. But there was too much land for one woman to work. Not for the first time, Genevieve wished there were some way to use the land again.
She sighed, and nearby a cat gave an answering mew and stretched, blinking long, lazy eyes at her. Roarke had brought the cat a week ago, saying it might be good company. It wasn't. The little beast only seemed interested in sunning itself and occasionally murdering a bird or field mouse.
"Day's almost over, cat," Genevieve said. "I thought sure I'd be finished with the weeding by now, but it looks like I've another day's work here." The cat purred and dug its claws into the dirt.
"Fat lot you care," Genevieve said, but she was smiling. She bent and pulled up a final weed. On the way back to the house, she stopped to fill her apron with some raspberries that grew wild along the fringes of the dooryard. Then she went inside, the cat padding silently behind her, and stirred the embers in the grate.
She and the cat shared a meal, shrouded by purple twilight, the sounds from the woods swelling with the coming night. Genevieve tried not to think about the fish she was eating. She told herself firmly that she should be thankful for the river's abundance. But, Lord, she was tired of the taste of fish. She pushed her plate over to the cat, allowing him to devour her portion.
Then she added some sticks to the fire and waved her apron at it until if flared up. It wasn't nearly cold enough for a roaring blaze, but Genevieve's lamp oil had run out, and she wasn't ready to retire for the night. Taking up one of her books, she thumbed through it until she found her place.
In appreciation of her interest in reading, Luther Quaid had been by with more books on farming. Sometimes he even brought her a plump, freshly skinned rabbit or offered a sample of venison, dried and jerked by his Indian wife. Genevieve looked forward to Luther's infrequent visits. He wasn't a talkative sort, but he brought news from town and was always ready with some practical advice to help her along.
Genevieve turned her eyes to her own fields, illuminated now by a full moon. Always her attention went back to those two grand, gently rounded hills. There was a boundless richness about the brown fields, rippling like corduroy over the acres. Genevieve stared at the land for a long time. It was hers, and what she did with it was up to her.
Slowly, like the moon breaking from a bank of clouds, a smile spread across her face.
Chapter Five
"I haven't any money," Genevieve said.
Digby Firth brought the tips of his fingers together and regarded her sternly from beneath brows that resembled graying bottle brushes. "How much do you know about growing tobacco, Mrs. Culpeper?"
She looked down at her pink dimity dress, sent to her by Prudence, who was fast outgrowing her clothes, and bit her lip. Not for the first time, her conviction wavered. It was a fool thing, coming to Yorktown with Luther Quaid. A woman alone, she had no business trying to revive her farm. But she squared her shoulders and faced the tobacco factor with determination.
"I know very little, sir, except what it smells like being smoked in a tavern. But I've been studying about cultivation. The soil on my place is excellent. It's borne only two seasons of tobacco."
" 'Tis a hard crop to bring from the earth. There is a neverending cycle of cultivation. If one small task is improperly performed, it could mean ruin. Every step, Mrs. Culpeper, requires skill, judgment, and a good bit of luck."
"I understand that, Mr. Firth. I've studied Mr. Charing's treatise inside and out."
He tamped a small wad of tobacco into a pipe, held a flame to it, and frowned severely through the strands of blue-gray smoke that encircled his head.
"Why, Mrs. Culpeper?" he asked. "Why would you want to start up a tobacco farm? 'Tis an uncertain, sometimes cruel existence—"
She regarded him steadily, gathering conviction. "I want to make things grow, Mr. Firth."
The bushy eyebrows raised, but the look he gave her was not unpleasant.
"Just how do you propose to go about this, Mrs. Culpeper?"
"With your loan, I'll buy seed, equipment, and a horse and hire workers to help me prepare the seedbeds in January. I'll need help again in April, when it's time to transfer the plants to the main fields, then at harvest time."
"Mrs. Culpeper, you do realize that your first crop won't even be shipped until next spring? You'll have no income at all until then."
"I've been without money for five months, since I arrived in Virginia."
"Tell me, Mrs. Culpeper…"
"Yes?"
"Just what makes you think you'll succeed?"
"I'll succeed, Mr. Firth. Because I won't allow myself to fail."
He stared at her in her fading frock, hands folded in her lap. There were traces of dirt under her fingernails. Her face was browned by the sun, and freckles dusted her nose and cheeks. When she lifted her eyes to him, Digby Firth decided to give her the money.
He smiled to himself. People would raise their eyebrows and wonder if, in his dotage, the hardheaded Mr. Firth was getting soft, showing compassion for a young widow alone in the world. But that wasn't true. He hadn't become wealthy by doling out charity. He'd done it by making himself the smartest, most intuitive tobacco factor in Yorktown.
And as he looked at the young woman across the desk, Digby Firth knew that the glint of tenacity in her eyes wasn't just a show of bravado. Genevieve Culpeper would succeed. Her farm was small, negligible by Virginia standards, but even a modest crop could be sold for a tidy profit in the markets he knew so well.
He dipped his quill and scratched out a hasty note. Pushing it across to Genevieve, he said, "Take this to Norris Wilmingham. He's two doors down from Flowerdewe and Norton. He'll give you everything you need."
Not until Genevieve was out in the road did she allow herself to believe Digby Firth was actually going to help her. But looking down at his note, she real
ized he'd been more than generous. Her whoop of joy startled several passers-by, who turned in surprise to watch the pretty dark-haired woman skipping down the street.
As she was passing a warehouse, a man sprawled out into the street in front of her, so close she almost tripped over him. A derisive laugh issued from the warehouse.
"We'll have no niggers doing a white man's work," someone said. "Get back to the fields where your kind belongs."
At first, Genevieve thought the man was a drunken brawler being ejected from the warehouse. But looking into his coffee-brown face with its clear, bright mahogany eyes, she realized he was quite sober.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, getting to his feet.
Genevieve picked up his battered tricorn and handed it to him. "Are you all right?"
The man nodded, replacing his hat.
"What was that all about, sir?"
He shrugged. "I was just trying to hire myself on for an honest day's work."
"Why didn't they hire you?"
He looked incredulous. "Didn't you hear the man? I'm not fit to do a white man's work." Shaking his head, he muttered, "Waited forty-five years for my freedom. I guess the price for that is watching my family starve. Better I stayed a slave."
Genevieve moved her eyes over the man. He was gaunt and wiry, his cheeks hollow and creased by deep lines.
"You mustn't talk like that, sir," she said quickly.
"I guess not," he said, brushing off his clothes.
She put out her hand. "I'm Genevieve Culpeper, of Dancer's Meadow in Albemarle County."
Slightly taken aback, he shook her hand. "Joshua Greenleaf. Lately of Greenleaf Plantation, in King and Queen County. My master freed me in his will. At the time, I thought he was doing me a favor, but…"
"What do you know of growing tobacco, Mr. Greenleaf?"
"All that the better part of my life has taught me, ma'am."
"How badly do you want to work?"
"I got a wife and six young'uns, ma'am."
An audacious grin brightened Genevieve's face. As they walked together toward Wilmingham's, they struck an agreement. Genevieve told Joshua right off that she had little money to pay him, but that he'd share in any profits they made. His wife and four sons and two daughters would have a roof over their heads, if they didn't mind the work of converting the barn on her place into a home.