by Susan Wiggs
"What—what does that mean?" Genevieve demanded, terror pounding through her veins.
Mrs. Weems brushed a tear from her cheek. "She's bleeding to death, Genevieve. She won't last another night."
"No!" Genevieve stifled a sob with her fist, nearly breaking the skin of her knuckles with her teeth. "You're wrong, Mrs. Weems—"
"I wish I were, lovey. I wish I were. But I've attended too many birthings to be mistaken about this. 'Tis a risky thing, bearing children."
Genevieve almost wished the baby would begin crying again, if only to break the silence that crowded into the darkened room throughout the day. But the child was as patient as an angel, bearing the clumsy, inexperienced way she cradled him in her arms with great calm, sucking occasionally from a small twisted cloth that had been dipped in water.
Roarke merely sat and stared at Prudence's inert form, looking bleak and helpless as he watched his wife slip away. From time to time, Mrs. Weems came and exchanged the blood-soaked rags for fresh ones.
The blood never seemed to stop. Genevieve shivered and tried not to give way to panic. The horror, the helplessness of watching the dearest friend of her heart die, was almost too much to bear. So she clung to the baby and watched his mother and didn't bother to wipe away the tears that, like Prudence's lifeblood, flowed copiously.
"I never should have brought her here," Roarke said, his voice thick with self-loathing. "I never should have listened to Angela Brimsby. Prudence wasn't strong; I saw that from the first. But my own selfishness kept me from heeding that warning."
"It's not your fault, Roarke," Genevieve whispered. Bitterness twisted in her gut at the thought of the Brimsbys. Such fine, upstanding Londoners. So rich and secure in their neat little life. Prudence meant nothing to them. Edmund had planted the child that was killing her, while he himself was untouched by scandal and tragedy. Genevieve had never before realized she was capable of the cold hatred she now felt.
Afternoon slid into evening. Mrs. Weems had engaged a wetnurse, a French Indian woman named Mimi Lightfoot who had lost her husband and baby to fever. Mimi slipped into the room and built up the fire in the grate. Then she placed a candle on the bedside table and withdrew, her face pinched with regret. Neither Roarke nor Genevieve spoke to her.
Finally, as the first stars of twilight began to wink in the sky, Prudence stirred. Roarke leaned forward, hope springing to his eyes.
"The baby…" Prudence breathed.
Genevieve came to the bedside and held out the child, who was just waking from a long nap. He opened his tiny mouth and yawned delicately. She laid the bundle beside Prudence and brought her friend's arm about the baby.
Prudence squinted and blinked, as if she were having trouble seeing. Then her eyes seemed to focus, and her lips curved into a smile of unbearable sadness.
"He is worth it," she said, mouthing the words, too weak to give voice to them.
"He's a fine boy, Prudence," Roarke assured her.
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Her smile softened and became even sadder. "And you're a fine man, Roarke Adair. I was lucky to share even a small part of my life with you." A wistful look crossed her face. " 'Tis a shame, my husband, that I waited until now to tell you that."
Roarke gripped her hand. Then Prudence reached her other hand out to Genevieve, who stood at the other side of the bed.
"My dearest friend," she murmured, her voice even fainter than it had been before. "What joy I had in you."
"Oh, Pru…" Genevieve choked, feeling herself begin to tremble from head to toe.
"You mustn't cry for me, Genevieve. Please. You must live for me. Virginia was not my destiny, but it's yours. You're thriving, Genevieve. I like to think I've given you something by teaching you to read."
"Pru, you've taught me so much more than that."
"Then use it, Genevieve. Use it, and make me proud of you."
Genevieve brought her friend's small, cold hand to her lips and pressed a kiss on it.
"I will, Pru. I swear I will."
Prudence's eyes fluttered shut, and Genevieve sobbed aloud, certain she was gone. But the eyes opened again, to look upon the child.
"Hance," Prudence said, using the name she'd chosen. "Keep him well. He is innocent of my crimes."
Roarke met his wife's gaze. "Of course, Prudence."
"You are so good, both of you," Prudence murmured, coughing softly on the words. "Would that I had a fraction of your goodness…" Slowly, she turned her gaze to the window, where stars sprayed across a blue-velvet sky.
And then it was over. Prudence simply gave herself up to death. There was no movement, no dramatic sound or final plea for mercy. It was as if Prudence had been frozen in time, staring out the window with unseeing eyes, unconsciously facing eastward, toward the man she'd never stopped loving.
"No!" Genevieve sank to her knees beside the bed. Roarke shook his head, moved his hand gently over Prudence's face to close her sightless eyes, and took the baby into his arms.
Then he came around the bed and lifted Genevieve to her feet.
"She's gone, Gennie," he stated. "She's gone, and we've work to do."
Genevieve clung to Roarke's strength and slowly gained control of herself. Brushing the tears from her face, she gazed down at the baby.
"Indeed we have, Roarke Adair. This young man will need a good bit of love."
They walked to the door together, to find Mimi Lightfoot and begin the melancholy business of mourning. Roarke hesitated and looked back at the slight form on the bed.
"I never even knew her," he whispered hoarsely.
Genevieve swallowed hard. "I did, Roarke. Oh, God, but I did."
Chapter Six
Genevieve stood at the top of the main field, leaning on her mattock. The twin slopes below her shimmered as the springtime sun began to draw the dew from the grass. Mimsy was in the kitchen garden fussing over her peas and potatoes. The bright yellow calico kerchief she wore on her head stood out amid the muted browns and tender greens of the garden. Near the barn, which had become a home with a newly mortared chimney, Rose was pegging laundry to a line stretched between two sassafras trees.
Closer to Genevieve, Joshua and the boys worked at transplanting tobacco seedlings, as they had done starting at dawn every morning for a full month now. Joshua caught her looking at him and grinned, motioning her to join them. Lifting her skirts above her mud-caked boots, she started down the slope.
"Finest seedlings I ever saw," Joshua remarked. "The leaves are the size of bank notes."
Genevieve smiled at him. Like Joshua, she hoped to see the crop transformed into cash. The land was bountiful, but there were some things they couldn't take from it, like hogs-heads and hand presses and farm equipment, which they needed more and more with each passing day. She bent and dropped a seedling onto one of the tobacco hills that had been prepared.
Looking down at the plant, she said, "I've done that so many times, I swear I could do it in my sleep."
"You're a born planter, Genevieve. We'll be done by the first of June the way things are going. And the Lord's seen fit to bless us with plenty of rain."
Genevieve grimaced at the mention of rain. Despite what Joshua said, she had a hard time regarding it as a blessing. It had drizzled steadily for the past few weeks, soaking her and the Greenleafs to the bone before each day was done. But Joshua insisted it was perfect planting weather, so she endured it.
"I can't believe we'll be finished in two weeks," she said, working on another seedling.
Joshua nodded. "Never drove myself or my boys so hard at Greenleaf. I guess knowing part of this is to be mine makes all the difference."
"You'll have earned more than your share, Joshua," Genevieve said.
They worked in companionable silence for a time, until Curtis burst into song. Genevieve smiled. The boy was irrepressible, as tireless as his father. He had a beautiful voice, as sweet and pure as a bird's song. Mimsy called him her singing angel. Qu
ietly, so as not to mingle her own less tuneful voice with Curtis's, she began to hum along.
She wished, for Joshua's sake, that the eldest boy, Calvin, had some of Curtis's humor. Calvin was a handsome, brooding youth with a quick mind and an even quicker temper. Genevieve sensed a restlessness in Calvin that reminded her a little of herself, the way she'd been back in London. Cal seemed to be straining at the bit of his life, reaching for something just out of his grasp.
Genevieve had hoped last winter that he would find fulfillment on the farm, but it was not to be. Calvin worked as hard as any of the Greenleafs, but he worked without conviction. Of all the family he was probably the most intelligent, the most high-minded. And the most frustrated.
Still humming, Genevieve began to work beside Calvin. As always, he pretended not to stare at her; as always, she pretended not to notice. Usually, Genevieve didn't try to breach the young man's wall of silence, but today she wanted to share her high spirits. The farm was bursting with new growth, and the weather promised a sun shower rather than rain. Genevieve paused to shade her eyes, turning to look at the mountains. Today the ridge was a line of repose, blue distances and flat layers of wispy white clouds.
"Back in London," she remarked, "you could never see the sky for all the smoke. If someone had told me then about these colors, I wouldn't have believed them."
Calvin merely shrugged and savaged a weed with his mattock. "Guess I been looking at Virginia too long to be impressed by it."
"What are you impressed by, Cal?"
He gave her a sharp look, somewhat taken aback by her question. And he said nothing.
"You've a fine family, Cal. If we're successful at this business, you'll have a good life."
"Maybe so, Miz Culpeper."
"Then why are you so unhappy?"
Again that sharp look. Calvin had very dark, penetrating eyes. "I guess," he said slowly, "I don't want the life of a planter."
"What do you want, Cal?"
He folded his lips into a thin line and went back to his planting. But this was the longest conversation Genevieve had ever coaxed from Calvin, and she pressed on. "Cal, I don't like to see you like this. Please, if there's anything I can do-"
Finally, she noticed a glimmer of interest in his eyes. "There might be, Miz Culpeper."
"Oh?"
"You could teach me to read." He spoke challengingly, as if expecting her to refuse.
She nearly dropped the seedling she was holding. "Teach you to—God blind me, Cal, why didn't you say so? I've few enough talents, but I can bloody well read. And I'll try my best to show you how it's done."
Calvin didn't smile, but there was an unmistakable softening of his features, and one corner of his mouth turned up slightly. Then he went back to his planting.
Rose Greenleaf had named the horse Victor, insisting that such a fine beast needed a noble title. Genevieve knew the farm plug had seen better days, but the animal was tractable and strong. Victor had a plodding gait that suited Genevieve just fine. She was inexperienced at the reins and never failed to be nervous when driving the cart.
She went into town intending to find the Reverend Carstairs, hoping he'd forgiven the fact that she'd run from his church in October and never been back. Today, it seemed, half the town was gathered at the trading post.
It was to this post that farmers brought their wares to be sold downriver and came to trade for the supplies they needed. And, most important, it was where the settlers received news from other parts of the world.
Genevieve got out of the cart and hitched Victor to a rail. She smoothed her fading calico dress and hoped the hem would conceal her dusty boots. Roarke had insisted on giving all of Prudence's dresses to her, and she'd always felt a little guilty at how quickly they succumbed to the dirt of the fields.
As if the very thought of Roarke had summoned him, Genevieve heard his voice calling her name. She swung around, feeling an inner tremor at the sight of him. It always happened like that. Genevieve had decided long ago that she would probably spend the rest of her life trying to hide her feelings for Roarke Adair.
She smiled and brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek.
"Gennie," he said, "you look wonderful, like you've been touched by the wind and sun. Virginia is the best thing that could have happened to you."
Still smiling, she teased, "You're still trying to justify persuading my father to gamble me away, Roarke Adair."
He scowled. "I'll never live that down, will I?"
"Never mind. I'm looking for Mr. Carstairs. Have you seen him?"
The scowl disappeared. "Don't tell me you've finally decided to join the flock?"
She shook her head. "I've survived this long without going to church. But I want to borrow some books from Mr. Carstairs. I'm going to teach Calvin Greenleaf to read."
His blue eyes grew warm with appreciation. "Well, that's fine, Gennie. That's just fine. You'll be doing the lad a great favor."
"I hope so. His parents aren't too sure. They insist that reading will put all sorts of crazy notions into Cal's head and ruin him as a farmer."
"Maybe so," Roarke mused. "Maybe it'll turn him into something more." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "You're a good woman, Gennie, to do this for the lad."
She flushed and looked away. " 'Tis a small enough favor. I only hope I can do it."
"You will, Gennie," Roarke assured her. "Mr. Carstairs is down at the docks. Luther Quaid just came in."
Together they approached a little knot of people clustered around the rickety wharf. Genevieve nodded to Amy and Seth Parker, asking after Amy's health and being informed that the baby would be born in just a few weeks.
As Luther unloaded his usual supplies, he traded gossip with the locals. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he produced a well-worn copy of the Virginia Gazette. He held it high with a strange, somber look on his face.
Genevieve pressed forward to see. She squinted; all the reading she'd been doing on farming was weakening her eyes. But the words on the page leaped out at her.
"… the Troops of his Brittanick Majesty commenced hostilities upon the people of Massachusetts province… we are involved in all the Horrors of a civil War… The sword is now drawn. God knows when it will be sheathed."
Mr. Carstairs read the passage aloud. The group around him fell silent as they listened to an account of battles and bloodshed that had occurred in remote New England a full month before. British soldiers, marching to the towns of Lexington and Concord, had been engaged by a small militia.
"Civil war…" Genevieve glanced over at Roarke; her breath caught at the look on his face. For some time there had been talk of unrest in the colonies, bitter complaints about Lord Townshend's unfair revenue schemes and the highhandedness of the British ministry. But no one in Dancer's Meadow had realized the situation was so volatile.
"There's more," Luther Quaid said above the babble of voices. "Patrick Henry mustered an army and marched on Williamsburg. No blood was shed, but Governor Dunmore was forced to pay for the powder he confiscated."
"Roarke… ?" Genevieve laid her hand on his arm. As everyone began to talk at once, she asked, "What does this mean?"
The intense look left his face, although he remained thoughtful. "That the trouble's reached our own Virginia, Gennie. No telling how far it'll go."
"How far can it go? What can a few angry colonists— with no army and no money—hope to accomplish against the British army?"
"We've got something," Roarke said thoughtfully.
Her eyes widened at the word we. "And what is that, Roarke?"
"We have America, Gennie. 'Tis no small resource."
They walked away from the dock to sit together beneath a spreading oak tree. Genevieve leaned her back against its trunk and looked at Roarke. She didn't want to think about war.
"How is the baby?" she asked. She hadn't seen the child in over a month, being so busy with the spring planting.
"Thriving," Roarke said, a warm look coming in
to his eyes. "Mimi Lightfoot swears the little nipper gains weight every day."
Genevieve studied Roarke as he spoke. At first she'd been terrified he'd reject a child sired by another man. But she'd underestimated the generosity of Roarke's heart.
"You're a good papa, Roarke," she said warmly.
"I'm working at it." He drew his knee up to his chest and stared up at the budding leaves of the tree. "I feel a bit inept when it comes to this business of being a father. There's nothing about my own father worth remembering, so I'm on my own."
"You'll do it well," Genevieve insisted. "Just like you do everything else. Hance is a lucky little boy."
He smiled. "There's no reason the child shouldn't be treated as my own."
Genevieve couldn't help the hand that went out to Roarke and laid itself on his arm. "Take care," she said, getting to her feet. "I'd best be seeing Reverend Carstairs."
Watching her walk away, Roarke frowned. Genevieve never failed to leave him bemused. One moment she was scolding him for trying to give her advice or spoiling the Greenleaf children, and the next her lovely eyes were suffused with warmth at some small thing he did or said.
Every so often he thought he sensed a deep longing in Gennie that made him want to reach out to her. But her independent ways warned him off. She wore her self-reliance like armor, protecting herself against those who would be close to her, disdaining sentiment. Roarke drew idly in the dust with his finger. He simply didn't understand the woman. Sometimes he didn't even understand himself.
The clock above the mantel in Genevieve's house ticked faithfully, but real time was measured on the farm by the progress of the crop. As Joshua had predicted, the transplanting was completed by June, and this was followed by a long season of ripening and growth. But the days that slid by were far from idle. Each field required regular attention. There were the daily chores of hoeing and battling weeds in addition to topping the plants and removing the secondary shoots put out by the roots.