by Susan Wiggs
Genevieve was almost afraid to touch it. "Hard currency?" she breathed.
"Aye, and a good sum of it, too. I made a sweet deal with a Frenchman in the Indies. I'll be sailing there myself next week. No bank notes for you, Mrs. Culpeper. These days they're not worth the paper they're printed on."
" These days,' Mr. Firth?"
"We're at war, my dear, although it may not seem so in Dancer's Meadow. The British burned Norfolk the first day of this year."
Her hands flew to her face. Norfolk! That meant the fighting had moved to Virginia!
"I didn't mean to shock you, Mrs. Culpeper," Digby Firth said quickly. "But you'd best get used to the idea that all thirteen colonies could well be consumed by civil war soon."
Somehow the notion that there had been fighting on Virginia soil made it all seem real to Genevieve. She'd read the papers all winter, noting that there were several firebrands in the Virginia assembly calling for independence, but she'd dismissed it as politics.
"What's to happen?" she wondered.
The big Scotsman shrugged. "Who can say? Both sides thought the whole thing would be over in a matter of months, but now it looks like the end is a long way off. The patriots, as they called themselves, are a stubborn lot. They won't give an inch, and neither will Parliament."
"How will the war affect me?"
"Shipping will be interrupted by blockades and such. But you're secure in that you've a good cash crop. The demand for tobacco won't go away. The French are clamoring for it."
"I won't let it interfere with my business, Mr. Firth," Genevieve said with conviction, picking up the purse of gold and silver. "I've worked too hard to let a mere war ruin me."
At that, Digby Firth laughed. "Mrs. Culpeper, I think I believe you."
Gales of laughter issued from Genevieve's house on a waft of spring-scented air. Luther Quaid had just delivered a large package of goods Genevieve had ordered when she was in Yorktown two months earlier, using the small bit of money that hadn't been turned back into the farm. Reaching into the crate, she drew out a length of mulberry calico and handed it to Mimsy.
"This reminded me of you," she explained, giving her friend a hug. "You're so good with the needle that I just knew you'd make a fine dress for yourself."
Rose received a doll with a beautiful bisque face and a blue velvet dress. She clutched it reverently to her breast and fingered its black ringlets.
"I'll call it my Gennie doll," she whispered. Genevieve smiled and tried to ignore the sudden image she had of Roarke Adair. She'd thought his nickname for her a private affair, but apparently others had noticed.
There was a set of lead soldiers for Eustis and a small mouth harp for Curtis, which he tried immediately, tapping out an exuberant jig as he played. Caroline received a fine string of beads, and Phillip exclaimed over a shiny new hunting knife. Finally, Genevieve drew out the last item from the crate. She handed a paper-wrapped parcel to Joshua, who gave her a questioning look.
"Genevieve, you shouldn't have—"
"Just open it. It's for both of us—partner."
Ripping into the paper, he extracted a heavy iron brand.
"Our tobacco mark," Genevieve explained. "With both our initials." The C was intertwined with the G and surrounded by a wreath of leaves in a handsome design. Mimsy brought a jug of cider out, and the celebrating became so loud that no one heard a hammering at the door. Finally, it burst open.
Curtis's harp dropped to the floor, and the room fell silent.
Foreboding twisted within Genevieve as she approached the visitor.
"Hello, Mr. Piggot," she said cautiously.
But there was nothing friendly about the way he was looking at her. Removing his tricorn to reveal his balding head, he strode into the room.
"It's taken a while, Mrs. Culpeper," he said darkly, "but I understand you're now in a position to settle your late husband's debts."
Chapter Eight
Genevieve shifted uncomfortably on the settee in the sitting room of Roarke's house. She hadn't set foot in his home since the night of Prudence's death, and she didn't want to be here now. But with Henry Piggot breathing down her neck and Mr. Firth gone to the Indies on business, she didn't know what else to do.
The room, kept painfully tidy by Mimi Lightfoot, bespoke Roarke's presence even when he wasn't there. His polished rifle hung above the mantel, and a few toys he'd carved for Hance were in a basket near the hearth. An extra pair of boots, clean but well-worn, stood near the door. Above them hung his coat, to which his scent still clung.
Genevieve avoided touching any of Roarke's things, as if her touch would bring her closer to him than she cared to be. She sat twisting her work-roughened hands in her lap. The sound of a footstep behind her made her jump.
"I take it there's more to this call than just a social visit," Roarke prompted, striding into the room with Hance balanced on his hip. As he spoke, the baby tugged at the leather whang that tied Roarke's hair into a queue at the back of his neck.
While she groped for words, Genevieve watched the pair of them. Hance was a child of uncommon beauty, as fair and sweet-faced as Prudence, yet with a decided streak of mischief in his bright blue eyes. He called Roarke Papa, and Roarke seemed as proud as if he'd actually fathered the boy. With genuine affection, Roarke embraced the child of a woman who had never loved him.
"Gennie… ?" Roarke asked, stirring her out of her musing.
"Please, Roarke, this is hard for me." She bit her lip. "I'm afraid I'm about to take advantage of your friendship."
"Then why don't you just say what you came to say and be done with it?" Roarke only pretended impatience. Actually, he wished Genevieve would call on him more often.
"I need money," she said hurriedly, as if to rid herself of the words. "The fall harvest is coming up, and we need hogsheads and a lot of new equipment."
He wasn't able to mask his surprise. "But I thought you'd made a small fortune off your first crop, Gennie. It was all the talk last spring—"
"We had to turn all our money back into the business."
"All of it, Gennie?"
She swallowed hard. If she was going to humble herself before Roarke, he might as well know everything.
"Henry Piggot has taken every bit of my profits as partial payment for Cornelius Culpeper's debts. I still owe him several hundred pounds."
"Piggot was here?"
"Yes. Last spring."
"Good God, Gennie, why didn't you tell me?"
"There was no point, Roarke. You'd only have lost your temper, and I would have had to pay him anyway. I signed an agreement with him when we first arrived in Yorktown, remember?"
"What about Joshua?"
She sighed. "Strapped. He's put everything he has back into the farm. Even if he had the money, I wouldn't ask him to take on my liability." Genevieve was growing irritated with Roarke's questioning. "Look, Roarke, if you don't want to help me, just say so, and I'll try to hold out until Mr. Firth returns from the Indies. The man trusts me to make good my word."
"I trust you, Gennie," Roarke said in a placating tone. "And I mean to help you. Now, how much do you need?"
Suddenly, the sitting room seemed to grow very hot and oppressive to Genevieve. As if sensing her mood, Roarke took her hand and led her outside, to a shady spot under a sycamore tree in the yard.
The hour that ensued was one of the most painful Genevieve had ever endured. It was one thing borrowing from Dibgy Firth in a business agreement, but it was quite something else asking Roarke for money. The transaction was so personal, so oddly intimate. She felt like she was baring her very soul to him there in the sun-dappled yard.
As he counted out a sum of money, he watched her with one eye. "You know," he said with studied casualness, "there is another way to straighten things out."
"Oh? And what is that?"
"You could marry me."
She nearly choked with surprise. Then, recovering, she drew her brows into an angry line. "Do
n't be ridiculous, Roarke. You can't afford to take on my debts."
"I'd be willing to try, Gennie."
She forced herself to ignore the note of tenderness in his voice. "If I ever decide to marry, Roarke Adair, it won't be because I need money. I intend to approach it from a position of strength. You'll never find me the weaker partner."
He stared at her for so long that Genevieve felt herself growing restive. What was he thinking? Why would he make her such a preposterous offer?
Roarke read the questions in her eyes. He could have told her that he wanted to marry her because she fascinated him, with her spitfire temper and the steely determination with which she faced life. He could have told her that he'd been captivated by her beauty since the first time he'd laid eyes on her in her father's tavern.
He could have told her that he was falling in love with her.
But Roarke said nothing. Genevieve was too wrapped up in her own troubles to listen to him now. Besides, he could practically hear her snort of derision at the words he longed to say. No one had ever loved her, Roarke knew, and she'd never learned to love anyone except Prudence. It was a damned shame. Gennie had so much to offer, yet Roarke had no idea how to unlock the door to her heart.
He gave her the money and barely listened to her promise to repay him. The amount comprised the better part of all the cash he had, but he didn't care if he never saw it again. All that mattered was that Genevieve needed it. And if money was all she'd accept from him, then he'd have to content himself with that.
He was about to see her out when a boy rode in from town. It was Mannie Hinton, his neighbor's son. The fifteen-year-old was known around town for his riding tricks, although at the moment he seemed only interested in speed.
"Mr. Adair!" he called. "Mr. Adair, look!" Mannie swung down from his horse and shoved a battered copy of the Virginia Gazette into Roarke's hands.
"I'm not enough of a scholar to muddle through this," Roarke grumbled, handing the paper to Genevieve.
She scanned the paper curiously, squinting and feeling the now familiar throb of exertion behind her weakening eyes. At first the words made little sense to her, but then she looked up at Roarke in amazement.
" 'Tis about a document adopted last July by the Congress in Philadelphia," she said, rubbing her eyes. "It seems the colonies have stated their grievances against King George and declared independence from Britain."
Roarke gave a low whistle. "A new nation," he said quietly, digesting the news. "I guess that makes us citizens of, of—" He paused, groping for the word.
"The American Republic," Genevieve replied, catching the phrase that had been used in the paper. "We're a bloody republic now."
She leaned against the trunk of the sycamore and read the rest of the news to Roarke. The patriots had run aground three British frigates off Charles Town and now held that city. In distant New York a mob of rebels had pulled down a statue of King George and sent if off to foundries to be made into ammunition for the Continental Army.
It all seemed so strange. Somewhere not so very far away people were fighting and dying for a cause that Genevieve and Roarke barely understood.
Little by little the war found its way to Dancer's Meadow. The King's Arms changed its name to Liberty Tavern, and some of the British sympathizers in the area moved away. A liberty pole was raised, and people learned to make do without British goods. The women's quilting circle at the church abandoned their homey art and worked instead on making bandages for the army. Every now and then one of the town's young men would go off to enlist, fresh-faced and eager to defend his rights. A few came back months later, faces lined, world-weary, unwilling to talk of the reality of war: endless, seemingly pointless marches, smoky battles, dreadful shortages. Some never returned.
Genevieve remained preoccupied with the work of the farm, scraping together every bit of money she could to stave off her creditor, Henry Piggot, who made his presence felt by purchasing the old Parker farm.
She owed money to Roarke, too. He seemed to have forgotten the debt, but it hung over her every waking moment. She was beholden to him and wouldn't rest until she saw the debt paid.
On Christmas Day she made her way to his house through a biting wind, a small cache of coins concealed at her waist: the first installment of her payments to Roarke. She also had a small bag of shells she'd collected in Yorktown for little Hance to play with.
Roarke greeted her before a warm, crackling fire in the keeping room. Before Genevieve knew what was happening, he'd taken her wrap and peeled off her gloves and was chafing her icy hands between his broad, warm ones. Discomfited, she snatched her hands away and reached for her purse.
Roarke didn't even allow her to open it. "You're not going to deprive yourself just to pay me back," he ordered, turning away. "Good God, woman, 'tis Christmas, and all you have on your mind is business."
"I won't have this debt weighing on me," she insisted, reaching for the money again.
He turned back, eyes full of fury. "Damn it, Gennie, listen to yourself. 'Tis not the way of friends to speak so. You've an account book where your heart should be."
Stunned by his anger, she dropped her gaze from his storm-tossed eyes. Feeling the color rise to her cheeks, she conceded to herself that he was right. Lately, her life consisted of nothing but numbers: how many hogsheads to be rolled to the river and shipped, how many pounds of seed she could afford, the amounts owed to Mr. Firth, Piggot, and Roarke… Yet she refused to apologize for trying to keep her farm afloat.
She dropped to her knees beside Hance, who was playing on the floor nearby, and handed him the bag of shells. He crowed with delight, and Genevieve was rewarded with a wet kiss. Then Hance waddled off to show his new possessions to Mimi Lightfoot.
When Genevieve looked back at Roarke, he was smiling, all anger gone from him. She felt weak with relief.
"I was a mite hard on you, girl. I guess because I don't like you being so hard on yourself."
She nodded, feeling suddenly awkward. Then Roarke dropped a parcel into her hands. She tried to look disapproving, yet the sparkle in her eyes was one of pure pleasure.
"You shouldn't be giving me presents," she scolded.
"Always trying to tell me what to do, aren't you, Gennie?" he laughed. "Well, I won't have it. Go on, open your present."
She sent him a dubious look but pulled obediently at the bit of string around the small parcel. She extracted a flat box with rounded ends and eyed it curiously. A jewel box? She nearly thrust it back into Roarke's hands. Never would she accept—
"It's not diamonds and pearls," he chuckled, as if he'd read her mind. "I know better than that."
Relieved, Genevieve lifted the lid. A delicate-looking pair of spectacles peeped out at her.
"Roarke…" she breathed, lifting them out as if they were the most magnificent thing she'd ever seen. How had he known she'd been longing for a pair of spectacles? For months she'd strained her eyes over ledgers and printed matter, always earning a piercing headache for her efforts. But she hadn't a penny to spare for such a luxury.
"Thank you," she whispered, so touched by his thoughtfulness that her voice shook. "How did you know?"
"I'm a thickhead, as you've often pointed out," he said gently. "But I do notice some things. About you, I notice everything."
She raised her eyes sharply. The note of tenderness in his voice hadn't escaped her. Color flooded her cheeks.
"Try them," he prompted, a bit gruffly. "The grinder who came peddling them through town claims to work miracles on weak eyes."
Reverently, she unfolded the little hinges and tucked the wires behind her ears. She blinked once, slowly, and then again. She looked up at Roarke, who stood just a heartbeat away. Never had she seen his dear, rugged features in such sharp focus. Had the tiny fans of humor always been there, beside his eyes? Were the freckles that dusted his face always so endearing, yet so faint she hadn't noticed them before? Emotion robbed her of breath as she gazed into his eye
s.
Roarke had remarkable eyes, she realized, like shards of sky smiling down at her with tiny laugh lines in his tanned flesh. Genevieve supposed she'd seen this before, of course, but the feeling pounding through her veins now was completely new. She refused to consider whether it was the improvement from the spectacles or something more that triggered her reaction.
Roarke laid his hand lightly on her cheek. It was a tentative touch, as though he were afraid she might bolt like a frightened doe. Genevieve trembled, but she didn't pull away.
"Merry Christmas, Gennie," Roarke murmured. He bent and brushed her lips with his.
With a soft gasp, she turned away, her face flaming. Roarke watched her with an ache of longing that was familiar to him by now. The very first time he'd laid eyes on Genevieve, he'd known she was special. But it had taken him a long time to admit to himself how very much he wanted her.
She wasn't as indifferent as she wanted him to believe. Roarke smiled, remembering the way she'd just been staring at him with those new spectacles perched so charmingly on her nose.
Prudence was two years dead, and it was time he found another wife. And no one but Genevieve would do. Debt or no debt, he'd have her.
"Gennie," he said softly, coming up behind her. He grasped her arms. "Gennie, I think it's time we talked about—"
She fled from him then, crossing the keeping room quickly to stand by the fire. Dreading what she suspected he was about to say, Genevieve turned the subject. She snatched up a packet of papers, which Luther Quaid had brought from a recent trip to Philadelphia. It was the only thing at hand she could think of to shield herself from facing her feelings.
"What's this?" she asked hurriedly, glancing at the newspaper. The Pennsylvania Journal. She looked at the publication date: December 19, 1776. " 'Tis not often we get anything so recent." Genevieve knew she was babbling, but she couldn't stop herself.