by Susan Wiggs
Genevieve looked torn as Sarah pulled her away. But she didn't protest. Five years of silence were not to be breached by a chance meeting.
"Who was that, Mama?" Benjamin asked as Mariah walked away. "She seemed nice."
"Perhaps she is," Mariah said. "But not to the likes of us."
A howling wind sculpted the snow into great drifts against the fences, obscuring the landscape in a cloak of white. At high noon it was impossible to see beyond the well house, which was located just a few feet from the kitchen window.
Luke squinted out at the blizzard. He was weary to the bone, having spent the better part of the night battening the livestock into the barn and stables. Ordinarily, Jake Hopkins would have been there to help, but the foreman had taken his family to spend Christmas with relatives.
Just as he'd finished with the animals, Luke had crept into bed to find Mariah shifting restlessly with the early twinges of labor. She'd assured him that all was well. But now he wasn't so certain.
Turning back from the window, he studied her, lying on her side on the cot in a recessed alcove of the kitchen. She was so brave, not uttering a sound as the ebb and flow of pains held her in a deathly grip.
Luke's heart swelled with love and pride as he sat beside her and smoothed a sweat-dampened lock of hair from her brow. She managed to smile through her pain.
"The children?" she whispered.
"They're all sleeping in Gideon's room." Luke sent her a sheepish grin. "I gave them rum toddies after breakfast."
Her hand tightened around his as another pain gripped her. Luke ached for her, wishing there were some way he could shoulder the pain himself. When her hand finally relaxed, he bent and brushed his lips across her cheek.
"I love you," he said.
She tried to smile. "I know, Luke. I wish this were over. It was easy with the first two, but…"
He leaned forward. "But what? Oh, God, Mariah, what is it?"
"I'm afraid there's something wrong," she admitted finally. "It's been so long, and the baby is still high—" She broke off and braved another squeezing pain.
"I'll get the doctor from town," Luke said.
"But you can't, Luke. The snow…"
He sat with her, mopping her brow and feeling helpless. The other two times Essie Hopkins had been present, assisting Mariah with quiet, womanly competence. But now Luke was alone except for the children. And he could see Mariah weakening by the minute. She drifted in and out of sleep, awakening with each squeezing pain and then slipping away again. Luke raked a hand through his hair and stood up.
"I'm going for the doctor," he said again. He kept his voice quiet, trying not to betray the stark terror that gripped him. He roused Gideon and instructed him to stay with Mariah.
Nearly shaking with fear, he dropped a kiss on her forehead. "I won't be long, honey," he told her.
She nodded, too weak to protest now. "I'll be waiting, Luke."
He dressed in layers of wool and buckskin and fought his way out to the barn to harness the sleigh.
Lexington had drawn in on itself for the blizzard. Doors were locked and windows shuttered against the howling wind. Luke stood at the door of Dr. Warfield's surgery, suddenly remembering the last time he'd come here. Bringing Mariah and Gideon, his unwelcome burdens from the wilderness.
Recalling the brave, silent, proud Indian girl, he felt his heart constrict. Never could he gave guessed that she would be the one to break down the barrier of his prejudice and penetrate the cynicism of his heart. That their destinies had become entwined was a strange and splendid thing. That he was in danger of losing her was an intolerable and unthinkable horror.
Knowing his knock wouldn't be heard, Luke pushed open the door to the surgery and stepped inside, stamping the snow from his boots.
A ragged scream of pain greeted him. The scream rose and crested and then dissolved into a disjointed plea for mercy. Luke cursed inwardly. Of all the days for Dr. War-field to be occupied with some emergency… Stamping his feet again, he removed his hat and unwound his muffler.
A soft gasp issued from a corner of the room. Turning, Luke saw his mother. Her face, absent from his life for years but never completely out of his thoughts, was drawn with deep concern. He cleared his throat.
"Hello, Ma."
"Luke! How could you have heard?"
He frowned. Genevieve looked old, old and haggard. And terrified. "I didn't hear anything. How could I have?"
Her eyes were dry, but he could see she'd been crying. "It's Israel," she said. "He was helping stable the horses during the blizzard, wading in snow up to his waist. His leg struck a scythe one of the hands had left out. The cut nearly severed—"
Genevieve swallowed hard. Her small, strong hands twisted in her lap. She raised pain-filled eyes to Luke. "The doctor has to take his leg."
The shudder that rippled through him had nothing to do with the cold. "Oh, God, Ma, are you sure?"
Another scream rent the air. 'The doctor said there's no other way, Luke." She looked confused. "If you didn't know about Israel, then why are you here?"
Luke's first impulse was to keep his dread to himself. He'd neither seen nor spoken to his mother in years; she had nothing to do with his life anymore. He didn't want to share his terror with her.
But then she touched him. She crossed the room and laid a paper-dry hand on his cheek. It was a small gesture, hesitant, but it opened a place in Luke's heart that hadn't been touched in years.
"It's Mariah," he rasped. Tears poured from his eyes. "She's having a baby, and there's something wrong. Look, Ma, I can't take Dr. Warfield away from Israel now." He turned away helplessly.
"Wait." She placed her hand on his arm.
"She's alone, Ma," Luke said impatiently. "My foreman is in Danville. I've got to go back."
"One minute, Luke," she begged. "That's all I ask."
At his curt nod she fled into the next room, where Israel's cries had dissipated into incoherent mumblings. Luke heard Roarke's voice rise high in anger and fear, answered by Gen pleading tone. Then his mother reappeared, wrapping her head in a shawl and drawing a cloak around her.
"Let's go," she said to Luke.
Gideon greeted them at the kitchen door, his eyes wide and frightened.
"She's bad," he said fearfully, trying not to cry.
Peeling off her wraps, Genevieve hurried to the bedside. She soothed Mariah with a few soft words and worked gently, a look of intense caring on her face. A few moments later she turned back to Luke.
"How long has she been like this?"
"She—It started yesterday at sundown."
"That's nearly twenty-four hours."
"Too long," Luke said brokenly.
Genevieve rubbed her hand comfortingly over the small of Mariah's back. "She's a strong woman, son. But she's going to need you while I take the baby."
"Oh, Lord God—"
Tears rimmed her eyes. "I must, Luke. Mariah's getting weaker, and I doubt the baby can take much more. It was the same way with Sarah, remember? Mimsy Greenleaf finally had to give nature a bit of help."
A small cry of pain slipped from Mariah. Luke's eyes grew moist as he looked at her.
"Do what you have to do," he told his mother.
Genevieve was full of confidence. Despite the pain she'd suffered, she remembered every detail of Sarah's birth, as if the agony and terror had heightened her awareness. She refused to think of how weak Sarah had been, half-dead at birth.
While Luke cradled Mariah against him and held her shoulders, Genevieve set to work. For the first time since the labor had begun, Mariah screamed. The savage, elemental sound of agony caused Luke's heart to shatter. It went on and on as Genevieve worked feverishly, using her hands to do the work that nature should have done.
Mariah fainted from the pain as the baby was born, tiny buttocks first. It was a boy, perfectly formed and with a mat of dark red hair. His limbs were slack and bluish.
He wasn't breathing.
&
nbsp; "No …" Luke rasped. "Oh, God, no …" He gathered Mariah to him and started to tremble as a terrible storm of grief welled up in him.
Genevieve didn't pause to look at her son or Mariah. She cleared the baby's air passages and, covering his mouth and nose with hers, blew air into him. She repeated the process in a desperate rhythm, drenching the baby's face with her tears but never wavering in her determination.
Vaguely, Genevieve realized that there was more to this than saving the tiny life. She needed this baby to live, as much for herself as for Luke and Mariah. The child was the link that never should have been severed. If he died, Genevieve knew she'd lose Luke for good.
"Ma." Luke's voice penetrated her desperation. "Ma, it's no good."
Genevieve ignored him and continued breathing into the baby's mouth and nose.
"Ma, stop!" Luke said more loudly. "I can't stand to see you—"
Genevieve hesitated, but not because Luke had begged her to. She'd sensed a difference in the baby and paused, studying him, silently summoning every prayer she knew. She didn't dare believe the minute rise of the baby's chest. Then the child gasped and coughed.
And, blessedly, began to cry.
It was the sweetest, most miraculous sound Genevieve had ever heard.
Chapter Thirty
Hance liked London. He liked living in a city that never slept, where amusements abounded on every street corner: dancing dogs, small mice spinning in gilt cages, a fiddler playing for the price of a tot of gin, markets that offered everything from jasper chessmen to Turkish sabers.
And he liked the gentlemen's clubs, Crockford's and White's, Boodle's in St. James's Street, where fortunes were lost at the turn of a card or a spin of the rouge-et-noir.
Night after endless night he frequented the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall and Ranelagh, where he was as likely to meet the Duke of Cumberland as a child from the Foundling Hospital.
Hance found the Londoners an excitable, learned group. Everyone, even the ladies, discussed politics, be it the Whig Prince Regent and the Tory government or the boundless vulgarity of Princess Caroline. Hance's friends enjoyed being in a constant state of alarm over the king's health or whether they'd been invited to a fete at Carlton House.
London liked Hance, too. The fashionable acquaintances of the Brimsbys took an immediate liking to Angela's distant "cousin," charmed by his rakish good looks and smooth Virginia accent. It was quite a distinction, being considered "an original" at a time when the unique was pursued with an abject horror of boredom and a distaste for the mundane.
Since Hance had arrived in London, he and Angela had settled into an attitude of mutual tolerance, while he took an unexpected liking to Edmund Brimsby. The elder man often declared he was in his dotage, but it was only in body. Edmund conversed aptly, having well-formed opinions on a variety of topics from universal suffrage to the abolition of slavery. His chess game was impeccable, although he failed miserably at the games of faro and jeu d'enfer that went on at Crockford's.
Never did Hance think of this intelligent, gouty, weak-willed man as his father. He declined to think about the circumstances of his birth at all.
That was the beauty of London. He didn't have to think; he had only to indulge himself. When he was in the mood for lighthearted pleasantries, he called on Melinda Speed, a daring woman with a too-bright smile and a sense of humor that was both bawdy and rich.
When Hance craved a darker pleasure, a dangerous one, he sought the lovely Agatha, Countess Carey. A sultry beauty two decades younger than her husband, she had a carnal appetite that challenged and enticed. She was too wealthy to expect presents from Hance and too wise to demand his love. Agatha knew better than to risk asking for things Hance wasn't willing to give.
Amid the social flurry of the high season of 1813, Hance noticed through a haze of brandy that his father was dying. Edmund had become positively slight in the past several months. No amount of the doctor's tonics and diets could revive him.
Hance wasn't surprised when, as an autumn chill gripped London, he was summoned to Edmund's bedside.
The older man eyed Hance admiringly, taking in his elegant figure. "Lord, but you've got character," Edmund wheezed. "You're hot-blooded and willful, to be sure, but as shrewd and wise as any man I've known, Hance. I can't help but wonder how you came by those traits."
"Doesn't matter," Hance said with a shrug. "I'm my own person."
Edmund nodded. "Aye. You're a lot of things, Hance. But you lack the one asset that truly counts."
"Oh? And what might that be?"
"Happiness."
Hance chuckled. "Since when does a good Londoner consider that important?"
"It occurred to me too late, my friend." Edmund gestured weakly at Hance. "But you—you're young still. Don't give yourself up to cynicism at this stage of your life. Tell me, Hance, what you've been longing for. Ever since I've known you, you've been hiding something deep inside, covering it up with rakish bravado."
Hance looked sharply at Edmund. He hadn't realized until now how well the man knew him. He began talking then, telling Edmund about Ivy. Hours later, having consumed half a bottle of brandy between them, he finished his story. He was amazed to see tears in Edmund's eyes.
"Shall I get the doctor?" Hance asked.
"No. Not yet." Edmund brushed at a tear. "I haven't started feeling sorry for myself, Hance. But I just heard you say you let go of the one woman who could truly make you happy." He sent Hance a knowing look. "I believe I was guilty of that myself. With your mother."
Hance's hand shook as he added more brandy to his glass.
"That won't help," Edmund pointed out.
"I know."
"There's only one thing that will, Hance. You've got to go to her."
"Damn it, Edmund, haven't you heard a word I've said? I just told you she turned her back on me when she found out I was illegitimate. That'll never change."
"Maybe not, Hance, But people change. You didn't even give the girl a chance for the shock to wear off."
Hance wavered. He recalled Ivy's white-lipped fury, but there had been regret in her eyes, too. Longing. Maybe…
"Do it, Hance—don't spend your life wondering," Edmund prodded.
Hance clasped the older man's hand. "You've always given me good advice, Edmund. I won't ever forget that."
Edmund brought Hance's hand to his heart and looked at him steadily. "Thank you, son," he whispered, claiming Hance with that word for the first time. "And now I believe I'd like you to send for the doctor. And my wife."
Angela protested the terms of the will, of course, because it divided the estate between her and Hance.
Two days after the funeral she was waiting in the drawing room. Hance had been out all night with Agatha, reluctant to be alone with the idea that his only link to humanity was gone.
"I expect you to be out of here by evening," Angela said. "The house is mine, you know."
Hance sighed wearily. "Yes, Angela." He had no desire to stay anyway. Edmund's advice lingered in his mind, impossible to ignore even when he was with Agatha. As a footman was helping him fill his trunk and clothespress, Edmund's valet appeared with an old wooden letter box.
"Mr. Adair, I found this while going through the master's effects. I believe the contents might be of interest to you."
Hance set the letter box on the bed and extracted an assortment of papers and small certificates, a small supply of dried ink and a well-whittled quill.
At the bottom of the box was a calf-bound book, its cover embossed in flaking gold leaf with the initials PM. Hance dismissed the footman and valet, poured himself a generous glass of brandy, and took the volume to a chair beside the fire.
The journal was written in a tight, precise hand. Hance was surprised to see that the handwriting had an uncanny resemblance to his own. He flipped through the descriptions of the Brimsby children, pausing to grin at Prudence's as-sessment of young Andrew: "A fat, sneaky individual who resists learning as if
it were a deadly scourge…" Even Edmund had admitted that his son had been no scholar.
Impatiently, Hance skimmed through disjointed, meticulously penned entries. There was a short bit on Prudence's opinion of Rousseau's philosophy, a recipe jotted here and there, a note to herself to share some thought with her friend, Genevieve Elliot… And then the handwriting changed slightly. It became more careless, spilled over the pages by a hand that seemed to be trembling or overly tired.
"He is more than the man I love," Hance read. "He has become the reason I take nourishment each day and draw each breath that keeps me alive. God forgive me." With a jolt, Hance realized that he was reading of his mother's relationship with Edmund Brimsby.
He felt her longing as she mentioned a chance meeting in some part of the house, the electricity of a casual touch. She'd resisted him for months, burying her feelings, secreting her private longings in the diary.
At last she stopped denying what was in her heart and gave herself to him. As Hance sat reading, his image of his mother was transformed. For so long he'd carried around an impression of the wily governess using her charm to entice the master of the household, to win favors from him.
It wasn't like that at all. Prudence Moon had felt a deep, abiding love for Edmund Brimsby. Hance understood. He'd loved Ivy with the same pureness of heart, the same disregard for convention. The words on the page swam before his eyes.
He still loved Ivy.
His dead mother's words, shimmering ghosts from the past, brought back all the intensity of that love.
Closing the book and putting it in one of his bags, he finished packing.
Hance looked at Dancer's Meadow from beneath the brim of his beaver hat. The town had matured since his boyhood. Its main street had been paved by brick, and a number of storefronts had sprung up where only dust and tree stumps had once existed. The horse he'd purchased in Yorktown bore him down the river road to the farm where he'd been born.
The house looked the same. A little more careworn, the trees taller, but the white clapboard with its breezy porch was still familiar. Hance dismounted and secured his horse, calling out a greeting.