Embrace the Day Page 10

  Genevieve had known the harvest was near, but she couldn't help the rush of gladness she felt. She jumped into the air with a whoop and threw her arms around Joshua. He swung her about, laughing.

  "We did it, partner," he chuckled, setting her down.

  Genevieve had never felt such supreme satisfaction. As Joshua went to call the boys and fetch the scythes, she hugged herself and raised her face to the autumn sun. Its warmth fell like a golden curtain over her, full of promise, full of hope.

  The curing barns were more than half-full of drying tobacco. Bundles hung, bound by the stems, brushing Gene shoulders as she worked. Joshua and the boys were in the fields, cutting through the acres. Curtis's voice rose in song after song, bringing a holiday air to the farm.

  But Joshua's face when he entered the barn was grave. Curtis was with him, no longer singing.

  "There'll be a hard freeze tonight," he said quietly.

  Genevieve set down the bundle she was holding and wiped her hands on her apron.

  "Can the crop withstand it?" she asked.

  Joshua shook his head. "It's been too cold for too long. Everything that's not harvested by morning will be lost."

  She felt a leaden chill in the pit of her belly. "But we've only got half of it cut."

  He nodded glumly. "Crop was small enough to begin with. We don't even stand to recoup what we've spent."

  Genevieve squeezed her eyes shut. Even so, a tear crept out from beneath an eyelid. She tried not to feel defeated, but so much was riding on her first season.

  "I guess," she said slowly, opening her eyes, "I've been fooling myself into thinking we'd make good. I'm sorry, Joshua. I didn't mean to dupe you into working for me."

  "Don't take on like that, partner," he said. "Let's go get in what little we can. Come on, Curtis."

  But the boy was nowhere to be seen. Unnoticed by Genevieve and Joshua, he'd managed to slip off somewhere. Grumbling a promise to take a willow switch to the Jad, Joshua led the way up to the fields.

  They worked all through the day at breakneck speed, flinging the tobacco onto a sled made of wooden planks and depositing the leaves in the sheds without stopping to strip and bundle them. Mimsy and the girls pitched in, using kitchen knives. But they were too few, and the plants too many. There was no way they'd be able to finish before nightfall.

  Already the wind was skirling down from the heights of the Blue Ridge, which had become an uneasy cauldron of scudding clouds and uncertain winds that bore the bite of a killing frost.

  Genevieve battled a feeling of hopeless despair, applying her scythe savagely to the stalks. As the sky softened and darkened to purple, the tears came again. She'd played for high stakes, and lost. Piggot would sell the farm out from under her. Never had failure tasted so bitter.

  She was so intent on savaging the plants and despising her own foolishness that she didn't hear Curtis Greenleaf's shout.

  Only when the bobbing of torches caught her eye did she give her attention to the boy. Curtis was fairly dancing up the road to the farm, singing and shouting the whole way. And, incredibly, he was followed by a string of people.

  They came on foot, in wagons, a few on horseback. Genevieve recognized Roarke instantly, sitting proudly on his roan stallion.

  "God blind me…" she breathed. There were dozens of torches flickering up the path, as if lighting the way for a small army. The men shouldered scythes and rakes, and the women toted gingham-topped baskets of food and kegs of cider and lemonade. Picking up her skirts, Genevieve ran down the hill.

  "Roarke?" she asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious as she recognized what seemed to be half of the population of Dancer's Meadow. "What—"

  "They've come to harvest our tobacco!" Curtis shouted. "Said they'd work all night if they had to!"

  Genevieve sent Roarke a questioning look. His white teeth gleamed in the torchlight as he grinned. "You should've asked, Gennie. It's the only way you're going to get help from your neighbors."

  "But I can't pay a crew, Roarke. I simply—"

  His fingers bit into her shoulders. "Gennie, when are you going to get it into that thick head of yours that there's such a thing as neighborliness? These people want nothing, except to see that they do lose those bets they made against you."

  "Oh, there might be a thing or two," the Reverend Carstairs said with a grin.

  Genevieve braced herself. She expected him to summon her to meeting once again, to give thanks to his God for her good fortune.

  Carstairs read her reaction correctly. His laughter rang out. "Not that, Genevieve Culpeper. I've no doubt you'll be a proper churchgoing woman someday, but not until you're ready. No, I just want you to promise to join us at the harvest dance once this is all over." He laughed again at her sigh of relief.

  It was a novel thought, that the people of Dancer's Meadow would want to include her in their celebration. Along with a rush of happiness, she felt a lump rise in her throat.

  "I'll oblige you there, Reverend," she said brightly. "It will be my pleasure."

  Already the men were swarming over the fields, cutting furiously with their backs to the biting wind. The women were gossiping and slicing pies and setting out portions of chicken. Genevieve threw herself into the work, unmindful of the pain of raw and blistered hands. With so much help, the work would be finished in hours. Her hands went to her cheeks and came away soaked with tears of joy.

  As the last of the tobacco was hauled to the sheds, she approached the Reverend Carstairs. "Thank you," she told him, her voice breaking. She looked at the weary, smiling faces of her neighbors. "Thank you all."

  Reverend Carstairs shook his head, reaching into his coat and extracting a Bible. "We'd best be thanking him who is truly responsible for this," he said, moving beneath a torch.

  " 'Sing unto the Lord with thanksgiving,' " he read. " 'Sing praise upon the harp unto our God; who covereth the heaven with clouds, who prepareth rain for the earth, who maketh grass to grow upon the mountains…' "

  Genevieve felt Roarke's arm slide about her shoulders, and for once she didn't shy away from him.

  The next day, weary to the bone and weak with relief and gratitude, Genevieve settled down and penned a letter to Digby Firth in a firm hand. The crop was in and safely drying. In just a few months a thousand hogsheads of Virginia's finest strain of tobacco would be shipped down river to Yorktown.

  "I can't very well go to a party like this." Genevieve looked dubiously at her worn frock.

  Mimsy opened her mouth to disagree, but there was no arguing about the dress. Like all the much-mended frocks Genevieve had gotten from Prudence, it was drab and hung limply about the girl's slight figure. Mimsy folded her mouth into a determined line.

  "Wait here." She ran lightly from the kitchen and down the path to her house. While Genevieve waited, she shook her head. Even though the Reverend Carstairs had commanded her appearance, she was apprehensive about joining the close-knit community of Dancer's Meadow, a community that regarded her as an oddity and frowned on her insistence on equal partnership with a Negro.

  But Mimsy was determined for her to go. The kitchen became a beehive of activity as Curtis rushed in several times, emptying buckets of water into a small round tub. Mimsy added a pot of boiling water from the fireplace and a handful of dried rosemary from a spice tin. She ordered Genevieve into the tub and applied harsh homemade soap, scrubbing her head mercilessly and drying the girl's hair with vigor. Then, while Genevieve stood shivering before the fire in her shift, Mimsy shook out the dress she'd brought with her.

  She smiled fondly, holding it up for Genevieve to see. "I wore it the day Joshua and I pledged ourselves at Greenleaf."

  It was lovely, of soft blue cotton sprigged with lilacs. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulders and then tapered to tailored cuffs. There was even a bit of lace clinging demurely to the collar.

  "Oh, Mimsy," Genevieve said, "I couldn't."

  "Nonsense," the older woman said impatiently. 'This dress h
asn't seen dancing in a sow's age. I'd be proud to have you wear it." She took up her sewing basket, threaded a needle, and stabbed quickly at the fabric. "The length is fine," she said, speaking around the pins protruding from her mouth. "But I'm a mite stouter than you. I'll just take in this seam here, and here…"

  Her hands moved like lighting over the cloth, jabbing two quick, tapering seams on either side. All the while Genevieve argued and protested, but Mimsy would have none of it. She finished altering the garment and slipped it over Genevieve's head, doing up a long row of tiny buttons in the back and securing a lilac sash snugly about the waist.

  She brushed out Genevieve's sable curls, not relenting until the locks shone brightly and caught the light, Mimsy added a pair of combs and a sprig of dried laceweed to the curls and stepped back to survey her work.

  Her brown eyes gleamed with merriment. "You look like a princess," she said, beaming.

  "Go on, Mimsy, it's only a dress," Genevieve laughed. But then Rose burst in and stopped to stare.

  "Miz Culpeper…" she breathed. "You're beautiful." Genevieve laughed at the note of disbelief in Rose's voice, realizing that the girl had never seen her in anything but a worn frock, muddy boots, and disheveled hair.

  "She's going to a party in town." Mimsy bustled Genevieve out the door, throwing a shawl around her shoulders and giving her a blanket for the wagon. Even the brilliant sun of late afternoon hadn't driven away the autumn chill.

  Genevieve settled into the wagon and shivered. Not with the cold, but with nervousness. She had no idea what to expect when she reached Dancer's Meadow, having thus far avoided the various church socials and merry corn-huskings. It occurred to her that this was the first time she'd be seeing Roarke socially, without the pretext of work to be done. Twisting her hands about the reins, Genevieve drew a deep breath and gave them a determined flick.

  The fiddler's playing was nearly drowned out by the stomping and hooting of the townspeople. A mass of smiling faces was burnished by the slanting light of a westering sun. Roarke whirled his partner about in a sweeping motion, full of good humor. The harvest had been a good one for all. The fertile region wrapped by the sweep of the Blue Ridge and its many rivers and creeks had been generous.

  The last notes of a merry reel scraped to a halt, and the dancers milled over to long boards supported by sawhorses. The boards groaned under the weight of great kegs of cider and ale and all manner of foods prepared by the women. Roarke went and drew a mug of ale. Over the babble of voices he heard the creaking of a wagon and looked up the road. Drawing his breath, he set his mug down and went to meet Genevieve.

  Nothing, not even his frequent midnight dreams, could have prepared him for the sight of her. She dropped her worn shawl, untied her bonnet, and lifted her hand in greeting. Sweet God, but she was lovely. Her loosely styled hair gave her small face a soft, winsome look, and the pretty frock she wore draped the intriguing lines of her figure to perfection.

  Roarke's blue eyes warmed at the sight of her. Before she could jump down from the wagon, he was there, grasping her firmly about the waist and swinging her down to his side. A smile played about his lips as he stared at her.

  "Hello, Roarke." Even her voice was lovely tonight, bearing little resemblance to the hard-bitten speech she'd once used in the London slums.

  "Lord, but you look fetching tonight, girl," Roarke said. His grin widened as he watched a delicate blush stain her cheeks. Behind them the fiddler took up playing again.

  "Come dance with me, Gennie," Roarke urged softly, taking her arm.

  "Roarke"—her blush deepened—"I haven't any idea how to dance."

  He laughed deeply and gestured at the crowd, which was forming two lines, ladies facing the gentlemen. "And do you think these backwoods louts know any better?"

  The next thing Genevieve knew, she was added to the line of women. Roarke stood across from her, extending his hands. Music and laughter and clapping created an irresistible rhythm, which she joined in effortlessly. Never had she felt so giddy with happiness. No one asked anything of her, except to enjoy the company, which she did immensely.

  Roarke made sure she was greeted by all. As the hours slipped by and a great bonfire was ignited, she began to feel a kinship with the people of Dancer's Meadow. She spoke to Cyrus Hinton about planting and discovered that Kimberly Estes hailed from London. She felt sorry for Fannie Harper, whose tired face bore a bruise from a recent scuffle with her hard-drinking husband, Elkanah.

  As always, talk meandered to the problems with England. People discussed the news from the northern colonies, where civil war had broken out in earnest. Rebels who called themselves patriots had battled the redcoats at a site called Bunker Hill, and a Connecticut man named Benedict Arnold had seized Fort Ticonderoga, in upper New York. It all seemed remote and unlikely to touch the lives of the farmers who danced in the dusty main street of Dancer's Meadow.

  But some of the men didn't see it that way. Although New England seemed as distant as the mother country, Nathan Scammel declared that the colonists in the north were his brothers and announced that he meant to find a regiment somewhere and join the fighting. This raised a few cries of alarm from the women, but Nathan was young and unattached, a wandering type who always seemed to be looking for adventure. Most of the other men were reluctant to leave their farms and families.

  During this discussion, Genevieve watched Roarke closely. He listened with a thoughtful frown.

  "You're not thinking of joining the rebellion?" Genevieve asked, holding her breath.

  He threw back his head and laughed. "Gennie, my girl, I don't even know the way to New England. The righting would be done by the time I got there." The appreciative murmurs of laughter that ensued convinced her that most of the men were of like mind.

  They danced some more and feasted on the huge meal the women had brought. After supper the smaller children curled up on folded quilts near the bonfire, but the adults barely slackened their pace.

  Only when the big round moon had set did the party begin to dwindle. One by one, the revelers drifted homeward, bundling children into wagons or carrying them in their arms. Mr. Carstairs stood up, reeling slightly.

  "Must be going," he mumbled, earning a prod from his portly wife. He drew a watch from his pocket and squinted at it. "Lord in heaven, 'tis the Sabbath already!" He scooped up his little daughter, Jane, and wove down the street to his house, scolded all the way by Mrs. Carstairs.

  Roarke chuckled at the sight and stretched his long legs out toward the fire. "Good man, that Carstairs. Has me going to meeting every week now."

  "I'd say you've become a full-fledged citizen of Dancer's Meadow," Genevieve said.

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. "And what of you, Miss Gennie?"

  "I feel more a part of this place than I did my own family in London," she admitted. "But I'm still an outsider here, Roarke. I'm too different from everyone else. I'd never be able to sit still for a quilting bee or sermon."

  "You ought to give it a try, girl. You might find something you like."

  "I've found it, Roarke. I like growing tobacco, and I'm good at it."

  " 'Tis a solitary life you lead, tucked up on your little plantation."

  "I've the Greenleafs. I never lack for company." She looked down at her hands, feeling his eyes on her.

  "Do you mean that, Gennie?" he asked gently.

  "Of course. I have everything I need at the farm."

  "You're young for a widow, girl. Haven't you thought about marrying again?"

  She felt her throat tighten. Something told her she shouldn't be having this conversation with Roarke Adair. He had an uncanny way of bringing her feelings to the fore, laying open raw emotion within her and making her feel weak and vulnerable.

  "I like things just the way they are," she said carefully. "I don't need a man running my life for me."

  Roarke placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. "Why can't you look at me when you say that, Gennie
?" he asked.

  She narrowed her eyes in defiance. "Because you'd just argue with me, and I don't feel like arguing."

  "You mean you don't feel like losing an argument."

  "Or anything else, either, Roarke."

  Luther Quaid helped Genevieve from the boat with an exaggerated flourish, holding her hand as if guiding an important lady from her yacht. She laughed and stepped lightly onto the wharf at the mouth of the York River.

  "I'll be ready to leave tomorrow morning," she promised him. "Mr. Firth never lingers over business." As she walked past the customshouse toward the tobacco factor's offices, there was a decided spring in her step. Her eyes moved appreciatively over the city, which at one time had been the busiest tobacco port on the Chesapeake. The magnificent houses up on the cliffs above the town were from that earlier era, built by shippers and merchants in a style that rivaled the finest European abodes. Genevieve's gaze lingered on the handsome two-story red brick house of Thomas Nelson that dominated the town, aptly situated to overlook the shoreline that fanned out in front of it.

  Yet there was nothing about the splendor of the bustling town that called to Genevieve. The years in London had left a bitter taste in her mouth. She much preferred the remoteness of Albemarle County, where sometimes the stillness was so complete she could hear the barn cats bedding down in the straw.

  But Genevieve didn't mind her infrequent visits to the city. Especially not today. Today she was to collect the money for her first shipment of tobacco.

  She burst into Mr. Firth's office, her cheeks blooming from the bite of the January air.

  "Did you see our tobacco, Mr. Firth?" she asked, not even pausing to greet him. "Every pound of it passed inspection at the Falls. What do you think?"

  He tried not to let a smile mar the usual severity of his countenance. But she saw the mirth tugging at the lips beneath his thick mustache.

  "I think, Mrs. Culpeper," he said easily, "that 1776 is going to be a very good year for you." Feigning nonchalance, he unlocked a coffer near his desk and extracted a heavy cloth bag, setting it in front of her.