Embrace the Day Page 19

  "It's not fair," Luke said obstinately. He traced a circle with his bare toe in the dust. "Papa never badgers him to help on the farm like he does me."

  "Hance is busy learning other things." She shuddered to think what those things were.

  Luke shrugged. "All a man has to know is how to plant a field and send his crops down the river."

  Genevieve lowered her eyes. Luke was too young to understand that Hance had already begun looking beyond the tree-fringed boundaries of the farm. He wasn't made for growing corn and mending fences and clearing land. Roarke had taken him on several trips to Richmond, and Hance had returned full of enthusiasm for the rollicking life of the new capital. He seemed as intrigued by the blustering, self-important politicians of Shockoe Hill as he was by the flamboyant gamblers who plied their slick trade in Eagle Tavern.

  Genevieve knew better than to suppose Hance's wild streak could ever be beaten or cajoled out of him. She felt she owed it to Prudence to let him make his own choices.

  "We must accept Hance as he is, Luke," she said firmly, "as the Lord made him. Come now, get that glum look off your face. Didn't your father want some help building the new springhouse?"

  "It would've been done by now if Hance hadn't lit out with the Harpers."

  "Never mind, Luke. You'd best get cleaned up. Remember about tonight."

  Luke's dark moods never lasted long. They were like a spring rain: a burst of anger, and then the storm was over. His face blossomed into a smile. There was a spray of freckles across his nose that made him positively adorable.

  "Papa's birthday!" he cried, running down the yard. The other children followed him, whooping with glee at the prospect of a party.

  Genevieve smiled after them, shaking her head. Not even the wind changed as quickly as her children's moods.

  Roarke Adair sat at the head of the table in a room that now brimmed with the faces of seven Adairs. He felt a fullness of heart that made him tremble inwardly; it was almost a sin for a man to have so much.

  The remnants of a feast littered the table: a succulent haunch of pork, large earthenware bowls of vegetables, a crock of butter. Only a heel of bread remained from two loaves. The one item left intact was the big cake, heavy with nuts and iced by Mimi Lightfoot's skilled hand.

  Roarke looked around at his family. Luke's eyes fairly devoured the cake. Rebecca managed to look prim and serious despite her curly cloud of ginger-colored hair and the freckles that dotted her nose. Israel had inherited his mother's delicate dark beauty and, it seemed, her intelligence and passion for books. Genevieve was fond of pointing out that he already knew his letters and could pick out some of the words of the Lord's Prayer on his sister's hornbook.

  Genevieve herself sat at the opposite end of the table, looking as fresh and girlish as she had when they'd married seven years before. She held baby Matilda in her lap, jiggling the child to amuse her and brushing her lips across Mattie's hair, which was an unlikely but beautiful pale-blond color.

  Hance lacked the younger ones' round-eyed wonder at the cake but was prepared to be pleasant tonight, a bit contrite over his truancy earlier in the day.

  "You do me proud," Roarke said. "All of you. As of this day, I've been on this earth for thirty-six years, and I'm thankful for each and every day I've had." He caught Genevieve's eye and was rewarded with the brightness of her smile. " 'Tis said a man should make a fond wish on his birthday," Roarke continued. "But not a one comes to mind. I've been blessed so many times over, with you children and the bounty of this farm, that I've nothing left to wish for."

  Rebecca tugged at her mother's sleeve. "Can I give him my present now, Mama?" she asked impatiently.

  At Genevieve's nod she climbed down from her chair, ginger curls bobbing as she approached her father. She climbed up into his lap and placed a limp parcel in his hands. Then she stepped back to watch him open it.

  "Well, look at that," Roarke exclaimed. The sampler had obviously taken hours of the little girl's labor. To the delight of Mimsy Greenleaf, Rebecca showed a bit of talent with the needle.

  "It's a Bible verse," Rebecca explained proudly. " 'I have refrained my feet from every evil way, that I might keep thy word.' "

  Roarke gave Rebecca a hug. "Well, now, 'tis a lovely piece of work. We'll hang it in the keeping room, next to the mantel clock."

  A second parcel was pushed shyly into Roarke's hands. He smiled down at Israel, then spilled a collection of brightly colored stones out onto the table.

  "Gathered 'em all by myself," Israel said importantly. "I went all the way to the river bank at the end of the road."

  "Thank you, Israel," Roarke said. He selected a light pink stone, one worn smooth and polished by rushing water as if in a tumbler. "I believe I'll carry this one here in my pocket, for luck."

  Luke's gift was a wolf he'd whittled from a bit of driftwood, surprisingly well made and properly ferocious looking. Brimming with pride, Roarke set it on the table.

  Even Hance, who rarely displayed more than a wry tolerance for anyone in the family except the baby, had a gift. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a beautiful pipe carved from iron-maple burl with an ivory stem and silver band.

  Roarke turned it over in his hands. "I've never seen the likes of this before," he said. "Where'd it come from, Hance?"

  The boy thrust his chin up proudly. "I won it off a tobacco factor in Richmond."

  Roarke set the pipe down. "Hance—"

  "Won it fair and even in a game of loo, I did!"

  "Your mother and I don't hold with gambling, Hance."

  "You don't hold with anything I do," Hance fired back. His loud voice startled the baby, who began to wail. Hance snatched her up and stalked from the room.

  Genevieve looked after him with a mixture of dismay and affection. Hance simply didn't understand that it wasn't the grandness of the gift that mattered but the spirit in which it was given.

  The sound of Matilda's babyish cooing drifted in through the window, and Genevieve smiled. It was uncanny, Hance's attachment to the child. He'd never shown such affection for his other siblings, but right from the start he'd formed an unexpected bond with the infant. Perhaps it was her fair hair and blue eyes, which bore a slight resemblance to Hance's own coloring. Whatever it was, Hance was Matilda's most ardent admirer and her fiercest protector. And oddly, he seemed to need her as much as she needed him.

  The mood in the dining room had quieted in the wake of Hance's angry departure. The children ate their cake and kissed their parents, and then Mimi came to put them all to bed. When Genevieve rose to help, Mimi waved her away.

  "You just sit back with this old man of yours," she said cheerfully. "Or better yet, take your cider into the keeping room and leave the rest of us to find our ways to bed."

  Genevieve sat before the hearth, listening to the ticking of the mantel clock and the sounds of her family settling in for the night upstairs. The back door slammed as Hance returned, his temper somewhat cooler, she hoped. Then Luke howled his older brother's name. The boys had scarcely ever gotten to bed without some sort of tussle. A sharp bark from Mimi silenced them. Israel began to sing tunelessly, as he was wont to do, but that stopped abruptly as it always did; the lad had a gift for falling asleep. Then Matilda fussed until Genevieve heard the rhythmic wooden creak of her cradle being rocked, probably by Hance. Finally, the soft murmur of Rebecca at her prayers could be heard, and then all was quiet.

  Genevieve watched Roarke as he stirred the fire and added fuel. Blue flames wrapped themselves around the log, causing it to hiss softly in the settled stillness. Her heart filled with love as she watched him.

  She'd never gotten over her astonishment at the depth of their love. Every moment they spent together was a small miracle, precious and fragile, to be guarded and kept close to the heart for safekeeping. Those moments, together with the larger miracles of their children and the success of their farm, brought a perfection to their lives she'd never dared dream of.

  "Ro
arke."

  He turned and smiled at the gentle warmth he heard in her voice. She patted the place beside her.

  He wrapped her in his arms, inhaling the fragrance of her hair. "Gennie love," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. "Thank you."

  She shook her head, tossing her curls. "Don't thank me yet, Roarke. I've not given you anything."

  Rich laughter rippled from him. "Only everything a man could ever want."

  He reached for her again, but she pushed him aside. Still smiling, she handed him a small parcel. She pointed to the words she'd written. "For my husband."

  He opened it slowly, with relish. With a gasp of pleasure, he held up a silver drinking cup. The metal caught the light as he held it in front of his eyes.

  "Gennie, Lord, but it's fine. What's an old lout like me to do with such a fine piece?"

  "What does any gentleman do with a proper drinking cup?" She tipped a bit of cider into it and held it to his lips. "You make a toast to your wife."

  He raised it obligingly and nodded at her. "To card games," he said in his deep voice.

  She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Card games, Roarke? But we don't hold with—"

  "Shh," he said. "It'll be our secret. 'Twas a card game that brought you here, to Virginia. And eventually to me." He took a sip with a satisfied smile.

  She shook her head, "You're impossible," she said, striking him playfully on the chest.

  He brushed his lips over her temple. "Ah, Gennie, have I told you today that I love you?" He scowled a little. "I haven't. Nor did I yesterday, or the day before. I've been remiss, love."

  "No, you haven't, Roarke." She nuzzled the warm flesh at the side of his neck. "I've learned that I needn't hear the words day in and day out. I know you love me. I see it in all the little things you do for me, the small smiles meant only for me, the way you hold my hand in church, your incessant boasting about the way I manage the farm…"

  They came together in a fiercely tender embrace, celebrating their love in a way that transcended words and time.

  In a distant part of the house, Matilda cried again. Then the back door slammed, causing Roarke to stiffen. It wasn't the first time Hance had disappeared into the night with Matilda, to whisper secret dreams to the baby under the stars.

  Genevieve's brow furrowed. "I feel helpless when it comes to Hance. He seems so unhappy."

  "That he does, love."

  "It used to be so simple when the things that troubled him were a scraped knee or a stubborn pony. I knew how to fix those things. But now…"

  Roarke nodded. "I feel the same way. But what can we do, Gennie? We can only give him love and guidance. We can't live his life for him."

  "Roarke, do you think he knows?" Genevieve asked suddenly, lowering her voice.

  He shook his head. "Of course not," he said curtly. "Mimi would never breathe a word, and Nell Wingfield… She's not one to trust, but she's stayed out of our lives."

  "But I don't even feel like I know him anymore. Why won't he talk to us, Roarke?"

  He shrugged. "He's a thirteen-year-old. Not a man, yet no longer a boy, either. Perhaps the best thing to do is allow him space, and time…" He fitted his arm around her and hugged her close. "Let's not worry about it, Gennie, just for tonight."

  She kissed him. "Yes," she murmured, inhaling deeply, filling her senses with him. "Tonight, let there just be the two of us…" Roarke never let her worry for long.

  Hance trudged back up the stairs, his parents' words echoing in his ears. He put Matilda back in her cradle, and she settled softly against her favorite shawl.

  Resentment prickled within him. Why did they go on about him, wringing their hands and wondering about their own inadequacies? It was obvious all fault lay with him.

  And what were the whispers about? What was it they were hiding from him, that even the razor-tongued Nell Wingfield didn't dare divulge? The secret was something they feared; Hance had heard it in their voices. He supposed it had something to do with his nature, that wild streak in him that even he could not control.

  As he slipped into his nightshirt and crept beneath the sheets, taking care not to awaken Luke and Israel, who shared the other bed, Hance swore under his breath. His parents weren't inadequate; quite the opposite. If anything they were almost too indulgent, too forgiving of his many flaws. Genevieve, whom he'd always unabashedly called Mother, went out of her way to give him the same acceptance she gave her own children.

  She shouldn't do that, Hance thought. She shouldn't have taken the load of corn to the gristmill last week when that was his duty. She shouldn't spend her money on books for him when she hadn't had a new frock in years. She should expect—demand—more from him.

  And he should be willing to give more. Each night he went to sleep resolving to contribute more to the farm, the family. But when day dawned bright and golden, the woods so fragrant and blessedly empty, his good intentions fell away and Hance found himself stealing off to enmesh himself in anything but farming or school with the backwoods parson who could barely spell his own name.

  Hance sighed heavily. God knows, he tried. He tried to be a good brother to Luke, but the big, handsome lad seemed to need nothing from his brother. He had no head for book learning, but was possessed of a God-given way of working the land. Never had Luke shown any interest in Hance's enthusiasm for political discussions and the odds of gaming.

  Israel, quiet and pensive beyond his years, seemed to have no notion that Hance existed; the little boy's hero was Luke. As for Rebecca, the girl was so wrapped up in her confounded prayers and psalm singing that the only thing she spared for Hance was an occasional fiery condemnation that would do the Reverend Carstairs proud. She was fond of telling Hance that his idleness would lead him into the hands of Satan, occasionally succeeding in making him feel like a sheep-killing dog.

  A small mewing cry issued from the room across the hall. Matilda was cutting a mouthful of teeth and had been having trouble sleeping lately. But Hance didn't mind soothing her, no matter how many times she roused him. Matilda was the one member of the family who didn't judge him. Granted, she was an infant, but from the day of her birth they had shared an almost mystical bond, which was Hance's one secret joy.

  He padded across the hall to his parents' room, rounding the still-empty bed, and lifted the baby into his arms. Sighing, Hance rubbed his chin over the fine wisps of fair hair and inhaled Matilda's warm, milky fragrance. She quieted as soon as she recognized her brother and settled comfortably into the crook of his arm.

  "There you are, little one," Hance whispered. "Did something give you a fright?"

  She blinked and worked a tiny thumb into her mouth, giving Hance a look that made his heart swell. Grabbing a shawl from the cradle, he made his way down the back stairs again and out into the warm, dark yard.

  It was a soft night of late summer, alive with the chirrups of crickets and tree frogs and the scents of ripening crops and mountain laurel. The new moon, with the old moon cradled in her arms, rose in a star-sprayed sky, hanging above the Blue Ridge and illuminating its rippling peaks. Across the towering barrier was an awesome forest, a patchwork of oak openings and prairie drained by a huge system of rivers and streams.

  "See that, Mattie?" Hance said. "That's the Blue Ridge. There's a whole part of Virginia out there that we've never even seen, called Kentucky. Mr. Daniel Boone spied it all out, once upon a time."

  Matilda waved a chubby fist toward the mountains.

  "Me, too," Hance said, interpreting her gesture. "I'd like to go beyond the mountains, to the other side of the world. Reckon I will one day, and I'll take you with me, little sister."

  The baby squirmed and burrowed her face into his shoulder with a small sound of contentment.

  "Lord, but I love you, Mattie," Hance told her gruffly. She was the only one he could say those words to. Stroking the moist softness of her cheek, he smiled. And she answered him, wordlessly, with a round-eyed stare and a gurgle of unmistakable contentment.

&n
bsp; Chapter Sixteen

  Above the mantel the clock ticked ominously, ceaselessly, breaking the stillness in the house with its age-old rhythm. Summer blazed again over the land at the foot of the Blue Ridge, but Genevieve and Roarke sat gripped by the bitter chill of terror.

  Outside, another rhythm could be heard: the sound of Luke's ax descending again and again on a log. It was his way of coping with the tragedy in the house, a way to empty his mind of everything but the screaming protest of his aching muscles.

  Below the window, Hance and Rebecca argued volubly, raising their voices over Israel's confused sobbing.

  "She'll be an angel soon," Rebecca insisted.

  "Oh?" Hance asked cuttingly. "And what the hell is Mattie now, the devil's spawn at the ripe old age of three? Christ, Becky, what good are all your hymns and prayers if this is what your God does?"

  "Hance," she gasped, "listen to yourself. You're talking blas-blasphony!"

  He snorted derisively at her mispronunciation. But when she began to cry, he softened a little. "Go on and pray, Becky, if it comforts you. But don't expect me to join you. Mattie already is an angel and always has been. No amount of psalm singing will convince me that this is just."

  Inside the house, Genevieve agreed. She couldn't tear her eyes from Matilda, who lay flushed and wheezing in her arms, as she had for two days now.

  "Let me take her, love," Roarke offered, his voice ragged with fatigue. "You'd best try to eat something, take a nap—"

  "No. No, I've little enough time with her as it is." Genevieve shuddered at the sound of her own words. Shuddered because she'd spoken the awful, dark, gut-twisting truth. Matilda had lung fever, and it was eating up her barely lived life with dreadful speed.

  "Oh, God, Roarke," Genevieve said. "Oh, God, I can't stand this…" The words came quietly, suffused with the full horror of all she felt.

  "I know, love," he said. Unshed tears roughened his voice. "I know. Sweet Christ, I feel helpless." They'd had the doctor from town, and Mimi with her Indian remedies, and Mimsy Greenleaf, who years ago had lost one of her own to the same raging disease. But none of them could help.