Embrace the Day Page 20

  Roarke lowered himself to the bed where Genevieve sat with the child and encircled them both with his arms. Sensing his presence through her delirium, Matilda clutched at his sleeve with a fever-flushed hand. Her eyes, tiny slits of blue in her swollen face, regarded him with confusion. Matilda was unable to comprehend the pain she was in.

  "Oh, please, God spare her," Genevieve murmured. But she knew her prayer would be ignored. Matilda was too weak and small to battle the fires of this illness. She grew more feeble with each passing moment.

  Genevieve tore her eyes away from the child and gave Roarke a tortured look. "What can we do?"

  "Nothing," he told her. He wished he could comfort his wife in this time of aching sadness, but his own sense of grief and hopelessness equaled hers. " 'Tis the greatest ill we could ever be dealt, Gennie."

  Her tears splashed down on Matilda's shawl. "How will we go on after this?" she asked brokenly.

  "I don't know, love. I don't know. We have the others…" His voice trailed off. There was no comfort in that. The preciousness of all the other children could never fill the void Matilda would leave in their lives.

  There was a sound of muffled protest outside the door— Mimi's voice. And then the door was pushed open.

  "Hance, no!" Genevieve said, instinctively drawing the child against her. "The fever—"

  "Fever be damned," Hance growled. "I'm sick of waiting out there, not knowing—"

  Genevieve opened her mouth to protest again, but Roarke stopped her. "Let him, Gennie," he said quietly, and motioned Hance to the bed.

  The boy shot his father a grateful look and approached slowly, fearfully. It wasn't the disease he was afraid of but of what he was about to see. Genevieve pulled back the blankets to reveal Matilda's pitifully flushed face.

  He drew his breath in sharply. Even his darkest imaginings hadn't prepared him for this. Matilda looked unutterably fragile, her flesh burning beneath his touch, her breathing the faintest of wheezes, like dead leaves rustling in the wind.

  Genevieve winced at the look on Hance's face: the disbelief as he stared at the baby, the naked terror that haunted and darkened his sky-blue eyes.

  "She's very sick, Hance," she said quietly.

  "She's dying." The words were torn from him.

  Roarke put a hand on Hance's shoulder. "There's nothing we can do, son. Nothing but wait, and hold on to each other."

  "Let me have her."

  Woodenly, Genevieve handed him the child. With heartaching tenderness, Hance gathered her to his chest and turned away, toward the window.

  The dormer gave out to the west. Hance's gaze moved restlessly over the acres of the farm. The gnarled white oak where he'd pushed Matilda in her swing, laughing as she squealed, "Higher! Higher!" The patch of green where they'd lain on their bellies, their chins tickled by soft grass as they watched a cricket. In the distance the Blue Ridge brooded in its soft haze, changeless, ever present.

  "See it, Mattie?" Hance whispered. "See the Blue Ridge? I said I'd take you there some day—to see the other side of the world."

  For a brief moment the glazed look left her eyes, and she turned her face toward the light. Her dry lips curved into a ghost of her sunny smile, as if forgiving Hance for not fulfilling his promise. Stricken to his core, Hance brought her back to Genevieve.

  The child's mouth formed the words "Mama" and "Papa." Then she turned her face into Genevieve's chest and died with the softest of sighs.

  Genevieve felt the life shudder out of her child. She, too, stopped breathing, her throat constricting painfully. But she wasn't granted the mercy of death. Inevitably, she dragged in a reluctant breath. She had to go on. She had to spend a lifetime missing her baby.

  Roarke took Matilda and covered the rapidly cooling face with kisses, his entire body convulsed with ragged sobs.

  "No." Hance whispered the word, desperately, stepping back. Then he ran to the window and gripped the sill and repeated his denial, screaming it this time.

  Days of warmth and brilliant light ended the summer of 1790. The crops grew straight and tall, yielding bounty. But within the family all was darkness. Genevieve went through the motions of living, drawing her children to her with desperate ferocity. But there was a gaping hole within her heart that couldn't be filled, not by Luke's steadfastness, nor Rebecca's constant prayers, nor Israel's quiet affection, nor even the grief-tinged sweetness of Roarke's abiding love.

  The farm prospered, and the children grew. Eventually, Genevieve learned to smile again, but it was a smile haunted by sadness, for life was no longer a dream fulfilled. The nightmare of Matilda's death colored everything in shades of bleakness.

  Hance was inconsolable. The one thing he'd loved above all others had been snatched from him. Unlike his parents, who grieved in quiet desperation, Hance raged. His temper flared at the slightest provocation. His absences became more frequent, longer. Often he escaped to Richmond, seeking out the lowliest of taverns, drinking and wenching himself into a state of torpor.

  "I'm worried about him, Roarke," Genevieve said as they lay together in the dark one night. "I'm worried about the company he keeps and the things he does when he's away."

  "I've tried to talk to him about it, love," Roarke said. He sighed and flung his arm over his brow. "But I can't stop him. If I'm too hard on him, we'll lose him completely."

  "He's so angry, Roarke."

  "Aye. At all the world and at himself, too, I think."

  "People in town talk. They swear he'll come to a bad end."

  "Do you believe that, Gennie?"

  "I don't know. There's so much good in him, Roarke, so much he could share. But he keeps it all to himself."

  He stroked her hair, weaving his fingers into soft curls. "He knows we're here, should he need us. 'Tis all we can do, love."

  Genevieve hoped that a baby would come of that night, and all the years of nights that followed. She still loved Roarke desperately, even more deeply now with the tragedy they'd shared. A baby would give her new hope, new faith. But the fulfillment Genevieve longed for eluded her. It seemed she was as barren as the region of her heart Matilda had occupied.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Hance has a gi-irl! Hance has a gi-irl!" Luke skipped around the periphery of the big new meeting hall, within earshot but out of fist range of his seventeen-year-old brother. Dancers swung each other about to a fiddler's scratchy tunes, creating patterns of gay cotton dresses and bright hunting shirts. Dusty boots beat a steady tattoo on the puncheon floor, the rhythm echoed by clapping.

  Genevieve looked over Roarke's shoulder at Luke, who was darting about and grinning audaciously. The boy took every opportunity to tease Hance unmercifully, but it wasn't malicious teasing. And Luke was always careful to choose a time when Hance was too preoccupied with other things to retaliate.

  "I think Luke's right," she said to Roarke as they moved among the circle of dancers. "Hance is smitten with Jane Carstairs."

  Roarke chuckled. "And she with him, I'll wager."

  "Why not?" Genevieve questioned. "He's handsome as the devil, with all that golden hair and his sparkling blue eyes. When he's not in a temper about something, he can be quite charming."

  "Aye. But why the parson's daughter, of all the girls in town?"

  Genevieve frowned. "Roarke, what are you saying?"

  "That I don't trust the lad's manners," he admitted. "I don't believe much of my teaching took hold."

  He squeezed her hand as they watched Hance and Jane slip out the door into the quiet summer evening.

  "Hance has a gi-irl!"

  Hance cringed a little as Luke's taunts came floating out after them. "Damn the little whippersnapper," he grumbled. "Rattles on like a bell clapper up a goose's ass. Ill give him what for when we get home."

  "Hance," Jane gasped, "you shouldn't swear."

  He laughed and laid his arm across her shoulder. Fascination always outweighed her outrage. "I've heard that before."

  "You should pa
y it some mind then."

  "Now, Janie, don't you start in on me. I get it bad enough from Rebecca. I swear my sister'd put even your father to shame with all her sermons and psalm singing."

  "I haven't seen you at meeting lately, Hance," she reminded him.

  He waved his hand. "And you're not likely to, Janie."

  "Papa told me to stay away from you. Said you consorted with the Harpers. Said you were wild and unsettled."

  Hance laughed. "So I am, honey. But—" he caught her against him, smiling at her soft gasp of surprise and pleasure —"that's what you like about me, isn't it?" He leaned down toward her pretty face, lips seeking hers.

  She protested, but Jane always did. Just like she always gave in eventually. After a few moments her obligatory struggling ceased, and she softened in his arms. Hance covered her mouth with his while his hands slid over her ripe, young body. Urgency thundered through his veins, and he strained against her.

  "Janie," he murmured against her lips. "Oh, honey…"

  Hance knew far more of women than most boys his age. But his experience was with tavern girls. Jane was different, because she was so very proper—the preacher's daughter, as clean and fresh as new print on a Bible page.

  Hance wanted to be the first one to write on that page. He'd been months working Jane up to this point…

  He fitted his hand between their bodies, inhaling expectantly when his fingers splayed out over the rise of her breast. He'd never been so bold with Jane, but tonight, surrounded by the music of crickets and the smells of honeysuckle and budding sassafras, the moment seemed right. Just right… His hand slid down into the bodice of her dress. The warm, satiny feel of her flesh ignited the firestorm within him to new heights. Surely, she would yield to him now. Surely—

  He was amazed that such a petite girl could possess such strength. Jane placed her hands against his chest and gave a mighty heave, causing him to stumble back.

  "How dare you, Hance Adair?" she cried, hands flying to her flushed cheeks in mortification.

  Confused and frustrated desire caused a buzzing in his head. He regarded the girl curiously. "Come on now, Janie, I was only—"

  "I know exactly what you were trying to do," she stormed, wrapping her arms across her chest as if to shield herself from him.

  "Where's the wrong in it? We're courting, aren't we?"

  "We were." Jane folded her lips into a prim line. "But not anymore, Hance. You're nothing but a rutting mule. Papa said you weren't good enough for me, and he's right."

  "Janie—"

  "Stay away from me, Hance. Go back to your fancy girls in Richmond. You deserve them."

  With that, she flounced away in a flurry of calico and petticoats. Hance watched, amazed, as she paused at the door of the meeting hall, linked her arm with Peter Hinton's and strolled off with him.

  Hance stiffened at the sound of laughter nearby. Sharp amusement, with a derisive quality, drifted through the scented air. Nell Wingfield appeared from the shadows near the meeting hall.

  "Poor Hance," she cooed huskily. "I'm afraid you've got a lot to learn where girls are concerned."

  "Excuse me, Miss Wingfield." He tried to push past her, but she placed herself in his way, holding a small silver whiskey bottle to his lips. Unthinkingly, he drank and was surprised at the smooth quality of the whiskey.

  "Remember that taste," Nell said, smiling at his expression. "You'll never want raw corn whiskey or hard cider again."

  Hance took another sip. This time he returned her smile. She really was a pretty woman. Years past girlhood, of course, but with a firm, generous body and lips that looked as if they could devour a man whole.

  When she led him away from the meeting hall, off into the dark and up the road to her house, Hance knew he'd taste more than Nell's whiskey before the night was out. He'd already forgotten Janie Carstairs.

  "Luther!" Genevieve hurried to the dock where he was climbing from his barge. "Did you see Hance when you were in Richmond? Lord, he's been away so long, nearly a year."

  Luther Quaid took her arm and drew her aside. As they headed toward the trading post, he handed her a packet. "Corn prices are up again. You're going to be a wealthy woman someday."

  Genevieve put the money away with a shrug. "We already have everything we need. Israel's turning into something of a scholar, though. We'll be sending him up to Williamsburg for a proper education when he gets older." She looked down at her hands, no longer roughened by labor. Lately, the most treacherous tool they wielded was her quill.

  "Sometimes I think we have too much. There are days when Roarke simply sits idle, watching the farm prosper. It's almost as if the place doesn't need us anymore." She frowned at Luther. "You're avoiding my question about Hance."

  He nodded and rubbed his hand thoughtfully on the sleeve of his doeskin shirt. "I seen him, Genevieve. He's living in a rooming house in Marshall Street, a fairly decent place. Has a decent job, too. He works for Horace Rathford."

  "The assemblyman?"

  Luther nodded. "I understand Hance takes care of his correspondence, runs errands and such."

  "So why didn't you want to tell me, Luther?"

  "He lives in a flamboyant manner, I guess you could say. Rathford's a mite fond of the lad; tends to fawn over him. I'm afraid Hance has a taste for the gaming tables, and women." Luther gave Genevieve a sideways glance. "Jamaica water, too, and…"

  Genevieve pressed her lips together. What more could there be?

  Luther shuffled his feet, looking ill at ease. "Look, Genevieve, maybe I shouldn't—"

  "Luther, please."

  "Fourteen slaves escaped from the Whitney plantation last week. Both Hance and Calvin Greenleaf were questioned about it. And not very kindly, I'm afraid."

  Genevieve shook her head, not at all surprised. She'd never regret that she'd taught Hance to hate slavery, but she wished he could find a less dangerous way to hate it. And she wished, for the Greenleafs' sake, that Calvin would use a bit more discretion in his fight against the institution. Planters around Richmond were quick to distrust a black freed, quicker still to hang one they didn't like.

  Genevieve was seized by an inexplicable sense of foreboding when she said goodbye to Roarke the next day. They both knew his trip to Richmond would prove futile, for Hance was no farmer. It was absurd, she told herself, to have this sudden attack of nerves on a day when the January sky was as blue as a jay's wing and winter's chill had given way to brief warmth.

  Added to that was her sense that she was falling ill. She'd been so tired these last few weeks, barely able to rise in the morning. Food nauseated her and—

  "Sweet, merciful God," she breathed, clutching at Roarke.

  "What is it, Gennie?"

  She looked at him in confusion, almost afraid to speak. And then her foreboding was forgotten as joy blossomed in her heart. How stupid she'd been, not recognizing the signs that had once been so familiar to her.

  She collapsed, laughing, against Roarke's chest. "I'm pregnant," she told him, suddenly suffused by a feeling that had been absent for years. A warm, protective feeling of contentment, a prelude to the nesting instinct that would come later.

  Roarke recovered from his surprise and swept her up into his arms, swinging her about as rich laughter rippled from him.

  "That's fine, Gennie love," he told her, setting her down gently. "That's just fine. 'Tis time we had a baby about the house again."

  Her breath caught at the roughness she heard in his voice. The void Matilda's death had left in their lives was still there, contemplated during quiet moments, shading all the events of their lives like a small, gloomy cloud. Even a new baby wouldn't change that. But it was something to hope for, a new object for their love.

  Roarke gave Genevieve a lingering kiss. "Hance will welcome the news. I'll hurry back," he promised. "Take care of yourself."

  The news should have explained her foreboding, but it didn't. Within moments after Roarke left, she was seized again by a chilly
feeling that she couldn't bring herself to think about.

  "I swear, you're ornery as Balaam's ass, Becky—put that darned book away and help me," Luke said irritably, lifting a newly riven oak rail onto the ones below it. The bottom rails had gone gray and rotten over the years; it was time for a new zigzag fence of fresh, pale oak.

  Rebecca frowned. " 'Tis the Good Book, Luke, and you've said a profanity about it."

  "Well, it's no help in mending fences. Pick up that other end, will you?"

  She sighed and slipped the small volume into her apron pocket. Her red calf-bound Bible, together with a small wooden bear that spun on a rod, had been gifts from Roarke for her tenth birthday. Prized gifts, beloved ones, from the father she worshiped almost as fervently as she worshiped her Lord.

  "I don't see why we have to do this anyway," she complained. "Papa's fence was perfectly good—"

  "This is better," Luke said with certainty, fitting the rail snugly in place. "I want to finish by the time Pa gets home from Richmond, to surprise him."

  They worked in silence for a while. At age eleven,. Luke was a big, strapping lad with a good mind for building things and an eye for useful innovation. Rebecca, a year his junior, was a sturdy little girl with a headful of tumbling, ginger-colored curls that defied the bonnet she tried to tuck them into. She was hard-working, although she showed a marked preference for reading her Bible and singing hymns over everyday work about the farm. As she worked, she began to sing, pausing between verses of a Watts hymn to stick her tongue out at Luke, who pretended to be in real distress over her singing. He began splitting more rails with the maul, trying to drown her out with its rhythmic thud.

  "Well, well," said a harsh voice behind them, "what a godly little pair the two of you make."

  Luke set down the maul and snatched off his hat. "Hello, Miss Wingfield," he said, unsmiling. He knew little of the woman from the other side of town, only that she'd been a Tory during the war and that the men she hired to work her farm, including the notorious Harper brothers, weren't of the very best character.