Embrace the Day Page 4

  "You'd best be looking out for wild Indians," said her brother Tom. "I've heard stories down at the docks—"

  "I've survived seventeen years in the meanest slum in London. I have no fear of savages."

  The door swung open. Piggot arrived, and Genevieve said a subdued goodbye to her family. She felt the finality of it without regret. The family had always been like strangers living in close quarters, never really seeming to reach one another. The bond, Genevieve realized, had to be deeper than blood alone. It had to be forged by love… a thing that had never touched the Elliots.

  For the first time in her life, Genevieve left the teeming city of London. Sitting quietly beside Piggot in a hired coach, she marveled at vast expanses of rolling meadows, neat thatched farmhouses, and fresh-faced people going about their business at a relaxed pace. It was like another world here in the countryside, everything soft and green, so blessedly quiet, the sky a blue she'd never seen before.

  When they reached Southampton, they found the tiny walled port shrouded by a gentle springtime fog that swirled above the river Test and beyond the West Quay, where the Blessing was anchored.

  Genevieve looked out upon the world from a seat atop an empty wooden barrel, watching barks and small shallops being laden with weathered crates. Her favorite sight was that of departing ships, their sails puffed out proudly by the wind, disappearing over the horizon to ports unknown. Now that her destiny had been laid, she was anxious to be on her way.

  Finally, Piggot escorted her unceremoniously to the West Quay. The Blessing lay ready, her full bow and sleek stern cutting a handsome profile against the sky. A small group of women had just boarded. They were an oddly matched lot, bound, as Piggot explained, to find husbands or work as bonded servants in Virginia.

  Genevieve eyed the group curiously, pitying them. There was a mousy girl, painfully plain, who quailed before a brash, loud-talking young woman with painted lips and unnaturally yellow hair. Older ladies, widows perhaps, clutched nervously at the rail, their eyes revealing their worries about what awaited them. Genevieve was glad she wouldn't be subjected to the humiliation of bonded servitude.

  She climbed the wooden gangplank and set foot on deck. Barefooted crew members in loose breeches and leather jerkins scurried about and climbed through the rigging, making ready to unfurl the sails.

  "Wait here," Piggot said. "You'll be shown to your quarters with the other women."

  She nodded and relaxed against the rail. The soft, salty breeze lifted her dark curls, cooling her face and shoulders. She hugged her bundle close and smiled into the wind.

  Suddenly, a movement caught her eye. She looked around in time to see Prudence and Roarke stepping onto the deck.

  It was Prudence, but not the retiring young governess Genevieve knew. The girl looked glorious. Pale, as usual, but not in an unhealthy way. There was an unmistakable air of assurance about Prudence that Genevieve had never seen before. She hesitated, her eyes going to Roarke Adair, the handsome, vital presence at Prudence's elbow. He bore himself stiffly, yet calmly, surveying the activity with sharp blue eyes. He bent and murmured something to Prudence, who nodded and watched him as he strode toward the stern, where blocks of chalk were being brought aboard to be used as ballast, later to be ground into plaster in the colonies.

  Once Roarke was gone, Genevieve made her way to Prudence, stepping over lengths of stout rope and wooden grates.

  "Hello, Pru."

  "Genevieve!" Prudence embraced her. " 'Tis a miracle, is it not, that we're to be together in Virginia? And neighbors at that, Mr. Piggot says. Your Cornelius Culpeper has property near Dancer's Meadow, in Albemarle County."

  Genevieve couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. "If you could call my being gambled away in a card game miraculous."

  Prudence's face fell. "Roarke told me. He's sorry, Genevieve."

  "Never mind. I wasn't happy about the way this came about, but now that it's done, I'm ready for an adventure." She gave Prudence a sideways glance. "You aren't angry with me, are you, for blurting out everything to the Brim?"

  "No, Genevieve. Lord knows where I'd be if you hadn't spoken out."

  Genevieve swallowed. "Still, I'm sorry. I've since realized that it's not a good thing to go meddling in other people's affairs."

  Prudence smiled. Genevieve was glad to see her smiling again. "Never mind. We're still the best of friends, are we not? Truly, I think fate brought us together on this ship. Roarke has promised we'll see each other often."

  Genevieve frowned at the way his name trilled on Prudence's lips. "You really don't mind, do you?"

  "No." Prudence fingered a small gold locket on a thin chain that had been concealed inside her gown. "I've not been able to simply wash my hands of Edmund, but in time, I think, I'll put him from my mind."

  Hesitantly, Genevieve asked, "And what of Roarke Adair?"

  "There now, I know you don't like him. But you mustn't judge him. He only suggested what he thought best for you." Prudence gave her a canny glance. "Much as you did for me, Genevieve, in speaking your mind to the Brimsbys."

  Chastened, she nodded. "But he seems such a rough, wild sort."

  "He's been ever so kind," Prudence insisted. Her hand strayed to her midsection. "He'll be a fine father."

  Genevieve stared. "He knows, then? He understands?" Somehow she couldn't imagine Roarke Adair welcoming another man's child.

  "Oh, no." Prudence said quickly. "I dare not tell him now. Later, after we've been married some weeks, I'll surprise him."

  "Prudence! Bloody sakes, you mean you'll let him believe the babe is his?"

  "Of course. It'll come early, but that often happens, I'm told."

  Quiet laughter issued from behind them. Prudence's face drained of color as she and Genevieve spun about to find the source. The brash yellow-haired woman from the docks was lounging at the rail, picking absently at a bit of dirt under her fingernail and grinning broadly.

  "Mornin'," she said in a husky voice. "I'm Nell Wingfield." She stared at Genevieve and Prudence until Prudence fell back against a grate, looking faint. Nell laughed again and wandered off, swaying her hips so audaciously that one of the sailors in the rigging nearly lost his footing.

  "She heard," Prudence whispered faintly. "That woman heard us talking."

  "There now, and what if she did?" Genevieve replied.

  "You're right," admitted Prudence, relaxing visibly. "Roarke would never believe a tale told by the likes of her. Besides, in a few weeks he'll be too excited about the baby to listen to gossip."

  Genevieve shook her head slowly in disbelief. She'd always thought Prudence above deception. "I've no great compassion for Roarke Adair," she said, "but still, I think the poor sod deserves to know—"

  "Never," Prudence said flatly. "I don't want an innocent child to suffer for the mistakes of others. Actually, it was Mrs. Brimsby's idea. She forbade me to tell the truth and warned me what it could do to the child."

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, Genevieve pitied Roarke Adair. What a convenient dupe he'd been, arriving at the perfect time to save the reputations of the Brimsbys and Prudence Moon.

  "I must go," Prudence was saying. "Roarke has secured a cabin for us, and I'd like to get settled. Where will you be staying, Genevieve?"

  She grimaced. "Below, with the other women. I suspect Mr. Piggot has plenty of Mr. Culpeper's money, easily the four pounds for private quarters, but he's not about to part with it for my sake."

  "Poor Genevieve. Please, if you need something—anything—do call on us. Roarke is exceedingly generous."

  Genevieve turned away. There was nothing hard about refusing the generosity of Roarke Adair. Spying some of the other women descending a narrow ladder, Genevieve decided to follow them, to see where she would be spending the next several weeks.

  The women's quarters were small even by Genevieve's standards. Eight narrow bunks lined the sides of the lower deck. There was a tiny area for stowage beneath each one
and not enough headroom to stand. Six of the women had claimed bunks, and Genevieve took a seventh. She looked bleakly at the damp, lumpy mattress. It smelled of mildew and was probably crawling with vermin.

  Then Nell Wingfield came in, cursing volubly as her ragged red skirt caught on a splinter. Her garish presence seemed to fill the tiny space.

  "Is this the only one not taken?" she demanded, indicating the single empty bunk. When no one responded, she looked about. "Well, it ain't to my liking. I prefer this one, beneath the lantern beam." She stood, arms akimbo, before the mousy girl who occupied the bunk. The girl resignedly began to gather up her things.

  "Leave Amy be, Nell Wingfield," one of the older ladies said.

  "Shut up, you," Nell snapped. She turned again to Amy. "And you—get your arse up."

  Genevieve felt herself grow tense. The women would have to live in these close quarters for weeks, and it wouldn't do to have Nell placing herself at the top of the pecking order right at the start. She jumped up, undaunted by Nell Wingfield's brashness, outraged by her bullying.

  "You've no right to that bunk," she stated angrily.

  "And who have we here?" Nell purred, falsely congenial. "Ah, the conspirator from above decks… A pretty little piece, and feisty, too." She frowned suddenly and shoved Genevieve away. "One side, wench. I'll sleep where I please."

  Cheeks flaming with anger, Genevieve grabbed Nell by the sleeve and, with a great push, flung her on the empty bunk.

  "Sleep there, and don't be bothering Amy again."

  Nell was upon her instantly, hissing and scratching like a great buxom cat. Emitting foul curses, she took Genevieve's breath away with a fist to the stomach.

  Genevieve was no stranger to brawling. Half her childhood, it seemed, had been spent defending herself against bullies. Guided by the wisdom of the East End streets, she wrestled Nell to the planks, finally subduing her by straddling her and pinning her hands beneath her knees.

  Nell cursed and thrashed, but Genevieve held fast, her wiry, compact strength well able to best Nell's larger size. "For the last time, Nell, you're to leave all the others alone."

  "You damned little chit," Nell ground out. But she ceased her struggling, and Genevieve knew she'd surrendered—for the moment. Genevieve walked calmly to her bunk, acknowledging Amy's tremulous smile of gratitude with a nod. For the second time in her life she'd made a friend. Behind her, Nell cursed again.

  She'd also made an enemy.

  Genevieve witnessed the Blessing's departure from a tiny skylight above the bunks. The women had been instructed to stay below, out of the way of the busy crewmen. She heard the tattoo of running feet above decks, the squealing of chains and pulleys, as the tide swept in and wind swelled the sails.

  Some of the women worried and prayed, clutching white-knuckled at the beams as the Blessing lurched away from shore. Genevieve felt strangely calm. It occurred to her that she was leaving behind everything she'd ever known. Something inside her quivered at the thought. She was being offered a new chance in life, a chance to become whatever person she chose to be, a person unhindered by the past, unlimited by the future.

  Without quite realizing it, Genevieve found herself thinking, Thank you, Roarke Adair. Just as quickly she reeled in that thought, retracting her misplaced gratitude. He may have landed her where she was now, but he'd never hear a word of thanks from her.

  After some time, Genevieve realized the Blessing was picking up speed, pushing smoothly out to sea. She left the women's quarters, garnering a glare from Nell, and went above decks.

  The sight of the Blessing's sails, puffed out like the breasts of giant birds, was breathtaking. Genevieve leaned against the rail, looking out at the misty, flat horizon. Behind were the gray-brown cliffs of England and dark waters with ominous jutting rocks. Ahead lay Start Point and Land's End, and beyond that, the endless expanse of the open sea.

  She tasted salt on her lips and felt moist air on her cheeks. The unpleasantness with Nell ebbed away, and a slight smile curved her lips.

  Moments later it disappeared. Roarke Adair materialized suddenly at her side.

  "It didn't take you long to make a formidable reputation for yourself, Mrs. Culpeper." His face was stern, but there was an unmistakable glint of humor in the uncompromising blue of his eyes.

  She bit her lip. "How did you know?"

  "Seems there're no secrets on shipboard. We all live too closely for privacy. News of your fight with the Wingfield woman spread like lightning."

  "I didn't think. I'm off to a bad start, then."

  "Certainly not. You're something of a heroine now. 'Tis clear Nell Wingfield meant to run things among the women, but you bested her."

  "I had to. If I'd let her have her way today, she would have deviled us all through this voyage."

  Roarke chuckled. "She won't trouble you again, Gennie. That's the way it is with bullies. They need to be shown their place, and you did that."

  "I'm glad you're pleased," Genevieve said dryly.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. "Touchy, aren't you?"

  "I don't want to be known as a harridan. And I don't think this is amusing at all."

  "I see." He grew serious, intense. "You know, Gennie, your eyes shine when you're angry. And your cheeks are flushed a remarkable color—like a ripe plum."

  She felt her face grow hot and turned away. "You shouldn't talk like that, Mr. Adair."

  "Gennie—"

  She jumped away. "Stop calling me that!"

  But he moved close, impaling her with his blue-eyed stare. "The voyage is long, and the days lonely. You're starved already for companionship, Gennie. I can see it in your eyes."

  "Go away, Roarke Adair. I despise your attitude toward me. You admire my skills at brawling; you pay me pretty compliments and expect me to fall at your feet."

  His eyes hardened. "This is an honest offer of friendship, Gennie."

  "I suggest you try your charms on your wife, then. Because I happen to know that Prudence needs your friendship more than I." Genevieve fled, her mind in a turmoil of anger and something worse, something she might mistake for softness if she didn't despise Roarke Adair so.

  The voyage went smoothly under the expert guidance of Captain Chauncey Button, who chose the shorter, more turbulent northern route over the balmy southern way, making for the waters about Greenland. The Blessing got a good offing well clear of the Bay of Biscay, thus avoiding the treacherous coast of Cape Finisterre.

  The ship was cold, perpetually wet, and conditions below decks were barely tolerable. A candle lantern cast a dim yellow light over the women's quarters, where the air reeked of vomit, bilge, and unwashed women.

  The older women huddled on their bunks, praying and talking of the past and trying to avoid thinking about what lay ahead.

  But Virginia was all Genevieve could think about. She was delighted to find that Amy Floyd was as eager as she. Surprisingly well read, Amy often talked of her fascination with the American natives.

  "It almost seems unfair, doesn't it," Amy said, "that most of the tribes have been forced to migrate from Virginia. 'Twas their land before any Englishman ever set foot on it."

  "All the better," Nell Wingfield snorted. "Murderin' savages."

  "They're hardly savages," Amy insisted. "Did you know their chiefs rule by the will of the people, selected for their wisdom and ability? 'Tis a sight better than we have in England; we're stuck with whomever the Hanovers happen to give birth to."

  The ship lurched and threw Nell against a beam. "I'm getting good and bloody tired of this," she said peevishly.

  Mrs. Dobbins bobbed her head. "I wish I could have had a private cabin, like that young Mrs. Adair."

  Nell laughed unpleasantly. "In her condition she needs all the comfort she can get."

  Genevieve stiffened. "Nell—"

  "Aye, the woman's got more than seasickness plaguing her—"

  "That's enough," Genevieve said loudly. "You'd do well to keep your gossip to your
self, Nell Wingfield."

  "Gossip, is it?" Nell cocked an eyebrow.

  "Some people," Amy suggested pointedly, "have nothing to say for themselves, so they invent things about others."

  Genevieve sent Amy a grin and plucked idly at a frayed spot on her skirt.

  "Bloody hell," she said, "I'll be lucky if this rag holds out for the rest of the voyage."

  "We'll fix it," Amy said brightly, kneeling beside her bunk to look for her etui. The tiny lacquered box inlaid with gold filament was her most prized possession. Amy looked up from her searching, her brow creased by a frown. "My etui is missing," she said.

  Only Genevieve saw Nell's hand creep furtively to a fold in her apron. Genevieve sighed wearily. It wasn't the first time Nell's light fingers had struck. But Genevieve wasn't in the mood for another scrap.

  "God blind me, you've found it!" she declared suddenly, yanking Nell's hand from her pocket. "Good for you, Nell; you knew Amy'd be wanting it." She pried the little box from Nell's hand and tossed it to Amy, who stifled a giggle. Ignoring Nell's mumbled curses, they set to mending Gene skirt, listening to high waves licking like giant tongues against the hull as Mrs. Dobbins read from her Bible in a quavering voice.

  When the weather settled, Genevieve escaped to the updecks, keeping a sharp eye out for Roarke Adair. She wasn't one to avoid confrontations, but this man was like none she'd ever encountered before. He seemed to see through the air of brash insouciance she'd learned to cultivate long ago in the mean London slums. Roarke's blatant friendliness reached out and grabbed some part of her that she preferred to keep locked away.

  She spent hours with Prudence, however, for during the day Roarke took himself off to other parts of the ship.

  Prudence wasn't weathering the voyage well. She was constantly ill, and Genevieve became something of a nursemaid, emptying the bucket, bringing cool cloths for her friend's brow, coaxing her to sip a bit of salty broth. But even under daily care, Prudence's condition worsened. By the fifth week of the voyage she'd grown thin and hollow-cheeked and frighteningly gray about the eyes and lips. Day by day her strength seemed to ebb away, and no amount of coaxing from Genevieve could reverse the alarming trend. Prudence had lost her initial good spirits and spoke frequently of Edmund, whispering her secrets to the North Atlantic winds as she fingered the small engraved locket he'd given her.