by Susan Wiggs
Genevieve was tireless during this time, as were the Greenleafs. In the scalding heat of high summer and in the soft rains that came down from the Blue Ridge, they worked the fields. In the evening they shared a meal, their food growing more bountiful with each passing week. Mimsy's kitchen garden fairly burst with beans and squash and turnips, and Phillip's propensity for hunting put meat on the table. It was a full, busy time for Genevieve, a time of hope, a time when she allowed herself to dream.
Her evenings were never lonely now that she had her project with Calvin. Although Genevieve swore she knew little of teaching, he was an apt and eager pupil. She soon had him reading Ben Franklin's worldly witticisms and studying the rules of language in Dilworth's speller, which Mr. Carstairs had lent her. Even during the day, when they paused for dinner beneath a shady tree, Genevieve would often take up a stick and set Calvin to drawing his letters in the dust. When Mimsy saw that her son was beginning to read, she brought forth a tattered Bible that had once belonged to her mistress at Greenleaf. Now, instead of looking askance at Calvin's new skill, she delighted in hearing him read the Scriptures.
But Calvin had little interest in the Bible. Luther Quaid had brought him a battered copy of Judge Sewall's "Selling of Joseph," an antislavery tract. Genevieve was surprised by the power of Calvin's reaction to it. She was even more amazed when he began to pen his own ideas on slavery. Ideas that, she knew, would bring all the slave owners of Albemarle County down about his ears if they ever knew about them. But never once did she try to discourage him.
One evening in late August, as Genevieve was listening to Calvin read from Jonathan Edwards's treatise on freedom of will, she found she had trouble concentrating on her pupil. Calvin had a deep, musical voice, and he was reading now with growing confidence, but there was a restlessness within Genevieve that detracted from her enjoyment at hearing him.
For months she'd suffered from vague pangs of loneliness, although she told herself it was absurd. She had the farm, and the Greenleafs. Still…
Calvin stopped at an unfamiliar word and looked up. He waited a moment for Genevieve to prompt him, as she usually did, but she said nothing, only sat there with a wistful expression on her face.
"Miz Culpeper… ?"
Genevieve started. "What it is, Cal? Oh, do you need a word?"
"I believe I've finished for the night."
"Oh. Very well. Say goodnight to the family for me." He nodded and placed the book on a shelf, then walked toward the door.
Thinking Calvin had gone, Genevieve leaned her elbows on the windowsill and looked outside. Luther Quaid had brought a piece of glass for the window, but Genevieve hadn't yet prevailed on Joshua to set it into the frame. The glass would be welcome come winter, when the wind blew relentlessly down from the mountains, but now in high summer, Genevieve savored the gentle breeze that wafted in.
She found her gaze drawn down to the Greenleaf house. Joshua had cut a large window into one wall, and she could see the members of the family moving about. It was a scene of cozy intimacy; Genevieve felt slightly guilty watching as little Rose tripped by, and then Joshua appeared, sweeping Mimsy into a firm embrace. Fighting down an unbidden twinge of longing, Genevieve turned away.
Embarrassed, she found herself facing Calvin. "I thought you'd gone," she said, feeling her face redden.
Inexplicably, Calvin himself seemed ill at ease. This was unusual, as the young man ordinarily exuded confidence in everything he did.
"I was just thinking how quiet and lonely it must get up here at night, Miz Cul—Genevieve."
She smiled. "That it does, Cal. I don't mind the quiet, really I don't." But he had seen her staring longingly out the window and knew she was lying. Genevieve forced herself to look at him and tried to laugh.
"In truth, I sometimes dread the night. Especially when the wolves howl. It makes me feel so cut off from everything, so utterly alone."
"You ought to marry again, Genevieve. Marry proper this time, and start a family. You're never alone once you got family."
"But you're my family, Cal. You and your parents and brothers and sisters. I couldn't ask for better than I already have."
"Ain't the same thing," he insisted, stepping closer to her. "A person's got to have something more than that."
The next moment, Genevieve found herself pulled against Calvin's tall, wiry frame and felt his mouth push down on hers. At first she was so shocked that she couldn't react. But then she brought her hands up and pressed them firmly against his chest, pushing herself away.
"Cal!"
There was a rebellious look in his eyes as he reached for her again. "I ain't a boy, Miz Cul-Genevieve. I'm the same age as you. There's plenty I know about women. Plenty I know about you, that you probably don't even know yourself."
Genevieve backed away. She wasn't afraid, but deeply disappointed. With his embrace, Calvin had changed the terms of the friendship that had been growing between them all summer. She held up her hand to him.
"You don't want this, Cal, not really. What was it you were reading from your mother's Bible… 'Stolen waters are sweet, and the bread eaten in secret is pleasant…' "
It was the wrong thing to say. Calvin's eyes hardened to gleaming ebony. "Looks like you suddenly got religion," he sneered. "Mighty convenient timing." He turned away sharply. "I thought you were different from most folks; thought you could look at me and see a man, not a nigger. But you can't, not any more than the slave owners in Dancer's Meadow."
Genevieve winced at the bitterness in his voice. "Cal, it's not that. It's just that—"
He strode to the door. "Goodnight, Miz Culpeper. Thank you for teaching me to read. I reckon I can get on by myself from now on."
He disappeared into the gathering twilight. It was the last time Calvin ever set foot in Genevieve's house.
Genevieve knew immediately upon reaching town that something was wrong. The fact that she'd barely slept the night before, worrying about the confrontation with Calvin, added to the tenseness of her nerves. She was on her way to the trading post to send her monthly letters to Mr. Firth and Henry Piggot, which informed them of the farm's progress and begged Piggot to be patient. She drew up her horse at the end of the road and shaded her eyes with her hand.
A dozen men milled about, clad in dirty hunting shirts and buckskins, conspicuously armed with rifles, knives, and tomahawks. Squinting, Genevieve caught sight of Roarke and another tall man with a head of flaming red hair. She remembered George Rogers Clark from a visit he'd made the previous summer. The presence of the Indian fighter and frontiersman caused a prickle of apprehension to slither up her spine.
Bouncing her heels against Victor's flanks, Genevieve joined the group massed in front of the trading post. Victor shied a little at the sight and smell of the unfamiliar horses. Genevieve herself recoiled at the smell of bear grease and the sight of scalps of spiky black hair hanging from some of the saddles. She dismounted and went to Roarke's side.
She greeted Captain Clark, who nodded gravely, and then asked Roarke what had happened.
"There's been an Indian attack," he reported in a subdued tone. "The Parker farm was hit."
Genevieve stumbled back. Her knowledge of the ways of Indians was scant, but she'd heard terrifying tales about redskins who, infrequently, rode down to attack white settlers.
"Sweet Christ," she breathed, raising her hand to her throat. "Are they—?" She broke off, unable to give voice to her fears.
"Seth and the baby were killed," Roarke said quietly. "Amy is missing. Kidnapped, probably."
Swallowing hard, Genevieve asked, "Why, Roarke? How could this happen?"
Hearing her question, Captain Clark stepped forward. "Retaliation, ma'am. Chief Logan was a friend of the whites until his family was slaughtered by Greathouse's gang. After that, Logan declared open season on the white man."
He pushed back his wide-brimmed hat and shook his head. "It's unusual, an attack this deep into a settled area. From the look
of the Parker farm, this was a band of strays, three or four at most."
Genevieve tried not to show that she was trembling. "But why the Parkers, captain? Amy was fascinated by Indians; she would have offered them her hospitality."
The rugged frontiersman's face clouded. "Seth Parker's brother was in on the Greathouse massacre."
"What will become of Amy?"
"If she's cooperative, she may be adopted. The Indians have a ritual that purges a person of all white blood and makes them a member of the tribe."
"And if she fights them?"
"Indians have exquisite ways of torture."
Quaking inside, Genevieve found herself hoping that Amy wasn't a captive after all, that she'd met a quick, merciful death. Knowing how much her friend loved her husband and baby, she guessed that Amy wouldn't want to go on without them.
Captain Clark spoke to Roarke. "Some of the men are going back up to the farm. If we can determine the direction the redskins took, we might be able to overtake them."
Roarke walked to his horse. "I'll go along, too."
Without hesitation, Genevieve mounted and rode up alongside him.
"You'd best get back to town," Roarke said curtly.
"I'm coming with you."
"Gennie—"
"Amy was my friend." She tipped her chin at a stubborn angle.
"Just stay close," Roarke said, relenting.
Genevieve gave a little cry of alarm when they reached the Parker place. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the blackened timbers of the barn. A few chickens scratched aimlessly in the dust in front of what was left of the house. Its sturdy logs hadn't succumbed entirely to the flames. Most of it was intact, but the door hung at an awkward angle.
Roarke and the others went inside. Genevieve's eyes blurred with tears, and she stood outside for a moment, trying to compose herself, trying not to look at the butchered carcasses of the family dogs. Then, taking a great gulp of air, she stepped into the doorway.
Roarke turned, his face pale and taut. He put out a hand to keep Genevieve from coming inside.
"Gennie, no—"
But she brushed past him, determined to face what had happened to Amy.
Furniture had been overturned, and cooking utensils were strewn randomly about. Bedding and clothing lay in twisted heaps on the floor. Genevieve's eyes fastened on a small wooden cradle pushed up against the hearth. The blankets were soaked with blood. A tuft of hair—sweet God, Amy had been so proud of little Ruth's golden hair— clung to the side of the cradle. And on its wooden edge, a tiny hand print of blood could be seen.
There was something so poignant and horrifying in that hand print that Genevieve nearly fainted. She sagged against Roarke, murmuring curses against the savages who had taken the life of a tiny baby.
Roarke put his arms around her and led her back outside. "Stay here," he said quietly. "I'll be back in a few minutes." Before he went into the house again, he turned. "Are you all right, Gennie?"
She managed to nod. As soon as he was gone, she sank to her knees and watched her own tears splashing down onto the trampled remnants of Amy's herb garden.
By the time Roarke returned, she'd stopped crying. Pale and trembling, she rode beside him back to town. When they were almost there, he reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a small lacquered box.
"I found this," he said. "I'm surprised the Indians overlooked it. Did it belong to Amy?"
Genevieve nodded and took it. Something tugged at her heart as she placed it in her pocket. It had been the only thing of value Amy had brought to Virginia.
"I'll keep it for her," she said, fiercely hoping for her gentle friend's return.
When they reached town, Clark and his men were forming up to leave for the frontier. They planned to comb the area for the Indians, though without much hope of finding them. Redskins, Captain Clark explained, were swift travelers and knew the land even in the dark of night. Chances were they were well up into the Blue Ridge by now.
To Genevieve's surprise, she recognized Calvin Greenleaf among the frontiersmen. He was clad in clean breeches and a loose shirt and had a small pack of gear in his arms. One of Clark's men was helping him saddle a horse.
"Cal!" she cried, jumping down and running to him. "What are you doing?"
He gave her a cold stare. "Looks like I'm joining the captain's company."
"Don't be silly, Cal; you don't know anything about fighting Indians."
"Don't guess I do," he said. "But I reckon I'll learn pretty quick."
Genevieve swung around to face George Clark. "You can't do this!" she cried. "He's only a boy."
The captain looked at Cal for a long moment. "He's man enough to know his own mind. He's willing to leave his home with no promise of pay, glory, or food. I can't ask for more than that."
She turned her gaze back to Calvin. Suddenly, she understood the glitter of determination in his eyes. Even before last night, Calvin had been restless, seeking something her small farm couldn't offer him.
"I hope you find what you're looking for out there, Cal."
she said quietly, turning her gaze to the hazy blue line of mountains in the west.
"Reckon I might, Miz Culpeper," he remarked, turning away.
"It's best you let him go," Roarke said behind her. "There's no putting blinders on a man like him." Laying his arm across her shoulders, he walked her back to her horse.
Genevieve turned and gave Cal a last look. Before he followed the contingent out of town, he raised his arm in salute and sent her one of his rare smiles. Genevieve knew then that what Calvin was doing was right.
Chapter Seven
"Steady now …" Roarke said gently, watching Genevieve as she sighted down the octagonal barrel of the Pennsylvania flintlock rifle he'd brought her. "Don't tense up, but be ready for the kick when she fires."
Genevieve's arms ached beneath the weight of the long gun, and its curly-maple forepiece was slick with sweat from her hands. Steadying herself, she closed her eyes and turned her head slightly in anticipation of the thunderous report.
"No, no." Roarke chuckled, taking the rifle from her. "You can't very well close your eyes if you mean to shoot at something."
Genevieve shook her head. "Roarke, I'm hopeless. I still don't know why you insist on putting a gun in my hands."
"I've told you before, Gennie, I want you to learn to defend yourself. Here. Try again."
Taking the rifle in hand again, she followed his instructions more closely. Peering down the length of the barrel at a distant tree, she squeezed the brass trigger. Flint struck the frizzen and made a hot spark, igniting the powder in the firing pan, which in turn exploded the powder in the barrel.
Genevieve was instantly flung to the ground, ears ringing and nose burning with the acrid scent of powder. Then Roarke was at her side, frowning with concern.
"Gennie—"
She coughed and sat up, wiping black powder from her face. "I'm all right. But I hope you're finally satisfied that I'll never learn to shoot."
"Not at all, girl. It just takes practice. Phillip Greenleaf is no bigger than you, and he's one of the best hunters in the county. Come, I'll show you how to load."
Genevieve watched as he screwed a small swab of tow into the end of the barrel, tamping it in with three swift strokes of the ramrod. This was followed by a carefully measured amount of powder and then the bullet itself, wrapped in a bit of greased patching.
As Roarke drew out a minute amount of priming powder, Genevieve realized that her concentration had strayed from the gun to the man loading it. The play of muscle in his arms as he seated each step with the ramrod, the glint of sunshine in his hair as he bent to his task, made Genevieve long to touch him. She pressed her arms firmly to her sides.
Half-admiring, half-annoyed, she continued to watch him. He was remarkable—so sure of himself, so competent in all he did. He farmed the land as if he'd been born to it and handled a gun like the most seasoned frontiersman.
&nbs
p; "Is there nothing you can't do, Roarke Adair?" she mused, more to herself than to him.
He looked at her in surprise. "What manner of question is that?"
She flushed a little. "I was just thinking how well you do everything. I've seen you shoe a horse, fix a plow, even hammer out a tool at the smithy. You're a wonderful father to Hance, and everyone in Dancer's Meadow is envious of your corn crop."
"You're making too much of me, Gennie. Besides, you're the one they all admire."
She snorted. "I'm the one they all laugh at behind their hands."
Roarke shook his head. "I never told you this, but last fall some of the men in the King's Arms laid bets you wouldn't last a single season."
She drew herself up indignantly. "Oh? And just how did you bet, Roarke?"
The sound of his deep laughter rippled over her. "I won a shilling from every one of the sods."
Joshua had never asked Genevieve about the night preceding Calvin's departure for the frontier.
"Always figured the boy'd take a different path," was all he'd said.
Mimsy had taken her eldest son's departure hard, but she, too, had understood. Curtis and the others were proud to have a brother who was an Indian fighter.
Genevieve knew Joshua wasn't brooding over Calvin now. He was grinning broadly, his face dappled by the late-September sun streaming down through the leaves of the hickory tree in front of the house. Genevieve eyed him curiously. She'd never seen him look this way before. He seemed about to burst with anticipation.
"What is it, Joshua?"
"Follow me," he said, leading her up to the high fields, the first they'd planted in the spring. Genevieve walked happily in his wake, wondering what new bit of tobacco lore he was about to reveal to her.
Joshua stopped at the top of the field and hunkered down beside a tobacco plant. "Look at it," he said, taking hold of one of the broad leaves. It was slightly grayish and spotty. For a moment, Genevieve thought he might say the plants were diseased, but the merry gleam in his eyes told her otherwise.
"It's ripe," he said simply. "Lord be thanked; I was afraid this cold spell would do us in. But I think we've weathered it. We can start the cutting."
