Embrace the Day

by Susan Wiggs

  He would understand. He had to understand.

  Chapter Twelve

  She went alone with Piggot in the coach he claimed to have hired, although she suspected he'd commandeered it in the name of the British army, using the small arsenal of weapons concealed within. The urge to explain her journey to Roarke was tempting, but she knew better than to ask for his understanding. Because he'd do more than understand. He'd insist on taking on her debts.

  She wouldn't let him do that. She didn't want them to start their life together with the shadow of debt hanging over them.

  Genevieve had little to say to Piggot during the long trip to Yorktown, but she listened eagerly to his reports on the war. A staunch Tory, his account was colored by loyalty to the British, but his tale alarmed her nonetheless.

  "General Cornwallis has things nicely in hand," Piggot said. "He marched deep into Virginia last summer; 'tis a wonder the farms around Dancer's Meadow were left alone. He burned tons of tobacco and grain, slaughtered horses and cattle… I heard he sent Governor Jefferson and the Virginia assembly fleeing into the woods to escape his cavalry."

  "He sounds like a butcher," Genevieve said peevishly.

  Piggot shook his head. "Cornwallis wants an end to this as much as anyone. He's trying to smash Virginia's will to resist."

  "He won't succeed," Genevieve said determinedly.

  "We'll see about that, Mrs.—"

  "Mr. Piggot!" One of the black footmen gestured in alarm at the road. A small, bedraggled contingent of people approached.

  Genevieve gaped at their condition. The men looked as if they hadn't eaten in days. One of them waved a hunting knife in a pitiable show of bravado.

  "Mercy," a man groaned. "Please…"

  "Keep going," Piggot directed his men.

  But Genevieve jerked the coach door open. "These people are starving, Mr. Piggot. We're less than a day away from Yorktown. We can spare the food we've brought."

  Piggot knew there was no arguing with the woman. He settled back with an exasperated sigh as Genevieve handed sacks of cornmeal and beans to one of the men. Then she gave him some salted meat wrapped in oilcloth.

  The children attacked the food with heart-rending vigor. The man thanked her profusely.

  "What are you doing out here?" Genevieve asked. "Have you no home?"

  "Not anymore, ma'am. We used to live down in Little York, but General Cornwallis, he sent us all away. Said there wasn't enough food for his soldiers. Turned us out without so much as a by-your-leave. You ain't heading that way, are you, ma'am?"

  "I am, sir."

  His eyes widened. "Don't do it, ma'am. There's gonna be fightin'."

  Genevieve looked back at Piggot, who shrugged. "Lafayette's probably going to try a last stand. Nothing to worry about."

  Curtis Greenleaf had grown into a strapping, bandy-legged lad of seventeen, with arms sinewed by years of working tobacco. He was handsome and clean featured and had an air of strength and fearlessness about him that his mother proudly attributed to his devotion to family and Scripture. Still, as he dropped from Victor's back on the drive in front of Roarke Adair's house, he felt a shiver of apprehension. He didn't relish having to tell the red-haired giant that his bride-to-be was missing.

  He found Roarke with Mr. Carstairs and some of the farm hands in the arbor at the back of the house, moving a number of benches to face a small flower-decked gazebo beneath a spreading sycamore tree.

  Roarke looked up when Curtis cleared his throat. "You're a few hours early, lad," he said with a grin. "And I thought I was the impatient one."

  "Mr. Adair, could I talk to you?" Curtis jerked his head toward the house.

  Roarke slung his arm around Curtis's shoulders as they walked away from the others. Noting Curtis's unsmiling countenance, Roarke said, "You're still planning on singing at my wedding, aren't you?"

  Curtis swallowed. There was no point in delaying any longer. "Mr. Adair, you know I'd be honored to sing for you and Miz Culpeper. But she's gone, sir. This morning we went up to the house and she wasn't there. Her bed hadn't been slept in."

  Roarke stiffened in anger when he heard Genevieve's name on Nell Wingfleld's lips. Genevieve had been the source of gossip all day, with people speculating over her hasty departure, relishing the small scandal like a sweetmeat.

  "You mustn't be so morose about Genevieve," Nell was saying with her canny red smile. "There always was a bit of the odd bird about her. I'm not at all surprised she got a case of the cold feet the minute a decent man like you offered for her."

  "You're hardly one to be talking of decency," Roarke growled. He stalked away from Nell, mounted his horse and galloped to Genevieve's house. He wanted to be near her things, to touch and smell them, to see if any of her essence was left for him to savor.

  He wanted to know why she had left him.

  The clock had stopped. Roarke wound it for the first time in more than seven years, yet the act was as familiar as if he'd performed it daily. He moved his hands over the dial, which appeared to have been faithfully polished.

  A soft curse escaped him. If only Genevieve had been so careful with his heart… He turned away from the clock, shaking his head.

  The autumn sun slanted in through the windows, laying its yellow glow on the simple, rough furniture there, illuminating the small things of Genevieve's life… a life Roarke had wanted desperately to share. He'd thought he'd had her at last, after all the years of battling her will, chipping away at her defenses, finally forcing her to admit her love for him.

  He'd been wrong to push her. But how could she have left without even a word of explanation, without taking so much as a single belonging? That was the odd part, the part he didn't understand. Even Amy Parker's prized needle case still rested on the mantel. Genevieve had sworn never to part with that.

  Something didn't fit, Roarke knew suddenly. There was more to this than he'd guessed. Perhaps Genevieve had left against her will. Not kidnapped; there were no signs of a struggle, and besides, the Greenleafs would have heard. But something had compelled her…

  The only thing out of place was a small slip of paper covered with spidery writing. It lay in a corner near the door, forgotten, overlooked. Swiftly, Roarke bent and picked it up.

  Frowning and moving his lips, Roarke tried to make sense of the document. It was a bill of indebtedness, signed by Genevieve and Henry Piggot. He squinted at the date— 19 May 1774.

  Roarke's mind worked at breakneck speed. Bits and pieces of nearly forgotten memories suddenly came together: Genevieve, dazed at the wonder of unexpected widowhood, putting her name to the paper; Piggot's odd manner in the warehouse back in Yorktown; the surprising ease with which he'd relinquished the farm to Genevieve; his veiled promise to settle things one day…

  Roarke turned the paper over. Another message was scrawled there, unrelated to the debt, as if the paper had been used in haste. The message had to do with a sum of money paid to Henry Piggot for services rendered to His Majesty's Army. This, too, was dated: 12 August 1781.

  But Piggot was dead; Roarke had been there when Nell had gotten the letter from Desmond Sloat.

  Roarke's jaw tightened as he realized that the report had been mistaken—or deliberately false. Piggot was alive, and determined to have his due from Genevieve.

  "Oh, God, Gennie," he murmured. "You should have come to me…" But that wouldn't have been like her. Proud little fool that she was, she would try to cope on her own. There was only one person she would have been willing to approach with her problem: Mr. Firth of Yorktown.

  It galled Roarke that she hadn't asked him for help. Furious, he bolted homeward to throw together the few things he'd need for his journey.

  Tension thrummed through the silent streets of Yorktown. Moving like a wraith in the deep-velvet autumn night, Roarke crept past the merchant house of Flowerdewe and Norton to the offices of Digby Firth. Redcoats were everywhere, patrolling the streets and manning the heavily armed redoubts. Roarke knew he'd be
questioned if he were seen.

  A lamp burned low at the back of the house. Roarke tried the door; it swung open into an empty storeroom. He made his way to the light, which glimmered from the library.

  Digby Firth looked up when a large shadow darkened his door. His eyes widened, but he said nothing. He motioned for Roarke to close the door.

  "Have a care, man," the Scotsman whispered. "I'm quartering three officers upstairs."

  "Seems like the whole town is playing host to the redcoats," Roarke said darkly.

  "Aye, I've been trying to stay on neutral ground throughout this whole thing, but the British army's about worn its welcome thin."

  "Has Genevieve been to see you?" Roarke asked, losing all patience with the discussion.

  Digby shook his head. "I'm not expecting her. Why?"

  Quickly, Roarke explained. Digby's bottle-brush eyebrows descended as he stroked his whiskers. "Poor little lass," he mused. "She's worked harder than a dozen men and has accomplished more than a score of them. She doesn't deserve this."

  "I know, Mr. Firth."

  "I'd help you if I could. You know that, Roarke." His full eyebrows worked thoughtfully. "But I'm penniless. I've allowed myself to trade in Continental dollars. What little cash I have is worthless. But where could the lass be?"

  The journey to Yorktown was riddled by unexpected delays; Piggot's coach became mired, and they were stopped constantly by British patrols and bands of homeless refugees. It was another week before they arrived.

  Genevieve suspected immediately that the British had more to deal with than General Lafayette. Redoubts had been dug across the network of creeks at the port and in the center of town where the main road ran. The ramparts of each redoubt bristled with lines of palisades angled outward. Embrasures were adorned by cannons. A half mile from where Genevieve and Piggot descended the road, York-town's rooftops could be seen. They were surrounded by a jagged semicircle of inner fortifications. The Union Jack flapped overhead.

  Suddenly, the British guns spoke. Cannons and muskets barked from the redoubts.

  Genevieve burst into Digby Firth's library, eyes wide with fear at the sound of booming guns. Dirty and unkempt from days of travel, she looked like a lost child. But to Roarke she had never been more beautiful. He scowled at Henry Piggot, who stood behind her, and then swept her into his arms.

  "Damned proud woman," he chided gently, filling his senses with the taste and feel and smell of her.

  She broke down in the face of his tenderness. "Roarke," she wept, "I can't marry you now. Everything you have would go to Mr. Piggot if—"

  Digby Firth stepped forward, touched by Genevieve's despair and the adoration that shimmered in Roarke's eyes. "I know a way," he said, "to absolve you from liability. Now, 'tis not much to my liking, mind you, but it'll allow you two to be together."

  "Good God, Mr. Wakefield," Roarke said to the hastily summoned magistrate. "This is preposterous. Are you sure there's no other way?"

  Phineas Wakefield shook his head. "We must adhere to tradition in this. The smock marriage is a little-known bit of common law, and it must be perfectly clear that you've complied. The theory is that a woman who comes to a marriage without even the clothes on her back brings no debts to her husband. It's the only way to exempt you."

  Roarke expelled his breath with a hiss. " 'Tis a damned strange notion. I don't—"

  The door to the library opened slowly, and Genevieve stepped into the room. Roarke, Digby, Phineas, and a disgruntled Piggot turned as one to stare at her. As tradition dictated, she was barefoot and bareheaded, clad only in a thin lawn smock with a torn hem and fraying ribbons.

  Instinctively, Roarke moved to throw his coat around her. But she pushed him away, lifting her chin proudly.

  Muttering complaints about the primitive custom, Digby lowered the wick of the lamp.

  Roarke felt a painful inner lurch at the sight of Gene, standing beside him so determinedly. Despite the thin rag she wore, she looked magnificent. Her bare arms were bronzed by the sun, and taut muscles shaped them beautifully. Her hair, unbound as common law commanded, tumbled down over her shoulders in a rich cascade of dark sable. She displayed no missish modesty; she didn't quail or try to cover herself.

  The others weren't watching her closely enough to guess, as Roarke did, at the depth of her humiliation. He felt her shiver slightly and saw her bare flesh shrink in mortification. Never had he thought her love for him would have to bear this awful test. Humbled by her bravery, her quiet dignity, Roarke wanted to lay himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness. He wanted to die for her.

  As if she'd sensed something of what passed through his mind, Genevieve slipped her hand in his.

  " 'Tis a small price to pay, Roarke Adair," she assured him in a whisper, "for a lifetime with you."

  Her words nearly brought him to his knees. "I love you, Gennie," he whispered.

  Phineas Wakefield was decent enough to make short work of the ceremony. He said but a few words, set the documents before them to be signed, and pronounced them wed.

  After Genevieve had hurried into her clothes, Digby Firth saw them to the door.

  "Be happy, you two," he said, beaming from behind his whiskers. "No one deserves it more than you." He looked pleased with himself and turned to see what Henry Piggot was making of his cleverness.

  "A right canny turn, wouldn't you say, Mr. Piggot?" he asked, not bothering to mask a little smirk.

  Piggot's eyes narrowed, and the breath wheezed from him in short, angry gasps. He directed his anger at Genevieve.

  "You've just caused me to lose everything," he said in a low, deadly voice. "It was my doing that you were able to build a life here at all."

  "Yes, you let me build a life, and then tried to take it from me," Genevieve said. "You should have known you wouldn't succeed."

  "Oh, no?" Piggot asked maliciously. "I wonder what I'd be able to recoup for turning in a known rebel." He laughed at Roarke's amazed expression. "Didn't think I'd use that against you, did you?" he asked.

  Before anyone could react, Piggot plunged his bulk from the library, calling for the officers who slept upstairs.

  Urging Roarke and Genevieve to hurry, Digby led the way down a back alley to the livery, where they hitched Roarke's horse to a serviceable farm cart. In minutes the couple were headed northward, keeping to the shadows to avoid the watchful British guard.

  "Where are we going, Roarke?" Genevieve asked in a small frightened voice. The muck of Black Swamp sucked at the roan's hooves.

  "To Williamsburg for now," he said darkly. "It's patriot ground."

  She nodded. He looked at her, her small face grimy and tired looking, her hands twisting in her lap. Curving his arm about her, he kissed her temple.

  "Ah, Gennie love," he murmured, " 'tis not the way I had our wedding planned. I didn't even think to bring the ring I'd bought you. You've been cheated of your chance to be a bride—-for the second time, I fear."

  Hearing the regret in his voice, she immediately straightened and stopped feeling sorry for herself.

  " 'Tis not being a bride that I want so badly," she declared, "but being your wife. And I've a whole lifetime to do that."

  "Aye, but no woman should have to spend her wedding night fleeing in a farm cart."

  "I want to spend it with you, Roarke. And I am. I ask no more than that." She grinned up at him. "You'll find me demanding enough later on, I'm sure."

  The journey consumed the remainder of the night. Roarke had to move cautiously, aware that the horse and cart were valuable commodities for an army that needed to transport big guns and supplies. Neither of them slept. Morning found them wearily celebrating their marriage with a quiet meal of corn pudding in Raleigh Tavern. A scruffy-looking man approached them, staring with disbelief.

  "Roarke Adair! By Job, I gave you up for dead at Vincennes!"

  Roarke grinned and shook his head. He'd never spoken of the circumstances of his discharge to Genevieve; until this m
oment he'd nearly forgotten the months of fever and hopelessness. He stood and pumped his old friend's hand.

  "Genevieve, this is Will Coomes. Will, my wife." Roarke swelled with pride as he claimed her for his own. "What brings you to Williamsburg?" he asked.

  "We're marching to Yorktown!" Will said excitedly. "By Job, I wouldn't miss it for all the world, Roarke. It's to be the biggest siege of the war. Washington means to drive the redcoats from Virginia's shores."

  Roarke gripped the edge of the table. "Washington? Last I heard he'd set his sights on New York."

  "That's just what he wanted everyone to believe. He had Clinton guessing right down to the end. But he's here! And de Grasse is in the bay with twenty-nine ships and some three thousand troops from the West Indies."

  "I'll be damned," Roarke said slowly.

  Will drained his mug of cider and stood up. He lifted his hat to Genevieve. "We march in an hour." He directed a meaningful look at Roarke. "It's Captain Langston's regiment, Roarke. He needs all the good men he can get."

  Genevieve watched her husband closely as they finished their meal. Only because she knew him so well did she see, in the depths of his eyes, the conflict warring within him.

  "It could be the final battle," she ventured, thinking of the patchwork of southbound companies they'd seen assembling in Williamsburg.

  "Aye. Let's hope so."

  "You want to be a part of it, don't you, Roarke?"

  He looked up sharply, and a denial leaped to his lips. "I have everything I want in you, Gennie. You and Hance, and the farm… I'm no soldier. I found that out when I was on the frontier."