by Susan Wiggs
For the last few days men had trickled back to Dancer's Meadow, bursting with the news of Washington's signal victory at Yorktown. The little settlement was littered by the celebration that had gone on, and the people who greeted Roarke as he went about his business were charmed by his plans for Genevieve. Hance was delighted to see his father, although he balked when Roarke announced that it was time for Hance to go with Mimi and wait in the church.
Roarke was leaning against a hitch rail in front of the trading post when Joshua and Curtis arrived in the cart with Genevieve.
His breath caught at the sight of her. She was wearing a pretty, beribboned gown of green. Her hair had been washed and brushed until it glowed like a dark halo around her small heart-shaped face. The afternoon sun streamed down on her bright head and cut golden facets of light into her eyes. She gave him a smile that drove away the chill of the November day.
Roarke held out both his hands, and she took them.
"Odd," she remarked. "The town seems deserted. I thought people would be celebrating the victory."
Roarke shrugged and pulled her across the street. "Come with me, Gennie," he said.
She smoothed back a stray lock of hair. "Where are we going?"
"To church, love."
"Roarke, no," she protested. "I just wouldn't be comfortable—"
"Gennie, please. I know folks were hard on you at one time, but give them another chance." He brushed his knuckles over her cheek. "Please."
She couldn't refuse him. "I suppose it will be all right," she said shrugging. "There can't be anyone around for me to offend on a Saturday afternoon."
"Of course not," Roarke said with a chuckle, then grinned at the sharp look she gave him.
When they reached the church steps, Genevieve began to grow inexplicably nervous. Dancer's Meadow was too quiet. Even Elk Harper, the ever-present singing drunk, was absent from his usual loitering post in front of Liberty Tavern.
But Roarke didn't allow her to hesitate. He opened the door and pushed her inside.
Genevieve gasped at all the smiling faces that turned to greet her. Everyone was there—nearly the whole town. Holding the door, Luther Quaid grinned and gave them a mock salute. Roarke left Genevieve at the doorway and made his way up the aisle to the altar, where Mr. Carstairs beamed from behind his prayer book.
Genevieve tensed for flight, mortified by the rapt attention that centered on her, even though not a single disapproving stare could be seen. But Joshua Greenleaf appeared suddenly at her side and took a firm hold on her elbow.
"Whoa there," he said in a low voice. "You're not thinking of leaving your groom at the altar, are you, young lady?"
"My groom… ? But—"
"Roarke didn't much care for what happened back in York. He thought you'd like to start your life together with a proper wedding. Now, ordinarily it's the girl's papa who gives her away. But I'd be obliged, partner, if you'd let me do the honors."
By the time Joshua finished his speech, tears were streaming down Genevieve's face. She was stirred to her very soul at this unexpected plan of Roarke's and the whole town's smiling complicity. Blinking through a sheen of tears, she put her arm through Joshua's and started toward Roarke. Curtis's rich young voice lifted in an Isaac Watts hymn, reaching a sweet crescendo as Genevieve arrived at the altar.
"Dearly beloved friends," Mr. Carstairs said in his ringing voice. "We are gathered here to witness and bless the union of our neighbors, Genevieve and Roarke." The preacher paused and looked at Joshua. "Who gives this woman in marriage?"
Joshua drew himself up proudly. He looked very serious and stern, although Genevieve caught a sparkle of humor in his eye as he said, "Her partner does." He placed her hand in Roarke's. For a moment his hand lingered over theirs, and he dropped his voice to a whisper. "God keep you both, my friends," he said, and stepped back to stand beside his son.
Genevieve looked up at Roarke with a smile so radiant that he blinked. Mr. Carstairs read: " 'Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.' "
The words washed over Genevieve like a song of unbearable sweetness. When the time came to repeat her vows, she did so with all the conviction of her love for the man who stood beside her, the man who had turned her wearying, ordinary life into a gilded dream.
When Mr. Carstairs asked for the ring, Roarke proudly produced the one he'd lacked at the smock marriage, a band of braided yellow gold that gleamed like a piece of the sun on her finger. Then Roarke bent and gave his bride a kiss so full of gladness and passion that a collective sigh went up from the congregation.
Everyone pressed around the happy couple. Still astonished by the outpouring of good will, Genevieve was hugged and kissed and given all manner of advice. Contentment pervaded her whole being like a warm glow from a friendly hearth. At last, after all the years of feeling like an outsider, she was accepted. When portly Mrs. Carstairs professed the hope of seeing the Adairs—all of them—at Sunday meeting, Genevieve promised she would be there.
Somehow Roarke had managed to dissuade the townsmen from performing the drunken ritual of charivari, in which the newlyweds were tormented with bawdy tricks right up until they bedded down together. Roarke wanted nothing to mar their first night together as man and wife. As independent and hardheaded as Genevieve was, she evoked a strong protective instinct within him that made him want to shield her from any hint of humiliation.
They returned home late, replete with gifts and good wishes and the feast that had been amassed in haste by the church women. Hance, overwrought and somewhat confused by the day's festivities, had been put to bed by Mimi, and the big welcoming supper prepared by Roarke's neighbors had been cleared away.
Genevieve and Roarke sat in the keeping room facing a hickory fire that glimmered with fragrant warmth. Above the mantel hung Genevieve's clock. She stood looking at it for a moment and traced its yellow mulberry case with a finger.
"Odd," she mused aloud; "it seems to belong here, much more than it ever did in my house."
"Maybe because this is a home, Gennie," Roarke suggested. "Our home."
"Yes," she sighed, leaning against him. "Oh, yes… Roarke, did you know that this is the first thing I bought with my bride money from Mr. Culpeper?"
He shook his head, smiling indulgently.
"I was so unaccustomed to having money that I spent it without thinking. I suppose I could have used a new pair of shoes, something practical like that. But I was furious at Angela Brimsby that day… At first, buying it was a petty act of spite against that woman, but when I saw the clock it became more than that… 'Behold this hand, observe ye motion's trip,' " she read from the dial.
" 'Man's precious hours, away like these do slip,'" Roarke finished for her.
She turned and looked at him in surprise. "I didn't know you'd ever paid any attention to my clock, Roarke."
He laid his hand along her cheek. "Those were the first words my mother ever read to me." He smiled at her confusion. "She read them from that very clock, Gennie."
Her eyes widened. "Your mother… God blind me, Roarke Adair, you never told me!"
He told her then, holding her, looking at the clock, reviving memories of years past. But there was no pain now in speaking of his mother's suffering and his father's abuse because of the healing he felt as he held Gennie in his arms.
She moved her head from side to side, fighting tears, remembering Roarke's reaction when he'd first seen the clock. She should have realized then that the timepiece was as much a part of Roarke as his friendly smile and his big freckled hands.
"Why the devil did you let me keep it?" she asked softly.
He brushed the tears from her face. "Because I knew you'd keep it well, my love. I trusted you." Together they turned and went to the settee, to sit and watch the legacy and listen to its quiet ticking.
/> There was a quilt spread over their laps, which Genevieve stroked absently, moving her hands over entwined circles made from bright scraps of fabric. The quilt was a gift from the ladies of the church, and Genevieve was a little in awe of it. Every tiny stitch had been sewn for her and Roarke, by women she never would have guessed cared for her. On the mantel the clock chimed midnight.
Roarke set down his half-finished cup of peach brandy and turned sideways to face her.
"Happy, Mrs. Adair?"
She snuggled closer to him. "Mmm… More than I can say. More than I dare to be. If I died this instant, I wouldn't have a single regret."
He smiled softly. "Oh, but I would, Gennie."
"What's that?"
"It would be the supreme cruelty for you to leave this world before I've had the chance to make you mine."
She pressed herself against the warm breadth of his chest. "But I am yours, Roarke. Finally." But when she felt his hand glide gently around her waist, she realized she'd mistaken his meaning. He wasn't talking about the mere fact that she'd married him. Feeling a blush creep to her cheeks, she swallowed hard.
"Gennie," he said, instantly pulling away from her, "I didn't mean to embarrass you—"
She answered him with a kiss, sipping the sweet brandy from his lips. "If I'm embarrassed, Roarke," she said softly, " 'tis because I want to please you, and I've no idea what I'm about."
He felt his heart swell with gratitude as he took her face between his hands. "You need never worry about pleasing me, Gennie. And as for the other, you're wrong. You know exactly what you're about. You know how to touch me to my very soul, and a man can't ask for more than that."
"But—"
He silenced her with a kiss that sent her senses reeling. With their lips still locked, he scooped her up, quilt and all, and carried her to the bedroom. She gazed up at him in wonder, feeling no fear, only awe at the idea that he loved her, that he wanted her. Slowly, his fingers plucked at the ribbon that circled her waist.
"Roarke…" Her voice trembled with longing.
He put his finger to her lips. "Just let me love you, Gennie," he said. "Just let me love you."
Chapter Fourteen
Each time an unearthly, agonized groan issued from the bedroom, Roarke felt a shaft of pain as if it were he doing the suffering. He winced and ground his teeth and looked at the clock. Seven hours had passed since Gene fluids had moistened the bed they shared. Six hours since she'd begun laboring in earnest. How much longer would it go on?
Roarke was terrified. Losing Prudence to this business of giving life had been painful enough. And for Prudence he'd only felt a sense of responsibility, an affection born of duty. Roarke knew it would finish him if he lost Genevieve, for he loved her with a consuming adoration, as though she were as necessary to his survival as the very heart that beat within his chest.
For ten months she had filled his days with joy. Her laughter as she played with Hance in the garden, the endearing briskness with which she handled, like a seasoned trader, the business matters of the farm, the startling sweet ardor she showed as she lay with him night after night… Roarke raked a hand through his disheveled mane. Sweet Christ, he loved that woman. Every moan was like a hot dagger penetrating his chest.
Suddenly, Mimsy Greenleaf appeared at the bottom of the stairs. The sight of her, dressed in crisp cottons and a clean apron, reassured Roarke a little. She looked impeccably competent, not at all worried about her patient.
"It ain't right," she declared roundly. "Ain't right at all. I tried to tell her so, but she won't listen. She insists on having you with her, Roarke." Mimsy stalked across the room and took his arm. "Men got no business at a birthing, but your stubborn woman in there thinks different. Come along, now, but don't blame me if you don't like what you see."
Roarke hurried across the dim bedroom and knelt beside Genevieve. How could he not like what he saw? It was almost unbearable to witness her pain, but she had never looked braver or more lovely, even with her hair matted on her brow, her face contorted with agony.
"It hurts," she said faintly, the words squeezing from her between pains.
He peeled a lock of hair from her forehead and kissed her moist brow. "I know, love; I'd give anything to keep you from feeling it."
She tensed and gripped his hand. Roarke looked over his shoulder at Mimi Lightfoot and Mimsy, who were watching with quiet concern.
"Fetch the doctor from town," he ordered curtly. "Something's wrong—"
"No!" Genevieve had recovered from the pain enough to protest stridently.
Mimsy patted Roarke on the shoulder. "Nothing's wrong," she assured him. "Nothing at all. It's just the way of things."
He nodded and held Genevieve through another pain. From a distant part of the house he heard a small frightened cry.
"Hance!" he said. Morning had come, and the boy had awakened to an empty house. "Mimi, go see to him."
Mimi left the room to take the boy out of earshot, so he wouldn't be alarmed by Genevieve's cries.
"Roarke," Genevieve whispered, dazed by the last pain. "Roarke, promise me something…"
"Anything, love."
"If I—If anything happens to me, I don't ever want Hance to feel…" She grimaced. "He's ours, as much as if we'd given him life. I want him and the new baby to be as brother—" She arched on the bed, and her limbs began to shake.
"Christ, Gennie, don't take on so. Nothing's going to happen to you."
"Promise me, Roarke," she ground out.
"Of course, love," he replied. And he meant it. He loved Hance; the boy's willfulness and mischievous streak only made him more endearing. Genevieve had worked hard over the months to be a mother to Hance. She spoiled him shamelessly, giving in to his every whim and fulfilling his demands for attention, which were considerable. Hance called her Mama in a way that filled Genevieve with pride each time he said it.
But when, a few hours later, Genevieve gave birth to the son of his loins, Roarke nearly wept with happiness. Genevieve was unutterably weary, glowing with exultation. She watched with a full heart as Roarke himself bathed the child and then laid him in her arms.
"Roarke," she said, brushing her cheek across the baby's gossamer wisps of hair. "Roarke, we did it."
He sat on the edge of the bed and embraced them both, filling his arms with the most precious things he'd ever held.
Genevieve kissed him softly and gazed down at their son. "Hello, baby," she whispered. "Hello, Luke Adair."
Mimsy finished clearing away the linens and went to the door, motioning for Mimi and Hance. The little boy took a hesitant step toward the bed.
"Come on, son," Roarke said with a grin. "We named your brother Luke, just like you wanted."
Hance looked dubiously at the swaddled bundle in Genevieve's arms. "He's just a little mite of a thing."
Genevieve laughed. "Mimsy says he's big for a newborn. Eight pounds at least."
"Can I play with him?"
"I dare say he's a bit young for playing. But one day he'll need a big, strong brother like you to teach him to climb trees and swim and skip stones in the river."
"I don't think I want to teach him," Hance said, setting his jaw in the stubborn way Genevieve knew so well.
"Now, son," Roarke chided gently. " 'Tis grand having a brother. You'll see—"
"I don't want a brother," Hance shouted, and his sharp exclamation startled the baby into crying. "I liked things just the way they were." He stomped from the room and slammed the door.
Genevieve jiggled Luke to quiet him and gave Roarke a helpless look. But Roarke only smiled. Not even Hance's outburst could mar his happiness.
"Hance has been the only child around here for nearly eight years," Roarke explained, "He'll come around, Gen. He'll soon love our little Luke as much as we do."
Chapter Fifteen
"Mama!" Luke came running up the lane from the fields, his bare feet kicking up little puffs of reddish dust. The sun glinted down on his frec
kled, sunburned face.
"Mama," Luke repeated, "Hance wasn't at school again today. He lit out for Scott's Landing with the Harper boys. Parson Stiles said he'd come to a bad end, Mama." Luke stole a raspberry from the bowl on the porch table and popped it in his mouth. Then he poked out his lower lip in a pout. "Hance said if I tattled, he'd thrash me good, but I don't care. Seems I'm always smoothing the field for him. I just can't think of any more ailments to tell the parson, Mama." He flopped down on the bottom step and rubbed the soles of his feet in the dust.
Genevieve stroked her son's rumpled hair and hid a smile. At the age of six, Luke was the image of his father, with big rough features and hair the color of rain-wet clay. He had Roarke's solid build and stood a full head taller than most boys his age.
Luke resembled Roarke in temperament as well—dutiful, kind, with a strong sense of justice. The boy was no scholar, a fact the parson often pointed out, but ever since he'd been old enough to work in the fields, he'd done so without complaint. Luke was quick to understand that Hance didn't share his enthusiasm for farming.
"There now," she said gently, plucking a bit of dried grass from his hair, "You know how Hance is. He's nearly fourteen. He's gotten too old and too smart for the parson."
"Peter Hinton is fifteen, and he's always at school," piped a small voice. Five-year-old Rebecca Adair appeared on the porch with Israel, a dark-haired boy of four, and baby Matilda in tow. Genevieve smiled at her children, thankful that they were such a handsome, healthy lot, blessedly well behaved. But Hance…
"Hance isn't like other boys," Genevieve reminded them. It was true. Hance was different, so wise in unchildlike ways that it sometimes scared her. When he fled from school, it wasn't to idle the day away fishing or swimming. Often he would be found in the crook of a hickory tree poring over St. John's Letters or the essays of Tom Paine. Genevieve didn't mind that, but even more frequently Hance ran off to keep company with Wiley and Micajah Harper, sons of the hard-drinking ne'er-do-well Elk, of whom she heartily disapproved.
