by Susan Wiggs
She kissed him with such gratitude that in the bed of the cart, Gideon dissolved into giggles.
Mariah emerged from the embrace laughing, too, all her uncertainty having been chased away by Luke's loving assurance.
But her smile faded when they came to the top of a blue-grass-carpeted rise, and Luke drew the horse to a halt. They were looking down into a valley watered by a deep, sparkling stream and surrounded by a profusion of honey locust and oak trees. Spring flowers rippled in the breeze, and catbirds sang in the reeds beside the stream.
In the middle of the clearing stood a house. It had a snug, sturdy permanence about it that gave Mariah new confidence. A wreath of dried flowers graced the door.
"Luke," Mariah breathed. "How did you ever manage to—?"
He pushed her bonnet aside and stroked her shining hair.
He'd tell her about Hannah one day, after he himself recovered from the shock of her leaving the farm to him.
A lock of hair strayed across Mariah's cheek, and he brushed it aside. "Ah, honey, if I had my way, it'd be a palace with an army of servants to dance attendance on you."
"I don't need any more than I already have," she insisted sincerely.
With a groan of sudden desire, Luke reached for her again, but this time Mariah eluded him, leaping from the cart and raising her dimity skirts above the swaying blue-grass. Laughing, she ran with a tumbling gait down toward the house.
Luke grinned, enchanted by the sight of her small, lithe figure skipping down the hill. Not even the flowers that graced the slope could match her wild beauty.
"Wait here," he said, tossing the reins to Gideon. He set off after her, plunging through the grass with long-legged strides. Just in front of the house he caught her about the waist, swinging her around and silencing her peals of laughter with a kiss.
Then, grinning, he placed one arm behind her knees and swept her up in his arms. Mariah made a token protest as he carried her toward the door, but she wound her arms about his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.
Luke stepped into the house. It smelled of dried lavender and the freshly hewn wood of new furniture. Bending his head, he gave Mariah a lingering kiss. His heart filled with the pride of possessing her as he looked into her eyes, shining with love for him and him alone.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Adair," he said.
Hance burst into the small, overly feminine office of Nell Wingfield, nearly tearing the door off its hinges. She looked up, startled, and drew away from the anger she saw on his face.
"You owe me, Nell," he said hotly, striding to the wooden secretary where she sat.
"Do I now?" she answered uninterestedly. "Do tell, Mr. Adair."
"You've been stealing my whiskey."
She pretended surprise. "So you're the one responsible for that divine whiskey that's been coming in from Louisville. I must say, it's the best quality I've been able to find. I never could get Mr. Leland to divulge the source."
"You won't see your Mr. Leland around Lexington anymore," Hance said darkly. "He was lucky to get away with his life."
"Pity," Nell sighed. "He was such a cooperative man."
"You won't find me so cooperative," Hance snarled. He dropped a packet of bills of lading in front of her. "I'm here to collect on what you stole, Nell. You owe me close to a thousand dollars."
She brushed the bills to the floor. "I owe you nothing, Hance. Of course, if it's company you want… well, my girls always suited Mr. Leland just fine. Perhaps—"
"Not interested, Nell. I've outgrown the need for you and your kind."
A look of disgust deepened the lines of her face. "What an arrogant pup you are; you always have been. Fancying yourself too good for other people."
He laughed humorlessly. "You never have forgiven me for walking out on you all those years ago, have you, Nell?"
The words struck home. Nell shot to her feet and cracked her hand across his face. "Get out," she railed.
He ignored the sting of her slap. "Not until you pay me, Nell. Ivy's coming back from Boston any day now, and I've got a lot of work to do on my house. I'll take the full amount right now."
"For bootleg whiskey?" she snorted. "You won't get a penny from me, and there's nothing you can do about it. Of course, if you decide to be difficult about it, I can always notify the authorities. Judge Ormsby would dearly..."
"Not as much as James Blair would like to know how you get around paying your taxes on this place, Nell," Hance told her in a threatening voice.
She gasped softly. Blair was Kentucky's attorney general, as righteous as a Puritan. The local authorities had never given her any trouble, but Blair could ruin her.
"I know him well," Hance continued. "He's not a reasonable man. All it would take is a word from me, and—"
"You bastard!" Nell said, and Hance knew he'd scored a coup. There was genuine fear on that painted face.
"You have until Monday to come up with the money," he said. A stream of curses accompanied him to the door, and Hance smiled. The money was as good as his.
When he stepped down the walk to his carriage, he spied the Beasley twins walking by across the street, accompanied by a pair of Negro women overburdened with parcels.
"Can I give you ladies a lift?" he asked jovially.
The twins emitted simultaneous gasps and flounced away, ignoring him. Too late, Hance realized they'd seen him come from Miss Nellie's Liquor Vault. Laughing to himself, he reflected that women like the twins, who gave themselves away for free, were sure to resent those who turned a profit from it.
"This is getting ridiculous," Hance whispered.
Ivy kept her eyes fastened on the Reverend Rankin, pastor of the Walnut Hill Church, but he knew she'd heard him because she squeezed his hand.
"I was only gone three months," she said placatingly. "I had to go to Boston. My mother has four sisters."
"Who absolutely had to shower you with useless gifts."
Ivy stifled a giggle. "How could we even think of starting our life together without a matched set of silver candle snuffers?"
Hance chuckled softly. Although he'd never admit it to Ivy, he had a secret admiration for the many fine things she'd brought from Boston. The idea of surrounding himself with useless items of luxury pleased him.
"Our life together…" He trailed his fingers suggestively up her arm. "I like the sound of that. Lord, but I've missed you, love."
"Have you?" she whispered teasingly. "And I thought you'd flee to the nearest available arms before the dust settled behind my coach."
"You know better than that, love."
"I do, Hance. Still, you had quite a formidable reputation with the ladies…"
"Only one lady," he vowed. "Lately." His fingers found the curve of her neck.
Ivy pulled away sharply, not because she was offended, but because she felt her mother's eyes boring disapproval into them.
"Stop that," she hissed. "Mother will add another six weeks to the engagement if she thinks you're too eager."
Hance lifted his eyes heavenward. "God, not that."
Ivy bit her lip to hide her mirth, but the preacher noticed. He directed his most thunderous look at the young couple in the boxed pews of the privileged and barked, "Some of us seem to have forgotten that respect for the church is a godly thing."
Ivy had the decency to blush, but Hance gave the preacher a brazen grin, as if to say it was lucky he was in church in the first place.
After church it was customary to gather on the lawn in front. The social groups were rigidly marked here, the farmers mingling with their own, while the wealthier planters kept to themselves. The Adairs were in an unusual position now that Hance was engaged to Ivy, and young Nathaniel Caddick was showing signs of interest in Sarah. They stood in a loose arrangement beneath a honey locust tree, the men smoking, and the women listening raptly to Mrs. Attwater's description of Boston.
Ivy strolled away from the group to the long table where some of the women were cutting pies
. She hugged herself, full of the familiar breezy happiness that enveloped her whenever Hance was near. She wanted to be with him now, as he stood talking under the honey locust, but felt she should take a turn at the womanly chore of serving pie.
She approached the table where the Beasley twins were unveiling a peach pie. The checked napkin was moved aside to reveal a lovely golden-brown latticed crust with the peaches glistening and juicy beneath.
"That looks delicious," Ivy remarked. "A masterpiece. I'd love to have the recipe."
Lacey Beasley looked up. Her pleased smile gave way to a feigned look of pity when she saw who had given her the compliment.
"It'll take more than peach pie to keep Hance Adair happy," Lacey told her.
Ivy was stunned by the venom in the young woman's voice. "What do you mean by that, Lacey?" she asked.
The twins looked at each other. "She really doesn't know, does she, Laura?" Lacey said to her sister. "Amazing…"
Ivy placed her knuckles on the table and leaned forward, eyes darkening with anger. "I've never been party to your gossip," she said to the twins, "but if there is something you have to tell me, I wish you'd simply say it."
The twins exchanged another glance. "Perhaps we shouldn't…" Laura mused.
"But don't you think Ivy has a right to know the sort of man she's about to marry?" her sister asked.
"All men have certain… urges," Laura said sagely. "I'm sure even little Ivy can appreciate that."
"Damn you," Ivy snapped. "Stop playing games."
Lacey shrugged. "Since you insist," she said, bending forward conspiratorially. She didn't quite manage to conceal her glee as she said, "Ivy, during your absence Hance consoled himself at Miss Nellie's."
Ivy stepped back, cheeks flaming. "That's a lie, Lacey Beasley."
"I'm afraid not," Laura said. "We both saw him, as did our servants." She shook her head. "Why, it was only last week, wasn't it, Lacey? Pity he couldn't have waited just a few. more days. But that's Hance Adair for you…"
Ivy fled from the twins, hating them. Then she slowed her pace as a dreadful calm settled over her. The twins were vindictive, to be sure. But it was Hance who had lied. Just moments ago, in the church: only one lady . . . How many other times had he lied to her? How many times would he lie again? Could she live with a constant cloud of deception hanging over her?
No one noticed the woman coming up the road until Sarah Adair gave a scandalized little gasp. Genevieve looked up to see Nell Wingfield coming toward them. As always, all she felt at the sight of Nell was a surge of pity, for she felt she was looking at a life gone awry. Nell's yellow hair was streaked with gray, and her once full, sensual face had gone slack, the cheeks and lips too heavy to be considered pretty any longer, no matter how thick their coating of carmine. Nell was dressed in a full gown the color of pink mountain laurel trimmed with black ribbons. Her hat was a ridiculous confection of ribbons and paste fruit, and that, coupled with her large bosom, gave her a rather top-heavy look as she teetered along on bright red-heeled shoes.
Genevieve gave Roarke's sleeve a tug. Nell stopped just on the other side of the picket fence that encompassed the churchyard. Her eyes swept over the gathering.
"Well, well," she said loudly. "So this is the Adair family now. I'm a bit miffed you haven't been to see me." Nell threw back her head and cackled raucously, emitting the smell of whiskey with the laugh. "Don't guess my brand of hospitality would be appreciated," she said. "I suppose it's up to me, then, to call on my dear old friends Roarke and Genevieve."
Genevieve felt Sarah stir nervously behind her and noticed that Mrs. Attwater had stopped her monologue on Boston. She swallowed hard and tried to smile.
"You'd be welcome, Nell," she said in a low voice.
Nell's laughter cracked through the air on a triumphal note. She slapped her thigh. "Did you hear that?" she joked to no one in particular in her loud, brassy voice. "I've been invited to call on the Adairs. Aye, they've not forgotten their Nell, have they?"
Hance saw outrage on the Attwaters' faces and was relieved that Ivy was nowhere in sight.
"You don't belong here, Nell," he said, leaning across the fence.
"I don't, do I!" Nell spat. "I've known that for years." Genevieve and Roarke were the only ones who understood the full force of her resentment. Nell had always been on the wrong side of the fence. Aligning herself with a Tory during the war, becoming an object of scorn in Dancer's Meadow, running her house here in Lexington…
"I'm sorry," Genevieve found herself saying.
"Oh, no," Nell shouted, and Genevieve was stunned to see tears glistening in her eyes. Tears of hatred and frustration. "Don't you dare feel sorry for me, Genevieve Adair. You're the one to be pitied."
Suddenly, Nell was addressing the entire group assembled in the yard. "They've got you all fooled, I tell you. But look at them. Look at them with all their handsome children around them." She laughed maliciously and leaned over the fence, the points of the pickets pressing into her bosom.
"Oh, no, not quite all, I see. Their Luke has gone to live with a redskin; took her right from my employ without even a by-your-leave. And their Becky, ah, I'm the only one who knows what's with her."
Nell began to strut, feeling the attention of the entire congregation on her. "But those aren't secrets; you all know that. But there's one other thing… I think the grand Attwaters have a right to know just who it is their little daughter is marrying." She leveled her malicious gaze at Hance, who scowled defiantly back.
Genevieve's heart missed a beat as the full impact of Nell's words hit her. Nell was one of the few people alive who knew the secret of Prudence Moon, the secret so long buried that it was nearly forgotten. Genevieve clutched at Roarke's arm. From the stiff way he held himself she knew that he, too, understood.
"No," she whispered desperately to Nell. "No, please. You don't know what you're saying—"
"Ah, but I do," Nell shot back. "It's about time folks learned the truth."
"Go away, Nell," Roarke ordered curtly. "Causing us pain is no way to alleviate your own misery."
Nell tossed her head, ignoring him. She turned her attention to Dr. and Mrs. Attwater, who watched her in consternation.
"I'm not here to inflict pain on the Adairs but to prevent the Attwaters from being afflicted by it."
Dr. Attwater cleared his throat. "Miss, er, Wingfield, we have absolutely no interest in what you have to say."
She grinned. "Not even if it's to tell you that your precious daughter's suitor is not what he appears to be?"
She raked her listeners with a malevolent gaze. Her hands gripped the fence like talons. "Hance is not the son of Roarke Adair at all. He's an Englishman's bastard!"
Genevieve leaned helplessly against Roarke as all color drained from her face. In a waking nightmare she forced her eyes to Hance.
He had gone completely rigid. His eyes glittered like two hard, bright jewels in the stony facade of his handsome face. His voice cut through the leaden silence that hung in the air.
"Is this true?"
Roarke held Genevieve steady. "Hance, you're my son in every way that counts. Please, this is hardly the place—"
To Hance the plea was like an admission of guilt. With a vile curse, he spun away, his face a furious red.
He found himself face to face with Ivy, who had just appeared on the scene.
"You heard?" he rasped.
Her eyes were bright with tears. "Yes!" she snapped, mistaking his meaning, thinking he was referring to what the Beasley twins had told her. "Damn you for a liar, Hance."
He held out his hands to her. "Ivy, I—"
"I thought about forgiving you," she said softly. "But I'm afraid this is something that will never change."
"Of course I can't change this, Ivy. I can't help what happened—"
"Stay away from me, Hance," she sobbed. "Don't ever come near me again." She stumbled into her father's arms and asked to be taken home.
Th
e clock with its relentless ticking accentuated the tension in the Adair sitting room. Rebecca was reading from her Bible in a tremulous voice. Genevieve and Roarke were nearby, not listening but sitting together on the settee, gazing out through a rain-lashed window at the dreary evening. Noting her parents' inattention, Becky closed her book and left the room.
"Where could he be?" Genevieve asked softly.
Roarke squeezed her hand, but she could tell from the set of his jaw that he was as concerned as she. Hance had been gone two days. The last they'd seen of him, he'd clattered away from the church, stunned and furious at Nell's revelation and Ivy's rejection. No one had seen him in Lexington since.
"It's a nightmare," Roarke said. "God, I thought everything was finally falling into place for Hance; he had a wonderful girl, a beautiful house in town…"
"Maybe it was a mistake for us to keep Hance's parentage from him," Genevieve suggested. "We should have known he'd find out one day."
Roarke nodded. "But he was always such a proud lad. He'd have been devastated."
"I was," came an icy voice from the doorway.
Genevieve and Roarke came to their feet. Hance's wet presence filled the room, his ravaged features shadowed by the brim of a dripping hat.
"Hance, where have you been?" Genevieve rushed to his side, taking the hat and his damp, mud-splattered coat from him. He strode across the room, oblivious to the wet clods of earth he left in his wake.
"I'd rather not say," he remarked. "The places I've been are suitable only for the low creatures of the earth. Bastards like me."
Genevieve gasped and caught the reek of the whiskey on his breath. "Hance, please—"
He whirled on her. "Don't beg me," he snapped. "I'm through with this family. I never belonged here in the first place."
Roarke felt as though a knife had sheathed itself in his gut and twisted. "Son—"
"I'm not your son!" Hance thundered. Outside, lightning cracked as if to punctuate and confirm his statement. "I should have felt it long ago," he continued. "I was never like the others."
"You're our son," Roarke insisted raggedly. "Have we not always treated you so?"
