Embrace the Day (17 page)

She explained that to him with relish.

He looked unconcerned. "I'm sure you'll be able to find some form of payment. I understand you're to be married shortly. In a town as small as Dancer's Meadow, tongues can't keep from wagging about an impending wedding. Your husband will simply have to—"

"No!" Genevieve felt herself growing panicked. The debt amounted to a small fortune. Roarke didn't have that kind of money; he'd lose his farm. And even if he could afford it, it wasn't fair to force him to assume another man's debts. He deserved a wife, not a liability.

"Does anyone else know you've come?" she asked Pig-got.

He shook his head. "Not even the fair Nell. I've had to keep my presence a secret here in patriot territory."

Genevieve emitted a shaky sigh. "Roarke is to know nothing of this."

"Then what do you propose to do, Mrs. Culpeper?"

Genevieve turned away and went to the window, unmindful that the papers Piggot had brought were cast to the floor by her movement. What, indeed, was she going to do? The gilded mantle of contentment that had shrouded her since she'd agree to marry Roarke suddenly fell away, leaving her naked and exposed to a cold feeling of hopelessness. What a fool she'd been to believe fortune had finally smiled on her. There had always been obstacles; there always would be.

As she gazed eastward, the afternoon sun glimmered on the placid river. Genevieve had a sudden wild surge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to get the money. Digby Firth had been generous to her in the past, and she hadn't disappointed him. It would mean, of course, that she couldn't marry Roarke tomorrow, that she couldn't even risk telling him about her problem. She clenched her fist at her side.

He would understand. He had to understand.

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."