Embrace the Day (19 page)

"And so I would have been," she replied evenly. "But I had the good fortune to run into an old friend."

He grimaced and looked away.

Genevieve knew it galled Calvin that he'd been wounded by Piggot, not even in a proper battle.

"I've been talking to your lieutenant," she said. "According to him you've acted the hero more than once." She could see Calvin's eyes glazing over. The surgeon had warned her not to let him slip away. "Tell me about the Kentucky campaigns, Cal."

"A hundred yellow feathers," he said faintly, his mind wandering. "Braves, all of them, painted up like nightmares. It had been raining for days. Our powder was useless, the men half-starved. I didn't have any choice. Took all of their stores and ordnance…"

His lips curved into a smile, and suddenly he no longer looked like the world-weary soldier who had been brought to Trebell's Landing three days ago. Now Genevieve saw him as the youth she'd known: intense, burning with the will to achieve something for himself.

Yet he looked so weak just now. He was hurting. Genevieve went to the opening of the tent and looked out. The big guns of the Americans were being loaded onto wagons or dragged away by enlisted men, but there was still no sign of the hospital equipment the French had promised.

Genevieve ground her teeth in frustration. "Mr. Blanchard," she called to the harried French commissary.

He glared at her and tapped his foot impatiently. "Yes, madame, what is it?"

"The wounded men can't wait any longer, sir. Every bandage we have is soiled, and we need something to alleviate the pain."

"Sacredieu!" Blanchard exclaimed, stamping his foot. "De Grasse has ordered me to set up bake houses, and everything I need to function properly is still out on the Chesapeake!"

Genevieve could see that she'd get no help from Blanchard. He was an annoyingly fussy little man, enamored of order and precision. He was no more at home in Virginia than a lap dog on a coon hunt.

She glanced back at Calvin, who had begun to moan softly. Nearby, the surgeon was bandaging a wounded soldier and cursing the lack of medicines and equipment.

"What is it you need, sir?" she asked softly.

The doctor scowled at the unconscious man, whose face had been burned by mortar fire. Then he looked at Genevieve and rolled his eyes heavenward.

"A miracle, ma'am. That's what we need."

She gestured out at the bay. "Would some of the supplies from that ship help?"

"They'd do more good here than on the water."

It was all the impetus she needed. She ran down to the landing and lifted her skirts to wade out to a small dinghy moored at one of the docks. Behind her, she heard Blanchard's shouts of outrage. But by the time she turned to look at him, she was rowing smoothly out to the French ship.

The allied guns greeted the dawn of October 17 by belching death upon the British, who had been driven into a huddle within their crumbling fort. It had been storming through the night, preventing Cornwallis from ferrying his breakout detachments across the bay to Gloucester.

Roarke sat with his company behind the muddy trenches. He'd fought in several skirmishes over the past two weeks, killing more British than he cared to think about. The American soldiers were a tough, battle-trained lot who knew the land they were fighting for and used it to advantage.

Roarke had sustained a head wound from an explosion. The bandage kept slipping down over his shooting eye. But he was beginning to suspect that there wouldn't be much more shooting.

No more trenches needed to be dug. Now there was nothing to do but watch the artillerymen work the guns. By nine o'clock the return fire had ceased completely.

Finally, the sodden monotony was broken. A scarlet-coated man appeared on the crumbling parapet of the British horn works. The man beat with frantic desperation on a drum, although the sound was drowned out by the allied fire.

The Americans held their collective breath. By now every man was soldier enough to know what the drumming meant.

Soon after, an officer appeared, halfheartedly waving a white handkerchief. The pair began a slow trek toward the American lines.

The guns ceased to thunder. Roarke had never known a silence so profound. Only the melancholy tattoo of the drum could be heard now.

"La chamarade," a Frenchman nearby whispered. "The parley begins now."

The quiet that descended over York that night was not a peaceful one, although the rain and shooting had finally stopped. Roarke lay sleepless, wondering if a last, brash British mortar shell or cannonball would drop into their midst, killing him just when the end was in sight. He lifted his eyes to the remarkable decoration of stars in the cool, clear sky and put the notion from his head.

At dawn the harsh music of the Scots from the Seventy-sixth Regiment whined a salute to the allies. A jubilant reply came from the Royal Deux-Points regimental band. Roarke and his comrades scrambled to the parapet to see both sides crowded with men. He tried to summon rage at the enemy but found nothing within himself that resembled hatred.

The gouged, littered battlefield was all that was left of the ugly face of war.

Roarke looked away and shivered in the early morning chill. Perhaps, he told himself, the glory would come later, when the formal surrender took place. But for now there was only the silence to savor, and the thought that he'd finally be going home.

Some of the Americans were already leaving. Roarke was tempted to follow them. Then he remembered what Gene had said about seeing it through. He brushed the mud from his tattered coat and polished his boots.

The Americans and French formed a double line along the Hampton Road in readiness to receive the defeated British. In the afternoon the British marched from Yorktown to the strains of "The World Turn'd Upside Down."

Roarke noted that every Englishman kept his eyes trained on the French lines, not even sparing a glance for the Americans. It was as if they wanted to lessen their disgrace by surrendering to the French rather than the Continental Army.

No wonder, Roarke thought. The world's most powerful war machine had been defeated by a band of tattered, defiant rebels. But the Americans weren't about to be ignored. Their band burst into a blare of "Yankee Doodle," forcing the British, who had scorned and despised them for so long, to look them in the face.

When the sullen order to ground arms was given, the British began hurling their weapons into a pile in hopes of damaging them. General Lincoln, Washington's second in command, barked a curt warning. The defiance was cut short, and the arms were laid to rest with less violence.

Roarke stood and stared at the silver and brown pile of muskets and listened to the sobs and curses of the mortified British, until at last the ranks dispersed.

Washington's forces went to occupy Yorktown, and the patchwork of smaller companies dispersed. Drinking and celebrating began in earnest that evening.

But Roarke was ready to leave. He was no less jubilant than the men who clapped one another on the back and reveled in the heady sense of victory, but his jubilation was a quiet, fierce one. He was gathering up his few belongings in preparation for the journey back to Dancer's Meadow when Will Coomes found him.

"Leaving already?" Coomes asked, cocking his head so that his hat fell askew. "They've just unbunged a good supply of Jamaica water."

Roarke shook his head. "My part in this is done. I'm going home to give my wife a proper wedding and raise my son as an American." God, but it sounded good to say it. Roarke couldn't ask anything more.

But as he trudged up the road, he was enveloped by a great wave of loneliness. It was a long trip to Dancer's Meadow, and he didn't relish going it alone.

All up and down the Hampton Road people were celebrating. A good many of them were homeless, their houses having been destroyed in the siege, but they knew they'd rebuild, and this time it would be for a new nation. Roarke trudged past embracing couples and gamboling children and listened to the music and laughter and voices raised in song.

And then he heard his name being called. Faintly at first, then with gathering strength.

"Roarke! Roarke Adair!"

He stopped and froze. An arm waved frantically from the midst of the milling crowd on the road, and then Roarke saw a gleaming sable head and the adorable face he'd longed for in his dreams for weeks.

"Gennie!"

She twisted her way out of the crowd and ran toward him. He met her halfway on the road, filling his arms with her and swinging her about in the golden evening light. He didn't dare question her presence for fear of waking from the dream.

As if to convince him that she was real, Genevieve pressed her mouth to his.

"Roarke," she murmured. "Oh, Roarke…" Touching the stained bandage that circled his head, she frowned. "You're hurt!"

"It's nothing, love. Nothing at all." He kissed her again, his mouth lingering over hers longingly.

"You've won your war," she said when they parted.

"It appears I have, Gennie love," he replied, giving her shoulders a squeeze.

Her eyes passed over the noisy throng in the road one last time.

"Then let's go home, Roarke. Let's go home."

"
Bless you," Mimsy
Greenleaf whispered. "Bless both of you." She bent over Calvin's supine form and touched his face. Her eyes were brimming with tears when she looked up at Roarke and Genevieve.

"You've brought my boy home to me."

Joshua and the others came running as Calvin was taken to the house. The young man moaned and thrashed a little, but he was lucid enough to smile for his mother, Genevieve saw with relief. Quickly, she told the Greenleafs of Cal's bravery and how he'd sustained the injury. Mimsy and Joshua thanked her for staying with their boy, even as the Battle of York town raged throughout the Chesapeake.

Roarke had a brief conversation with Joshua and Curtis and followed Genevieve to her house.

"I've an errand in town," he told her with a smile that was both charming and uncharacteristically mysterious. "Joshua will bring you around later."

Genevieve was a bit mystified that he couldn't wait for her to bathe and change, but she accepted his kiss without questioning him.

"I'll see you later, Mrs. Adair," he said.

She laughed with delight at her new title and declared that later was too long to wait.

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.