Embrace the Day (11 page)

Mimsy opened her mouth to disagree, but there was no arguing about the dress. Like all the much-mended frocks Genevieve had gotten from Prudence, it was drab and hung limply about the girl's slight figure. Mimsy folded her mouth into a determined line.

"Wait here." She ran lightly from the kitchen and down the path to her house. While Genevieve waited, she shook her head. Even though the Reverend Carstairs had commanded her appearance, she was apprehensive about joining the close-knit community of Dancer's Meadow, a community that regarded her as an oddity and frowned on her insistence on equal partnership with a Negro.

But Mimsy was determined for her to go. The kitchen became a beehive of activity as Curtis rushed in several times, emptying buckets of water into a small round tub. Mimsy added a pot of boiling water from the fireplace and a handful of dried rosemary from a spice tin. She ordered Genevieve into the tub and applied harsh homemade soap, scrubbing her head mercilessly and drying the girl's hair with vigor. Then, while Genevieve stood shivering before the fire in her shift, Mimsy shook out the dress she'd brought with her.

She smiled fondly, holding it up for Genevieve to see. "I wore it the day Joshua and I pledged ourselves at Greenleaf."

It was lovely, of soft blue cotton sprigged with lilacs. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulders and then tapered to tailored cuffs. There was even a bit of lace clinging demurely to the collar.

"Oh, Mimsy," Genevieve said, "I couldn't."

"Nonsense," the older woman said impatiently. 'This dress hasn't seen dancing in a sow's age. I'd be proud to have you wear it." She took up her sewing basket, threaded a needle, and stabbed quickly at the fabric. "The length is fine," she said, speaking around the pins protruding from her mouth. "But I'm a mite stouter than you. I'll just take in this seam here, and here…"

Her hands moved like lighting over the cloth, jabbing two quick, tapering seams on either side. All the while Genevieve argued and protested, but Mimsy would have none of it. She finished altering the garment and slipped it over Genevieve's head, doing up a long row of tiny buttons in the back and securing a lilac sash snugly about the waist.

She brushed out Genevieve's sable curls, not relenting until the locks shone brightly and caught the light, Mimsy added a pair of combs and a sprig of dried laceweed to the curls and stepped back to survey her work.

Her brown eyes gleamed with merriment. "You look like a princess," she said, beaming.

"Go on, Mimsy, it's only a dress," Genevieve laughed. But then Rose burst in and stopped to stare.

"Miz Culpeper…" she breathed. "You're beautiful." Genevieve laughed at the note of disbelief in Rose's voice, realizing that the girl had never seen her in anything but a worn frock, muddy boots, and disheveled hair.

"She's going to a party in town." Mimsy bustled Genevieve out the door, throwing a shawl around her shoulders and giving her a blanket for the wagon. Even the brilliant sun of late afternoon hadn't driven away the autumn chill.

Genevieve settled into the wagon and shivered. Not with the cold, but with nervousness. She had no idea what
to
expect when she reached Dancer's Meadow, having thus far avoided the various church socials and merry corn-huskings. It occurred to her that this was the first time she'd be seeing Roarke socially, without the pretext of work to be done. Twisting her hands about the reins, Genevieve drew a deep breath and gave them a determined flick.

The fiddler's playing was nearly drowned out by the stomping and hooting of the townspeople. A mass of smiling faces was burnished by the slanting light of a westering sun. Roarke whirled his partner about in a sweeping motion, full of good humor. The harvest had been a good one for all. The fertile region wrapped by the sweep of the Blue Ridge and its many rivers and creeks had been generous.

The last notes of a merry reel scraped to a halt, and the dancers milled over to long boards supported by sawhorses. The boards groaned under the weight of great kegs of cider and ale and all manner of foods prepared by the women. Roarke went and drew a mug of ale. Over the babble of voices he heard the creaking of a wagon and looked up the road. Drawing his breath, he set his mug down and went to meet Genevieve.

Nothing, not even his frequent midnight dreams, could have prepared him for the sight of her. She dropped her worn shawl, untied her bonnet, and lifted her hand in greeting. Sweet God, but she was lovely. Her loosely styled hair gave her small face a soft, winsome look, and the pretty frock she wore draped the intriguing lines of her figure to perfection.

Roarke's blue eyes warmed at the sight of her. Before she could jump down from the wagon, he was there, grasping her firmly about the waist and swinging her down to his side. A smile played about his lips as he stared at her.

"Hello, Roarke." Even her voice was lovely tonight, bearing little resemblance to the hard-bitten speech she'd once used in the London slums.

"Lord, but you look fetching tonight, girl," Roarke said. His grin widened as he watched a delicate blush stain her cheeks. Behind them the fiddler took up playing again.

"Come dance with me, Gennie," Roarke urged softly, taking her arm.

"Roarke"—her blush deepened—"I haven't any idea how to dance."

He laughed deeply and gestured at the crowd, which was forming two lines, ladies facing the gentlemen. "And do you think these backwoods louts know any better?"

The next thing Genevieve knew, she was added to the line of women. Roarke stood across from her, extending his hands. Music and laughter and clapping created an irresistible rhythm, which she joined in effortlessly. Never had she felt so giddy with happiness. No one asked anything of her, except to enjoy the company, which she did immensely.

Roarke made sure she was greeted by all. As the hours slipped by and a great bonfire was ignited, she began to feel a kinship with the people of Dancer's Meadow. She spoke to Cyrus Hinton about planting and discovered that Kimberly Estes hailed from London. She felt sorry for Fannie Harper, whose tired face bore a bruise from a recent scuffle with her hard-drinking husband, Elkanah.

As always, talk meandered to the problems with England. People discussed the news from the northern colonies, where civil war had broken out in earnest. Rebels who called themselves patriots had battled the redcoats at a site called Bunker Hill, and a Connecticut man named Benedict Arnold had seized Fort Ticonderoga, in upper New York. It all seemed remote and unlikely to touch the lives of the farmers who danced in the dusty main street of Dancer's Meadow.

But some of the men didn't see it that way. Although New England seemed as distant as the mother country, Nathan Scammel declared that the colonists in the north were his brothers and announced that he meant to find a regiment somewhere and join the fighting. This raised a few cries of alarm from the women, but Nathan was young and unattached, a wandering type who always seemed to be looking for adventure. Most of the other men were reluctant to leave their farms and families.

During this discussion, Genevieve watched Roarke closely. He listened with a thoughtful frown.

"You're not thinking of joining the rebellion?" Genevieve asked, holding her breath.

He threw back his head and laughed. "Gennie, my girl, I don't even know the way to New England. The righting would be done by the time I got there." The appreciative murmurs of laughter that ensued convinced her that most of the men were of like mind.

They danced some more and feasted on the huge meal the women had brought. After supper the smaller children curled up on folded quilts near the bonfire, but the adults barely slackened their pace.

Only when the big round moon had set did the party begin to dwindle. One by one, the revelers drifted homeward, bundling children into wagons or carrying them in their arms. Mr. Carstairs stood up, reeling slightly.

"Must be going," he mumbled, earning a prod from his portly wife. He drew a watch from his pocket and squinted at it. "Lord in heaven, 'tis the Sabbath already!" He scooped up his little daughter, Jane, and wove down the street to his house, scolded all the way by Mrs. Carstairs.

Roarke chuckled at the sight and stretched his long legs out toward the fire. "Good man, that Carstairs. Has me going to meeting every week now."

"I'd say you've become a full-fledged citizen of Dancer's Meadow," Genevieve said.

He lifted an eyebrow at her. "And what of you, Miss Gennie?"

"I feel more a part of this place than I did my own family in London," she admitted. "But I'm still an outsider here, Roarke. I'm too different from everyone else. I'd never be able to sit still for a quilting bee or sermon."

"You ought to give it a try, girl. You might find something you like."

"I've found it, Roarke. I like growing tobacco, and I'm good at it."

" 'Tis a solitary life you lead, tucked up on your little plantation."

"I've the Greenleafs. I never lack for company." She looked down at her hands, feeling his eyes on her.

"Do you mean that, Gennie?" he asked gently.

"Of course. I have everything I need at the farm."

"You're young for a widow, girl. Haven't you thought about marrying again?"

She felt her throat tighten. Something told her she shouldn't be having this conversation with Roarke Adair. He had an uncanny way of bringing her feelings to the fore, laying open raw emotion within her and making her feel weak and vulnerable.

"I like things just the way they are," she said carefully. "I don't need a man running my life for me."

Roarke placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. "Why can't you look at me when you say that, Gennie?" he asked.

She narrowed her eyes in defiance. "Because you'd just argue with me, and I don't feel like arguing."

"You mean you don't feel like
losing
an argument."

"Or anything else, either, Roarke."

Luther Quaid helped Genevieve from the boat with an exaggerated flourish, holding her hand as if guiding an important lady from her yacht. She laughed and stepped lightly onto the wharf at the mouth of the York River.

"I'll be ready to leave tomorrow morning," she promised him. "Mr. Firth never lingers over business." As she walked past the customshouse toward the tobacco factor's offices, there was a decided spring in her step. Her eyes moved appreciatively over the city, which at one time had been the busiest tobacco port on the Chesapeake. The magnificent houses up on the cliffs above the town were from that earlier era, built by shippers and merchants in a style that rivaled the finest European abodes. Genevieve's gaze lingered on the handsome two-story red brick house of Thomas Nelson that dominated the town, aptly situated to overlook the shoreline that fanned out in front of it.

Yet there was nothing about the splendor of the bustling town that called to Genevieve. The years in London had left a bitter taste in her mouth. She much preferred the remoteness of Albemarle County, where sometimes the stillness was so complete she could hear the barn cats bedding down in the straw.

But Genevieve didn't mind her infrequent visits to the city. Especially not today. Today she was to collect the money for her first shipment of tobacco.

She burst into Mr. Firth's office, her cheeks blooming from the bite of the January air.

"Did you see our tobacco, Mr. Firth?" she asked, not even pausing to greet him. "Every pound of it passed inspection at the Falls. What do you think?"

He tried not to let a smile mar the usual severity of his countenance. But she saw the mirth tugging at the lips beneath his thick mustache.

"I think, Mrs. Culpeper," he said easily, "that 1776 is going to be a very good year for you." Feigning nonchalance, he unlocked a coffer near his desk and extracted a heavy cloth bag, setting it in front of her.

Genevieve was almost afraid to touch it. "Hard currency?" she breathed.

"Aye, and a good sum of it, too. I made a sweet deal with a Frenchman in the Indies. I'll be sailing there myself next week. No bank notes for you, Mrs. Culpeper. These days they're not worth the paper they're printed on."

" These days,' Mr. Firth?"

"We're at war, my dear, although it may not seem so in Dancer's Meadow. The British burned Norfolk the first day of this year."

Her hands flew to her face. Norfolk! That meant the fighting had moved to Virginia!

"I didn't mean to shock you, Mrs. Culpeper," Digby Firth said quickly. "But you'd best get used to the idea that all thirteen colonies could well be consumed by civil war soon."

Somehow the notion that there had been fighting on Virginia soil made it all seem real to Genevieve. She'd read the papers all winter, noting that there were several firebrands in the Virginia assembly calling for independence, but she'd dismissed it as politics.

"What's to happen?" she wondered.

The big Scotsman shrugged. "Who can say? Both sides thought the whole thing would be over in a matter of months, but now it looks like the end is a long way off. The patriots, as they called themselves, are a stubborn lot. They won't give an inch, and neither will Parliament."

"How will the war affect me?"

"Shipping will be interrupted by blockades and such. But you're secure in that you've a good cash crop. The demand for tobacco won't go away. The French are clamoring for it."

"I won't let it interfere with my business, Mr. Firth," Genevieve said with conviction, picking up the purse of gold and silver. "I've worked too hard to let a mere war ruin me."

At that, Digby Firth laughed. "Mrs. Culpeper, I think I believe you."

Gales of laughter issued from Genevieve's house on a waft of spring-scented air. Luther Quaid had just delivered a large package of goods Genevieve had ordered when she was in Yorktown two months earlier, using the small bit of money that hadn't been turned back into the farm. Reaching into the crate, she drew out a length of mulberry calico and handed it to Mimsy.

"This reminded me of you," she explained, giving her friend a hug. "You're so good with the needle that I just knew you'd make a fine dress for yourself."