Embrace the Day (3 page)

"I'm Roarke Adair. What's your name, girl?"

"Genevieve. Genevieve Elliot." She spoke without expression.

"Genevieve…" Even his voice was smiling at her. "I think I'll call you Gennie. That seems to suit you better."

"It doesn't matter to me, sir," she replied tartly.

He ignored her tone. "What are you doing here, sweet Gennie? It's obvious you don't enjoy your work."

"What would you have me do, sir?" she said challengingly. "Go a-begging in the streets?"

"No, you seem much too clever for that. You speak well. Have you had any schooling?"

"Of course not. But" —she flung her head up proudly— "I can read and do figures."

"Well done, Gennie. But what good do such accomplishments do you?"

"Look, sir, I've not the time for idle chatter—"

"Sure she does, gentlemen," Watney Elliot interjected jovially. He gripped the girl's arm, halting her retreat to the sideboard. Watney hadn't failed to notice the size of Piggot's purse. He fixed a fierce glare on Genevieve. "You'll speak to the men," he ordered, and shoved her onto a stool.

Roarke almost changed his mind about talking to her when she turned the full force of her resentful gaze on him. He'd already drunk far too much at other taverns and was in no condition for entertaining a girl with conversation. But something about her compelled him to speak.

"Your father?" he asked, jerking his head at Watney.

She nodded.

"He treats you badly."

"I give him little enough in return."

Roarke clenched his fist. His own frustration earlier today somehow projected itself onto her. "Why don't you leave, then, Gennie?" he demanded.

"And where would you have me go?" she asked, equally fierce.

Roarke gave Piggot a canny look across the table. "The colonies. My friend from Virginia tells me 'tis paradise on earth."

The first spark of real interest animated the girl's face. Her eyes, fringed by dusky lashes, attained a sudden sharp sparkle that came from deep within her. To Roarke's dismay, however, that bright look was focused on Piggot.

"I wonder if you could tell me how much truth is in all I've heard of Virginia."

A bittersweet mood overcame Roarke as he leaned back and drew on his tankard. Virginia was Piggot's favorite subject, and he applied himself to it with gusto, expounding on the perfection of his adopted homeland: vast farms swelling with bounty, rivers and forests alive with game, cities that were shining jewels of prosperity.

As the girl grew more interested, Roarke became more morose. He'd wanted Virginia so badly. And he'd come so close to his dream. But not close enough.

Piggot finished his monologue and raised his mug high. "To Virginia," he proclaimed.

Genevieve noted the surprise of several nearby patrons. They'd all heard the news of Boston's defiance the year before and hadn't heard many toasts raised to the colonies since that tea-tossing episode.

But Genevieve Elliot smiled. The smile had nothing to do with Roarke, but its brilliance was so striking that it took hold of something deep within him. Then Piggot invited him to the gaming room behind the taproom, and he reluctantly followed.

When her father shouted stridently, Genevieve obeyed, covering her annoyance as she always did. She hurried into the cramped, dusty little game room. A circle of men huddled over their cards, seemingly oblivious to her presence. A mug had shattered and spilled on the floor, and she began to clear it away.

Genevieve found herself studying Henry Piggot. He was the first real colonial she'd ever met. An odd sort, not entirely trustworthy-looking yet possessed of a sort of worn elegance and an unusual turn of speech that set him apart from Englishmen. He was middle-aged and clad in clothing that had seen better days. His stubby, inelegant fingers protruded from ragged gloves, and in one hand he held an ivory toothpick, which he applied to his teeth from time to time.

Roarke Adair, whose sharp, intense stare disturbed her, lounged in the doorway. He was striking in appearance, but Genevieve didn't like him. She'd chafed under his probing questions and the way he looked at her, seemingly reading the restless longing that possessed her. At least he had sense enough not to join in the game. Watney Elliot cheated with great competence. Under Roarke's disconcerting gaze, Genevieve let the pieces of stoneware slip, and they fell to the floor with a startling crash.

One of the men looked up. "Gets prettier every day, does your daughter, Wat."

"She's not for the likes of you, Sim. Not with all the fancy ways she's been learning." Watney Elliot gave a gravelly, drunken laugh.

Genevieve grimaced and went back to clearing the mess. Mercifully, the idle talk turned from her, and the men began asking Piggot about Virginia. Between the betting and clinking of coins and tokens, she learned that he was some sort of agent for a tobacco planter named Cornelius Culpeper.

"I'm to set sail for Chesapeake a few days hence on the
Blessing
, out of Bristol. Doesn't leave me much time for my final bit of business."

Chester Molls, one of the regulars, raised a grizzled eyebrow. "I thought you were trading for household goods. Don't seem too hard, here in London."

Piggot nodded his balding head. "I've got all that. But I've yet to find Mr. Culpeper a wife. Women are few and far between in the western part of Virginia, and he's been a long time finding one."

"You don't say."

Again Piggot nodded. "Years past, they used to send them by the boatload, sixty, seventy at a time. All a man had to do was pay the passage—a hundred twenty pounds of tobacco—and he had him a wife. 'Tis less common now, and we've still four men to every female in some counties. Not very good odds for a lusty lot like the frontiersmen. Anyway, I've a decent sum for a woman, and I've found naught. Those who are suitable wouldn't go, and those who'd come along aren't worth the price of passage."

The men had a good chuckle at the strange predicament and went back to their game.

Genevieve gathered up the fragments and went outside to put them in the dustbin. When she returned, she noticed Roarke still in the doorway, observing some sort of argument among the players.

"You can't be betting what you don't have," Piggot was saying to Watney Elliot. The others had laid down their hands, and the wager was between the two of them.

"I'm good for it," Watney insisted, clutching his hand of cards to his chest.

"What have you got to put up?" Piggot asked. He'd suddenly become quite businesslike.

Watney's red-veined eyes flicked about the table as he sought an answer. He was desperate to stay in the game; it was clear from the set of his jaw that he had a winning hand.

Genevieve pursed her lips. She'd heard the argument countless times before. What, she wondered, would he wager this time? There was precious little aside from the night's take, or perhaps her mother's prized new iron stove. Distracted and angry, she dropped the dustpan she was holding.

Watney Elliot exploded. "Worthless slut! I've thinking to do, and I can't concentrate with all that racket." He leaned back in his chair and shoved her hard. "Get out!"

Ears burning with outrage at being treated so, especially in this unsavory company, Genevieve moved toward the door. A strong arm descended in front of her face.

"Just a moment." Roarke Adair's voice rose above Watney's grumbled curses. He stood squarely in the doorway, blocking Genevieve's exit. "I've a solution to your problem, Mr. Elliot." He looked contemptuously at Watney.

Watney narrowed his eyes. "And what might that be?"

Roarke strolled into the room, his head brushing the timbered ceiling. "I believe Mr. Piggot is carrying the sum for a bride price from his employer."

Piggot shook his head. "I may be, but I'll not be lending—"

"That wasn't what I had in mind. But tell me." He jerked his head toward Genevieve. "How much is she worth?"

Genevieve gasped softly. Her initial dislike of Roarke Adair deepened by fathoms.

Piggot, however, seemed pleased as understanding dawned. If he won the hand, then Cornelius Culpeper's money would be his, and he'd have procured a bride at no cost. He studied Genevieve, who backed against the wall, aghast.

"She's a mite young."

Watney was grinning by now, acting as if the idea had been his own.

"Seventeen's plenty old, Henry. And she keeps a good house, does most of the chores for my wife. Any man here can vouch for her maidenhood; she's chased every one of 'em off at one time or other." Laughter rippled from the men, and Genevieve's blush of outrage crept to the tips of her ears.

Piggot hesitated for a long moment, his small eyes appraising. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

"She'll do. Show your hand."

Still grinning broadly, Watney laid out his cards with obvious relish. It was a hand of straight black clubs. Genevieve felt weak with relief. For once she was glad her father was so adept at cheating. She shot a look of pure venom at Roarke.

Piggot stroked his grizzled chin. "Very good, Watney. Very good indeed." He shrugged exaggeratedly and rolled his eyes up.

Then, almost playfully, Piggot showed a hand of high red, beating the clubs roundly.

"That ends the evening for me, gentlemen," he said jovially. "I'll be around in the morning to make all the arrangements. The girl's to be married by proxy here in London." He gave Watney a severe look. "And don't even think about not honoring your end of the bet. The girl's mine. I've got a small crew of sailors from the
Blessing
who'll back me up."

Watney Elliot spluttered and fumed, but he was beaten, and he knew it. Even his cronies were struck by the enormity of what he'd done. They called the game at an end and slowly trickled back into the taproom.

Genevieve had been in a state of numb shock, but she recovered when she looked up at Roarke Adair's rugged profile.

"What right had you?" she demanded. Her green eyes glinted with outrage. "By what right do you come meddling here?"

He seemed slightly bemused by her temper. "I merely made a suggestion, Gennie. 'Twas your father who gambled you away."

"What kind of mart are you, to think in terms of buying and selling a woman like so much chattel?"

He faced her, growing serious. "I've been watching you, Gennie. You strike me as uncommon in a number of ways. You don't belong in this seedy tavern, waiting tables and taking abuse from your father. You'd have rotted here, Gennie. Virginia will be good for you—"

"And who in bloody hell are you to decide I'd be better off wed to some colonial lout?"

He reeled a little as he straightened his hat and prepared to leave, looking utterly satisfied with himself. "You'll see, Gennie. You'll see." And then he was gone.

Watney sat alone at the table and drained a mug of ale. The idea that he'd just gambled away his daughter didn't distress him so much as the fact that he was about to lose her income and her help in the tavern. There was no remorse in his drunken eyes, no word of apology when he looked up at Genevieve.

"I've always known you for a bloody sot," she said matter-of-factly, painfully concealing her horror at what had transpired. "Now I see you've not so much as a shred of decency."

"There now, 'tis no way to be talking to your father, girl."

She whirled on him and unleashed her anger, eyes snapping with fury, voice brittle with bitterness. "Don't call yourself my father. What have you ever given me but a cuff on the ear and a foul curse when you thought my earnings too meager or my housekeeping too poor? You've never had so much as a soft word for me. I'm not at all surprised that you'd send me away for the price of a night's gaming. I'll go to Virginia, aye, and gladly, if it means never having to look at your besotted face again!"

She left Watney staring agape and disappeared up the back stairs, where her mother waited, cowering.

"Genevieve, you don't know what you're saying—"

The girl regarded her mother for a long moment, her bosom heaving with emotion. Her poor, grasping mother, who'd done nothing all her married life save submit to her louse of a husband, producing three children in quick succession. Her sin was that of ignorance; she knew of nothing better to strive for.

"Twill be a burden for you once I'm gone, Mum," Genevieve said evenly, having regained control of herself. "But perhaps 'tis for the best. My absence may get the boys out to the yards, working again." She thought contemptuously of her brothers, who hadn't earned an honest day's wages in months.

"Must you go, Genevieve?" her mother asked blankly.

The girl pressed her lips together. Why couldn't her mother be stronger, why couldn't she insist that this nonsense be stopped and some other way found to compensate Piggot? But the woman accepted this turn of events with characteristic apathy: spiritless, downtrodden.

Genevieve sighed. "I'm going to bed." She left her mother and went behind the thin curtain in the loft to be alone with the thought that tomorrow she was to be married by proxy to a man she'd never met.

Angela Brimsby set
her teacup down firmly and smiled across the table at her cousin. She'd never thought to see him again, having practically laughed him and his fool idea of claiming land in Virginia out of her house, but things were different now. Summoning him back had been one of her more brilliant ideas.

Smugly, she congratulated herself on having escaped the wild looks of his branch of the family. Roarke, with his mane of thick red hair and eyes that reminded her of a storm-tossed sea, looked as crude and elemental as the rugged land he longed to claim. She sat quietly, awaiting his reaction to her proposal.

Roarke leaned his long form back in a French armchair, draping himself negligently on the expensive piece. Angela's smile wavered, but doggedly she kept her expression pleasant.

"Sounds a bit cold-blooded, even for you, Angela," he remarked mildly.

" 'Tis a perfectly logical solution. You'll need a wife if you mean to be a proper farmer."

She selected a sticky sweetmeat from the tray before her.

"I truly doubt you'll do any better than Miss Moon. Admittedly, the girl lacks a certain degree of style, but she is educated and knows her place. As a wife, she'll be quite satisfactory."

"What does Edmund have to say about this?"

Angela's face closed. "Edmund has no opinion on the subject. He'll not oppose the plan."

"I can't help but wonder why you'd want to give the girl up, Angela. If she's as fine a person as you say—"

"Let's just say Miss Moon and I have had our differences. Now, what say you, Roarke? Will you refuse me, and return to the docks, or will you agree to my plan? I'll send you to Virginia in grand style, with a wife by your side, so you'll have a proper start. Where's the harm in that?"

Roarke narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't know," he said slowly. "But I'm sure it exists. What prompted this change of heart, Angela?"

"Really," she sniffed, "you're questioning an extremely generous offer, Roarke. Let us just say that I suddenly realized that as your only living relative, I owe you this chance."

Roarke sat silent for a long time, certain there was more to his aunt's scheme than she was saying. But something inside him strained with impatience and warned that a chance like this wouldn't present itself again.

"I'll speak to Miss Moon," he said at last. "If she is agreeable, then we'll make arrangements."

Roarke glared at the clock in the Brimsbys' drawing room. Its ticking measured twenty minutes with maddening regularity. Unpleasantly, he was reminded of his mother's clock. What an irony that he needn't have sold it in the first place. He'd never get the timepiece back, now that he'd given the claim slip to Angela, who had undoubtedly recovered it from Pembroke's shop at the first opportunity.

His thoughts fled as Prudence Moon appeared soundlessly. Pale faced and somberly dressed, she kept her eyes averted. The hand she extended was icy cold.

"Good day, Mr. Adair. Mrs. Brimsby has informed me of your offer."

"Then you'd best accustom yourself to calling me Roarke."

"As you wish." Prudence seated herself tensely on a straight-backed chair.

Roarke frowned. Her manner made him feel more like an executioner than a man come to claim a woman for his wife.

"Prudence," he said, trying not to frown anymore, "I know the circumstances of our courtship—if you could call it that—are unusual, but I believe you'll like Virginia. By all reports, it's a veritable paradise." He watched her hands twisting in her lap. "Prudence, what is it? Angela told me you were eager to go, having no family here and no source of income—"

"I'll go, Mr… Roarke. I'll go with you to Virginia."

She looked so small, so fragile. But when she raised her china-blue eyes to Roarke, he was surprised to see a glitter of determination.

"I won't lie to you, Prudence. Life won't be easy in Virginia."

"It can't be any worse than here," she countered, her voice growing stronger with each word. "Let us be married, Roarke."

His face broke into a grin. Prudence knew then that she'd never regret her decision. The piece of her heart that had been ravaged by Edmund Brimsby would never mend, but she vowed not to think of that once she was wed to a man so fine as Roarke Adair.

"I'm told the crossing isn't bad in springtime," Roarke said to Prudence as a hired coach bore them into town, to a magistrate's office.

Prudence regarded him expressionlessly. Despite her willingness to marry him, an air of melancholy clung to her, evident in her eyes and in the hand that reached up unconsciously to smooth the already perfect lace at her collar.

Roarke scowled, then brightened, remembering something. "You'll find a companion on the
Blessing
. There will be another young woman aboard, by the name of Genevieve Elliot."

For the first time a spark of interest lighted Prudence's eyes. "Genevieve!" She smiled at Roarke's amazement when he learned of the unlikely but precious friendship that had grown between a West End governess and an East End washerwoman. Roarke suddenly felt a slight and welcome lessening of guilt over what had happened in the tavern the night before.

"Roarke, how did you manage this?" Prudence asked.

He looked down at his hands. "I'm not terribly proud of how it came about," he admitted. "I don't know what possessed me to do it—I was deep in my cups at the time—but I suggested her father wager her in a card game with a man called Henry Piggot, who's been sent here to find a wife for a Virginian planter."

This brought dismay to Prudence's soft eyes. "How could you? Poor Genevieve—Roarke,
why
?"

He shrugged. "I know nothing of your friend, except that she doesn't belong there in Farthing Lane, serving unwashed louts while they ogle her and make sport of her. The thought came to me suddenly that she'd be much better off in Virginia."

"You shouldn't have taken it upon yourself…"

He thought for a moment, recalling the girl's outrage, the hatred seething in her gemstone-hard eyes. "Regrets occurred to me too late, I'm afraid." He sighed. "If Genevieve is truly averse to going to Virginia, I'll see Piggot today and settle with him."

Prudence nodded. "It is best." She stared at him for a long time. "You've done a foolish thing, but you're a good man, I think, Roarke Adair."

He glanced at her sharply, taken aback. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. "We'd best go and be married now, Miss Moon," he said, helping her down from the coach.

Genevieve left the ink-and-paper-scented office in a pensive mood, walking a few steps behind a rather self-congratulatory Henry Piggot. She didn't feel any different, but following an unceremonious signing and stamping of papers, she was a married lady. Mrs. Cornelius Culpeper of Virginia Colony.

"We're off to Southampton tomorrow," Piggot said as they reached the head of Farthing Lane. "The
Blessing
sails the day after."

"I'll be ready."

He studied her with small keen eyes. "I dare say you will. 'Tis best you bring little with you. The
Blessing
is a cargo ship with scant room for passengers' effects." Taking in her worn, drab clothing, he pressed a few coins and bank notes into her hand. "Use this to get whatever you need for the voyage."

Genevieve covered her surprise as Piggot walked away. He couldn't know he'd just given her more money than she'd ever had in her life—close to five pounds. Carefully, she folded her hand around the notes and coins and placed them in her apron pocket.

Her hand brushed against a small piece of paper. Frowning, Genevieve took it out and stared at it. Spidery writing, woefully misspelled, described a certain hooded wall clock that had been left at a pawnship. Genevieve had a sudden image of Angela Brimsby thrusting the paper at her, commanding her to take it to Pembroke's. In the ensuing argument the slip had been forgotten.

Genevieve hurried to the shop and presented the claim to the pawnbroker. He set a clock before her, and she studied it closely, curious as to why Angela Brimsby would want it. The timepiece was decades old, oddly handsome. Charming even, with a halfpenny moon peeping through a hole in the dial. Below the face was etched a small inscription:

Behold this hand, observe ye motion's trip, Man's precious hours, away like these do slip.

A sudden smile lit Genevieve's face. All at once she knew exactly what she'd bring to Virginia with her.

She left the shop with the clock concealed beneath the laundry in her basket. A small victory over Angela Brimsby, but she felt a certain grim satisfaction in it.

As she trudged toward the tavern, it struck Genevieve that this would be her last night of servitude in the taproom. That a life of another sort of servitude awaited her in Virginia didn't matter. Nothing could be as degrading as her existence here in Farthing Lane.

She had no idea what to expect beyond the cramped, sooty bounds of London, but a tremor of excitement eddied through her at the thought of the adventure that lay ahead. Smiling to herself, Genevieve envisioned vast green fields rolling out in all directions, a grand planter's house, perhaps a sun-warmed garden where she could while away the hours…

Lost in thought, Genevieve didn't notice she wasn't alone. Then a long evening shadow suddenly crossed her path, and she heard her name spoken.

"Miss Elliot."

She spun about, her heart quickening inexplicably. Roarke Adair was silhouetted against the smoke-hazed sun, his dark red hair gleaming beneath his tricorn. He was even more maddeningly handsome sober than he'd been drunk.

"You're early, Mr. Adair. The pub hour hasn't begun yet."

His rugged features remained serious. "I've done more than enough drinking. I came to see you."

"Why?" she demanded acidly. "To see that I held up my father's end of the bargain?"

"If I thought there was a chance of your forgiving me, I'd apologize. But never mind, I'll just find Piggot, pay your father's debt, and things will be as they were."

She glared at him. "Is that so?"

"Aye. Mind you, I still think you'd fare much better in Virginia, but the choice is yours to make. It shouldn't have been decided by a draw of cards."

"Your wisdom is a bit tardy, Mr. Adair," she remarked sarcastically.

"Miss Elliot—"

She laughed harshly. "There is no more 'Miss Elliot,' not anymore. I am Mrs. Cornelius Culpeper now."

He stared, his blue eyes searching her face. Almost to himself, he said, "I should have known Piggot would waste no time. But 'tis only a proxy marriage… You might get an annulment."

"Mr. Piggot is taking me to Southampton tomorrow."

Roarke frowned. "That doesn't leave much time."

Genevieve's resentment kindled hotter. Even with good intentions, Roarke Adair was proving himself as meddlesome as ever.

"You've done quite enough interfering in my life, thank you," she said. "If I didn't want to leave England, be assured I wouldn't. I don't approve of what you did, but perhaps Virginia will be a good thing for me. You were right in thinking I despise this London slum. So let me go."

He stared at her for a long moment. "Are you sure, Gen?" he asked.