Embrace the Day (38 page)

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.

The 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?"

"How very noble, Mr. Adair. But now I understand why you showed such scant concern for me. Good God, every time I got into trouble, I prayed you'd care enough to punish me, to bring me back in line. But you never did. You just sat back and let me ruin myself. The others felt the back of your hand when it was warranted, but not me. Never me."

Genevieve was crying quietly into her hands, Roarke sighed wearily. "You were different, Hance," he said. "So sensitive, so wild. You had a spirit that defied restraint. I knew no amount of beating would purge you of that."

Hance made a curt, mocking bow. "Thank you for that favor. Thank you for letting me bury myself in iniquity."

Genevieve raised her tear-stained face. "Hance, we can explain."

"That's exactly what I want. An explanation is all I want from you."

"Your mother was my dearest friend in London," Genevieve said softly. She turned her eyes to the window, watching droplets collect and run on the glass. "She was my only friend." She'd told Hance that before, and his jaw ticked impatiently. But then she told him the other things, about Prudence Moon and Edmund Brimsby.

Hance sat perfectly still, his face an unmoving mask.

"She loved him, Hance. She never stopped loving him."

"She was a whore," Hance said tonelessly.

Roarke's arm shot out and grasped Hance's collar, twisting it savagely. "Don't you dare," he said. "Don't you ever,
ever
refer to Prudence in that way."

"It's what she was. You were the only reason she didn't die in disgrace. I suppose I should thank you for that, too."

Roarke released Hance and threaded his hands into his hair. The one thing he would never tell Hance was something he didn't even want to ask himself. Would he have married Prudence if he'd known she was carrying another man's child?

"You're part of this family," he said. "I've never thought of you as anything but my own son."

Hance didn't react. Instead, he asked about the man who'd sired him, probing until Genevieve told him the whole story. And then he left.

Even hours after
they'd tumbled from their sturdy rope-frame bed each morning, the taste of Luke still lingered on Mariah's lips. She knew it was ridiculous, but a perpetual smile tugged at her mouth, and she went about each day's work full of blithe, breathless feelings that made it seem as if her feet never quite reached the ground.

In the three months she'd lived with Luke on the farm, she'd known a happiness so intense it was almost frightening. He was as much a part of her as her own heart, as the tiny throb of life that she was now certain quickened within her.

For a week or two she'd been bothered by queasiness and certain tender aches. Welcome signs, because they confirmed her hope.

Holding Gideon's hand in hers, she made her way up a gentle slope to where Luke was tending corn. Aided by some of the girls at Nellie's, Mariah was learning to bake and cook. The still-warm loaf in the basket was her best yet, and she was eager to share it with Luke.

She paused just below the field to watch him for a moment. Only Luke could look so much a part of the land he worked. He knew just how to plant and where. Never would Luke make the mistake of putting sweet potatoes in the swollen, rich lowlands that would yield corn fourteen spans high. He was a consummate farmer, with an innate knowledge of earth and seasons.

In the burgeoning warmth of the June day he'd stripped off his shirt. Sunlight glinted over his tautly muscled torso in a way that made Mariah's mouth go suddenly dry. His mane of burnished copper hair framed a face Mariah found so endearing that she—a woman who had always disdained weeping—was sometimes moved to tears.

Luke glanced up and gave her the smile she would gladly have laid down her life for. The smile that told her how much she was loved.

Gideon ran ahead and was promptly swung about and wrapped in a bear hug. The two were fast friends now, Luke's hearty indulgence matched by Gideon's idolizing love.

"I'm going rock hunting today, Luke," Gideon told him proudly. "Mariah said she'd help me. Tomorrow you'll be able to eat your hominy out of a geode bowl just like the Injuns!"

"I'd like that, Gid."

"What about your lunch?" Mariah asked the boy.

"Golly, Mariah, I'm still full from breakfast. Can't I go now? Please?" He was dancing impatiently from foot to foot.

"Go on," she said indulgently. "Start in the woods at the edge of the stream. I'll join you in a little while."

She and Luke looked fondly after the boy as he scampered down the hill. Luke put on his shirt and paused for several greedy swallows of water from the can he always kept close at hand. Finally, he bit into the bread. A grin spread across his face.

"So that's what you've been doing all morning," he said. "And I thought you were writing."

"I managed to finish my piece for Mr. Bradford as well," she said smugly.

He brushed a crumb from his lips and kissed the top of her head. "An accomplished writer who also knows her way around the kitchen. You certainly look proud of yourself."

Mariah took both his hands in hers and stared into his eyes. "I
am
proud, Luke. But not for the reasons you think."

He frowned at her sudden grave look. "Then what—?"

She brought one of his hands to her lips and kissed it. "Luke, I'm going to have our baby."

Even though it was a natural outgrowth of the love that filled their nights with splendor, Luke gasped in surprise. Every smile he'd ever smiled paled in comparison with the one he gave her now, as he pulled her into his arms.

"Mariah… honey," he whispered against her hair. Then he covered her face with kisses so ardent that Mariah soon realized the day's work would never be finished if she let him continue. Reluctantly, she moved away.

"We've both got things to do," she told him, drawing a shaky breath. "Gideon's probably half a mile up the creek by now."

Luke helped her to her feet, then stopped to pluck a single perfect daisy from the fringe of the field. He folded her fingers around its stem and pulled her into his arms for a last lingering kiss. Leaning down, he curled his tongue wickedly into her ear.

"Tonight I intend to finish what we've started," he promised.

Color flooded Mariah's cheeks as she backed away. "Luke Adair, if you know what's good for you, you'll—"

"Yes?" He grinned challengingly.

"You'll do just that!" she retorted. His rich laughter followed her as she ran up the hill.

Hance rode until his horse quivered and snorted in protest. Noting the sweat that glistened over every inch of the beast, Hance slowed to a walk. The fact that he'd nearly ruined a good horse on the wild ride from his parents' farm the night before only heightened his anger. He should have known better. He should know that no horse was swift enough to ride down the demons that plagued him. Two quarts of whiskey hadn't purged him of the bile of betrayal.

He rode through a thick wood where the floor was carpeted by ferns and the mountain laurel had burst into bloom. Hance grabbed savagely at a dogweed twig and broke it off, deriving little satisfaction from its destruction. He took a long swig of whiskey from his flask; his throat was so used to the liquor that it had long ceased to burn. Cursing, he tossed the flask away.

That was the problem, Hance decided darkly. There was nothing, no one, to lash out at. His mother was long dead. He couldn't condemn Genevieve and Roarke for their selflessness. Even Nell Wingfield couldn't be blamed; her only sin was telling the truth that his loving, misguided family had so carefully concealed from him.

Tension twisted in his gut. The murderous rage he'd felt the day he'd killed Artis Judd was nothing compared with this. The bottom had dropped out of his life, and he was falling into a void, powerless to stop his descent.

"Gideon!" A voice, clear and sweet as a bird song, pierced the silence of the forest.

Hance drew his horse up, stiffening with recognition. And then he saw her. Mariah Parker. No, Mariah Adair now. She had a more legitimate claim to the name than Hance had. Framed by a pair of pokeberry bushes, she looked as fresh and sweet as summertime itself.

"Gideon!" she called again. "Gideon, where are you?"

Although her brow was furrowed slightly in annoyance, it was clear to Hance that she was a supremely happy woman. Even as she called and scolded, she held a daisy in her hand and from time to time would run it across her beautiful cheek, a soft smile tugging at her mouth.

The tension inside Hance burst. He dropped from his horse and lashed its reins to a shrub, feeling almost relieved. At last he'd found an outlet for his rage.

He didn't stop to examine his reasoning. Mariah and Luke had no right to be happy, to mock him with the perfection of their own lives. Hance wouldn't rest until he'd ruined that happiness with his brand of revenge. Luke was the eldest son now. He had it all—the premier position in the family, the mate of his heart, a farm that promised to be successful.

And Hance had nothing. Not even a name of his own. And not Ivy. Oh, God, he thought, a red haze of rage swimming before his eyes. This time he'd really lost Ivy.

He wanted to even the score, to take from Luke the one thing he cherished above all others, just as Ivy had been taken from him. Clenching his fists, he stepped into Mariah's path.

The fury in his face was obvious. Instantly, she recoiled, dropping the daisy to the forest floor.

Hance laughed maliciously. "You're right to back away, little squaw. My feelings for you haven't changed since that first night we met. I mean to finish what we started."

Just a short time ago, Luke had said those very words to her, and she'd been filled with warm anticipation. Coming from Hance, the words filled her with terror. She clutched unconsciously at her midsection.

"Hance, please."

It was exactly what he wanted to hear. Luke's wife, begging for mercy. He seized her, winding his fingers savagely through her hair and jerking her head back, forcing her to look into his eyes. Mariah could see nothing but his rage, the cruelly twisted smile he gave her.

Neither one of them noticed the small boy who appeared on the scene briefly and fled.

Ivy toyed with the food on her plate, managing to avoid eating even the smallest bite. Her mother held her tongue for as long as she could. But finally it became too much.

"Dear, you must eat your lunch. And you're far too pale. You should start thinking about getting out."

Ivy stared out the window. She didn't see the twining yellow jessamine there but Hance with that irresistible smile on his beautiful face.
Why did you have to lie?
she asked him. By now the ache in her heart had become familiar, almost comforting despite the pain. It was the only thing that told her she was still alive.

At that moment the houseboy approached the table. "Someone to see you, Miss Ivy," he murmured.

Grateful for an excuse to leave her parents' sympathetic looks and shaking heads, she went to the foyer.

"She's waiting at the kitchen entrance," the houseboy explained. Frowning, Ivy went to the back of the house.

An elaborately garbed woman stood on the doorstep, her face concealed by a huge ornamented hat.

Ivy stopped and stared in surprise. "Miss Wingfield."

Nell's hands moved nervously over the ribbons that adorned her dress. She attempted to smile.

"Hello, Miss Attwater. May we talk?" She hesitated, as if fully expecting to be ejected from the house. But she didn't know Ivy, Who possessed none of the false propriety of her peers.

"Come in," she said immediately, guiding Nell by the elbow.

"No, I—" Nell looked pointedly at the cook and a maid, who had stopped working to listen. "Could we go outside, Miss Attwater?"

"Of course," Ivy said, leading the way to the rear garden.

"I have something to say to you," Nell announced hesitantly. "I should've spoken up three days ago. But it was only today that I learned to regret the things I've done." Absently, she plucked a jessamine blossom and toyed with it. "I've just seen Reverend Rankin," she continued. "Lord, that man had every right to condemn me for upsetting his parishioners last Sunday, but he didn't. He invited me into his fold."

Ivy wasn't surprised. Adam Rankin was the epitome of Christian tolerance. "I'm glad for you, Miss Wingfield," she said.

"Miss Attwater," Nell said, "I've come to ask your forgiveness. I feel responsible for driving you and Hance Adair apart practically on the eve of your wedding."

Ivy looked away, feeling a familiar stab of pain. "You had nothing to do with that," she said brokenly. "It was all Hance's doing that he went to your—your house. His disloyalty had nothing to do with you."

"My house… ?" Nell looked confused. She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Ah, yes, I remember now. Hance
did
come by." She caught the look on Ivy's face. "It wasn't like that," she added hastily. "He had quite another reason for coming. I owed him money, you see, and—"

Ivy's shoulders began to shake with sobs.

"Honest, Miss Attwater," Nell continued, "that's all that happened. God forgive me, I did offer him some, ah, company, but he refused. Quite adamantly."