said above the babble of voices. "Patrick Henry mustered an army and marched on Williamsburg. No blood was shed, but Governor Dunmore was forced to pay for the powder he confiscated."
"Roarke… ?" Genevieve laid her hand on his arm. As everyone began to talk at once, she asked, "What does this mean?"
The intense look left his face, although he remained thoughtful. "That the trouble's reached our own Virginia, Gennie. No telling how far it'll go."
"How far can it go? What can a few angry colonists— with no army and no money—hope to accomplish against the British army?"
"We've got something," Roarke said thoughtfully.
Her eyes widened at the word
we
. "And what is that, Roarke?"
"We have America, Gennie. 'Tis no small resource."
They walked away from the dock to sit together beneath a spreading oak tree. Genevieve leaned her back against its trunk and looked at Roarke. She didn't want to think about war.
"How is the baby?" she asked. She hadn't seen the child in over a month, being so busy with the spring planting.
"Thriving," Roarke said, a warm look coming into his eyes. "Mimi Lightfoot swears the little nipper gains weight every day."
Genevieve studied Roarke as he spoke. At first she'd been terrified he'd reject a child sired by another man. But she'd underestimated the generosity of Roarke's heart.
"You're a good papa, Roarke," she said warmly.
"I'm working at it." He drew his knee up to his chest and stared up at the budding leaves of the tree. "I feel a bit inept when it comes to this business of being a father. There's nothing about my own father worth remembering, so I'm on my own."
"You'll do it well," Genevieve insisted. "Just like you do everything else. Hance is a lucky little boy."
He smiled. "There's no reason the child shouldn't be treated as my own."
Genevieve couldn't help the hand that went out to Roarke and laid itself on his arm. "Take care," she said, getting to her feet. "I'd best be seeing Reverend Carstairs."
Watching her walk away, Roarke frowned. Genevieve never failed to leave him bemused. One moment she was scolding him for trying to give her advice or spoiling the Greenleaf children, and the next her lovely eyes were suffused with warmth at some small thing he did or said.
Every so often he thought he sensed a deep longing in Gennie that made him want to reach out to her. But her independent ways warned him off. She wore her self-reliance like armor, protecting herself against those who would be close to her, disdaining sentiment. Roarke drew idly in the dust with his finger. He simply didn't understand the woman. Sometimes he didn't even understand himself.
The clock above the mantel in Genevieve's house ticked faithfully, but real time was measured on the farm by the progress of the crop. As Joshua had predicted, the transplanting was completed by June, and this was followed by a long season of ripening and growth. But the days that slid by were far from idle. Each field required regular attention. There were the daily chores of hoeing and battling
weeds in
addition to topping the plants and removing the secondary shoots put out by the roots.
Genevieve was tireless during this time, as were the Greenleafs. In the scalding heat of high summer and in the soft rains that came down from the Blue Ridge, they worked the fields. In the evening they shared a meal, their food growing more bountiful with each passing week. Mimsy's kitchen garden fairly burst with beans and squash and turnips, and Phillip's propensity for hunting put meat on the table. It was a full, busy time for Genevieve, a time of hope, a time when she allowed herself to dream.
Her evenings were never lonely now that she had her project with Calvin. Although Genevieve swore she knew little of teaching, he was an apt and eager pupil. She soon had him reading Ben Franklin's worldly witticisms and studying the rules of language in Dilworth's speller, which Mr. Carstairs had lent her. Even during the day, when they
"Roarke… ?" Genevieve laid her hand on his arm. As everyone began to talk at once, she asked, "What does this mean?"
The intense look left his face, although he remained thoughtful. "That the trouble's reached our own Virginia, Gennie. No telling how far it'll go."
"How far can it go? What can a few angry colonists— with no army and no money—hope to accomplish against the British army?"
"We've got something," Roarke said thoughtfully.
Her eyes widened at the word
we
. "And what is that, Roarke?"
"We have America, Gennie. 'Tis no small resource."
They walked away from the dock to sit together beneath a spreading oak tree. Genevieve leaned her back against its trunk and looked at Roarke. She didn't want to think about war.
"How is the baby?" she asked. She hadn't seen the child in over a month, being so busy with the spring planting.
"Thriving," Roarke said, a warm look coming into his eyes. "Mimi Lightfoot swears the little nipper gains weight every day."
Genevieve studied Roarke as he spoke. At first she'd been terrified he'd reject a child sired by another man. But she'd underestimated the generosity of Roarke's heart.
"You're a good papa, Roarke," she said warmly.
"I'm working at it." He drew his knee up to his chest and stared up at the budding leaves of the tree. "I feel a bit inept when it comes to this business of being a father. There's nothing about my own father worth remembering, so I'm on my own."
"You'll do it well," Genevieve insisted. "Just like you do everything else. Hance is a lucky little boy."
He smiled. "There's no reason the child shouldn't be treated as my own."
Genevieve couldn't help the hand that went out to Roarke and laid itself on his arm. "Take care," she said, getting to her feet. "I'd best be seeing Reverend Carstairs."
Watching her walk away, Roarke frowned. Genevieve never failed to leave him bemused. One moment she was scolding him for trying to give her advice or spoiling the Greenleaf children, and the next her lovely eyes were suffused with warmth at some small thing he did or said.
Every so often he thought he sensed a deep longing in Gennie that made him want to reach out to her. But her independent ways warned him off. She wore her self-reliance like armor, protecting herself against those who would be close to her, disdaining sentiment. Roarke drew idly in the dust with his finger. He simply didn't understand the woman. Sometimes he didn't even understand himself.
The clock above the mantel in Genevieve's house ticked faithfully, but real time was measured on the farm by the progress of the crop. As Joshua had predicted, the transplanting was completed by June, and this was followed by a long season of ripening and growth. But the days that slid by were far from idle. Each field required regular attention. There were the daily chores of hoeing and battling
weeds in
addition to topping the plants and removing the secondary shoots put out by the roots.
Genevieve was tireless during this time, as were the Greenleafs. In the scalding heat of high summer and in the soft rains that came down from the Blue Ridge, they worked the fields. In the evening they shared a meal, their food growing more bountiful with each passing week. Mimsy's kitchen garden fairly burst with beans and squash and turnips, and Phillip's propensity for hunting put meat on the table. It was a full, busy time for Genevieve, a time of hope, a time when she allowed herself to dream.
Her evenings were never lonely now that she had her project with Calvin. Although Genevieve swore she knew little of teaching, he was an apt and eager pupil. She soon had him reading Ben Franklin's worldly witticisms and studying the rules of language in Dilworth's speller, which Mr. Carstairs had lent her. Even during the day, when they
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