paused for dinner beneath a shady tree, Genevieve would often take up a stick and set Calvin to drawing his letters in the dust. When Mimsy saw that her son was beginning to read, she brought forth a tattered Bible that had once belonged to her mistress at Greenleaf. Now, instead of looking askance at Calvin's new skill, she delighted in hearing him read the Scriptures.
But Calvin had little interest in the Bible. Luther Quaid had brought him a battered copy of Judge Sewall's "Selling of Joseph," an antislavery tract. Genevieve was surprised by the power of Calvin's reaction to it. She was even more amazed when he began to pen his own ideas on slavery. Ideas that, she knew, would bring all the slave owners of Albemarle County down about his ears if they ever knew about them. But never once did she try to discourage him.
One evening in late August, as Genevieve was listening to Calvin read from Jonathan Edwards's treatise on freedom of will, she found she had trouble concentrating on her pupil. Calvin had a deep, musical voice, and he was reading now with growing confidence, but there was a restlessness within Genevieve that detracted from her enjoyment at hearing him.
For months she'd suffered from vague pangs of loneliness, although she told herself it was absurd. She had the farm, and the Greenleafs. Still…
Calvin stopped at an unfamiliar word and looked up. He waited a moment for Genevieve to prompt him, as she usually did, but she said nothing, only sat there with a wistful expression on her face.
"Miz Culpeper… ?"
Genevieve started. "What it is, Cal? Oh, do you need a word?"
"I believe I've finished for the night."
"Oh. Very well. Say goodnight to the family for me." He nodded and placed the book on a shelf, then walked toward the door.
Thinking Calvin had gone, Genevieve leaned her elbows on the windowsill and looked outside. Luther Quaid had brought a piece of glass for the window, but Genevieve hadn't yet prevailed on Joshua to set it into the frame. The glass would be welcome come winter, when the wind blew relentlessly down from the mountains, but now in high summer, Genevieve savored the gentle breeze that wafted in.
She found her gaze drawn down to the Greenleaf house. Joshua had cut a large window into one wall, and she could see the members of the family moving about. It was a scene of cozy intimacy; Genevieve felt slightly guilty watching as little Rose tripped by, and then Joshua appeared, sweeping Mimsy into a firm embrace. Fighting down an unbidden twinge of longing, Genevieve turned away.
Embarrassed, she found herself facing Calvin. "I thought you'd gone," she said, feeling her face redden.
Inexplicably, Calvin himself seemed ill at ease. This was unusual, as the young man ordinarily exuded confidence in everything he did.
"I was just thinking how quiet and lonely it must get up here at night, Miz Cul—Genevieve."
She smiled. "That it does, Cal. I don't mind the quiet, really I don't." But he had seen her staring longingly out the window and knew she was lying. Genevieve forced herself to look at him and tried to laugh.
"In truth, I sometimes dread the night. Especially when the wolves howl. It makes me feel so cut off from everything, so utterly alone."
"You ought to marry again, Genevieve. Marry proper this time, and start a family. You're never alone once you got family."
"But you're my family, Cal. You and your parents and brothers and sisters. I couldn't ask for better than I already have."
"Ain't the same thing," he insisted, stepping closer to her. "A person's got to have something more than that."
The next moment, Genevieve found herself pulled against Calvin's tall, wiry frame and felt his mouth push down on hers. At first she was so shocked that she couldn't react. But then she brought her hands up and pressed them firmly against his chest, pushing herself away.
"Cal!"
There was a rebellious look in his eyes as he reached for her again. "I ain't a boy, Miz Cul-Genevieve.
But Calvin had little interest in the Bible. Luther Quaid had brought him a battered copy of Judge Sewall's "Selling of Joseph," an antislavery tract. Genevieve was surprised by the power of Calvin's reaction to it. She was even more amazed when he began to pen his own ideas on slavery. Ideas that, she knew, would bring all the slave owners of Albemarle County down about his ears if they ever knew about them. But never once did she try to discourage him.
One evening in late August, as Genevieve was listening to Calvin read from Jonathan Edwards's treatise on freedom of will, she found she had trouble concentrating on her pupil. Calvin had a deep, musical voice, and he was reading now with growing confidence, but there was a restlessness within Genevieve that detracted from her enjoyment at hearing him.
For months she'd suffered from vague pangs of loneliness, although she told herself it was absurd. She had the farm, and the Greenleafs. Still…
Calvin stopped at an unfamiliar word and looked up. He waited a moment for Genevieve to prompt him, as she usually did, but she said nothing, only sat there with a wistful expression on her face.
"Miz Culpeper… ?"
Genevieve started. "What it is, Cal? Oh, do you need a word?"
"I believe I've finished for the night."
"Oh. Very well. Say goodnight to the family for me." He nodded and placed the book on a shelf, then walked toward the door.
Thinking Calvin had gone, Genevieve leaned her elbows on the windowsill and looked outside. Luther Quaid had brought a piece of glass for the window, but Genevieve hadn't yet prevailed on Joshua to set it into the frame. The glass would be welcome come winter, when the wind blew relentlessly down from the mountains, but now in high summer, Genevieve savored the gentle breeze that wafted in.
She found her gaze drawn down to the Greenleaf house. Joshua had cut a large window into one wall, and she could see the members of the family moving about. It was a scene of cozy intimacy; Genevieve felt slightly guilty watching as little Rose tripped by, and then Joshua appeared, sweeping Mimsy into a firm embrace. Fighting down an unbidden twinge of longing, Genevieve turned away.
Embarrassed, she found herself facing Calvin. "I thought you'd gone," she said, feeling her face redden.
Inexplicably, Calvin himself seemed ill at ease. This was unusual, as the young man ordinarily exuded confidence in everything he did.
"I was just thinking how quiet and lonely it must get up here at night, Miz Cul—Genevieve."
She smiled. "That it does, Cal. I don't mind the quiet, really I don't." But he had seen her staring longingly out the window and knew she was lying. Genevieve forced herself to look at him and tried to laugh.
"In truth, I sometimes dread the night. Especially when the wolves howl. It makes me feel so cut off from everything, so utterly alone."
"You ought to marry again, Genevieve. Marry proper this time, and start a family. You're never alone once you got family."
"But you're my family, Cal. You and your parents and brothers and sisters. I couldn't ask for better than I already have."
"Ain't the same thing," he insisted, stepping closer to her. "A person's got to have something more than that."
The next moment, Genevieve found herself pulled against Calvin's tall, wiry frame and felt his mouth push down on hers. At first she was so shocked that she couldn't react. But then she brought her hands up and pressed them firmly against his chest, pushing herself away.
"Cal!"
There was a rebellious look in his eyes as he reached for her again. "I ain't a boy, Miz Cul-Genevieve.
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