settled down with one of Luther's books as the two went off to hunt. In less than twenty minutes she heard several cracks from the rifles. Shortly after, Roarke burst from the woods, his face glowing with pride as he held his quarry aloft. Even Prudence emerged from the cabin to see what the celebration was about.
"Look there, love," Roarke boomed, giving the limp bird a shake. "First turkey I ever bagged." He swooped down and planted a kiss on Prudence's brow. His only reward was a wan smile. As Luther took the bird off to clean it, Prudence shivered with revulsion and went back to the cabin without another glance at her husband. Roarke's face suddenly lost its boyish glow.
Genevieve felt resentment rise sharply within her. Why couldn't Prudence share in Roarke's pride? Bringing home food to his wife was clearly important to him, but Prudence acted as if it were nothing. Genevieve was inches from telling Prudence as much, but she stopped herself. She was hardly an authority on being a wife. Determinedly, she took up Luther's well-worn agrarian manual again.
"What's that you're reading?" Roarke ventured, lowering himself to her side.
She said nothing but held up the book so he could see the title.
He grinned. "You'll have to tell me, Gennie. I've no head for reading."
Genevieve looked at him in surprise. "You can't read?"
He shrugged. "Barely. Never had a teacher. I was working the docks practically from the day I could walk."
She continued to stare, searching his face. Although he was smiling and spoke offhandedly, she thought she perceived a note of wistfulness in his tone. Roarke Adair, for all his boundless self-assurance, was a man who knew his limits. Suddenly, Genevieve realized he had dreams of his own, too. She wondered why that had never occurred to her before.
" 'Tis a book on farming," she said slowly. "If I'm to be a planter, I'd best be learning what I'm about."
Two days later the craft slid up a wide estuary of the Rivanna, called Dancer's Creek. Luther poled to a weather-beaten dock. Genevieve, who had been sunning herself and talking to Amy, sat up, eyes sharp and seeking. Brambles grew down the bank, spreading over a barely discernible track, While Luther secured the boat, Roarke attempted to help Genevieve to the poorly constructed dock. She pulled her arm away quickly and scrambled up to the creaking planks.
"What is it, Gennie?" he asked, mildly annoyed.
She took a step back. The wood felt brittle and insubstantial under her feet.
"I don't like having things done for me, that's all."
Shaking his head, he handed up her bundle of things. "Bit of a heavy parcel there," he commented.
She snatched the bundle, which contained her clock, from him. "I can manage, Roarke Adair." He climbed to her side and stood looking up the bank at the farmhouse. "I hope so, Gennie," he murmured, frowning at the neglected structure, which was surrounded by an equally dilapidated barn and several outbuildings. In front of the house rose a tall hickory tree, ragged and gray of bark, at home in the setting. "You're sure to be tested if you mean to live here."
The house had been built in haste. Its walls leaned slightly, and the logs had weathered to a dull gray. The structure was buttressed at one end by a large stone chimney. But Genevieve didn't see the flaws. She stared at the two cleared hills rising behind the house, just waiting to be planted.
Luther looked at her dubiously. "Ain't much," he stated.
Genevieve shrugged. "I never wanted much." She gave another look at the hills and then she and Roarke entered the house. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smells of old smoke and disuse. There was a single crudely hewn stool and an old crate standing on end for a table. The bedstead had a mattress covered with a hide and blanket, nearly rotted through to the floor. A few rusting utensils hung on hooks over the hearth. The fireplace had deep jambs and a long crane for cooking. A money scale provided unexpected
"Look there, love," Roarke boomed, giving the limp bird a shake. "First turkey I ever bagged." He swooped down and planted a kiss on Prudence's brow. His only reward was a wan smile. As Luther took the bird off to clean it, Prudence shivered with revulsion and went back to the cabin without another glance at her husband. Roarke's face suddenly lost its boyish glow.
Genevieve felt resentment rise sharply within her. Why couldn't Prudence share in Roarke's pride? Bringing home food to his wife was clearly important to him, but Prudence acted as if it were nothing. Genevieve was inches from telling Prudence as much, but she stopped herself. She was hardly an authority on being a wife. Determinedly, she took up Luther's well-worn agrarian manual again.
"What's that you're reading?" Roarke ventured, lowering himself to her side.
She said nothing but held up the book so he could see the title.
He grinned. "You'll have to tell me, Gennie. I've no head for reading."
Genevieve looked at him in surprise. "You can't read?"
He shrugged. "Barely. Never had a teacher. I was working the docks practically from the day I could walk."
She continued to stare, searching his face. Although he was smiling and spoke offhandedly, she thought she perceived a note of wistfulness in his tone. Roarke Adair, for all his boundless self-assurance, was a man who knew his limits. Suddenly, Genevieve realized he had dreams of his own, too. She wondered why that had never occurred to her before.
" 'Tis a book on farming," she said slowly. "If I'm to be a planter, I'd best be learning what I'm about."
Two days later the craft slid up a wide estuary of the Rivanna, called Dancer's Creek. Luther poled to a weather-beaten dock. Genevieve, who had been sunning herself and talking to Amy, sat up, eyes sharp and seeking. Brambles grew down the bank, spreading over a barely discernible track, While Luther secured the boat, Roarke attempted to help Genevieve to the poorly constructed dock. She pulled her arm away quickly and scrambled up to the creaking planks.
"What is it, Gennie?" he asked, mildly annoyed.
She took a step back. The wood felt brittle and insubstantial under her feet.
"I don't like having things done for me, that's all."
Shaking his head, he handed up her bundle of things. "Bit of a heavy parcel there," he commented.
She snatched the bundle, which contained her clock, from him. "I can manage, Roarke Adair." He climbed to her side and stood looking up the bank at the farmhouse. "I hope so, Gennie," he murmured, frowning at the neglected structure, which was surrounded by an equally dilapidated barn and several outbuildings. In front of the house rose a tall hickory tree, ragged and gray of bark, at home in the setting. "You're sure to be tested if you mean to live here."
The house had been built in haste. Its walls leaned slightly, and the logs had weathered to a dull gray. The structure was buttressed at one end by a large stone chimney. But Genevieve didn't see the flaws. She stared at the two cleared hills rising behind the house, just waiting to be planted.
Luther looked at her dubiously. "Ain't much," he stated.
Genevieve shrugged. "I never wanted much." She gave another look at the hills and then she and Roarke entered the house. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smells of old smoke and disuse. There was a single crudely hewn stool and an old crate standing on end for a table. The bedstead had a mattress covered with a hide and blanket, nearly rotted through to the floor. A few rusting utensils hung on hooks over the hearth. The fireplace had deep jambs and a long crane for cooking. A money scale provided unexpected
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