Beloved Enemy (73 page)

"Enough!
You have made your point. If you find this a laughing matter, then we clearly
do not share the same sense of humor." He picked up her cloak and shook it
vigorously. "Put this on, and get back to your husband. I do not wish you
to run any further risks."

Ginny
walked to the edge of the clearing, then stopped and turned. "Must we part
like this? I do not suppose we shall be able to meet again until you return
from Jamestown."

"I
think it would be better if I did not return," he said coldly.

She
shrugged, swallowing the pain. "You must be the best judge of that."

"God
damn you, Virginia, for being such a pig-headed little —Oh, come here!" He
covered the distance between them in a few long strides, catching her up
against him. "I am not giving up, gypsy, I give you fair warning." He
kissed her soundly, all the anger disappeared suddenly from his eyes and voice.
"You are as unmanageable as ever, but I will find the key, I am
determined."

Ginny was too relieved that they would part friends to
argue with this sanguine statement, and simply smiled and hugged him. "God
keep you, love, until you return."

"And you," he replied, touching die tip of
her nose. "I want you to promise me something."

"What is that?" She looked at him warily.

"That you will go to the Harringtons' if that —if
your husband becomes violent. They will not turn you away, for all Robert's
belief in noninvolvement in the domestic affairs of others."

"I know that," she said. "I will
promise you, as I did yesterday, that I will not permit it to happen
again."

Alex sighed. "I do not understand what that
means."

"Be satisfied, Alex. It is a promise, and you
have never had cause to doubt my word."

Having no choice but to accept her statement, Alex
kissed her again and waited in the clearing until she was long gone and no
chance traveler on the bridle path, in the unlikely circumstances of meeting
them both on his way, would make any connection.

Ginny looked with distaste at die veal collops that
she was frying in the skillet. She had always enjoyed thiem for breakfast,
particularly with eggs, but these had a most peculiar smell. Her nose wrinkled
as a wave of nausea washed over her. Dropping the skillet on the table in front
of the startled Giles, she fled outside to rid herself of whatever it was could
be causing her irritated stomach. When she returned to the kitchen, it was to
notice with relief that Giles had helped himself to the contents of the skillet.

"What's the matter with you?" he inquired.
"You're as full of color as a bowl of whey."

"I must have eaten something that has disagreed
with me," she replied shortly. "We need more wood. Would you take the
cart and bring some back from the cleared pasture? We could ask Teddy from
Harringtons' to split the logs if you do not feel able to do it yourself."
Had the last statement sounded critical? She waited for die accusation of
unreasonableness, of carping.

"How can I split logs?" Giles demanded.
"My hip's plaguing like the devil in this damp. I suppose you are going
off into the woods again?"

"When I have done what I have to here, I shall go
simpling," she replied. "You do benefit, on occasion, from the
results of that activity."

"I'd like to know what else you do in the woods.
It's a fine place for whoring,'' he sneered.

Ginny's hand closed over the handle of the skillet,
and the sudden silence took on a menacing quality, Giles looked at her, reading
her mind. Then he laughed, pushed back the bench, and stood up, walking out of
the house without a backward glance. Ginny pressed her fingertips to her lips
as that feeling of self-disgust slopped over her again. She could do nothing to
prevent his making those remarks, and he now knew how much they upset her. Knowing
that, he would rarely lose an opportunity to taunt her although Ginny was
convinced he did not believe the accusations. What frightened her was how
increasingly often the temptation to tear him apart with the truth threatened
to become irresistible.

She felt so tired these last few days, leaden, her
usual energy dissipated almost before she rose in the morning. Her stomach
would not behave itself in spite of all her physicking. Perhaps it was
loneliness and deprivation, she told herself with a tiny, self-deprecating
smile. Alex had been away for over two weeks, and it was quite shameless how
her body ached for the joyous stimulation it had become accustomed to. Perhaps
she would visit Susannah this morning. Lizzie could set the house to rights
when she returned from milking the cows. Robert may well have sent a message to
his wife saying when to expect them. He was always rather considerate in those
matters, sending news with anyone who might be coming down the river past
Harrington Hundred.

A
visit to Susannah was more appealing than simpling, and Ginny went upstairs to
change her kersey working gown for a skirt and bodice of quilted calico. She
winced slightly, hooking the bodice over her tender breasts. The time of the
month would presumably be upon her soon. . . . The time of the month . . .
Ginny sat abruptly upon the bed, wrestling with an errant memory. That
inconvenience was such a matter of inevitable routine, she rarely bothered to
take note of its coming . . . except in as far as it interfered with . . .
Alex. Think, she told herself, fighting down the panic. It had been upon her
just before Alex had arrived at Harrington Hundred, some six weeks ago. But
surely since . . . No, not since. But it was impossible. She was barren. One
hand unconsciously stroked over her breasts, over her belly, her mind turned
inward, and Ginny knew with absolute certainty that she was not barren, that
she was with child . . . Alex's child.

There
was a moment of overpowering sweetness, of indescribable joy, then the
hollowness of despair. What was she to do? What could she possibly do? A child,
a bastard child, was growing in her womb, and her husband had not lain with her
since the renewal of their marriage. The thoughts swirled, implications that
she did not dare explore hanging on the periphery of her mind. She could not
bear this child and continue to live with her husband. But she could not leave
him and condemn Alex to the life of an outcast in Barbados. She could go away,
leave her husband, leave Alex before her pregnancy began to show, bear the
child somewhere . . . where? There was nowhere to go in this new land where, in
the few civilized places hacked out of the wilderness, everyone knew everyone
else . . . except to the Indians. And why would they take her? And how could
she live amongst them, supposing that they would receive her? And how could she
bring up the child of a Redfern and a Marshall to be a painted savage?

There
was only one answer—a black and dreadful answer—and she could not . . .
would
not accept it. Not yet, not until she had thought more clearly; not until
the panic had receded and she could examine alternatives realistically.

Ginny
got off the bed, smoothed down her skirt, went to the mirror to tidy her hair.
She examined her face carefully and was surprised to find that she did not look
any different; a little paler, perhaps, but there were no other signs of the
monumental tiling that had happened to her, of this other life burgeoning
within her own. The challenge now would be to behave as if nothing was
different, to hold this secret unto herself ... to keep it even from Alex.

She
set off for Harrington Hundred five minutes later, finding a peaceful respite
in the solitary paddle through the creek on this moist November morning where
curlews and plovers rose above the marshes and fish rippled the smooth brown
surface of the water. The crack of a musket sent the waterfowl diving among the
bullrushes. Someone was out hunting for his dinner. The creek widened as it
flowed into the James River, and Ginny paddled around the corner, looking ahead
down river to the landing stage of Harrington Hundred.

More
bustle than usual seemed in evidence, men unloading from the sailboat that had
taken the master of Harrington Hundred to Jamestown some two weeks previously.
So they were home, Ginny thought, pausing, her paddle raised in indecision. She
could always turn back. No one would have seen her approach as yet, and it was
perhaps not discreet to descend upon her relatives in the midst of a happy
reunion. But if Robert had returned, then Alex would also be there. She paddled
on.

"Why,
Ginny, what a pleasant surprise." Susannah hastened down the garden at the
sight of the figure walking up from the landing stage. "Robert is just
returned. You must come in and hear all the news of Jamestown."

"I
do not wish to intrude." Ginny smiled apologetically. "I would not
have come had I known, but I was feeling powerfully in need of a little quiet
gossip."

Susannah
laughed, taking her arm, ushering her into the house. "Well, you shall
hear all the gossip of the town, which will be much more interesting. Robert,
look who has come to visit."

"Welcome,
Cousin." Robert greeted her as warmly as his wife had done. Ginny
responded, but her eyes sought Alex even as she questioned her host about his
journey, accepted a glass of ginger wine and a little sugar cake.

"Did
your guest not return with you, Robert?" she asked, after a decent
interval.

"Indeed
he did," Robert reassured her heartily. "And I have prevailed upon
him to spend the winter with us. He was making inquiries about ships to the
Indies, but I am happy to say that I persuaded him to postpone his departure
until the spring. The journey will be much less tempestuous then. Ah. there you
are, Alex. The ladies have missed you, it would appear."

"I
am honored, but not such a ninnyhammer as to believe such a tiling." Alex
bowed, a polite smile masking his intent examination of Ginny. She looked a
little pale, he thought, but otherwise quite well.

"I
understand you are to remain at Harrington Hundred for the winter, sir,"
Ginny said, curtsying.

"My
host has been most kind in his insistence," he said. "Unless some
matter of urgence takes me to the Indies before the spring, then I shall gladly
avail myself of his hospitality.”

It was
very clear to Ginny that the urgent matter referred to her capitulation in his
plan, and in the general turmoil of her thoughts she was hard pressed to answer
him as lightly as the social circumstances required.

When
she took her leave an hour later, Alex, with entirely natural ease, offered to
accompany her to the landing stage. Ginny accepted with a slight inclination of
her head, and they left Robert and Susannah deep in a domestic discussion
concerning their brood of children.

"Has
all been well?" Alex asked, once they were outside.

"Perfectly"
she replied, "except that I have missed you quite dreadfully."

"And
I you." He sighed. "This is the very devil, chicken. I want to hold
you, and I cannot."

"I
will meet you in the glade tomorrow,” she offered.

"We
shall catch an inflammation of the lungs," Alex grumbled. "It is
November, for God's sake!"

"What
is a little cold and damp to a soldier?" Ginny teased, untying the canoe.
Alex would never know what an effort it was to maintain the light tone, but the
total impossibility of their situation now loomed so large and undeniable that
she dared not yield an inch.

It
rather depends on the activity the soldier has in mind," Alex retorted,
putting his hand in the small of her back, pretending to steady her as she
stepped into the canoe. For a second she leaned backward, into his palm, and
the thought of what might have been had fate not chosen to intervene blanketed
them for a dizzying tormented instant. Then Ginny took her place in the canoe,
and Alex turned away, too full
of an unfocused rage, of the absolute
certainty that he must do something, of the frustrating knowledge that he had
only one plan, and it was one Ginny rejected, to stay and see her off.

But do
something he would. Perhaps he could provoke that husband of hers to a duel;
perhaps Giles Courtney could meet with an accident in the woods. It would not
be an unusual happenstance. And then he could court the widow . . . and live in
peace and trust with Virginia Courtney, keeping from her, of all people, the
fact that he had removed her husband in such a manner? He laughed mirthlessly.
Jed had told him how she had contemplated leaving her husband to die on the
battlefield, a mild sin of omission, easily explained even to an active conscience.
And that humanitarian healer had been unable to do it, even knowing what it
would mean. No, she would not forgive him for such a deed, even in the certain
knowledge that his action had been the last resort of a desperate man. No,
there had to be another way. He went back to the house, for the moment spared
the fact that the impossible dilemma had taken another twist, one that involved
more than an illicit love.