Heaven in His Arms Page 4

  “You also neglected to tell her that my father was a rebel Parliamentarian, exiled here during the wars of the Fronde.”

  “That was decades ago,” Philippe argued, waving it away like a gnat. “Besides, it wasn’t your father’s money you were claiming, it was your brother Leonard’s.”

  “You know damned well that Leonard’s money was my father’s money. He hid it amid Leonard’s affairs before we left France.”

  “Details.”

  “Those details kept me tied up in the royal courts for three years.”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary for Madame Bourdon to know that you came from a family full of rebels. Leonard appeared to be a good royalist, and it is all ancient history now.” Philippe frowned. “It seems I must take charge of this issue of choosing you a wife. All you need is a trading license, but I’m getting a governess for my children. I want one with some intelligence, not some broad-beamed dullard.” Philippe bowed mockingly before the open door, allowing Andre to proceed him inside. “Of course, if she has any intelligence, she won’t marry you, so obviously we’ll have to settle for breeding.”

  The domestic ushered them into a bright room facing the St. Lawrence, on the second floor of the three-story house. As he and Philippe entered, a dozen women turned and peered at them expectantly, fans fluttering like butterfly wings. Andre could guess their ranking by the richness of the ribbon edging their dresses.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” he muttered, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably in the binding clothes. “Choose one as a butcher chooses his sheep for slaughter?”

  “You have an open field, soldier.” Philippe nodded a greeting to the one other man in the room, an aging officer of the Carignan-Saliere regiment, which had fought in the Iroquois wars. “Any woman in this room would rather marry a fine buck like you than that aging stag.”

  He felt like a buck—like a buck facing a pack of hunting dogs. “They’d be better off with the aging stag. At least he’ll be home to rut.”

  “Don’t choose the prettiest one.” Philippe swept oil his hat and bowed to the room. “Marietta will positively skewer me if I bring home a beauty.”

  “You sound as sour as an old whore.” Andre extended one stiff leg in what he hoped was a courtly bow, “You and Marietta need a girl in the house. I need a wife to get a trading license. It’s the perfect solution.”

  “Why then,” Philippe said, through a frozen smile, as one woman approached them, “does it feel like extortion?”

  Andre pulled on his cravat as the scent of sweet, light Parisian perfume wafted from the petticoats of a woman who stopped boldly before them. She snapped her fan closed to reveal a tightly boned bodice and wide, shoulder-to-shoulder decolletage. His fingers itched to pinch one of those fleshy mounds to test it for firmness. Certainly such an act would be allowed in this market. After all, one wouldn’t take home a soft melon, would one?

  “I am Renee Affille,” she breathed, bouncing in a pert curtsy, “recently from La Rochelle.”

  He bowed and felt his coat strain dangerously across his shoulders. “Monsieur Lefebvre.”

  “What sort of position do you have here in Quebec, Monsieur Lefebvre?”

  Currently, an extremely uncomfortable one . “I’m a fur trader.”

  ” A coureur de bois! ” A second woman swept to his side and slid her hand up his forearm. She smiled at him like a doxy at the Marseilles harbor, all wet lips and shining eyes, the melons rolling agreeably beneath a strip of yellow satin, firm and fleshy. “How romantic! Why, I’ve heard so much about men like you. Do you bring home many furs? Marten, mink?”

  “Beaver.”

  “Yes,” Philippe murmured, flexing a brow, “today he will surprise us with a live one, I think.”

  “Oh, I so much love mink. I had a muff of mink when I was in Rouen—”

  “I understand that fur traders spend a great deal of time in the wilderness,” Renee interrupted, her dark eyes flashing at the other woman. “The whole winter sometimes. Is that true of you, Monsieur Lefebvre?”

  He met a half-dozen pairs of eyes, all awaiting his answer, all staring at him with various degrees of invitation. Such white creatures, these Frenchwomen, all perfume and narrow shoulders, all pinched nostrils and fair curls and delicate satins; they looked like exotic butterflies trapped in ajar, imported here and totally ignorant of the harshness of the environment outside the glass.

  It would be a wonder if half of them survived the Quebec winter.

  Renee tapped her fan against her open hand. “Well, Monsieur Lefebvre?”

  “I’m in Quebec so seldom,” he said suddenly, “that my house is a ramshackle bit of timber and moss, hardly worthy of a … of a beaver.”

  Philippe snorted into his sleeve as the circle of women around them raised a collective, muffled sigh of disappointment, dispersing into random clusters around the room. Philippe elbowed him in the ribs. “You’re supposed to be encouraging them.”

  “I’m not going to lie.”

  The woman with the gleaming smile was unmoved by his admission. She brazenly pressed her breast against his side. Yes, yes, quite ripe. She was not a pretty woman but she had an earthiness about her that in another situation Andre would have willingly exploited to their mutual satisfaction. He made his first decision. This woman was too aggressive. He needed a quiet woman, a shy one … a meek one. He scanned the room. Several girls stood on the periphery of his small circle, avoiding his gaze. Farther away, in a corner, he saw three women huddled together, ignoring his presence entirely.

  Excusing himself with as much grace as possible, Andre extricated himself from the grip of the smiling woman and approached the threesome. They talked quietly among themselves until he cleared his throat. “Oh!” The three turned at the same time. One, a blonde with a spray of curls pinned fashionably on either side of her head, flushed as her gaze met his. She lowered her lashes. Not her, he thought. Too young, too green. Needs more time on the vine . Besides, Marietta would unman him with her sharp Italian knife if he sent this fair young beauty into her home.

  A pitiful, retching string of coughs erupted from behind the ladies’ skirts. “What in God’s name—”

  “She’s ailing, monsieur.” The blonde twisted her fingers together and glanced over her shoulder. “We only arrived in Quebec hours ago and there’s been no time to take her to the Hotel-Dieu.”

  The bright skirts parted with a rustle to reveal a tiny woman curled up on a chair. Lank hair dripped from beneath a ragged linen headrail, darkened with perspiration. She blindly took the dry handkerchief Andre held out for her, dropping the sodden one to the floor. She yanked a blanket more closely around her as she collapsed into a new fit of coughing. T he runt of the litter. He stepped back and scowled.

  Every year about this time, the ships from France unloaded a whole new crop of diseases into the colony. Only God knew the cause of this poor woman’s suffering. Her forehead gleamed with fever, and dark circles dug gray caverns beneath her eyes and cheekbones. Above the drooping edge of the blanket the frail line of her collarbone jutted beneath her translucent skin. She was hacking out her life in his linen handkerchief, and the effort sent shivers through the body swathed beneath the rough woolen blanket.

  “She shouldn’t be here.” Risking the spread of the illness. “Why isn’t she abed?”

  “There are no more beds, monsieur. So many girls are more ill than she that they’ve claimed all the beds upstairs.” The blonde shrugged prettily. “Marie will recover soon, I’m sure. She is strong. She tended me when I was sick aboard ship.”

  What had the officials in Paris been thinking when they sent such girls here? Simpering, frail Frenchwomen had no place in this new country, none. New France was a country only for the hardiest stock, and this chit looked as fragile and limp as a Provencal flower. He’d wager a barrel of brandy she’d be the first butterfly to die in New France. She’d never survive the autumn.

  His eyes widened on the creature a
s an idea dawned.

  She’d never survive .. . never survive …

  “Philippe?”

  Philippe disengaged himself from a crowd of women and tapped his way to Andre’s side. “What is it?”

  “There’s been a change of plans. You haven’t got your heart set on a governess, have you?”

  “Scarcely.” Philippe glanced at the three women standing before them. The blonde flushed prettily, and a spark of surprise lit Philippe’s eyes. “What the devil are you up to, Andre?”

  “Later.” He waved vaguely toward the door. “Get Madame Bourdon.”

  “Then you’ve chosen?”

  “I have.” He pointed to the woman curled up on the chair. Her coughs stopped abruptly and she stared at him with red-rimmed, watery eyes. “Tell Madame Bourdon that I will marry Marie …” He glanced at the blonde for help.

  “Duplessis, monsieur.” Disappointment sank a pout into the blonde’s lip. “Her name is Marie Duplessis.”

  ***

  “There you are!”

  Genevieve woke abruptly from her doze. She blinked her eyes open and stared blindly up at the bare branches of an apple tree, starting as a yellow-throated warbler flew from its perch with a flurry of wings. All vestiges of sleep fled. She straightened on the wooden bench and swiftly scanned the orchard. Through the fence of knotted tree trunks came a flutter of gray robes.

  ” Merde!”

  Her hiding place had been discovered. One of the hospital sisters barreled toward her through the trees, and by the nun’s determined stride, Genevieve knew the nun would try to take her back into the hospital. She cursed beneath her breath in a way that would make a Parisian boatman blush, then grasped the edge of the bench and searched for escape. Behind her, the tall, straight logs of a cedar palisade blocked her retreat. In front of her, the nun strode closer. She grasped the red woolen shawl that lay twisted about her hips and stood up. It was too late to get away. She’d have to face the sister and the battle she knew would ensue.

  For four days she had lain in the crowded hall of the Hotel-Dieu while the sisters tended her in her illness. Although fresh food, cool water, and sleep proved strong enough medicine to break her fever, the sisters insisted she remain in the hospital until she fully regained her strength. Genevieve wanted only to leave. She didn’t trust her long stretch of luck, and she didn’t want to tempt fate any longer by lingering in the Hotel-Dieu. This hospital reminded her of the dreaded Hotel-Dieu in Paris, where once she had been forced to spend several weeks recovering from smallpox. It was a place of death, and now that she had made it to Quebec, she wanted to live.

  The nun halted in front of her. She planted her hands on her formidable hips. “We’ve been looking for you all morning.”

  “I needed the air, Sister Ignatia.” Genevieve defiantly inhaled the early autumn scent of moist earth and resinous pines. “It’s the first breath of fresh air I’ve had since I left Le Havre.”

  “Do you have any idea what diseases come with the autumn winds in Quebec? And you out here in nothing but a shift!”

  “There’s no one here to see me.”

  “I’m not concerned about your modesty, I’m worried about your health.”

  “There are more diseases in that wretched hall,” she said, nodding toward the Hotel-Dieu. “I don’t want to catch whatever my five bedmates are suffering from.”

  “Then listen to the woman who changed your bedding and fed you broth and wiped you down during your fever. Come inside.”

  Genevieve dug the heels of her bare feet into the brown grass. “The sunshine is reviving me.”

  “A sharp tongue and a stubborn disposition is no measure of health. The color of your cheeks says you’ve still got a fever.”

  “The color of my cheeks is from the sun. I’ve been dozing here all morning.”

  Sister Ignatia folded her arms in front of her. The hem of her gray gown shook as she tapped one foot. “I wouldn’t have bothered looking for you, you insolent girl, if our Reverend Mother hadn’ t summoned you.”

  Genevieve took an anxious step toward the nun. For two days she’d been insisting on seeing Mother Superior, ever since her fever broke and she became conscious enough to understand what kind of place she was in. Only the Reverend Mother would have the power to release her over the protestations of the sisters. “Mother Superior has agreed to see me?”

  “She’s been waiting all this time while you ‘revived’ in the sun.”

  Genevieve brushed past the nun and raced down a row of trees toward the side entrance of the Hotel-Dieu. She grasped the handle and pulled the door open, holding her breath as she was assaulted by a wave of humid, fetid air. She plunged into the room. The door slammed closed behind her and the sound echoed off the stone walls, mingling with the endless wails of the ailing and the calls for mercy. Genevieve walked swiftly through the two rows of straw-filled mattresses, crossing herself as she passed a priest in black robes administering last rites to one of the dying. The smoky scent of incense lingered in the air, not quite strong enough to overwhelm the acrid odor of urine and human excrement that reeked from the floorboards.

  At the end of her pallet lay the battered woven case and the blanket given to her as part of the king’s dowry. She tossed her red shawl over the forest of bare, dirty limbs poking out beneath the woolen coverlet of her bed, fell to her knees, and untied the rope that held her case closed. She yanked out the best of Marie’s clothing—a pale pink bodice and matching broadcloth skirt. With swift fingers she slipped the skirt on over her shift and thrust her arms through the sleeves of the boned bodice. She’d lost weight, yes, more than she’d expected, for the dress fit her far better than it ever had. She laced up the straight front and tucked the ends beneath the beribboned edge of her bodice. With the help of Sister Ignatia, who hovered behind her, Genevieve tied the wide linen sleeves of her shift around her arms with pink ribbons, creating three soft folds. She shook out a headrail of fine linen and draped it over her bare shoulders, tying it just above the edge of her bodice in front. Then, searching through a smaller woven basket, she found a few precious hairpins. She brushed her hair and coiled it into a heavy roll at the base of her neck.

  “Come, come. Enough of vanity,” Sister Ignatia scowled. “Our Reverend Mother is waiting.”

  Genevieve tossed her brush back into her woven case and searched for a pair of stockings. Her hand fell upon a wadded ball of linen. She picked up the material and smoothed it out, fingering the fine embroidery that lined the scalloped edge. It was not part of Marie’s belongings, nor had it been given to her as part of her dowry from the king. She had almost forgotten about this memento. It was the handkerchief given to her on the wedding day she could barely remember, by a husband she didn’t know.

  She dug her fingers into the fabric. Andre Lefebvre.

  His name was all she knew of him, and that only because the hospitaliere sisters kept referring to her as “Madame Lefebvre.” The fine linen of his handkerchief proved that he was a man of means. She wondered why, in four days, no one had brought her word of him or delivered any of his messages. “Madame Lefebvre.”

  Genevieve tossed the handkerchief back into the case. There would be a lifetime to find out all about her husband—-as soon as she was released from this hellish place. She swiftly picked out a pair of stockings and slipped them on, gartering them with ribbons’ just above her knees. She stepped into her boots, then followed an impatient Sister Ignatia through the hall.

  Mother Marie de Saint-Bonaventure-de-Jesus squinted up from her task of writing as Genevieve was ushered into her office. The Reverend Mother’s gaze rested on her for a moment, then returned to the paper. Genevieve stood just inside the doorway and waited for her to speak. Moments passed. She shifted her weight impatiently and looked around the room, remembering enough of the nuns at the Salpetriere to keep quiet until spoken to. A row of cushionless, high-backed chairs lined the wall. Lace draped the edge of a small window, which afforded a view of the
orchards, and sunlight splashed over Mother Superior’s polished and paper-cluttered desk. A fire raged high and hot in the grate. A mountain of cut wood lay next to the hearth.

  “You are late.”

  Genevieve straightened to find the nun’s colorless eyes fixed on her. The elderly woman’s face was as pasty white as the cap of her order. “Forgive me, Mother Superior. I was walking in the orchards and didn’t know you summoned me.”

  “Come closer.”

  She approached the desk. She felt the nun’s perusal as her gaze swept from the slight dishevelment of her hair to the dark leather boots peeping out, unlaced, from beneath her skirt.

  “You are healthier than Sister Ignatia led me to believe.”

  “I am fully recovered.”

  “So the patient has become the nurse, has she?” A smile softened the dour lines of her face. “You gave the sisters a fright by disappearing from your pallet.”

  “Forgive me, Mother, but there’s hardly enough room for me in it anymore.”

  “I know, child.” The nun shook her head. “The ships have brought much disease this year. Soon we’re going to have to house the sick in the church.”

  “Which is why I wanted to see you.” Genevieve stilled her hands by clutching the cloth of her skirts. “I would like to offer my pallet to someone who needs it more.”

  The nun’s eyes flickered over her. “Sister Ignatia told me you should stay three or four more days to regain your strength.”

  “I can regain my strength just as well in my husband’s house.”

  “Child, a sickly wife is useless to a man.”

  Genevieve spread her arms. “Do I look sickly, Reverend Mother?”

  “Sister Ignatia has been a sister in this hospital for years and she knows what is best for you.” Mother Superior leaned back in her chair and folded her hands over her belly. “You’re a king’s girl, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, from Paris.”

  “Ah.” The nun nodded in understanding. “Now I agree with Sister Ignatia’s hesitation. You don’t know the rigors of setting up a household in this settlement, child.”