Heaven in His Arms (18 page)

***

Maman's fork clattered loudly on her dish as the unmistakable sound of carriage wheels rumbled up the pebbled path. She rose from her seat abruptly, upsetting her full glass of red wine. It stained the white damask tablecloth like blood.

"Go, Genevieve." She paled. "Wait in the gardens."

Genevieve took one last bite of her favorite dish, a meat pie with truffles and mushrooms. The crust melted in her mouth like flakes of snow. Washing it down with a glass of watered-down wine, she pushed away from the table and raced out of the room, passed through a white and gold parlor, and pushed open the high glass doors to the garden. As she lifted her lace to the wavering July sun, she wondered who had finally arrived at the manor house—the baron or Armand?

For two weeks, her mother had been as agitated as a wild bird caught in a net, fluttering to the window with every rattle of the wind, with every muted scraping of pebbles across the drive. Armand was late, and the summer was nigh. Genevieve knew that any day now, the baron would forsake the pleasures of the Parisian court and arrive at his Norman estate to while away the hot summer months in the country. Soon after, he would visit his mistress and demand his due. After a season with Armand, Maman couldn't bear the thought of seeing the man she hated. Mother and Armand's well-laid plans had become a race against time.

For her mother's sake, Genevieve hoped the visitor was Armand. But as she headed toward the forest, which crept right up to the edge of the well-tended lawn, she couldn't help but feel a spurt of selfishness. If it were Armand, he would take her away from this place, from her home.

Recklessly, she raced to the edge of the garden, running her hands over the bristling, razor-straight edge of the bushes and feeling the short, prickly grass beneath her feet. If she hid before Maman found her, she could spend one last afternoon in these woods before she was forced to leave them forever.

The humid July air shimmered with light. A recent rain had soaked the earth, filling the air with the scent of rotting leaves and damp wood. Birds chattered in the trees overhead. The churchbells of the village rang, their clanging echoing on the hills. Genevieve strode up the highest slope, and when she reached the top, she climbed nimbly up the twined limbs of an oak. Hidden in the leafy canopy was her own secret castle, built of old broken branches and bits of rope. She spent the afternoon there, peering through the leaves onto the thatched-roof houses of the village huddled in the valley below. She played queen of her own country, and her subjects were as numerous as the birds and squirrels and hares and deer.

Once, long ago, she had surprised two young boys fishing in the baron's stream. They were younger than her and frightened by her sudden appearance. She knew that they could be punished for poaching, but she was hungry for companionship of her own age and allowed them to stay. They showed her where berries grew wild in the woods. They taught her how to fish in the stream with twine and a little leaden hook. They taught her how to snare rabbits and grouse and how to find bird's eggs among the litter or high in the trees. She had watched in fearful fascination as they skinned and gutted a rabbit, then roasted it over an open fire.

They were her friends, her first and only friends. The servants in the manor kept their children far away from her. She was the daughter of the lady of the house, they told her; she must play with her own kind. But there didn't seem to be any of her own kind . . . until these two boys. But one day, coming upon them quietly, she had heard them talking about her. She heard the words whore and bastard. Enraged, she ordered them out and told them never to step foot in her kingdom again.

As the shadows stretched far toward the east, Genevieve knew that soon it would be her kingdom no more.

Reluctantly, she wandered down the hillside at sunset, using a knotted branch as a walking stick, her fieart breaking with every step. As she passed the gardens and approached the leaded glass doors at the rear of the manor, she heard the sound of many muted voices coming from within the house.

Something was wrong. Genevieve entered the white and gold parlor and noticed that all the servants were clustered in the hall that led to the dining room, their dark gray skirts quivering as they attempted to peer over the people in front of them. She charged into the pack, pushing the servants aside. They turned, cursing, but when they saw who it was, their laces paled and their words died on their lips.

They let her pass. She noticed that the dishes from dinner still lay neatly on the table, and the wine Maman had spilled stained the tablecloth in long, burgundy streaks. Nanette, her mother's maidservant, spoke quietly with the gardener and shook her gray head.

"Nanette, what has happened?"

Nanette turned around. Her face was as pale as line wheat flour. Nervously, the maidservant glanced at the floor, and it was then that Genevieve saw the lump of green silk.

"Maman?" The silence deafened her. She approached. Nanette clutched her arm and held her back, but not before Genevieve realized that her mother's skirts were dark with blood.

Blood.

"Someone came to the manor." Nanette nodded to Genevieve's motionless mother. "He came, did this, and left before any of us saw him."

The air was as thick as honey; it clogged her nose, her throat, and pressed painfully on her ears until they rang. Her limbs tingled as if she had rolled on abed of pins. She choked on the scent that permeated the room. The distinctive odor of lilacs and oranges hung in the air like a fog.

Her own voice sounded strangled and foreign. "He did this."

Nanette looked at her sharply.

"The baron ... he killed her."

A dozen gasps filled the air. Nanette took Genevieve's shoulders in her hands and shook her firmly. "Hush! You don't know what happened here."

"The room stinks of him. Can't you smell it?"

"I smell nothing, child, and neither do you." Nanette's scraggly brows knotted. "For all we know, it could have been that music man ..."

"Never Armand!" Her eyes flared. "It was the baron. I know it!"

"You stupid child." Nanette's pale eyes flared in anger. "If you have any sense . . . if you want to live, you'll hold your tongue when the baron arrives."

"I'll tell the constable," she retorted. "He'll arrest him."

"Arrest the Baron de Carrouges! For killing his own whore?"

Genevieve slapped the old crone, and the surprise and vehemence of her attack took the woman off guard. She stumbled back and clutched the dinner table to regain her balance.

"To think I pitied you, you little cur." Nanette rubbed her work-hardened hand on her reddening cheek. "You're nothing but an orphaned bastard now. No better than any one of us."

The room began to swim. Nanette's contorted face was the only stationary object in it. The old woman leaned over and clutched Genevieve. "I had a good position in Paris before your mother spread her legs for that imposter. Then I was sent here with her, to suffer for her mistakes. If you're smart, you little chit, you'll keep quiet. If you don't, you'll find yourself begging in the village.'' Her gaze skimmed over Genevieve's pale pink silk dress, covered with twigs and nettles from playing in the forest, and her fingers dug into the girl's shoulders like talons. "If you're lucky, he'll provide for you and all the rest of us as well ... if he thinks you're ripe enough to do what your mother trained you to do." Her wrinkled face filled with scorn. "You were born to be a whore, Genevieve. Just like your mother."

***

The baron arrived the next morning.

Maman's body lay wrapped in a sheet upon the dining room table. The stink of lilacs and oranges permeated the air as Genevieve entered the room. Her stomach swam with nausea as she saw the baron, standing with his back toward her, with one of his gnarled hands laying upon Maman's forehead.

He turned as Nanette cleared her throat. His cold gray eyes fell upon her like a frigid gust of wind. She had never seen the aristocrat. Until yesterday, he was nothing more than a blur of colorful satin she had glimpsed, once, through the windows of her bedroom. He had the most soulless eyes she had ever seen.

With the pressure of her hand on Genevieve's shoulder, the servant forced her down into a curtsy. Nanette had made her wear her best dress, a brilliant yellow satin decorated with pale peach ribbons, and the old servant had trussed her up so tightly that her small breasts surged above the edge of the bodice. She felt his gaze upon them, examining, assessing, evaluating.

She straightened and waited. The muscles in her throat knotted. For a long time, he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded as if it emerged from within the echoing halls of an empty tomb.

"Do you play the harp?"

She blinked at him. Such an unusual request from the murderer of her mother. Such a strange request from the man who had paid for her music teacher. She tilted her chin. "I play." Then she added boldly, "Armand taught me."

The gray eyes glazed and hardened to steel, then a strange, twisted smile contorted his features. He reached out and wound a lock of her mother's golden hair around his finger. "I'm saddened to inform you that your music teacher is dead."

Her heart stopped. She felt as if someone had just pressed a solid block of ice against the back of her neck. Frigid trickles slid down her spine.

"One must be careful where one walks these days, with so many ruffians about, especially in Paris. They'd slit a man's throat for the clothes he wears." Without looking at her, the baron gestured to the harp with his free hand. "Now play for me, daughter of Jeanette. I paid a pretty sou for that tutor. I want to see if he was worth his price."

Nanette pushed her toward the instrument, but her feet were rooted to the floor. The baron leaned upon the dining room table and waited. She smelled Nanette's sour-milk breath as the servant leaned over her shoulder, pinching the tender flesh of Genevieve's upper arm. "If you value your life, you will play."

Somehow, she found the ability to move. Woodenly, Genevieve walked across the room to the gilded instrument standing in the corner. She sat upon Maman's red velvet stool and leaned the instrument between her legs. She ran her fingers over the strings. Genevieve remembered Maman's favorite melody— Armand's favorite, too. She glanced at the white-sheeted form on the table. For you, Maman.

Then she filled the room with the music of angels. When she finished, her hands fell to her lap. She had never played so well. It was as if Armand himself plucked at the strings, as if her mother sang the melody in her head. Genevieve looked up to see tears streaming down the baron's face, but the sight had all the emotional impact of watching raindrops slip down the face of a statue.

"You have your mother's touch." The baron rose. His wide satin skirts whirled around him. His sword clattered against a chair. He approached her and snaked a finger down her cheek. "After your mother is buried, Genevieve, you will take her place in this house."

***

Genevieve escaped as soon as darkness fell. She raced through the woods in the darkness with a sack of bread and meat she had stolen from the kitchens. She hid in the tree house, praying at the sound of every churchbell that she would not be found. On the second day of her absence, the baron sent the servants to find her. When they failed, he unleashed the hounds.

But the hounds could not find her. A single night's rain had washed away her scent. They were confused by the trails of deer that crisscrossed the hills. Once, through the uneven floor of her perch, she watched the baron ride past her, cursing, his face distorted in fury.

For three months she lived in the hills. She fished in the stream by the tree house with a stick, a pin from her hair, and her corset strings. She baited traps for grouse and rabbits. She gathered strawberries when they ripened, and ate wild greens and roasted chestnuts. When the air grew cool, she snuck into the orchards to pluck apples and raid the villager's gardens. She was always hungry. She ached for the taste of bread. When the air grew chill, she thought about winter and knew she could not survive much longer in the forest.

Genevieve snuck down into the village one evening and stole a common broadcloth skirt and a bodice from the laundress's establishment. She tossed away the silken rags of her clothing and set off, barefoot, for Paris. Surely, she told herself, there would be work for a woman who could read and write and do sums and sew as well as she, and it was better than dying in the woods alone.

The trip was long and dangerous. She slept in trenches beside the roads. She stole her dinners from the village markets and the orchards that lined the pitted passage. Merchants driving their carts between villages took pity on her and gave her rides through

The countryside. She traveled ever westward until, a month later, she finally walked through the towering gates of Paris.

Genevieve had never seen so many people, so much activity. The narrow, twisting streets reeked of the stench of yesterday's fish or the odor of human sewage. Water raced down the center gutters, and with it ran the guts of slaughtered animals and the refuse of tanneries, blacksmiths, starchmakers, candlemakers, and whatever other trade resided along the route. She searched in vain for her mother's family, hoping that time would bring forgiveness and compassion, but no one knew of any Lalandes living in the area north of the Louvre. She knew then that she would be alone forever. When she could, she stole her supper from Les Halles, a crowded, bustling marketplace. She slept beneath the bridges of the Seine with beggars and waifs and thieves of all kinds, and every day she sought work, to no avail. One morning she awoke to a magnificent clatter and discovered a glittering procession of gilded carriages driving over the bridge above her head. It was the court, she was told, returning to the Louvre for the season. That day, she found work among the dressmakers of Saint-Denis.

She shared a dingy, rat-infested room with three other girls. It wasn't much, but it was the only home she had had since Carrouges. Whenever the court left the Louvre for Vincennes or Saint-Germain or the hunting lodge in Versailles, she would find herself without income and thus threatened with losing the safety of her room. It was not long before one of the other girls taught her how to pick pockets. One of them would attract a victim's attention by lifting her skirts or tugging on her bodice. While he was distracted, the other, would slice off the heavy pouch that hung beneath his doublet. Then they would both disappear into the labyrinth of the Parisian streets. They lived by stealth and nimble fingers, and as the court spent more and more time in Versailles and less in Paris, they moved to the only place they could afford—an even tinier room near the notorious
Cour des Miracles.
Here was the center of the Parisian crime underworld. Here, all the cripples and invalids who begged during the day suddenly found their sight, their health, and their lost limbs in the evening.

Soon, King Louis XIV stopped coming to Paris altogether. The men who infested the narrow, stinking streets around the
Cour des Miracles
closed in around Genevieve and the girls like wolves. One by one, the girls resorted to prostitution. Genevieve resisted. She cut purses on her own. She took greater and greater risks and had to search markets farther and farther away in order to feed herself. Soon, the other girls tossed her out of their lodging, for she could no longer pay her share and refused to earn it on her back. Her mother had lived that way, and she swore she wouldn't. Once again, she slept under the bridges of the Seine.

But she was no longer thirteen years old. Despite the constant hunger, the three years since she'd left Normandy had given her body a woman's curves. Genevieve never went unnoticed as she wandered through the streets of Paris. The men of the
Cour des Miracles
kept telling her she could earn a fortune on her back. Her virginity alone, she was told, could be sold for fifty livres. Why not earn some money before it was stolen from her?

Genevieve began to wonder if she should listen to these toothless men. She began to wonder if she should have stayed in Carrouges and agreed to the baron's offer. A bed was a bed, after all, and clean linens and a single partner were preferable to bare lice-infested, straw-filled mattresses and the whole disease infested population of Paris.

You were born to be a whore, Genevieve. Just like your mother.

She took the money.

But as she was being led to the room where the deed would be performed, the lieutenant of police attempted something he had never before dared. He marched into the
Cour des Miracles
with two hundred armed men and took it back for the people of Paris.

Genevieve was saved from herself. She was sent to the Salpetriere.