Heaven in His Arms (2 page)

"Where did you get it?"

"Hurry."

Genevieve unlaced her bodice, tugged it off, then slipped out of her coarse russet wool skirt. The night was warm and balmy, and the breeze toyed with her tattered shift as she stuffed her old clothes beneath a pile of bricks. She scrutinized the girl more closely as Marie fumbled with her laces. Marie's tresses were long and chestnut-colored. Genevieve's own hair was a mass of copper, a gift, her mother had once told her, from the father she had never known. Marie's skin was smooth, while Genevieve had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Problems, she thought, but nothing that couldn't be overcome by brushing the roots of her hair with a lead comb, covering the rest of it with an ample headrail, and patting her face thick with powder.

"Tell me about your family." Genevieve snatched Marie's bodice and thrust her arms through the Sleeves, "I'll need to know their names, ages, and everything about them that's important."

As Marie struggled out of her skirt and petticoat and reached for the bundle of clothing, she told Genevieve about her past. Her mother had died in childbirth when Marie was only a few years old. Later, impoverished by the civil wars of the Fronde, which had flared through France, she and her father had lived on the charity of distant relatives until her father died, leaving Marie to the mercy of an unscrupulous second cousin. He refused to dower her or pay to put her in a convent, so she was sent to the Salpetriere. Genevieve dispassionately noted all the names and dates as she slipped on Marie's discarded petticoat and skirt. She would need to know as much as she could remember; the rest she would have to make up as she went along.

But her mind wandered from Marie's hushed, trembling monologue as Genevieve ran her hands over the brushed broadcloth of the blue traveling dress. It had been a long time since she had worn clothes so fine, and the feel of the soft cloth against her skin brought a rush of memories of a better time.. . . She blocked them out. The past was the past—it was the future that mattered now.

Genevieve set her mind to fitting into Marie's bodice. Marie was small-boned, but despite the meager rations of the Salpetriere, Genevieve was generously formed. It took both of their efforts to lace the tightly boned bodice closed over Genevieve's bosom.

"There's another girl in the building who will be going with you tomorrow," Marie said as she secured the last knot. "Her name is Cecile."

"She knows, yes?"

"Yes. She will await you tonight and take you to my bed."

"Good." Genevieve smoothed her fingers down her boned form, then arranged the crumpled head-rail over her hair. She twirled before Marie. "Well?"

"You've the carriage of a noblewoman." Marie plucked at her plain black robes, hesitating. Her voice quivered with hushed bewilderment. "Perhaps . . . perhaps this shall all work out as you planned."

It will, Marie Suzanne Duplessis. I swear on all that you hold holy, it will.

"You'll be leaving at dawn tomorrow for Le Havre,'' Marie continued. "Cecile will help shield you from Mother Superior as you board the carriage."

"Mother Superior will never notice. I'll be crying like an onion seller into my—your—handkerchief. Will we be traveling in a public carriage?"

"Oh, no!" A fluttering white hand emerged from the black sleeve to rest on her throat. "It will be sent by the king, of course."

"Who else will be in it?"

"Some guards will ride outside to see that we are protected until we reach the ship. You know there will be other girls following from the Salpetriere?"

"Yes."

"What if someone recognizes you?" Genevieve leaned over to force her feet into Marie's boots. "None of the women who live in my section of the Salpetriere were chosen. Once I'm out of Paris, I don't have to worry about being recognized."

Marie hesitated. She slipped her foot nervously in and out of Genevieve's common wooden shoes.

"There's no need for you to wait any longer." Genevieve glanced up from where she struggled to lace Marie's tiny boots over her much larger feet. "Go. Your Musketeer is waiting."

Marie turned on one heel, then as Genevieve straightened, she suddenly whirled and embraced her, swift and hard. "If I could give you a bag of gold, I would," Marie said fervently, seizing Genevieve's hand. "I will never forget you for the sacrifice you've made for me. . . . Oh!"

Genevieve pulled her hand from Marie's grasp— but it was too late.

Marie stumbled back and covered her mouth. Genevieve met her shocked gaze squarely. What did the girl expect? Did she really expect another bijoux? Or one of the poor orphans who crowded the halls of the Salpetriere? Would any of those women be so bold as to switch places with a king's girl?

No.

"So now you understand how I could send notes back and forth to you, and how I stole the clothing you wear, and why no other king's girl would recognize me.'' Genevieve watched Marie' s face in the darkness. "Obviously, I'll need gloves. Even in Quebec, I imagine, no one will believe that a bijoux has the hands of a washerwoman."

Marie backed away, then whirled and raced swiftly toward the arched entrance that led out of the Salpetriere. Genevieve tilted her chin and stared sightlessly at the place where she had been. These last three weeks, Genevieve had been right to hide her true identity from that daughter of the petty nobility. Marie would never have agreed to this desperate scheme if she had known the truth.

In the Salpetriere, it was common knowledge that the only women who washed the linens lived in La Correction, the section of the institution reserved for wayward women . . . and common whores.

Genevieve pulled her headrail over her hair and strode toward Marie's building.
Let her believe what she will.
God willing, Genevieve would never lay eyes on the real Marie Suzanne Duplessis again.

Quebec, August 1670

"I'm here."

Andre Lefebvre slammed open the door to his agent's office and entered, splattering wet moccasin prints on the polished floorboards. He tossed his balled linen shirt on the imported rosewood desk, spraying Philippe Martineau with grit and river water.

Andre glared at his old friend. Philippe leaned back in the creaking wooden chair and blindly wiped the grime from his blue silk coat and silver buttons. His gaze swept over Andre's nudity, broken only by the flap of a breechcloth, and rested with distaste on the water sluicing down his legs and darkening the rug.

"For a week I've been trying to get you in here." A froth of lace spilled over Philippe's hand as he rolled his fingers toward a chair on the other side of his desk. "I'm pleased you finally saw fit to grace me with your presence."

"I'm not staying long enough to sit," Andre argued as he paced across the rare Turkish carpet. "What the hell do you want from me, summoning me like a lackey in the middle of the day?"

"That's when most men conduct business," Philippe mused wryly. "In the middle of the day."

"I was doing well enough," Andre growled, slamming his hands on Philippe's desk, "conducting my own business before your boy interrupted—"

"Business?" Philippe's cold blue eyes remained level under the slow arch of one brow. "Splashing at the river's edge like a boy is that what you call business?"

"It was a canoe race . . . and it's a hundred times better than this." Andre swiped his shirt off the desk, sweeping some papers to the floor with it. "Because of that race, Tiny has agreed to sign on with me."

"Tiny Griffin?" Philippe cocked a brow higher. "That burly woods-runner?"

"Oui The best steersman in Quebec, joining me on this crazed voyage of mine. Not a bad day's work, eh, partner?" Andre tossed his shirt to the floor and waved a hand over his agent's strewn desk. "Now just collect the papers and tell me where to sign, so I can get back to my work."

Andre turned and strode toward the window. He banged open the shutters, flooding the room with bright July sunlight. Philippe's warehouse wedged up against the sheer rock face of the cliff of Quebec, gazing strategically over the cul-de-sac where the boats unloaded goods from the French ships anchored in the St. Lawrence River. The crowd that had watched the race still lingered on the shore, a motley clutch of Ottawa Indians, bearded woods-runners, and a few Frenchmen pecking around like tamed peacocks set out in the wild.

Andre shook his head, like a great shaggy dog, spewing river water across the room, not giving a damn that he was splattering Philippe's precious gleaming furniture and exotic Turkish rug with river-bottom silt. Serves the peacock right for sending a boy to drag him away from the river. Andre had explained the division of labor from the moment he and Philippe had become partners in this upcoming fur-trading voyage: They would do what they both did lust—Philippe would take care of paper and politics; Andre would hire the men, outfit the canoes, and make the voyage.

Make the voyage .... yes, make the voyage. Andre raked his fingers through his shaggy hair and shook it wild. His heart still pumped wildly from the race. His arms ached, and the burn between his shoulder blades had only just begun to cool. He flexed his arms in circles to unravel the kinks from his muscles. Damn reckless fool he had been, daring Tiny to a race when Tiny was only a month back from a season in the woods—work-hardened and strong—while Andre had just returned from France, having done nothing more arduous than pace in the antechambers of courtrooms. And the race had been but from one side of the Saint Lawrence to the other—easy currents, open water. Three years away from Quebec had made him soft; he only had a few weeks to toughen up before the voyage began. For then, he would lead an expedition fifteen hundred miles into the interior—over mountainous portages, through the most ferocious of Whitewater . .. into uncharted territory. He'd had three years to dream of that.

"My dear Andre, we could more easily discuss this matter if you weren't gazing out the window like a schoolboy dreaming over his lessons."

"I'm paying you to take care of things, not to discuss them with me." In the midst of the St. Lawrence, a ship unfurled its limp, salt-stained sails like a portly priest undressing, setting anchor in the midst of the river. "Another ship is in." Andre cocked an elbow on the sill. "Shouldn't you be out there, cataloging your wealth or whatever you do when you're not suffocating on your own perfume?"

"It can wait." A drawer squealed as Philippe pulled it open. He thumped a wrapped package onto the desk. "Unfortunately, this conversation of ours can be avoided no longer."

Andre sucked in the clean river air, then snorted out the stench of cleanliness and order. Hell and damnation. Business, always business. Would he ever be free of it?

He leaned back against the sill, his hands dangling on either side of him. Philippe had removed his blond wig, and his sweaty, close-cropped hair stuck up awkwardly all over his head. Andre watched as his friend sliced off an end from a carrot of tobacco. Then, with all the stoic majesty of an Indian chief presiding over a circle of his men, Philippe tapped the tightly packed leaves into his pipe and lit them with a spark of flint against steel, hollowing his cheeks as he drew in the first smoke.

It was an old ritual, an Indian ritual, anachronistic in this low-raftered room with all its oiled and gleaming French furniture. It was a peek at the old Philippe, whom Andre remembered with fondness. But the sight made him edgy, as did the smile Philippe cast his way. The movement pulled the skin around the mottled scar that ran jagged from Philippe's temple, through the edge of his thin wax-tipped mustache, and faded into the tuft of blond beard in the center of his chin. It gave him a rakish, devil-may-care air, in sharp contrast to his fripperies.

But Andre knew the man too well to be fooled by that easy grin. He'd fought too many Iroquois skirmishes with Philippe, spent too much time in the woods hunting and fighting and struggling to survive. Andre noticed the tense crimp of muscles that edged one of Philippe's cool blue eyes as he sucked on the pipe, and he knew his old friend was bracing himself for something.

What would it be now?
Andre wondered, striding across the room to snatch up his damp shirt and rub it across his stubbled face. What the hell could it be now? Hadn't he had enough trouble wheedling his own inheritance from the courts in France? Hadn't he spent three years fighting for what was his by right, all the while itching. . . itching to be back home, here, in Quebec?

Philippe extended the pipe. Andre frowned at the lace of the fox carved in the bowl—Philippe's totem, from the old days, before his marriage. Andre considered refusing it. He belonged on the shore right now, seeking out the fur traders just in from the west, plying them with good French brandy and sucking dry the last bit of their knowledge: the lay of the Western land, the fierceness of the rivers, the distribution of the Indian tribes. It was Philippe's duty to make arrangements with the fur trading company, to get a trading license, to take care of all the minutia Andre wanted nothing to do with. And he suspected he didn't want to hear whatever it was that Philippe had to say.

"No brandy for me?" Andre flipped his shirt over his shoulder and seized the pipe. "You have a look upon you as if I'll need it."

"Brandy?
Moi
? In the middle of the day?" His petticoat breeches rustled as he rose from his chair and opened a small cabinet in the corner. He clinked a bottle of amber liquid on the marble top. "I'm a married man with three children," Philippe said, setting out two glasses. "A respected member of the community."

Andre seized the back of the chair, jerked it around, and straddled it as he exhaled a blue stream of smoke. "And Marietta would have your head."

Marietta was Philippe's hot-blooded Italian wife who, even five months gone with child, brooked no nonsense from the husband she'd only half tamed. Philippe's grin turned rakish again as he poured. "
Oui
, she probably will." He handed one glass to Andre and raised his own. "To old friends,
mon vieux am
i."

"Salut."

The amber fire burned the back of his throat and lit his belly with warmth. Andre clinked down the empty glass, savoring the hot taste. He would miss only two things when he finally left civilization: brandy and a Frenchwoman's scent.

"Three years in France did you no good, my old friend." Philippe nodded at Andre's smoke-ripened deerskin breechcloth, at the damp moccasins, and finally at the Indian medicine bag slung around his neck. "Already, the old ways creep up on you."

"Thank Christ." Andre snorted at Philippe, in his blue silk coat, shiny silver buttons, and froths of lace at neck and wrists. "One more day in waistcoat and petticoat breeches, and I would have sprouted breasts."

"
Oui
, well..." Philippe gave a purely Gallic shrug. His chair squeaked as he settled back into it, cradling his half-empty cup of brandy. "One must change with the times. Life is not the same as it was three years ago."

"You're the one wearing a skirt, not I. And this"— Andre scowled and gestured to Philippe's desk— "how can you stand this vomit of paper?" He'd lose his mind scribbling over a desk all day. Already, the sickly perfume of wood oil and soap permeating this room threatened to make him sneeze. But Philippe seemed to thrive in it. When the two of them had left the local militia to go their separate ways after the war with the Iroquois, Philippe had just begun his business in a makeshift siding-and-rubble hut, and had a wife, a child, and another on the way. He'd done well in such a risky business, as an agent for small fur traders; it showed in the office's carved paneling, the tinkling of the chandelier above the desk, the rich smell of oil and leather emanating from a shelf full of books. Philippe had always had a good sense of the blowing of the political winds, whether they be Indian or French.

Which was why, Andre reminded himself as the brandy essence rushed through his blood, he had hired his old friend to tackle that labyrinth for him.

Andre narrowed his gaze on his agent. Philippe twisted the glass in his hand, around and around, spilling drops of brandy on his pale fingers.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Andre clattered the pipe into its clay holder, splattering red embers out of the bowl. "Out with it, Philippe."

"Really, Andre, carrying on a civil conversation with you these days is like teasing a hungry bear." Philippe finished his brandy in one gulp and placed the glass on the table with two fingers, then tapped at the embers until they sizzled out. "I was getting to it. I spoke of great changes these past years, but I didn't mean in us; I meant here, in Quebec."

Andre rolled his eyes and snapped his shirt off his shoulder. "Spare me one of your speeches."

Philippe managed a tilted smile that looked more like a grimace. "You were never very interested in politics."

"Politics." Andre rubbed his hair vigorously with his shirt. "If it's the peace with the Iroquois or the English fur-trading in Hudson Bay you want to discuss, then I'll stay and have another brandy."

"It's not politics, really. It's more a matter of philosophy. ..."

Andre snapped his shirt out with a whack and stood up, banging his chair out of the way. He leaned over Philippe's desk, close enough to smell his perfume over the curling tobacco smoke. "What the hell is going on? Have you lost your edge, Philippe, in this black-aired room? Why did you drag me here?"

Philippe tugged a piece of parchment from under Andre's hand, then laid it on the edge of the table as he took the pipe. "I had hoped you'd discover this yourself this past week and spare me the unpleasantness."

Andre looked at the thing as if it were a piece of rotten meat. "I hired you so I would never have to look at another piece of paper again."

"You've had your head buried in too many warehouses and ships' holds since you returned. If you had taken a moment out of spending that inheritance of yours, you'd have seen this notice posted all over the city . .. and I wouldn't have had to send four shopboys to summon you."

Andre knocked the paper off the table and sent it skimming to the floor. "I've got better things to do than read petty ordinances."

"It contains strict orders from the king's minister." Philippe hooked his lip over the end of the pipe. "And it concerns restrictions placed upon men seeking trading licenses."

"Of course it does." A breeze flooded the room, rattling the other papers on Philippe's desk like autumn leaves and sending the crystal drops on the chandelier chiming. "When in the history of this damned settlement hasn't the government tried to suck the life out of the fur trade? Jesus, Philippe, just take care of it. I've had a bellyful of bureaucracy in France...."

"It's not that simple."

"Anything is simple with money." He wrestled into his shirt and yanked the hem over his rippled belly. "Do whatever you have to do. Offer the king's minister a percentage of the furs. ..."

"The king's minister won't be bribed."

"Then bribe his administrators," Andre growled, frustration thickening his words.

"Don't you think that was the first thing I tried?" He raised the pipe to halt Andre's words. "I'm not one of the best agents in Quebec for nothing. But you see, this is not a matter of money. As I started to tell you, it's a matter of philosophy."