Heaven in His Arms

by Lisa Ann Verge

  Genevieve understood more than her mother knew, for the servants acted as if she were deaf, dumb, and blind. They gossiped endlessly about her mother’s behavior. Since Armand’s arrival, their opinions had grown harsher and their words for her mother coarser. Genevieve knew Maman was the mistress of the Baron de Carrouges, a man Genevieve had seen only once from a distance, for she was banned from the main part of the house whenever he visited. She knew, too, that her mother and Armand were lovers. But when her mother spoke, she didn’t speak of lovers. She spoke of other things, of wondrous things, of subjects long forbidden between them.

  “My father was a financier in Paris.” Her mother spoke the words as if Genevieve had never broached the subject before, as if it were perfectly natural to answer all the questions her daughter had once ached to know and had long given up asking. “He loaned monstrous amounts of money to the Queen Regent when Louis XIV was still in his minority. In return, he was given the right to levy taxes and collect the king’s revenue.” She lifted one fine, arched brow and turned toward the windows. “In my youth, it was rumored he was wealthier than some Princes of the Blood.”

  Genevieve’s world tilted off its axis. A grandfather, richer than royalty? Who loaned money to the Crown? Until this moment, she had not known of any other relative but her mother; she had only dreamed of a distant family, rife with dozens of frolicking cousins, soft-bosomed aunts, and old misty-eyed grandparents. She sat, too afraid to blink, frightened that any motion she made or any word she uttered would bring Maman to her senses and stop her from telling the tale she had ached to know from the moment she was old enough to speak.

  “On my fifteenth birthday, Father took me from the convent and brought me to the townhouse he had just built, in a fashionable section of Paris north of the Louvre.” Her lips twitched. “Every day I had a new dress, satins unlike anything I had ever imagined, with jeweled clasps and rope upon rope of pearls. Father lined whole rooms with emerald-colored silk, and he told me he did it just to show off the brilliance of my eyes. Heirs to great estates, sons of barons, of viscounts, of other noblemen, came and dined with us. Father hired Italian acting troops for weeks on end for Our entertainment. And he would make me play the harp, looking upon me with such pride that I thought no daughter had ever had such a perfect father. Genny, I thought I had entered Paradise.” Maman stepped back, away from the window, out of the light. “When I met Hamlin, I was sure.”

  Her mother’s eyes suddenly turned inward, as if they were focused on a time long past but remembered as vividly as if it were only yesterday. Genevieve leaned forward, for there was something in the timbre of her mother’s voice when she said the name Hamlin that made her tremble.

  “I remember the first time I saw him,” her mother continued. “He stood in the doorway of the salon, watching me as I played the harp, as if I were the only woman in the room. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen, all tall and straight in his military uniform, with gold braid hanging from his shoulders and a brilliant scarlet sash across his chest. I was told his name was Hamlin de Lautersbourg, and that he was a nobleman from Alsace, which the regent had just won in war. I fell in love with him at first sight. I nearly burst with joy when Papa allowed him to court me.” A strange light illuminated her mother’s features. “Hamlin had a wonderful gilded Italian carriage, and to me it seemed like freedom itself, for except for my journey to Paris, I had never been outside of the convent walls. He took me outside the city, with Nanette—who was my maidservant then as she is now—as my guardian. We ate long lunches alfresco in the country; we rode on the Cours de Reine in the evening with the aristocracy and danced on the turning circle to the music of violins. Hamlin took me to watch cattle drives through the narrow streets of Paris; he brought me to view the strange flat-bottomed boats filled with melons or wine or coal that crowded the Seine.” She released a gentle laugh. “Once, he even stepped out of the carriage and bartered with a fishmonger for the day’s catch of carp, just for my amusement.”

  Genevieve had never heard Maman speak of anyone like this, not even Armand, who was the only person Genevieve knew who could bring color into her mother’s face.

  “I was so involved with him,” she continued, “that I hardly noticed the trouble brewing in Paris. When I found a dozen dead cats in our courtyard one day, I thought it was nothing more than some unruly peasants complaining, as they always did, of their lot. I didn’t understand how much Father was hated by the peasantry for the taxes he levied, how much he was envied and despised by the noblemen because of his fantastic wealth. Father grew more and more anxious to leave Paris, to seek refuge in our summer house near Rouen, but he hesitated, and I vainly thought he hesitated for my sake, for to me, to go to Rouen and leave Hamlin was a fate worse than death.” She clutched the patterned velvet drapes of the high window. “I didn’t realize then that to my father, no expense was too high, no risk too great for an aristocratic son-in-law.”

  Her mother stared, sightlessly, toward the hills of Normandy. “You see, one thing eluded my father, Genny, one thing all his gold and all his power could not buy: true aristocracy. I was prettier than my younger sister in his eyes, most likely to catch the attention of an aristocrat willing to lower himself to marry a rich woman of bourgeois blood. The noblemen of Paris would always look down upon him, a mere tax collector, but my father had vowed that their sons would address his grandchildren as ‘my lord.’

  “I didn’t notice the changes until much later, when I was alone and had an eternity to reflect upon it all. Nanette accompanied me and Hamlin on fewer and fewer of our journeys outside the city. Instead, my father entrusted another nobleman to be our guardian—a man. The very man who had introduced Hamlin to our salon, an aristocrat of rank and title whom my father respected and trusted. I was foolishly grateful to this nobleman, for he was lenient and generous in allowing Hamlin and I to be alone and.. . celebrate our love.

  “Within six weeks, I knew I was carrying Hamlin’s child.” Maman looked at Genevieve, her green eyes full of shadows. “You have his hair, petite. Sometimes, I hear his laughter in yours.”

  Genevieve’s heart stopped. For years, she had dreamed that her real father—whoever he was— would come back to Maman and drive the baron away, for despite the fact that the baron paid for her food, clothing, shelter, and education, Genevieve always knew, instinctively, that she couldn’t be the Baron de Carrouge’s illegitimate daughter. Maman hated him so much but still loved her, and the baron had never once asked to see her in nearly thirteen years. Now, she realized all her suspicions were true. Her father was an Alsatian nobleman that Maman had once loved. It was almost too much for her to absorb. Genevieve resisted the urge to barrage her mother with questions, for this sudden honesty was too new, too fragile, and she feared Maman would stop if she dared to ask the questions boiling in her mind.

  “I was frightened,” her mother continued. “I had to tell Father, for although Hamlin promised to marry me, he told me that we must wait for approval from his family, and it was long in coming. But instead of Father’s fury, I was faced with his joy. Father was so sure he had trapped this wealthy aristocrat into marriage.” She absently traced a pattern on the drapes. “My father sent a message to Hamlin, demanding that he come and do what he must, but the message was promptly returned. Unopened. It seemed that Hamlin had recently left Paris. My father, frantic, sent inquiries all over France and even to Alsace, but Hamlin was nowhere to be found. Soon enough, my father discovered that there was no such man as Monsieur de Lautersbourg. Hamlin simply didn’t exist.”

  Genevieve gasped and felt tears surge to her eyes. Hamlin must exist. He was her father.

  “My father sought out the man who had introduced Hamlin to him, the same man he had entrusted as our guardian.” She met Genevieve’s wide-eyed gaze, her voice as cold as snow. “I suppose you know by now that that man was the Baron de Carrouges.”

  The Baron de Carrouges. The man to whom her mother was courtesan.


  Mother straightened her shoulders beneath the thickly boned emerald silk bodice and took a deep breath. “It seems the nobleman had paid Hamlin, some ne’er-do-well without a drop of noble blood in his veins, to ruin me and thus my family. He said it was my father’s punishment, for daring to think his common blood was as good as that of an aristocrat.” She tilted her chin. “Well, it was good enough for something, for when Father disowned me and threw me out of his house, the baron was waiting in his carriage outside, like a vulture hungry for the spoils. It seems he had wanted me from the start, but he knew my father would never approve of his interest— for the baron was, and still is, married—so he ruined me so my father would no longer want me. I became his mistress because he made me an offer and I had no other choice.” She met Genevieve’s gaze squarely. “But I bargained with him, like a true bourgeois, I suppose. I told him he would have to give me a home, far from Paris, and that he would have to pay for your upbringing. After all his trouble to get me into his bed, I suppose he had no choice but to agree.

  “So here I am, Genny, all these years later, still courtesan to the man who destroyed my life. I would have remained here until you were safe and settled somewhere, but I met Armand, and he has shown me that I have been dead all these years. He has proven to me that I’m not too old to be happy.”

  Her face softened as the memories faded away, as she locked them away in their secret places and thought upon the future and the face of the man who had changed everything for her. She walked to her daughter and sat on the couch by her side. “He has promised to marry me, Genny, despite my past, despite all the risks. Now do you understand why we must leave? Do you understand why we must flee this place and never, ever return?”

  ***

  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.