Heaven in His Arms by Lisa Ann Verge Read Free Book Online Page A

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