Read Online Written on Silk by Linda Lee Chaikin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Lee Chaikin
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said, ma mère. It was senseless and brutal.” And I hate the Duc de Guise , she thought, but could not bring herself to say so before her mother.
“Senseless, I say, from our human reasoning, Rachelle, but not senseless to our great and wise God. You understand that, do you not?”
She did, and yet she could not come to terms with it as her mother had, and she did not wish to add to her concerns.
“Yes, ma mère.”
“Understand, this could not have happened to us unless, like Job, the hedge of safety was lowered for the spiritual enemy to get through to us.”
“Yes, but why?”
“If we knew the answer, ma petite, we would no longer need to trust and walk by faith. We are tested, and like Job, we will, with God’s help, come forth as gold. We can choose to say, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ Remember that Faithful and True are two of His names.”
Rachelle sat dry-eyed and silent. She did not think she could possibly muster another tear if her heart were torn from her. There would never be enough tears to mourn Avril, or to sympathize with Idelette.
“Knowing where Avril is — helps to sustain us,” Clair said, squeezing her hand.
“Yes, but our loss remains.”
“In our earthly sojourn it cannot be fully mended. That is why heaven is now made dearer to us, Rachelle. And God wishes it so.”
Those words, heaven is now made dearer , unexpectedly lit a flame in Rachelle’s heart. She looked up quickly. She saw the sadness in her mother’s eyes, yet it was softened, mingled with hope, even certainty. Rachelle sensed that hope of God’s promise growing brighter within her own heart. Yes, heaven is dearer to me!
Madame Clair searched her face and must have seen something not visible before. A little smile turned her lips.
In a gesture of gratitude to her mère, Rachelle placed her arms around her neck.
They prayed together as was their family custom. Afterward, Madame Clair went upstairs to write Père Arnaut the dreaded correspondence of what had visited them in his absence. It was given to Rachelle to write to Grandmère and Madeleine, but she too went off to the task while eternal hope sprang up within.
“Make me an encourager, Father,” she asked. “Let me light a candle in the darkness of fear and doubt.”
Rachelle adjusted the lamp on her father’s writing desk, took out stationery, and dipped her pen into the inkwell. After several attempts, she settled on the words to her grandmère and Madeleine.
T HE LIGHT WAS FADING RAPIDLY with the setting sun and the long day edging toward its close. Billowy clouds, the color of eggshells, with tints of lavender, hung over the mureraies.
Rachelle had finished her lettre, and the envelope sat on the burnished mahogany table by the door, ready for delivery to Paris.
The darkness settled in. Where was Marquis Fabien?
She reached to close the burgundy draperies and blinked, startled by what must have been a handful of gravel flung against the windowpane.
She was in the salle on the first floor and had a clear view of the tall hedgerow and the front courtyard. There were no horses or men-at-arms, but a movement under the hedge caught her eye. A man crouched out of sight. Their gazes caught. She tensed; he reached inside his cloak and brought out a dark book and held it to his lips. Then he made the sign of the cross and signaled that he would go around to the back of the château. He slipped away, keeping out of sight.
Was the book a Bible? Surely so. Who was he and what did he want? She drew the draperies closed, then making up her mind, she sped across the chamber, out the door, and toward the back entrances.
Rachelle stepped out onto the rear balcony, feeling the night wind chilling her. There was a landing here, railed, with steps leading down to the culinary herb garden. She held to the rail and looked below into the twilight. Footsteps rushed along the path, now and then hesitating. She waited. Then the man came out of the shadows
“Senseless, I say, from our human reasoning, Rachelle, but not senseless to our great and wise God. You understand that, do you not?”
She did, and yet she could not come to terms with it as her mother had, and she did not wish to add to her concerns.
“Yes, ma mère.”
“Understand, this could not have happened to us unless, like Job, the hedge of safety was lowered for the spiritual enemy to get through to us.”
“Yes, but why?”
“If we knew the answer, ma petite, we would no longer need to trust and walk by faith. We are tested, and like Job, we will, with God’s help, come forth as gold. We can choose to say, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ Remember that Faithful and True are two of His names.”
Rachelle sat dry-eyed and silent. She did not think she could possibly muster another tear if her heart were torn from her. There would never be enough tears to mourn Avril, or to sympathize with Idelette.
“Knowing where Avril is — helps to sustain us,” Clair said, squeezing her hand.
“Yes, but our loss remains.”
“In our earthly sojourn it cannot be fully mended. That is why heaven is now made dearer to us, Rachelle. And God wishes it so.”
Those words, heaven is now made dearer , unexpectedly lit a flame in Rachelle’s heart. She looked up quickly. She saw the sadness in her mother’s eyes, yet it was softened, mingled with hope, even certainty. Rachelle sensed that hope of God’s promise growing brighter within her own heart. Yes, heaven is dearer to me!
Madame Clair searched her face and must have seen something not visible before. A little smile turned her lips.
In a gesture of gratitude to her mère, Rachelle placed her arms around her neck.
They prayed together as was their family custom. Afterward, Madame Clair went upstairs to write Père Arnaut the dreaded correspondence of what had visited them in his absence. It was given to Rachelle to write to Grandmère and Madeleine, but she too went off to the task while eternal hope sprang up within.
“Make me an encourager, Father,” she asked. “Let me light a candle in the darkness of fear and doubt.”
Rachelle adjusted the lamp on her father’s writing desk, took out stationery, and dipped her pen into the inkwell. After several attempts, she settled on the words to her grandmère and Madeleine.
T HE LIGHT WAS FADING RAPIDLY with the setting sun and the long day edging toward its close. Billowy clouds, the color of eggshells, with tints of lavender, hung over the mureraies.
Rachelle had finished her lettre, and the envelope sat on the burnished mahogany table by the door, ready for delivery to Paris.
The darkness settled in. Where was Marquis Fabien?
She reached to close the burgundy draperies and blinked, startled by what must have been a handful of gravel flung against the windowpane.
She was in the salle on the first floor and had a clear view of the tall hedgerow and the front courtyard. There were no horses or men-at-arms, but a movement under the hedge caught her eye. A man crouched out of sight. Their gazes caught. She tensed; he reached inside his cloak and brought out a dark book and held it to his lips. Then he made the sign of the cross and signaled that he would go around to the back of the château. He slipped away, keeping out of sight.
Was the book a Bible? Surely so. Who was he and what did he want? She drew the draperies closed, then making up her mind, she sped across the chamber, out the door, and toward the back entrances.
Rachelle stepped out onto the rear balcony, feeling the night wind chilling her. There was a landing here, railed, with steps leading down to the culinary herb garden. She held to the rail and looked below into the twilight. Footsteps rushed along the path, now and then hesitating. She waited. Then the man came out of the shadows
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