Springtime of the Spirit by Lang Maureen

Author:Lang, Maureen [Lang, Maureen]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Historical Fiction, FICTION / Romance / Historical
ISBN: 9781414351025
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Published: 2011-01-28T05:00:00+00:00

Annaliese shaded her eyes from the sun shining directly on her face. She’d forgotten to close the window coverings the night before. Forgotten to change from her skirt and blouse and into her nightdress. The sun almost made it look like spring outside, but that was still weeks away. The chill in her room reminded her that even such bright rays as these did little to cut winter’s touch.

She turned at the sound of a gentle tap at her door. Maybe it was Jurgen, to see how she was feeling this morning. “Yes?”

“Are you still sleeping?”

Christophe’s voice made her heart react in its usual, fluttery way, even though she wished otherwise. “I’m awake.”

She rose too quickly and her head throbbed. Slipping a shawl around her shoulders to cover at least some of the wrinkles in her blouse, Annaliese opened the door. There stood Christophe, snug in a sweater of his own, holding out a steaming mug and a plate of toasted bread.

“You weren’t at breakfast this morning, and Bertita told me you weren’t at dinner, either. I wasn’t here. Are you sick or just back to work?”

Seeing Christophe so neat and fresh, smiling so warmly, made her aware of her own unkemptness. Smoothing down what was sure to be a nest of hair atop her head, she reached out to take the hot mug. It was just what her throat, dry and sore, needed. Through the one nostril that still worked, she smelled a hint of honey.

“Oh! This is wonderful. I’m not sure about the toast, though.”

“Dunk it.”

She smiled. Soggy bread didn’t appeal to her, but it was probably the only way she would be able to swallow anything of substance.

Annaliese turned away from him then, savoring a sip of the hot tea, and to her surprise heard him follow her inside. Christophe was at her bed, holding up the blankets.

“Get under the covers,” he said. “Here, give me that until you’re settled.” He took the tea and toast and put it on the table beside her bed.

She should most definitely send him away, but surely not even her mother would object. He was only doing what she would have done had she been there: tucking her in.

After covering her, he took another pillow from the chair by the window, something she’d wanted earlier but hadn’t been willing to leave the warmth and comfort of her bed to retrieve. Placing it behind her back, he pulled the covers up to her chin, then reached for the tea.

“Where did you find honey?” she asked.

“From Mama, at the restaurant. And the tea flakes, too. She said it would be good for any mood, from an ailment to overwork.”

Annaliese smiled, letting the hot steam break through the swollen interior of her nose. “Thank you, Christophe.”

“What else do you need? company? or just a book? maybe paper to write on?”

He went to the desk and there, on top of the letters she’d been answering yesterday, was the poem Jurgen had written for her. She said nothing, watching Christophe as his gaze was caught.

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