Lenobia's Vow: A House of Night Novella (4 page)

“Do you laugh at me, mademoiselle?” the girl asked her.

Lenobia cleared her throat and said, “No, of course not. I was only thinking how funny we would all look trying to swim to the New World. We would be like floating flowers.” She laughed again, this time less hysterically. “But is it not better that we have this magnificent ship to swim us there, instead?”

“What is this talk of swimming?” said Sister Marie Madeleine. “None of us need know how to swim. Mademoiselle Cecile was right to laugh at such a thought.” The nun walked to the edge of the dock, where the sailors were waiting impatiently for the girls to begin boarding. “Now, come along. We need to get settled into our quarters so the
Minerva
can get under way.” Without so much as a backward glance, Sister Marie Madeleine took the hand of the nearest sailor and stepped awkwardly but enthusiastically into the bobbing rowboat. She had taken a seat and was rearranging her voluminous brown habit before she noticed none of the girls had followed her.

Lenobia noted that several of the mademoiselles had taken steps backward, and tears seemed to be spreading like a pestilence through the group.

This isn’t as terrifying as leaving my mother,
Lenobia told herself firmly.
Nor is it as frightening as being the bastard daughter of an uncaring baron.
With no more hesitation, Lenobia strode to the edge of the dock. She held out her hand, as if she were accustomed to servants automatically being there to help her, and before she had time to rethink her boldness, she was in the little boat taking a seat on the bench beside Sister Marie Madeleine. The nun reached over and squeezed her hand briefly but firmly.

“That was well done,” said the Sister.

Lenobia lifted her chin and met Simonette’s gaze. “Come on, little flower! You have nothing to fear.”

“Oui!”
Simonette said, picking up her skirts and hurrying forward to take the sailor’s offered hand. “If you can do it, I can do it.”

And that broke the dam of resistance. Soon all of the girls were being handed into the boat. Tears turned to smiles as the confidence of the group built and their terror evaporated, leaving relieved sighs and even some hesitant laughter.

Lenobia wasn’t sure when her own smile changed from something inauthentic that she’d forced to honest pleasure, but as the last girl clambered aboard she realized the tightness in her chest had eased, as if the ache in her heart might actually become bearable.

The sailors had rowed them almost all the way to the ship, and Simonette had been chattering about how even though she was almost sixteen years old, she had never before seen the ocean and perhaps she was just a little bit excited, when a gilded carriage pulled up and a tall, purple-robed man exited. He walked to the edge of the dock and glared from the group of girls to the waiting ship. Everything about him—from his stance to the dark look on his face—appeared angry, aggressive, and familiar. Sickeningly familiar …

Lenobia was staring at him with a growing feeling of disbelief and dismay.
No, please, let it not be him!

“His face frightens me.” Simonette spoke softly. She, too, was staring at the man on the distant dock.

Sister Marie Madeleine patted her hand reassuringly and responded. “I was notified just this morning that the lovely Cathedral of Saint Louis will be gaining a new bishop. That must be him.” The nun smiled kindly at Simonette. “There is no reason for you to be frightened. It is a blessing to have the good bishop traveling with us to New Orleans.”

“Do you know which parish he is from?” Lenobia asked, even though she knew the answer before the nun confirmed her dread.

“Why, yes, Cecile. He is Charles de Beaumont, the Bishop of Évreux. But do you not recognize him? I believe Évreux is quite near your home, is it not?”

Feeling as if she were going to be violently ill, Lenobia said, “Yes, Sister. Yes, it is.”

CHAPTER THREE

As soon as Lenobia boarded the
Minerva,
she pulled the thick hood of her fur-lined cloak over her head. Forcing herself to ignore the distractions of the brightly painted deck and the bustling energy of everything from crates of flour, bags of salt, and barrels of cured meat, to horses being loaded, Lenobia ducked her chin and tried to disappear.
Horses! There are horses coming with us, too?
She wanted to stare around her and take it all in, but the rowboat had already begun its return trip to the docks, where it would be picking up their fellow traveler, the Bishop of Évreux.
I must get below. I must not let the Bishop see me. Most of all, I must be brave … be brave … be brave …

“Cecile? Are you well?” Simonette was peering up into her hooded face, sounding so concerned that she drew Sister Marie Madeleine’s attention.

“Mademoiselle Cecile, is—”

“I am feeling a little ill, Sister,” Lenobia interrupted, trying to speak softly and not call any more attention to herself.

“Aye! ’Tis the way of it. Some people are sick from the moment they set foot on deck.” The man, striding toward them, voice booming, had a huge barrel chest and a florid, meaty face that contrasted dramatically with his dark blue coat and golden epaulets. “I am sorry to say it, but your reaction bodes ill for how you will fare during the voyage, mademoiselle. I can tell you that though I have lost passengers to the sea, I have never lost one to seasickness.”

“I—I think I will be better if I can get below,” Lenobia said quickly, hyperaware that with each moment the Bishop was getting closer and closer to boarding.

“Oh, poor Cecile,” Sister Marie Madeleine murmured. Then added, “Girls, this is our captain, Commodore William Cornwallis. He is a great patriot and will keep us quite safe during our long journey.”

“That is very kind of you to say, good Sister.” The Commodore motioned at a plainly dressed, young mulatto man who was standing nearby. “Martin, show the ladies to their quarters.”

“
Merci beaucoup,
Commodore,” said Sister Marie Madeleine.

“I hope to see you all at dinner this evening.” The big man gave Lenobia a little wink. “At least those of you with the stomach to attend! Excuse me, ladies.” He strode away, bellowing at a group of crew members who were struggling awkwardly with a large crate.

“Mademoiselles, madame, if you would follow me,” Martin said.

Lenobia was the first to fall in line behind the broad-shouldered form of Martin as he nimbly led them through a door in the rear of the deck and down a rather treacherously narrow stairwell that led to an almost equally narrow hallway branching to the left and right. Martin jerked his chin toward the left and Lenobia caught a glimpse of his strong, young profile. “That way is the crew quarters.” As he spoke there was a loud crashing sound and a high-pitched squeal coming from the direction in which his chin had pointed.

“Crew?” Lenobia couldn’t help asking with a lift of her brows, the familiar sound of an annoyed horse momentarily making her forget to be mute and invisible.

Martin looked down at her. A smile tilted the corners of his lips up and his eyes, which were an unusual light olive green, sparkled. Lenobia couldn’t tell whether the sparkle was humor, mischief, or sarcasm. He said, “Down the deck below the crews’ quarters be the cargo, and in the cargo there be the pair of grays Vincent Rillieux purchased for his carriage.”

“Grays?” Simonette asked, but she wasn’t peeking down the long hallway—she was peering with open curiosity at Martin.

“Horses,” Lenobia said.

“Percherons, a matched set of geldings,” Martin corrected. “Giant brutes. Not for ladies. Dark and damp it be in the cargo hold. No place for ladies or gentlemen proper,” he said, meeting Lenobia’s gaze with a frankness that surprised her before he turned to the right and continued to talk as he walked. “This way is your quarters. There be four rooms for you to divide up. The Commodore and any male passengers is above you.”

Simonette wrapped her arm through Lenobia’s and whispered in a rush, “I have never seen a mulatto before. I wonder if they are all so handsome as this one!”

“Sssh!” Lenobia hushed her just as Martin stopped before the first room that opened to the right off the narrow hallway.

“That will be all. Thank you, Martin.” Sister Marie Madeleine had caught up with them and gave Simonette a hard look as she dismissed the mulatto.

“Yes, Sister,” he said as he bowed to the nun and began back down the hallway.

“
Excuse moi,
Martin. Where and when do we dine with the Commodore?” Sister Marie Madeleine asked.

Martin paused in his retreat to answer. “Commodore’s table is where you have dinner, at seven o’clock each night. Prompt, madame. The Commodore, he insist on formal dress. Other meals be brought to you.” Though Martin’s tone had turned gruff, when his glance went to Lenobia she thought his expression was more filled with a shy curiosity than mean-spiritedness.

“Will we be the only guests at the Commodore’s dinner?” Lenobia asked.

“Surely he will include the Bishop in his invitation,” said Sister Marie Madeleine briskly.

“Oh,
oui,
the Bishop will attend. He also perform Mass. The Commodore is a proper Catholic, as are the crew, madame,” Martin assured her before disappearing from sight down the hallway.

This time, Lenobia did not have to pretend that she felt ill.

*   *   *

“No, no, truly. Please go without me. A little bread, cheese, and watered wine are all I need,” Lenobia assured Sister Marie Madeleine.

“Mademoiselle Cecile, would the company of the Commodore and the Bishop not take your mind off the upset of your stomach?” The nun frowned as she hesitated at the doorway with the other girls, all dressed and eager for their first dinner at the Commodore’s table.

“No!” Thinking of what would happen if the Bishop recognized her, Lenobia knew her face had gone pale. She gagged a little and pressed her hand to her mouth as if holding back the sickness. “I cannot even bear the thought of food. I should certainly embarrass myself with sickness if I attempted it.”

Sister Marie Madeleine sighed heavily. “Very well. Rest for this evening. I will bring you back some bread and cheese.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

“I am quite certain you will be yourself tomorrow,” Simonette called before Sister Marie Madeleine closed the door gently behind her.

Lenobia let out a long breath and tossed back the hood of her cloak along with her silver-blond hair. Not wasting any of her precious time alone, she dragged the large chest that was engraved in gold with
CECILE MARSON DE LA TOUR D’AUVERGNE
over to the far side of the room near the sleeping pallet she had chosen for herself. Lenobia positioned the trunk under one of the round portholes and then she climbed atop it, pulled the little brass hook that held the glass closed, and breathed deeply of the cool, moist air.

The thick trunk made her just tall enough to see out of the window. In awe, Lenobia gazed at the endless expanse of water. It was past dusk, but there was still enough light in the enormous sky for the waves to be illuminated. Lenobia didn’t think she’d ever seen anything as mesmerizing as the ocean at night. Her body swayed gracefully with the movement of the ship. Sick? Absolutely not!

“But I will pretend to be,” she whispered aloud to the ocean and the night. “Even if I must keep up the pretense for the full eight weeks of the voyage.”

Eight weeks! The thought of it was terrible. She had gasped in shock when the always-chattering Simonette had remarked how hard it was to believe they would be on this ship for eight whole weeks. Sister Marie Madeleine had given her a strange look, and Lenobia had quickly followed her gasp with a moan, and clutched her stomach.

“I must be more careful,” she told herself. “Of course the real Cecile would know that the voyage would take eight weeks. I must be smarter and braver—and most of all I must avoid the Bishop.”

She reluctantly closed the little window, stepped down, and opened the trunk. As she reached in to begin searching through the expensive silks and laces for a sleeping shift, she found a folded piece of paper lying atop the glittering mound. The name
Cecile
was written in her mother’s distinctively bold script. Lenobia’s hands shook only a little when she opened the letter and read:

My daughter,

You are betrothed to the Duc of Silegne’s youngest son, Thinton de Silegne. He is master of a large plantation one day’s ride north of New Orleans. I do not know if he is kind or handsome, only that he is young, rich, and comes from a fine family. I will pray with every sunrise that you find happiness and that your children know how fortunate they are to have such a brave woman as their mother.

Your maman