P Cast: Lenobia's Vow

Lenobia narrowed her eyes at him. “I like horses.” To punctuate her point, she stepped back between the two grays and patted their thick necks. “I also like cats—even mischievous ones. And I do not mind having my clothing soiled or my hair mussed.”

Lenobia saw the surprise in his expressive green eyes, but before he could reply the sound of men’s voices drifted down from above.

“I must get back. I cannot get caught”—Lenobia stopped herself before she could blurt “by the Bishop,” and instead finished hastily—“roaming the ship. I should be in my quarters. I—I have not been well.”

“I remember,” Martin said. “You looked ill as soon as you came aboard. You do not look so bad now, even though the sea is rough today.”

“Walking around makes me feel better, but Sister Marie Madeleine does not think it appropriate.” Actually, the good Sister hadn’t made that exact pronunciation. She hadn’t had to. All of the girls seemed content to sit and embroider or gossip or play one of the two precious harpsichords being shipped with them. None of them had shown any interest in exploring the grand ship.

“The Sister—she a strong woman. I think even the Commodore a little afraid of her,” he said.

“I know, I know, but, well, I just … I like seeing the rest of the ship.” Lenobia struggled to find the right words that would not betray too much.

Martin nodded. “The other mademoiselles rarely leave their quarters. Some of us, we think they might be fille à la casquette, the casket girls.” He said the phrase in French and then English, eerily echoing her mother’s comment to her the day she’d left the château. He cocked his head and studied her, rubbing his chin in exaggerated concentration. “You don’ look much like a casket girl, you.”

“ Exactement! That is what I am trying to tell you. I am not like the other girls.” As male voices drifted closer and closer, Lenobia stroked each of the grays in farewell, then swallowed her fear and turned to face the young man. “Please, Martin, will you show me how to get back without going through there,” she pointed to the ladder-like stairwell she’d climbed down, “and having to cross the entire deck?”

“Oui,” he said with only a slight hesitation.

“And will you promise to tell no one that I have been here? Please?”

“Oui,” he repeated. “Allons-y.”

Martin led her quickly in a twisting path through the mountains of cargo all the way across the underbelly of the ship until they came to a larger, more accessible entrance. “Up there,” Martin explained. “Keep going up. It will lead you to the hallway of your quarters.”

“It goes past the crew’s quarters, too, does it not?”

“It does. If you see men you raise your chin, thus.” Martin lifted his chin. “Then you give to them the look you gave to me when you tell me you like horse, and cats of mischief. They will not bother you.”

“Thank you, Martin! Thank you so much,” Lenobia said.

“Do you know why I help you?”

Martin’s question had her turning back to look at him questioningly. “I suppose it is because you must be a man with a good heart.”

Martin shook his head. “No, it is because you were brave enough to ask it of me.”

The giggle that escaped Lenobia’s mouth was semi-hysterical. “Brave? No, I am frightened of everything!”

He smiled. “Except horses and cats.”

She returned his smile, feeling her cheeks get warm and her stomach make a little fluttery shiver because his smile made him even more handsome. “Yes.” Lenobia tried to pretend she wasn’t breathless. “Except horses and cats. Thank you, again, Martin.”

She was almost through the doorway when he added, “I feed the horses. Every morning just after dawn.”

Cheeks still warm, Lenobia glanced back at him. “Perhaps I will see you again.”

His green eyes sparkled and he tipped an imaginary hat to her. “Perhaps, cherie, perhaps.”

For the next four weeks Lenobia existed in an odd state that was somewhere between peace and anxiety, happiness and despair. Time played with her. The hours that she sat in her quarters waiting for dusk and then night and then the gloaming of predawn seemed to take an eternity to pass. But as soon as the ship slept and she was able to slip the confines of her self-imposed prison, the next few hours rushed past, leaving her breathless and yearning for more.

She would prowl the ship, soaking in freedom with the salt air, watching the sun burst gloriously from the watery horizon, and then she would slip down to the joy that awaited her below deck.

For a little while she convinced herself it was only the grays that made her so happy—so eager to rush to the cargo hold and so sad when the time passed too quickly; the ship began to wake, and she had to return to her quarters.

It couldn’t have anything to do with Martin’s broad shoulders or his smile or the sparkle in his olive-colored eyes and the way he teased her and made her laugh.

“Those grays don’ be eating that bread you bring them. No one be eating that stuff,” he’d said, chuckling that first morning she’d returned.

She’d frowned. “They will eat it because it is so salty. Horses like salty things.” She’d held the hard bread out, one piece in each palm, and offered it to the Percherons. They’d sniffed and then, with surprising delicacy for such big animals, taken the bread and chewed with a lot of head bobbing and expressions of surprise that had made Lenobia and Martin laugh together.

“You were right, cher !” Martin said. “How you know about what horses like to eat, a lady like you?”

“My father has many horses. I told you I like them. So I spent time in the stables,” she said evasively.

“And your père, he not mind that his daughter is in the stables?”

“My father did not pay attention to where I was,” she said, thinking that, at least, was the truth. “What about you? Where did you learn about horses?” Lenobia changed the focus of their conversation.

“The Rillieux plantation just outside New Orleans.”

“Yes, that was the name of the man you said was shipping the grays. So, Monsieur Rillieux must trust you quite a lot if he sent you to travel all the way to and from New Orleans and France with his horses.”

“He should, he. Monsieur Rillieux is my father.”

“Your father? But, I thought—” Her words trailed off and Lenobia felt her cheeks getting hot.

“You thought because my skin is brown my père could not be white?”

Lenobia thought he seemed more amused than offended, so she took a chance and said what was on her mind. “No, I know one of your parents had to be white. The Commodore called you a mulatto, and your skin is not really brown. It is lighter than that. It is more like cream with just a small bit of chocolate mixed with it.” To herself Lenobia thought, His skin is more beautiful than plain white could ever possibly be, and felt her cheeks flame again.

“Quadroon, cherie, ” Martin said, smiling into her eyes.

“Quadroon?”

“ Oui, that is me. My maman, she was Rillieux’s first placage . She was a mulatto.”

“ Placage ? I do not understand.”

“Rich white men take women of color in the marriages de la main gauche .”

“Left-handed marriages?”

“Means not real by law, but real for New Orleans. That was my maman, only she die not long after my birth. Rillieux keep me on and have his slaves raise me.”