Lenobia's Vow: A House of Night Novella (6 page)

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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

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.”

“Are you a slave?”

“No. I am Creole. Free man of color. I work for Rillieux.” When Lenobia just stared at him, trying to take in everything she was learning, he smiled and said, “Since you here you want to help me groom the grays, or you scurry back to your room like a proper lady.”

Lenobia lifted her chin. “Since I am here—I stay. And I will help you.”

The next hour sped by quickly. The Percherons were a lot of horse to groom, and Lenobia had been busy, working with Martin and talking about nothing more personal than horses and arguing the pros and cons of tail docking, even though the whole time she could not stop thinking about
placage
and
marriages de la main gauche
.

It was only as Lenobia began to leave that she was able to have the courage to ask Martin the question that had been circling around in her mind. “The
placage
—do the women get to choose, or do they have to be with whomever wants them?”

“There are many kinds of people,
cherie,
and many kinds of arrangements, but from what I see it is more about choice and love than not.”

“Good,” Lenobia said. “I am glad for them.”

“You had no choice, did you,
cher
?” Martin asked, meeting her gaze.

“I did what my mother told me to do,” she said truthfully, and then she left the cargo hold and carried the scent of horses and the memory of olive eyes with her throughout the tedium of that long day.

*   *   *

What began as accident became habit, and something she rationalized as being just for the horses became her joy—what she needed to get through the never-ending voyage. Lenobia couldn’t wait to see Martin—to hear what he would say next—to talk with him about her dreams and even her fears. She didn’t mean to confide in him—to like him—to care for him at all, but she did. How could she not? Martin was funny and smart and beautiful—so very beautiful.

“You getting skinny, you,” he said to her on the fifth day.

“What are talking about? I have always been petite.” Lenobia paused as she combed through the tangled mane of one of the geldings and peeked around his arched neck at Martin. “I am not skinny,” she said firmly.

“Skinny,
cher
. That what you are.” He ducked under the gelding’s neck and was suddenly there, beside her, close and warm and solid. He took her wrist gently in his hand and circled it easily with his forefinger and thumb. “See there? You all bone.”

His touch shocked her. He was tall and muscular but gentle. His movements were slow, steady, almost hypnotic. It was as if his every motion was made deliberately, so as not to frighten her. Unexpectedly he reminded her of a Percheron. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, over her pulse point.

“I have to pretend not to want to eat,” she heard herself admitting.

“Why,
cher
?”

“It is better for me if I stay away from everyone, and being sick gives me a reason to keep to myself.”

“Everyone? Why don’ you stay away from me?” he asked boldly.

Even though her heart felt as if it would pound from her chest, she pulled her wrist from his gentle grip and gave him a stern look. “I come for the horses and not for you.”

“Ah,
les chevaux
. Of course.” He stroked the neck of the gelding, but he didn’t smile as she expected, nor did he joke back with her. Instead he just looked at her, as if he could see through her tough façade to the softness of her heart. He said no more and instead handed her one of the thick curry brushes from a nearby bucket. “He likes this one best.”

“Thank you,” she said, and began working her way across the broad body of the gelding with the brush.

There was only a small, uncomfortable silence and then Martin’s voice carried from the other side of the gelding he was tending. “So,
cherie,
what story I tell you today? The one about how anything you plant in the black dirt of New France grows taller than these
petite chevaux
, or about the pearls in the
tignons
of the beautiful
placage
and how the women they stroll through the square?”

“Tell me about the women—about the
placage,
” Lenobia said, and then she listened eagerly as Martin painted pictures in her imagination of gorgeous women who were free enough to choose whom they would love, though not free enough to make their unions legal.

Then next morning when she rushed into the cargo hold she found him already grooming the horses. A hunk of cheese and fragrant hot pork between two thick slices of fresh bread sat on a clean cloth near the barrels of oats. Without glancing at her, Martin said, “Eat,
cherie
. You don’ pretend around me.”

Perhaps that was the morning it changed for Lenobia and she began to think of it as seeing Martin at dawn rather than visiting the horses at dawn. Or, more precisely, perhaps that was when she began to admit the change to herself.

And once it changed for her, Lenobia began searching for signs from Martin that she was more than just his friend—more than
ma cherie,
the girl he brought food to and who pestered him for stories of New France. But all she found in his gaze was familiar kindness. All she heard in his voice was patience and humor. Once or twice she thought she caught a glimmer of more, especially when they laughed together and the olive green in his eyes seemed to sparkle with flecks of golden brown, but he always turned away if she met his gaze too long, and he always had a humorous story ready if the silences between them became too great.

Just before the small measure of peace and happiness she’d found shattered and her world exploded, Lenobia finally found the courage to ask the question that would not allow her to sleep. It was as she was brushing off her skirts and whispering to the nearest gelding an affectionate
a bientôt
that she took a deep breath and said, “Martin, I need to ask you a question.”

“What is it,
cherie
?” he responded absently while he gathered up the curry brushes and linen rags they’d used to wipe down the geldings.

“You tell me stories of the women like your maman—women of color who become
placage
and live as wives to white men. But what of men of color being with white women? What of male
placage
?”

From outside the stall his gaze went to hers and she saw his surprise and then amusement, and she knew he was going to humiliate her by laughing. Then he truly looked into her eyes, and his teasing response turned somber. He shook his head slowly from side to side. His voice sounded weary and his broad shoulders seemed to slump. “No,
cherie
. There are no male
placage
. Only way a man of color can be with a white woman is if he leave New France and pass as white.”

“Pass as white?” Lenobia felt breathless at her boldness. “You mean to pretend you are white?”

“
Oui,
but not me,
cherie
.” Martin held out his arm. It was long and muscular and, in the postdawn light filtering from the deck above, it looked more bronze than brown. “This skin too brown to pass, and I think I am not one for being any more, or less, than I am. Nah,
cherie
. I be happy in my own skin.” Their gazes held and Lenobia tried to tell him with a look all that she was beginning to wish—all that she was beginning to want. “I see a storm in those gray eyes of yours,
cherie
. You leave that storm be. You strong, you. But not strong enough to change the way the world think—the way the world believe.”

Lenobia didn’t reply until she’d opened the little half door and exited the Percherons’ stall. She went to Martin, smoothed her skirt, and then looked up into his eyes. “Even the New World?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“
Cherie,
we do not speak of it, but I know you one of the
fille à la casquette
. You promised to a great man. That true,
cherie
?”

“It is true. His name is Thinton de Silegne,” she said. “He is a name with no face—no body—no heart.”

“He a name with land, though,
cherie
. I know his name and his land. His plantation, the Houmas, is like paradise.”

“It is not paradise I want, Martin. It is only y—”

“No!” He stopped her, pressing a finger against her lips. “You cannot speak it, you. My heart, he is strong, but not strong enough to fight your words.”

Lenobia took his hand from her lips and held it in hers. It felt warm and rough, like there was nothing he couldn’t defeat or defend with that hand. “I only ask that your heart listen.”