Lenobia's Vow (House of Night Novellas #2)(13)

“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.”