Their sounds and scents drew her as the moon drew the tide. There was a surprising amount of light filtering from large rectangular openings in the deck above, and it was easy for Lenobia to make her way around crates and sacks, bushels and barrels, until she was standing before a makeshift stall. Two huge gray heads hung over the half wall, ears pricked attentively in her direction.
“Ooooh! Look at the two of you! You’re exquisite!” Lenobia went to them, moving carefully and not making any silly, abrupt motions that might spook them. But she needn’t have worried. The pair of Percherons seemed as curious about her as she was about them. She held her hands out to them and both began blowing against her palms. She rubbed their broad foreheads and kissed their soft muzzles, giggling girlishly as they lipped her hair.
The giggle was what made Lenobia realize the truth—that she was actually feeling a bubble of happiness. And that was something she hadn’t believed she would ever truly feel again. Oh, she would certainly feel the satisfaction and safety that living the life of a legitimate daughter of a baron would bring her. She hoped that she might feel contentment, if not love for Thinton de Silegne, the man she had been fated to marry in Cecile’s place. But happiness? Lenobia hadn’t expected to feel happiness.
She smiled as one of the horses lipped the lace on the sleeve of her dress. “Horses and happiness—they go together,” she told the gelding.
It was while she was standing between the two Percherons, feeling that unexpected bubble of happiness, that a huge black and white cat jumped from the top of the nearest crate and landed with a monstrous thud near her feet.
Lenobia and the Percherons startled. The horses arched their necks and sent the feline wary looks.
“I know,” Lenobia said to them. “I agree with you. That is the biggest cat I have ever seen.”
As if on cue, the cat flopped over onto its back, curled its head around, and blinked innocent green eyes up at Lenobia while rumbling a strange, low rrrrrow.
Lenobia looked at the geldings. They looked at her. She shrugged and said, “Oui, it seems he wants his stomach scratched.” She smiled and reached down.
“I would not do that, you.”
Lenobia pulled her hand back and froze. Heart pounding, she felt trapped and guilty as the man stepped from the shadows. Recognizing Martin, the mulatto who had shown them to their quarters just days before, she breathed a small sigh of relief and tried to look less guilty and more lady-like.
“She seems to want her stomach scratched,” Lenobia said.
“He,” Martin corrected with a wry smile. “Odysseus is using his favorite ruse on you, mademoiselle.” He plucked a long piece of hay from one of the nearby bales of alfalfa and tickled it against the cat’s plump stomach. Odysseus promptly closed on the hay, capturing it and biting it thoroughly before speeding off to disappear among the cargo. “It is his game. He looks harmless to lure you in, and then he attacks.”
“Is he really mean?”
Martin shrugged broad shoulders. “I think not mean that one, just mischievous. But what do I know—I am not a learned gentleman or a great lady.”
Lenobia almost responded automatically, “Neither am I!” Thankfully, Martin continued. “Mademoiselle, this is no place for a lady. You will soil your clothing and muss your hair.” She thought that even though Martin was speaking in a respectful, appropriate manner, there was something about his look—his tone—that was dismissive and patronizing. And that annoyed her. Not because she was supposed to be above his class. Lenobia cared because she was not one of those rich, pampered, snobbish mademoiselles who belittled others and knew nothing about hard work. She was not Cecile Marson de La Tour d’Auvergne.
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?”