Had Lenobia been less distracted, she would have immediately ducked her head, curtseyed, and scampered back to the safety of her quarters. Instead she made a terrible mistake. Lenobia looked up at him.
Their gazes met. “Ah, it is the little mademoiselle who has been so ill all voyage.” He paused and she saw confusion in his dark eyes. He even tilted his head and furrowed his brow as he studied her. “But I thought you were the Baron d’Auvergne’s…” His voice trailed off as his eyes widened in recognition and then understanding.
“Bonjour, Father.” She spoke quickly, ducked her head, curtseyed, and tried to retreat. But it was too late. The Bishop’s hand snaked out and grabbed her arm.
“I know your pretty face, and it is not that of Cecile Marson de La Tour d’Auvergne, daughter of the Baron d’Auvergne.”
“No, please. Let me go, Father.” Lenobia tried to pull away from him, but his hot grip felt stronger than iron.
“I know your pretty, pretty face,” he repeated. His surprise turned to a cruel smile. “You are a daughter of the Baron, but you are his fille de bas. Everyone near the Château de Navarre knows of the succulent little fruit that dropped from the wrong side of the Baron’s tree.”
His bastard daughter … succulent little fruit … wrong side … The words battered her, filling her with dread. Lenobia shook her head back and forth, back and forth. “No, I must return to my quarters. Sister Marie Madeleine will be missing me.”
“As indeed I have been.”
The Bishop and Lenobia were startled by the sound of Sister Marie Madeleine’s commanding voice—he enough that Lenobia was able to pull loose from him and stumble down the hall to the nun.
“What is this about, Father?” Sister Marie Madeleine asked. But before the Bishop could answer her, the nun touched Lenobia’s cheek and said, “Cecile, why are you trembling so? Have you been ill again?”
“You call her Cecile? Are you in on this unholy masquerade?” The Bishop seemed to fill the hallway as he loomed over the two women.
Clearly not intimidated, Sister Marie Madeleine stepped forward, putting herself between Lenobia and the priest. “I have no idea of what you speak, Father, but you are frightening this child.”
“This child is a bastard impostor!” the Bishop roared.
“Father! Have you gone quite mad?” the nun said, drawing back as if he’d struck her.
“Do you know? Is that why you have kept her hidden for the entire voyage?” The Bishop continued to rage. Lenobia could hear the sounds of doors opening behind her and she knew the other girls were coming into the hallway. She could not look at them—she would not look at them. “This is a travesty! I will excommunicate both of you. The Holy Father himself will hear of this!”
Lenobia could see the curious looks the crewmen were giving them as the Bishop’s tirade drew more and more attention. And then, far down the hallway behind the Bishop, Lenobia caught sight of Martin’s startled face and saw that he was coming toward her.
It was terrible enough that Sister Marie Madeleine was standing there, protecting and believing in her. She couldn’t bear it if Martin were somehow pulled into the mess she had made of her life as well.
“No!” Lenobia cried, moving around Sister Marie Madeleine. “I did this on my own. No one knew, no one! Especially not the good Sister.”
“What is it the child has done?” the Commodore asked as he stepped into the hallway, frowning from the Bishop to Lenobia.
The Bishop opened his mouth to shout her sin, but before he could speak, Lenobia confessed. “I am not Cecile Marson de La Tour d’Auvergne. Cecile died the morning the carriage came to take her to Le Havre. I am another daughter of the Baron d’Auvergne—his bastard daughter. I took Cecile’s place without anyone at the château knowing because I wanted a better life for myself.” Lenobia met the nun’s gaze steadily. “I am sorry I lied to you, Sister. Please forgive me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“No, gentlemen, I must insist you leave the girl to me. She is a fille à la casquette, and as such is under the protection of the Ursuline nuns.” Sister Marie Madeleine positioned herself in the doorway to their room, holding the door half closed before her. She had told Lenobia to go immediately to her pallet and then had squared off against the Bishop and the Commodore, who hovered in the hallway. The Bishop was still blustering and red-faced. The Commodore didn’t seem to know how to look—he appeared to vacillate between anger and humor. As the nun spoke, the military man shrugged and said, “Yes, well, she is your charge, Sister.”
“She is a bastard and an impostor!” the Bishop said.
“Bastard she is—impostor she is no more,” the nun said firmly. “She has admitted her sin and asked for forgiveness. Is it not now our job as good Catholics to forgive and help the child find her true path in life?”
“You could not possibly believe I would allow you to marry that little bastard to a nobleman!” said the Bishop.
“And you could not possibly believe I would involve myself in deceit and break my vow of honesty,” the nun countered.
Lenobia thought she could feel the heat of the Bishop’s anger all the way across the room.
“Then what are you going to do with her?” he asked.
“I am going to complete my charge and be certain she arrives in New Orleans safe and chaste. From there it will be up to the Ursuline Council and, of course, the child herself, as to her future.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said the Commodore. “Come, Charles, let us leave the women to women’s dealings. I have a case of excellent port that we have not yet opened. Let us sample it and be sure it has survived the voyage thus far.” Giving the Sister a dismissive nod, he clapped the Bishop on his shoulder before walking away.