In an effort to ward off the smell, she pressed a bare finger beneath her nose.
I shouldn’t be here. The pier was too close to the Court’s lair. These streets and everything surrounding them were controlled by its shadowy denizens. Never mind that they routinely donated to the church. Never mind that Le Comte de Saint Germain had box seats to the opera and hobnobbed with New Orleans’ best and brightest. The Court brought with them the worst kind of people, those without scruples.
And here Noémie was, waiting alone in the dark, in the thick of their domain.
She touched her throat, her fingers grazing the soft silk there. The color of her ribbon—pale pink, like the petals of a peony—was all the rage right now. Empress Eugénie had first ushered it into fashion not long ago. Now countless young ladies of New Orleans were keen to put their long, swanlike necks on display. Supposedly the gentlemen favored it.
With a bitter smile, Noémie faced out to the water for her final trek along the pier.
Damn her impressive admirer and all his lies. No amount of sweet words or scintillating promises should have drawn Noémie from the safety of her home.
Just as she was about to reach the end of the pier, the thud of solid footsteps resounded behind her. They slowed as they neared, moving at their master’s leisure.
Noémie did not turn immediately, wanting him to know she was angry.
“You kept me waiting a long time,” she said, her voice honeyed.
“My sincerest apologies, mon amour,” he breathed from behind her. “I was caught up at dinner . . . but I left before dessert.”
A smile tugged at Noémie’s lips, her pulse racing. She turned slowly.
No one was there. The pier looked deserted.
She blinked. Her heart skipped about in her chest. Had Noémie dreamed the whole thing? Had the wind played a trick on her? “Where did you—”
“I’m here, my love,” he said in her ear, behind her once more. She gasped. He took her by the hand, his touch cool and steady. Reassuring. A jolt passed down her spine as he nibbled along her earlobe. Shockingly. Teasingly.
Martin would never do such a thing.
She reached back to caress his face, the scruff on his jaw abrading her skin, the blood soaring through her veins. He kissed her fingertips. When she pulled away, her hands were warm. Sticky. Wet.
Stained bright red.
“Je suis désolé,” he murmured an apology.
A horrified scream began to collect in Noémie’s chest.
Her swanlike throat was torn out before she could utter a sound.
The last thing Noémie saw were the stars winking merrily above.
YOUR NAME IS MARCELINE BÉATRICE ROUSSEAU
Seven girls took up residence in the dormitory of the Ursuline convent: Celine; Pippa; the twins from Düsseldorf, Marta and Maria; Anabel, the redhead from Edinburgh; Antonia from Lisbon; and Catherine from Liverpool.
The Catholic Church had sponsored their passage to New Orleans, and in return, these seven young women were expected to help run its attached hospital, teach the young girls who attended school there, and assist in any efforts to raise funds on behalf of the diocese. That is, until the sisters of the convent were able to find appropriate matches for them.
For Celine, the day following their arrival was a day marked by consternation.
A day marked by the choices of others.
More than anything, she did not want the sisters to place her as a teacher. It was such a vaunted position, with so much responsibility. Celine had never been an appropriate role model. She laughed too loudly at bawdy jokes and enjoyed eating at social events at which girls were to be seen rather than sated. She’d never understood the notion. Turn her back on a pain au chocolat? Sacrilege.
But all too expected.
For these reasons, Celine was relieved to learn that Catherine had been a governess for a family of four in Liverpool. The spectacled young woman smiled when told she would essentially be resuming her duties.
Celine would not have minded being placed in the hospital, but Pippa informed her that Marta and Maria had assisted a midwife in Düsseldorf; thusly, they were recruited there along with Antonia, who was an expert in herbs and other natural remedies.
Soon Pippa, Anabel, and Celine found themselves in a shared predicament. All three girls proved difficult to place within the whitewashed walls, as their respective interests did not naturally segue into life at the convent. Anabel possessed a head for figures and a knack for business, neither of which was a quality to admire in a young woman.
Pippa had studied art history most of her life and was an accomplished violinist and painter, but the school already had a teacher specializing in the arts.
Though no one could deny that Celine’s work with ruched silk and delicate Alençon lace was unmatched, it did her no favors here. Knowing how to design gowns for the Parisian elite was not exactly high on the list of achievements at a convent.
Which was why Pippa, Anabel, and Celine were sitting in the shade of Saint Louis Cathedral a week after their arrival, peddling their wares beneath a lace of oak leaves in Jackson Square. Despite the lovely warm day, Celine could not help but feel forlorn. Every place she went, life insisted on confining her.
Perhaps she deserved it. Her sins were many, her pardons few.
On the corner of the square farthest from Celine, beignets were being served alongside steaming cups of café au lait, the scent an intoxicating mixture of butter, sugar, and chicory. At her left, the cathedral’s spires rose into a blue sky offset by the kind of clouds Celine most loved, for they resembled chiffon. To her right sat a row of artists and traders and purveyors of mystical goods, their merchandise positioned along the tines of black iron enclosing the cathedral’s courtyard.
Celine wanted to stroll the lanes and peruse their many offerings. Take in the city’s sights and relish this newfound chance at life. But—as she’d come to realize in the past week—the things she wanted and the things expected of her were like oil and water in a baker’s mixing bowl.
The day the other girls were placed in their respective positions, Pippa, Celine, and Anabel had been instructed to raise money for the expansion of the parish orphanage. They’d devoted the following week to its preparation.
Pippa had painted delicate teacups with religious vignettes, like the time Jesus had turned water to wine or fed a crowd of thousands with nothing but seven loaves and fishes. Anabel had designed their booth and devised the best way to attract people to it. And Celine had embellished small squares of pressed linen with a scalloped edging that mimicked the finest needlepoint lace.
Since their arrival in port last week, none of them had been permitted to attend a parade. Instead, every night—once they’d completed their designated tasks—they were directed to read vespers aloud to each other before retiring to their cells.