For the next four weeks Lenobia existed in an odd state that was somewhere between peace, anxiety, happiness and despair. Time played with her. The hours that she sat in her quarters waiting for dusk, then night and then the gloaming of predawn seemed to take an eternity to pass. As soon as the ship slept and she was able to slip out of 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 greys 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, his smile or the sparkle in his olive-coloured eyes and the way he teased her, made her laugh.
"Those greys don't be eating that bred 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 it and then, with surprising delicacy for such big animals, taken the bread, 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.
"Your pere, 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 that 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 greys. 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, Monsieur Rillieux is my father."
"Your father? I thought –"Her words trailed off and Lenobia felt her cheeks getting hot.
"You thought because my skin is brown my pere 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 a 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 also."
"Placage? I do not understand."
Rich white men take women of colour in the marriages de la main gauche."
"Left-handed marriages?"
"It means not real by law, but real for New Orleans. That was my maman, only she died 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 colour. 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 greys; 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 personal than horses, arguing the pros and cons of tail docking and 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 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, carrying the scent of horses and the memory of olive eyes with her throughout the tedium of that long day.
