Indies. She was ready and willing to be his helpmate throughout the voyage, bound and determined to do whatever she could to make the trip easier for the poor creature.
She was prepared for anything and everything but the rank odor of red wine that tainted the very air around Cordero Moreau. On closer inspection, she could see that his shirtfront was stained with enough wine to drown a rat.
“He’s drunk!” she blurted.
“Not quite ’nuf,” the groom mumbled. “ ’M still standin’.”
Henre Moreau stood to her left. To her right weaved her groom and beside Cordero stood Stephen—or perhaps Anton; she wasn’t certain.
“Please begin, Father Perez.” Henre’s command brooked no argument.
The priest’s bald head glistened with a light sheen of perspiration. Father Perez buried his nose in the open missal in his hands and intoned the words of the wedding ceremony in Latin.
Lost in lingering panic and the utter absurdity of the situation, Celine did not pay close attention until Father Perez put a question to her in English. She hadn’t realized they’d all been awaiting a response.
“Miss O’Hurley?” Henre prodded.
“What?” She glanced around. They were all watching her expectantly. All of them except the groom. Cordero Moreau was hanging on his cousin’s arm, bent double, apparently staring at his boots.
“I’m not Miss O’Hurley,” she reminded them one last time. The effort was in vain.
Father Perez cleared his throat and tried again. “Do you take Cordero Moreau for your wedded husband?”
“Yes. I do.” For a while at least.
“Do you, Cordero Moreau, take—”
Father Perez halted and stared at her, then at Cordero. His gaze shot to Henre Moreau, who was glaring at him. The priest’s cheeks were blotched, either from embarrassment or too much drink. From somewhere inside his cassock he withdrew a handkerchief, wiped his brow, then mopped his bald head. He continued.
“Do you, Cordero Moreau, take … this woman … to be your wife?”
When Cordero failed to answer, the twin nudged him hard enough to send the groom reeling into Celine. With his eyelids half shuttered, Cordero Moreau righted himself but did not answer.
“Do you?” the twin shouted in his ear.
“Sure,” Cordero mumbled.
“The ring?” Father Perez asked. “Does he have one?”
The twin elbowed Cordero again. “Ring?”
“No. No ring.”
She closed her eyes. It was not the wedding that dreams were made of. There was no grand cathedral, no orange blossom bouquet or flowing white veil. No family to wish her well. No love.
There was only a drunken groom and an uncomfortable silence that stretched on and on until Henre Moreau impatiently tapped his cane on the floor.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.” Father Perez snapped the missal shut and waved his hand in the age-old sign of the cross, blessing them.
As an afterthought he mumbled, “God be with you.”
Four
“T he girl’s got spirit. You can say that for her.”
Edward Lang slipped out of his coat and hung it in the standing closet on the side wall of the room he shared with Foster Arnold. Years ago, when they had first arrived with their young charge, Henre Moreau had banished them to one of the former slave quarters in an outbuilding that housed the kitchen. A second room was shared by Peony, the old slave who oversaw the cooking, and her daughter. Moreau obviously thought the two servants would be dismayed by the cramped quarters and lack of privacy. They found the arrangement perfect.
“I think she may be just the wife our Cordero needs.” Foster took off his coat and handed it to Edward, who began to meticulously brush lint off the wool fabric.
Foster had liked the girl on sight, taken as he was by her bohemian looks and spirited quality. He thought the way she kept insisting she was not Jemma O’Hurley was quite humorous, really. She was certainly not at all like any of the fashionable Creole women old Henre might have
She was prepared for anything and everything but the rank odor of red wine that tainted the very air around Cordero Moreau. On closer inspection, she could see that his shirtfront was stained with enough wine to drown a rat.
“He’s drunk!” she blurted.
“Not quite ’nuf,” the groom mumbled. “ ’M still standin’.”
Henre Moreau stood to her left. To her right weaved her groom and beside Cordero stood Stephen—or perhaps Anton; she wasn’t certain.
“Please begin, Father Perez.” Henre’s command brooked no argument.
The priest’s bald head glistened with a light sheen of perspiration. Father Perez buried his nose in the open missal in his hands and intoned the words of the wedding ceremony in Latin.
Lost in lingering panic and the utter absurdity of the situation, Celine did not pay close attention until Father Perez put a question to her in English. She hadn’t realized they’d all been awaiting a response.
“Miss O’Hurley?” Henre prodded.
“What?” She glanced around. They were all watching her expectantly. All of them except the groom. Cordero Moreau was hanging on his cousin’s arm, bent double, apparently staring at his boots.
“I’m not Miss O’Hurley,” she reminded them one last time. The effort was in vain.
Father Perez cleared his throat and tried again. “Do you take Cordero Moreau for your wedded husband?”
“Yes. I do.” For a while at least.
“Do you, Cordero Moreau, take—”
Father Perez halted and stared at her, then at Cordero. His gaze shot to Henre Moreau, who was glaring at him. The priest’s cheeks were blotched, either from embarrassment or too much drink. From somewhere inside his cassock he withdrew a handkerchief, wiped his brow, then mopped his bald head. He continued.
“Do you, Cordero Moreau, take … this woman … to be your wife?”
When Cordero failed to answer, the twin nudged him hard enough to send the groom reeling into Celine. With his eyelids half shuttered, Cordero Moreau righted himself but did not answer.
“Do you?” the twin shouted in his ear.
“Sure,” Cordero mumbled.
“The ring?” Father Perez asked. “Does he have one?”
The twin elbowed Cordero again. “Ring?”
“No. No ring.”
She closed her eyes. It was not the wedding that dreams were made of. There was no grand cathedral, no orange blossom bouquet or flowing white veil. No family to wish her well. No love.
There was only a drunken groom and an uncomfortable silence that stretched on and on until Henre Moreau impatiently tapped his cane on the floor.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.” Father Perez snapped the missal shut and waved his hand in the age-old sign of the cross, blessing them.
As an afterthought he mumbled, “God be with you.”
Four
“T he girl’s got spirit. You can say that for her.”
Edward Lang slipped out of his coat and hung it in the standing closet on the side wall of the room he shared with Foster Arnold. Years ago, when they had first arrived with their young charge, Henre Moreau had banished them to one of the former slave quarters in an outbuilding that housed the kitchen. A second room was shared by Peony, the old slave who oversaw the cooking, and her daughter. Moreau obviously thought the two servants would be dismayed by the cramped quarters and lack of privacy. They found the arrangement perfect.
“I think she may be just the wife our Cordero needs.” Foster took off his coat and handed it to Edward, who began to meticulously brush lint off the wool fabric.
Foster had liked the girl on sight, taken as he was by her bohemian looks and spirited quality. He thought the way she kept insisting she was not Jemma O’Hurley was quite humorous, really. She was certainly not at all like any of the fashionable Creole women old Henre might have
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