“If I become an old maid, I doubt it would be your fault,” she replied dryly, but she lowered her feet nevertheless.
“Then whose fault? Not yours,” he insisted, his broom raising motes to float in the shaft of sunlight. “You will make some man a good wife someday, Mam’selle Bryna, but until then I will not sweep beneath your feet, oui?”
“Oui.” Smiling, she rubbed her nose, which itched from the dust. Before she could return to packing her medicines, the puppy began to bark, running forward bravely, then scurrying backward with each stroke of Benoit’s broom. A mischievous grin on his weathered face, the groom gently extended the reach of his broom so the puppy nearly tumbled over himself in his efforts to escape, causing the old man and the girl to dissolve into laughter at his antics.
Their hilarity was interrupted when a voice trumpeted from the stable yard, “I have looked everywhere for you, Bryna Jean-Marie O’Toole. I should have known I would find you here.”
Short, dumpy, and formidable, Sister Françoise strode into the stable, blinking in the dimness. When the girl jumped to her feet to greet her, the nun scolded halfheartedly, “Just look at you. Whatever shall I do with you? You look like a common street urchin, and the Mother Superior wishes to see you at once.”
The puppy, attracted by Sister Françoise’s tapping foot, pounced with a ferocious growl, sinking his teeth into the hem of her habit. Snarling and whining, he crouched low to the ground and tossed his head back and forth, tugging mightily. His short legs pumped rapidly but did little to propel him backward. Abruptly he lost his grip and his footing at the same time and sat down with a surprised yelp.
Struggling to hide a smile, the woman commanded, “Benoit, collar this fearsome beast and let me take Bryna to Mother Veronique.”
Bryna tucked her battered hatbox under one arm and followed obediently. Trotting behind Sister Françoise’s broad, black-clad form, she hastily ran her fingers through her straying curls, then belatedly rubbed her hands together in a vain attempt to remove the dirt from them. Mentally she reviewed her most recent misdeeds, trying to deduce the reason for the summons, but she could not. She had not shirked laundry duty, had not skipped mass, had not stolen away for a solitary swim in the bayou. She had not even lost her temper for nearly two weeks.
When she could stand the curiosity no longer, she asked, “Do you know why Mother Veronique wishes to see me, Sister? She hardly ever sends for me unless—”
“Unless you have done something wrong,” the woman finished for her. Her round face red with exertion, she glanced over her shoulder at the girl. “Do not worry.” She chuckled. “I don’t think she knows about the cup of lard you pirated from the kitchen.”
“It was for a good cause,” Bryna muttered defensively. “I made an ointment for Benoit.”
“You are a thoughtful child,” the nun replied with a warm smile. “So I will tell you what I know. The reverend mother received a letter this morning. She read it, then sent for you.”
Mulling over that information, Bryna scarcely noticed when they crossed the shell-covered drive and approached the Hotel Ste. Anne, the orphanage that had been her home for most of her life. It was a ramshackle three-story building with huge windows and an incongruously ornate front gate. Its walls, constructed of briquettes entre poteaux, or bricks between posts, were in sore need of paint, and the rusting iron fence that surrounded the compound sagged in several spots. The cistern beside the dilapidated laundry shed tilted slightly to one side, and the yard was little more than patches of dusty grass between paths worn by the feet of children.
Chickens scratched in the dirt near the back gate, scattering in alarm as the two women entered. Scolding noisily, a squirrel leapt from the trunk of an old oak tree and darted across a tiny herb garden to disappear around the corner into the crimson bougainvillea that crept up the side of the house. Along the back of the building, a narrow gallery, its wobbly rail draped with an ancient honeysuckle vine, ran the entire length.
“Here, let me take your medicines until after you have talked to the Mother Superior,” Sister Françoise instructed, taking the hatbox in careful hands. “Then you can tell me what all the excitement is about. Do not fear, cher,” she said, using the more familiar form of the endearment, “but do not make her wait any longer.”
Reluctantly Bryna smoothed her skirt and mounted the rickety wooden stairs. Stopping before Mother Veronique’s closed door, she faltered, her hand lifted to knock. Behind her, a bee droned lazily among the pale yellow honeysuckle blossoms, and from the side yard she could hear the laughter of the children. Certain she was about to be chastised for some forgotten sin, she rapped lightly.
“Entrez.” A gaunt, stooped figure in black, Mother Veronique stood at the window overlooking the play yard.
“You wished to see me, Mother Superior?” Bryna stood poised warily in the doorway.
The old woman turned, her dark eyes taking in her ward’s appearance, and a ghost of a smile crept across her withered face. Bryna was lovely, mannerly, well educated, and nearly grown, Mother Veronique thought affectionately. Yet here she was as she had been so many times in the past. Her dark hair with its hidden lights of auburn tumbled around her shoulders. She wore a rumpled, grass-stained skirt, a smudge on her cheek, and a ready smile. God forgive anyone who tried to break her dauntless will and bright spirit.
“Bonjour, chère.” She gestured toward a chair and Bryna obligingly took a seat. Sitting down across from her, Mother Veronique hesitated a moment, then delicately cleared her throat and said, “I have today received a letter, Bryna, from your father.”
“Oui.” The girl nodded expressionlessly. Stipends for her support arrived regularly from the father she had never known.
“He, er, he sends money and requests that you join him. We are to book passage for you on the first ship to Tangier or Gibraltar.”
“Join him?” Bryna repeated incredulously. “After all these years? I will not.”
“I fear you must.” the old woman said sadly.
“Why?” Hurt and resentment caused the girl’s voice to rise. “In all the years since my mother died, he never came for me. Why should I go to him now? Why would you send me?”
“I must. He wants you with him and I do not have the right to keep you, chère,” the Mother Superior replied wearily.
“Who has a better right?” Bryna exploded. Her blue eyes flashing, she jumped from her chair and began to pace the small room. “You and Sister Françoise are my family, my only family since Blaine O’Toole deserted my mother.”
“He did not desert Catherine, chère. Monsieur O’Toole was a professional soldier—”
“You mean a mercenary?”
“A mercenary, if you wish,” the old woman conceded, expelling her breath in a puff, ‘‘but he was ready to give up war. Your father is an honorable man, Bryna, and he had one last obligation to fulfill. He could not take Catherine where he had to go. What kind of life would that have been for a genteel Creole girl?”
‘‘What kind of life was it when my grandfather refused to take her in, even when she was ill?” Bryna asked through gritted teeth. “It must have broken her heart to be disowned, to know her child would never be acknowledged by her father. And it was Blaine O’Toole’s fault. He should never have married her.”
“Do not forget, it takes two to make a marriage. I knew your mother well. Catherine loved Blaine enough to give up everything for him, and he loved her. And, though you may not want to believe it, your father loved you. He called you la petite maîtresse, ‘the little mistress,’ because, but for your blue eyes, you were the very image of Catherine, so dark and slender and graceful. I remember the pride in his eyes each time he looked at you.”
“Pride and love are two entirely different things,” the girl interjected hotly.
“He loved you, Bryna,” the nun countered firmly. “I think even now he must love you in his way, and he wishes to show it.”
“He should have shown it l
ong ago.”
Accustomed to Bryna’s temper, which burned white hot in an instant and cooled just as rapidly, the woman was still taken aback by her vehemence.
Kneeling beside Mother Veronique, the girl entreated, “Please, Mother Superior, Hotel Ste. Anne is my home. Let me stay with you and I promise I will not be a bother.”
“You have never been a bother, chère,” Mother Veronique murmured in a voice choked with emotion. “You know I have prayed about it for some time now, my dear, but the answer is always the same. There is no room here. The orphanage continues to grow. We have known for a year or more that you must soon leave us.”
“Unless I take the veil,” the girl corrected desperately.
“Bryna, Bryna.” The old nun shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. “You do not have the calling. You have said so yourself.”
“There are other things I could do. I have a little money I have saved from what he has sent me, and I am a passable seamstress. I will take in sewing.”
“You are gentle-born and convent-educated. Life is hard for a woman alone, and your choices are limited. You have no calling to the church, no place in commerce. You do not wish to be a governess, and you have no prospects for marriage in New Orleans. Perhaps this is for the best. I knew and loved your mother, and I believe she would want you to go to your father.”
Bryna buried her face in Mother Veronique’s lap. The coarse fabric of the woman’s habit did not muffle the misery in her voice. “He is a stranger. I do not want to go to him, Mother Superior. What will I do?”
The nun smoothed Bryna’s tousled hair and whispered comfortingly, “Do not cry, my child. Put aside your anger for a moment and listen to me. Though I cannot explain it, I believe this journey is but the first step of the path God has set you on. No one can know what lies ahead, but I think you must make a new life for yourself.”
Bryna lifted a pale, resentful face to her beloved guardian. “I will go,” she stated deliberately, “but I will leave my savings with you, because as soon as I am of age, I will return. Then I will make a new life. I will choose my own family. I’ll love them and they’ll love me. And we will never be apart.”
CHAPTER 2
In a cramped cabin aboard the packet ship Mab, Bryna packed her belongings, moving woodenly between the bureau and her open trunk. A little while ago, the Pillars of Hercules, the mountains that straddled the Straits of Gibraltar, had been sighted. Now the journey, which had appeared frightening and long at first, seemed very short. Soon her old life would be over and her new one would begin. The past was the past, even last night.
“So there ye are, Bryna.” A feminine voice with a distinct Scottish burr interrupted her thoughts.
Straightening with a start, the girl turned to face her cabin-mate. “Aggie, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I canna say I am actually in. There’s scarcely room for two people to sleep in here at the same time, let alone to pack.” Agnes Moore chuckled. “Though I canna say it’s much better on deck wi’ most of the passengers oot and aboot.”
The middle-aged woman’s ample figure filled the doorway. Her pleasant face was pink from sun and wind. Gray-streaked strands of brown hair had been blown from her neat bun and floated on the breeze admitted by the open door. But Aggie’s impressive hat, trimmed lavishly with artificial fruit, did not stir, held in place by a huge bow under her double chin.
“Are ye well, lass?” She regarded her young friend worriedly.
“I am fine,” Bryna replied with a wan smile, hoping Aggie would question her no further.
“When I dinna see ye topside, I feared ye were peaked.” Although she did not voice it, concern thickened her already considerable brogue.
“I was just finishing my packing. You were wise to do it yesterday.”
“Not wise, just experienced,” the older woman insisted modestly. “I hope I dinna forget anything.” She pulled out her ever-present spectacles and peered through them, her nearsighted gaze sweeping the cabin before lighting on Bryna. “Ye’re not still nervous aboot meeting yer father?”
“Perhaps a little.”
“No need to fear, lass. True, Blaine O’Toole is a silver-tongued rascal. And I’ve told ye that he and my Gordon are rivals in the spice trade, but ‘tis a fine, friendly competition. Do nae worry, Bryna. Yer father is a good and fair man.” She nodded for emphasis, causing one of the wax cherries on her hat to slide forward and bob in front of her face.
Absently Aggie batted at the fruit with her lorgnette and concluded, “So leave off wi’ yer worryin’ and come up on deck. ‘Tis a glorious day, and if ye do nae come soon, ye’ll miss all the excitement of landing. Gibraltar is a wondrous place.”
“The captain said we wouldn’t dock for another hour,” Bryna protested, unwilling to leave the cabin yet. “I’ll be up long before then.”
“As ye wish,” Aggie agreed reluctantly. Her hand on the door latch, she paused. “Are ye sure nothing ails ye?”
“Nothing.” Bryna forced her lips to curve in a bright smile. But when the woman turned to leave, she could not keep from blurting, “Aggie, wait! Have you seen Derek ... Lieutenant Ashburn this morning?”
“So that’s it. Naoo, lass, I’ve nae seen him. I tried to warn ye,” she reminded the girl gently, “he’s nae one for good-byes. I daresay flirt and fare-thee-well is more his style.”
“I suppose,” Bryna whispered, certain she would die from misery.
Aggie looked at her shrewdly, but she asked no questions. Instead she cajoled, “Come up soon, lass. We’ll find a good spot near the rail. Perhaps ye might even see some of Gibraltar’s apes. Besides, a bit of fresh air will do ye good.”
Alone in the cabin, the girl tried to collect herself to go out, if only to please Aggie. She had become genuinely fond of the Scotswoman from the moment they’d met on the dock at New Orleans.
How painful the memories of that day were, even now. Bryna and Sister Françoise had waited amid a flurry of farewells as passengers boarded the Mab, a luxurious packet. While Mother Veronique spoke to the captain, nearly all the young wards of Hotel Ste. Anne fidgeted, sweltering in the hot Louisiana sun, eager for the spectacle of the graceful ship’s departure.
Her nearsighted eyes fixed on the ship at the end of the pier, Agnes Moore had marched past them, a massive hatbox dangling from her arm. At first sight she had looked stern and matronly, dressed in a traveling dress of stiff black bombazine, but on her head she had worn an extraordinary fabrication of ribbon and netting, topped by a stuffed bird that seemed to gaze intrepidly forward.
When the woman drew even with the captain and Mother Veronique, her head swiveled under the elaborate hat so the bird seemed to stare at them solemnly. The captain greeted the newcomer immediately with a polite bow and introduced her to the mother superior. After a moment both women, still conversing earnestly, walked toward the waiting girl.
“Chère, I would like you to meet your cabin-mate, Madame Moore.” Speaking in careful English, Mother Veronique gestured toward the woman. “Madame, may I present Mademoiselle Bryna O’Toole. She is traveling to Morocco to join her father.”
“I am pleased to meet yet Miss O’Toole.” Aggie rummaged in her reticule and brought out a lorgnette. Holding the lenses in front of her eyes, she looked the girl over carefully. “Much better. I can see naow. Ah, ye hae yer father’s eyes.”
“You know my father?” Forgetting manners for the moment, Bryna shot up from her curtsey and regarded the woman with surprise.
“Aye, we’re nearly neighbors. My husband owns a shipping business on Gibraltar, and we see Blaine every time he comes over from Tangier. He’s a charmin’ rogue, and I suspect I’ll like the daughter as much as I like the father.” The woman’s plain round face was suddenly transformed by a dazzling smile. Beaming, she folded her eyeglasses and returned them to her bag. “Just call me Aggie, my dear, and I will call you Bryna, if ye do nae mind.”
“Please do,” Bryna said promptly, warme
d by Aggie’s magnificent smile.
“Do nae worry aboot Bryna, Reverend Mother,” the Scotswoman reassured Mother Veronique. “I’ll watch oer her as if she were one of my own, and we’ll get word to her father the moment we land.”
“Merci,” the nun murmured gratefully, glad Bryna had already found a friend and a chaperone.
Turning to the girl, Aggie added, “I look forward to sharing a cabin wi’ ye, lass. Olivia, my next to the youngest, just married a young man here in Louisiana, and I dreaded the long, lonely trip home. I hae five living children, all of them daughters. My youngest, Cassie, is in Scotland visiting family, so I’m traveling alone, and I dinna ken what I would do withoot a bit of youthful companionship.”
“Merci beaucoup, Madame Moore.” Bryna felt a rush of gratitude for the woman’s kindness.
“Aggie, dear, Aggie.”
Efficiently the woman recruited a porter to carry their baggage, then considerately waited nearby as the girl bade farewell to the only family she had ever known.
As the Mississippi’s current took the Mab downriver, the children jumped up and down on the dock and cheered. Bryna stood with Aggie at the railing, waving until the ship rounded a bend and the city disappeared from view. Then she stood still, looking out at the verdant riverbank, tears blurring her vision. Lovingly she fingered the locket she wore around her neck, a parting gift from Mother Veronique, which contained faded pictures of her parents and a lock of her mother’s black hair. She would treasure it forever.
At last her new friend stirred and patted her on the shoulder. “Come, let’s explore our living quarters, Bryna,” she suggested. “D’ye object to sleepin’ in the top bunk? We face a considerable problem, ye see, gettin’ me into an upper berth.”
“I do not mind.” Drawing a deep breath, the girl squared her shoulders and put on a brave smile. “Yes, let’s explore. I have never seen a ship’s cabin before.”
“Good girl.” The Scotswoman nodded encouragingly. “Ye must always be open to new experiences, for ye ne’er know which might be the greatest adventure of yer life.”
The Bride Price Page 2