Page 1 of Reflections of Silence

CHAPTER ONE

GISELLA

1735

My first impression of a fledgling New Orleans was uninspiring. Considering my impending marriage, and my new home, I hoped the locale wouldn’t be indicative of my new lifestyle. As filthy and crowded as the Parisian docks might have been, they retained an air of elegance, of civilization beneath the thick layer of grime andla putethat overpopulated such a place.

Here, mud covered everything. Crud, muck, and sludge, hid beneath another layer of the brown goop. I pressed worn boots into the hard deck of the boat, relishing the relative sturdiness of the surface as passengers left us at other ports, wobbling away on their sea legs. They struggled to keep themselves upright, and that was on solid ground.

While ship life had been my existence these last months, the thought of being back on land was a welcome one. Though my feet were content with their current placement, my legs quivered, brain and nerves warring in a silent battle.

I hoped whole-heartedly I wouldn’t be the exception of my fellow passengers, and find myself on my derriere in the slush.

Sweat tickled my throat, pooling around the neckline of my dress, and ran unceremoniously into the small of my back. The other girls who had traveled with me from Paris—all for the same reason—didn’t appear as discomforted.

Or maybe they hid their emotions better. That had never been a strong point for me, much to my father’s disdain. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he shipped me halfway around the world in order to be rid of the daughter he no longer wanted.

It wasn’t even a good offer. The king’s coffers weren’t what they had been in the reign of Louis XIV, by any means.

I resisted the urge to swish my tattered parasol through the cloud of insects determined to devour every inch of exposed skin, resolved to present a calm face to the first moments of my new home. The swarm of tiny gnats and jeweled beetles ignored my intentions, nibbling away at the buffet my pale skin afforded them.

I had an inkling I was overdressed but also underprepared for my new life. Though when I only owned a single, well-worn dress, there weren’t many options. Like most of the girls I traveled alongside, I left my homeland wearing my dress, my little casket tucked beneath my arm.

My father had placed me in an abbey, under the care of nuns—no more than a glorified orphanage for the unwanted and unloved—when my mother passed. His madness devolved into a violent thing, and I had been glad to leave the luxurious life I’d been born into.

Then, along with our government and other families in need of funds, my father had sold me as asuitable wifeto a man I didn’t know, in a country where I had no associations or family of any kind.

Bringing culture to the poor shores of the new land.

Or some such rubbish the king’s representative uttered when he droned through the official position. I wasn’t the only one who nodded off.

My traveling group became known as the Casket Girls. And I was one of them, headed to a home I’d been allocated. To a husband.

I gripped my little box—a morbid, splinter-ridden affair in the shape of a child’s coffin—until my fingers found new pinpoints to torture me, and tried to focus on the mess before me…not the one to come when I married a man I didn’t know.

The fate of every woman—girl—I traveled alongside.

All but one.

A rumble of chatter rolled over the deck in waves. Sailors, hurtling about in their duties, added a hefty layer of confusion to the commotion. Suddenly, after weeks stuffed into a teapot-sized room, I wanted nothing more than to retreat there, to hide in the dim light, and return to my homeland.

An elbow in my ribs lifted me out of my daze, the cacophony of the ship rushing back to me.

“It’s noisy. And not in the least clean.” Amy, a girl of English descent with an atrocious accent, hovered at my side, lines creasing her face.

I wanted to tell her not to frown, but with her heritage, wrinkles were a forgone conclusion. “What is it you English say—put on a brave face?”

Amy scowled. “Once we get to the manor house, I won’thaveto be brave. I wouldn’t like to have your fate.” Her chin tipped up, though her gaze remained a little wild at the edges. “The house will be clean and fresh, with all my things already there. Not likeyou. Don’t you wonder who he is?”

“Of course.” I stared at the encroaching dock, disregarding the growing nest of worms writhing in my belly. If I ignoredthe sensation, perhaps I would be able to be as brave as I had suggested to Amy.

Though the trip from France had been somewhat calm—as calm as a three-month voyage could be considered—the quarters were a tight fit. Cabins were shared, though my second companion had rarely spoken throughout our shared journey, hiding from the open air of the deck. Over the weeks, she had faded into a pallid, little person who was soon forgotten by the rest of the ship’s occupants.

Though hers was meant to be a single stateroom, the few passenger beds had been overbooked, and I’d been shunted in with her until space became available amongst the other French girls.

Which happened when one dived overboard, clutching her casket stowed full of rocks, leaving her half of the cabin vacant.

I shared Amy’s accommodations for the first part of the trip. An English socialite who missed the parties of her Continental tour, she plied us both with an endless supply of cheap alcohol stashed in her cabin, the cause of many blank nights and headache-ridden mornings.

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