Obscurity

Chapter 1

The brewing melancholy outside seemed to quiet as the cloaked man escorted the young woman into the estate — the night sinking its teeth into their skin as they followed the abbess down narrow corridors, through winding passages, and up creaking staircases, a single candle lighting their way through that perfect stillness.

Hushed voices followed them where they walked, whispered prayers lost from the mouths of the nuns who kept vigil, their words wandering against the walls until they could be heard no longer. At last, a heavy wooden door sealed them in silence as they found themselves in the bedchambers of the baron of the estate — the air shrouded with infection and sickness.

A large four-poster bed, Gothic in its carving, was draped with a red velvet canopy and laden with red velvet quilts — the man beneath them tortured by the weight of his own demise. Blackened veins coursed through his pale complexion, his face was contorted in agony, and his blood seeped into his sheets from some unseen ailment.

The woman knelt by his bedside, removing her silk gloves that he might take her hands. His lips were rough, calloused with the dread of the dead, his breath hollow as the air in an ancient crypt. With that stale kiss upon her hand, she bowed her head in penitent prayer by his bedside, that his soul might seek rest, and her own absolution.

The evening prior, that same woman sat in the private quarters of the cloaked man's ship, anchored just beyond the shores of the port de Nouvelle-Orléans. He poured a glass of eau de vie for his guest as the candlesticks dripped to their ends between them.

The woman studied his face over the flickering light as they sipped lower into their glasses, the evening slipping away with the last dregs of their spirits. At one time, she imagined, the captain might have been a young gentleman, living his life in Paris and readying himself for a life at sea. Perhaps he was ambitious. Perhaps he was desirous of increasing his stature by working his way through the ranks until those around him, at last, called him captain. Perhaps he had intended for his life to be one of prestige and reverence.

She wondered what had turned him from honest work to dishonest work. From the merchant sailor who imported fine silks for her parents' textiles business to the opportunist who had since sailed her across the seas. Had it only been the times and the inability to make a living from a country on the brink of revolution?

Perhaps he wondered the same about her. How a Comtesse of noble birth and marriage came to flee France aboard the ship of a privateer — without the benefit of her husband to escort her or her wealth to support her. Perhaps they were both escaping some forlorn past, she thought, and hoping for a more favorable future.

"I have been working with your family since I was ten years of age," he began, as if able to determine the contents of her mind from the contents of her eyes. "At the time, the business was my father's and I his first mate. And if you're wondering how long I've been in the business of privateering, the answer is about five years less than that."

He poured them each a second glass of eau de vie before continuing.

"Your parents were honest traders, at first. Just as we were honest merchants, at first. Together we had big plans. Plans that would see your parents successful traders and myself, one day, a successful captain.

"As a young man, I dreamed not of wealth but of adventure. I heard tales of exotic lands where a woman's skin was as dark as the night sky, where vines grew unruly and untamed, and where wild hunters prowled the jungle. I heard tales of bloodthirsty predators, of creatures living beneath the swamps prepared to eat the spirits of those who trespassed in their murk."

"Is it true?" the Comtesse asked, fascinated despite herself.

"All of it and more. But I also learned the way of the world and I saw the dishonesty in it. A steadfast merchant such as myself did not stand a chance against someone less virtuous than I. Whatever I bought or sold could so easily be stolen once aboard the ship. I returned to France often enough without a cent to my name and with a crew sick and dying of fever.