One Midnight (ONC 2024) ✔️

Chapter Seven - The Groom

March 1720

I stand in front of the makeshift church the men built when Governor Bienville first staked out this land. Bienville has visited recently; he is a rather strange man, but full of vigor and energy. Has high hopes for the future of La Nouvelle Orleans, but this place is still nothing more than swamp and cypress trees.

He reminds me of those military men from France, with the blank face and icy stare. He looked at us mutinous women the day he visited, I could tell that he did not truly care for our presence there and we were only there out of pure necessity for the men of this outpost.

I do not want to think of what lies ahead the moment I step inside the cypress-wood church. I have already met the man chosen to be my husband — a blacksmith. He has an honorable trade and is a dutiful laborer, but something about the way he looks at me makes me want to turn my cheek away from him.

I do not know what, but I observe something unreadable in his brown eyes. His stance. His words. They are not harsh, but I feel something there that I do not comprehend. Is it because I have seen the worst in people for one decade, or is it the truth that I am cut off from the rest of the world?

A gust of hot, sticky wind that smells like feces overpowers me as I still stand by the church. I know this man waits for me inside and yet I am still here, frozen in place. I wish I had a choice in the matter, that I can be free to live as I please, but I suppose I must embrace my lot in life.

From one form of shackles to the next. I shudder at the thought of it. Being tied to him in this manner. He says that he is one year older than me and we were born in the same neighborhood in Paris. He grew up only a few blocks away from my street. His father was a blacksmith and his maman was a mother to eight children, including him. He was poor like me. So why did a poor blacksmith make the way all the way to this nowhere swamp, filled with alligators and mosquitoes, when he could have had a comfortable life in Paris?

I wonder if our circumstances were different. Would our paths have crossed? Would he have at least become friends? I do not know. Lord, my mind is racing.

I pace around the grounds, running through everything I should do. I close my eyes and try to remember something happy, but there is nothing. All I see is the prison. La Mutine, that God-forsaken ship I want to remove, body and soul, from my life. I dream them in my sleep every night, the women who died one by one, each death harder than the other because we grew to know one another like family with the passing of time. The men at Dauphin Island forcing us away because we are worse than scum of the earth. I try to keep it all out of my mind, but I just cannot. It stays with me like an anvil pressed against my heart. My stomach ties up in knots.

Footsteps. I turn and observe the slender figure of one woman, someone whom I have latched onto since our time at the prison and now. Bernadette Fournier, the older woman who has become both like a sister and mother to me.

"Bernadette," I say, choking my words as tears cascade down my cheek. "I cannot do this."

"I know it is difficult, but this is what our fates are," she says, embracing me. "It is only out of necessity, Marie Antoinette. Remember that. If the men did not need us, we would be free to live our lives the way we wish."

"Why does it have to be this way?" I suck in putrid air. "God, it stinks. My wedding day and it smells like shit everywhere."

Bernadette laughs and embraces me again. "It will be all right, Marie. Go inside. Do your part. He is fearful you have changed your mind, and is becoming irate with impatience. It is not looking pretty."

I nod, my heart dropping. I am a fool to think that Bernadette would talk me out of this. She has been supportive of me since the day we became friends at Salpêtrière, but I know what must do. There is no escaping my fate. I must marry him.

With her arms around mine, she guides me inside the church. There are small windows that bring forth the sunshine. The rays burst forth, the shapes like pale shards scattered all across the church. There are a few women and other men from here watching my every move.

The hastened staccato sound of woodpeckers against cypress trunks frightens me. Their squawks are like coloratura soprani on the operatic stage, jaunting me, laughing at me for the path I now choose for myself.

The women do not smile at me, but I see the pity in their eyes. Sadness that we could not choose the life that we wanted from the beginning.

I take one step, then another. Officer Nicolas Moreau gives me a lazy nod with a sympathetic smile. It comforts me a little, but not enough. I still sense his gaze on me as I continue walking toward the priest and my groom.

The creaking wood groans beneath me, the experience bringing me back to the long months I endured on the ship. I am frozen as I see my future husband looking on at me with wide eyes, expecting me to make another step. I look down at the flimsy bouquet of light pink azaleas whose petals are drooping, caving in on themselves. If I so much breathe on it, the flowers will fly away like limp butterflies.

The priest looks at me with an arched brow, shaking his head as he gestures for me to come hither.

One step. Another. Then another. Oh, God. I cannot do this. I have to turn back. Must do it. Maybe I can swim the Mississippi River? Maybe I can try to get back to Biloxi? Mobile? Who am I kidding? The moment I bring myself into that river, it will be the death of me.

"It is about time," the priest says, his gruff voice like the sound of burning logs. "You understand you have kept us waiting for nearly an hour?" He raises his voice, his skin growing red.

"I am sorry, so very sorry, Father Bernard," I say, gulping against my dry mouth. "I am ready."

I turn to look at my groom. He is strong, muscular arms, chest. Manly. He half smiles, but his eyes are unreadable. Yet he turns away and faces the priest. "Get on with it!" His voice is sharp, almost growling. It makes my stomach turn.

While I want every moment to pass like mélasse.