Daughters of the King (Completed)

01 | Departure

When Madame Chevalier had gathered the girls in the orphanage together to relay the king's strange request one rainy afternoon, I stepped forward and surprised every living soul in my vicinity.

"Why, Celeste Dubois, do you wish to travel to New France?" My guardian had raised her sparse brows in thinly veiled disbelief. Madame Chevalier never expressed surprise or any discernible emotion, so to see her do so was startling. "You are the most unruly and spirited child I have ever known. So why should you want to marry and produce children in the New World? Do you think yourself fit to be a wife and mother?"

"There is nothing for me here," I had informed her frankly, though she ought to have already known.

My life was over by then, with no dowry to assure me of a proper marriage and no close kin to provide one. If I had been a man, perhaps then I could have used my talents to forge my own way in the world. But even the most talented and clever of women are worthless without a wealthy husband or family inheritance.

"I shall venture to New France to seek opportunity and fortune."

My guardian's eyes had widened, pale lips curling up in disbelieving amusement. Perhaps she thought I was jesting.

But I spoke in earnest.

"I will permit your passage. However, I do not expect you to last more than a few months. And when you return, you will have to find your own lodgings." Madame Chevalier had sneered, her rotten teeth showing.

"I will not return, for I will find brilliant success in the New World." I had accepted her unspoken challenge.

As I am drawn back to the cool morning, the wind combing through the city and tugging at the edges of my threadbare gown; I board the vessel meant to escort the women to the New World. I do not want to look back, but the song of the city beckons to me like an old lover.

Paris creaks and moves as a great mobile creature, stilts tottering and planks creaking with the constant parade of civilians. Poorly clothed street people hold their frames near the sides of bridges and grand stone buildings, hoping to wrap themselves in the heat emanating from the expensive stone buildings.

In the marketplace behind them, ducks and geese chatter amongst themselves and a horse releases a discontented neigh at the sudden lash of a whip. The squeals of children ring through the air as they thread through throngs of vendors, clergy, prostitutes, servants, rag pickers and brown pools of waste. A peasant woman from the countryside cowers as a crush of leering men surrounds her.

Fog hugs the tops of buildings, curls of smoke from chimneys smothering the sky and casting a bleak, ominous shadow on the once-familiar world I am leaving behind. The famed Seine River is barely visible as it meanders past stilt-tottering terraces and apartments, unleashing its rushing waters somewhere along the English Channel.

I have never appreciated the beauty of the only city I have ever known. I have never pondered the architectural feat of countless stone arches supporting hundreds of homes and businesses above the river. Nor have I noticed the way the sun catches gold, silver and crimson against masterfully made rooftops and horse-drawn carriages as they prance down tree-lined boulevards. Perhaps it is because I am leaving that I am appreciating these things for the first time.

"Mademoiselle, please proceed. You are blocking the entrance." An elderly sailor with impassive grey eyes engulfed by deep-set wrinkles waves a frail hand towards the ladder which dips into the stomach of the ship.

I examine the city one last time before spinning around.

I heave a sigh as I carry my trousseau down the ladder, my heel almost catching on a mutinous piece of wood. Before me, through the winding hallway of the ship, other women carry trousseaus similar to mine—crude wooden boxes decorated in matching blue bows—given to us by our good and gracious king.