Free Pride of the King, The by Amanda Hughes Page B

slender and willowy. She was now a young woman capable of giving and receiving pleasure, and she began to realize the power she had over men. Simone had been aware of this power long before Lauren, and she had used it to manipulate the hired boys back at the convent. Simone was born knowing these things, thought Lauren, and she marveled at how advanced her sister had been.
    Lauren's thoughts were frequently with Simone, and she longed to see her sister again. Many nights she shed tears of loneliness for her twin, struggling to understand why Simone would want to remain buried at the convent when there was a wide world to explore.
    Rene felt as if he knew Simone, Lauren spoke of her so often. He promised to take her to the convent before they left for Paris, and it eased Lauren’s mind to know she would see Simone once more.
    A year passing also meant another convoy journeyed to New Orleans. For months, the wives and mothers felt the strain of waiting and worrying, but today they could put their fears to rest. The convoy was downriver and had returned safe and complete, every bateaux in attendance. The whole town rejoiced and turned out to greet the men.
    "Are you going down to meet the convoy?" asked Madame the afternoon of the arrival.
    She sat in her favorite pink armchair twisting a lace handkerchief anxiously.
    "No, I have no one to welcome," Lauren replied tucking in the sheets and shaking out the pink bed curtains.
    Josephine Aberjon reached over to her nightstand, opened a drawer and pulled out a letter, "Well I do. This is from my son. He is returning home from his studies in Paris, and he will be with the convoy. I need someone to meet him at the docks and escort him home."
    Lauren straightened up staring at Madame with surprise, "I didn't know your son was coming home. Why didn't you tell me?"
    Madame looked down and said, "My son is not a topic we discuss in this house. Jean-Baptist and Claude do not see eye to eye. They never have, and I did not want Jean Baptiste to know of his return until the last minute."
    "I see," said Lauren as she continued to arrange the bed, "You would like me to go now?"
    "Yes, please, dear. Go to the stable and talk to Toussaint. He will get the carriage ready for you."
    Lauren went down to the kitchen, took off her apron and put on her straw hat. Marianne looked up from her cooking and said, "Madame is sending you out?”
    "Yes, I am to pick up her son from the convoy. He has returned from Paris."
    The old woman's jaw dropped. " He has returned. Mon Dieu!"
    "Why has no one told me about him?" asked Lauren.
    "He is not worth talking about," said Marianne, shaking her head. "He is bad for this family. He is bad for us all."
    Lauren stood staring at Marianne, unable to comprehend what she was saying.
    "You better go quickly. He won't want to be kept waiting," the woman warned.
    Toussaint drove the carriage down to the docks, and reluctantly Lauren stepped out into the afternoon sun. It was a lovely autumn day, but she did not notice the colorful leaves or the fresh crispness to the air. The noise and confusion of the docks bombarded her instead. Men loaded barrels onto carts, tearful wives embraced their husbands, children darted in and out playing tag and slaves laboriously unloaded the bateaux. There was shouting and crying, and the noise was deafening. Lauren wrapped her cloak around herself as if it would protect her from harm and stood by Toussaint, trying to stay out of the way.
    "Do you know what he looks like?" she shouted to the old man.
    The slave nodded. He remembered Claude Aberjon too well. He could never forget his face.
    "I'm right here, Toussaint."
    Toussaint turned around, and there stood a tall, thin pimply-faced young man with a cane. When Lauren turned around, his eyebrows shot up. "Well, I see father has refined his tastes."
    "I am Madame Heathstone," said Lauren. "I am your mother’s companion. She has asked me to meet you."
    With a sarcastic sweep of the arm,