Destiny's Daughter by Ruth Ryan Langan

and pitcher, and a small chair draped with a bath sheet. When she was alone, Annalisa undressed and settled into the warm scented water. There had never been such luxuries in the convent. She had learned to wash quickly in cold water, and to dress in the drab uniform of black homespun and stiff white collar and cuffs.
    At a knock on the door, she reached for the sheet to cover herself. When the maid entered, she seemed surprised at Annalisa’s modesty. Recovering her composure, she said timidly, "Miss Hattie Lee sent me to wash your hair."
    Noting the basin of warm water in her hands, Annalisa nodded shyly. What, she wondered, would she do about her nakedness?
    The problem was settled for her. The maid set the basin on a small table and took the sheet from Annalisa’s hands. Draping it casually across a chair, she unpinned the dark tresses and brushed them vigorously. With her hands on Annalisa’s shoulders, she urged her lower into the tub, until her head was resting against the rim. Rubbing lilac-scented soap into her hair, she lathered gently, then rinsed. Annalisa released a sigh and allowed the tension to drain from her neck and shoulders. Such elegance. She had never known anything as soothing as this. When the maid began lathering her hair again, she gave in to the relaxing comfort, allowing the ministrations to ease her stiffness. Though she was certain Sister Marie Therese would condemn such decadence, Annalisa decided to savor it, if only for the moment. This afternoon she would write to the sisters, telling them when to expect her return. But for the brief time she had left, she would enjoy the comforts of her mother’s home.
    When she was once more alone, she dried herself with the soft bath sheet and dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for her by the maid. At a knock on the door, she admitted another maid with a breakfast tray. While she nibbled a freshly baked croissant and sipped rich strong coffee laced with cream, she arranged her thick hair into a prim knot at her nape. By the time she descended the stairs and entered the pallor, she felt ready to face the rigors of the day.
    The first to greet her was Gabrielle, the stunning Creole woman she had met on her arrival. Placing a comforting arm around Annalisa’s shoulders, she murmured words of sympathy, then led her toward a small cluster of women.
    "In your grief, chérie, you have probably forgotten the introductions made earlier." Indicating a fair-skinned Negress, she said, "This is Eulalie."
    "My sympathy on the death of Mrs. Sara," the young woman said in the warmest voice Annalisa had ever heard. It was lilting, musical, and it suited the delicate woman whose kinky, marigold-colored hair had been cropped very close to her head. Her eyes were large and dark, with long spiky lashes. Her gamine face was open and friendly. Though her skin was much paler than Annalisa’s, her nose was small and flat, her lower lip wide, sensual. Her somber gown revealed a tiny, perfectly sculpted figure, with high, firm breasts and clearly defined hips that needed no bustle for emphasis.
    "I, too, would like to offer my condolences on the death of your mother," said a young woman who stepped forward.
    "This is Francine," Gabrielle said.
    As Annalisa took her proffered hand, she was astonished at the firm handshake. The woman was tall, nearly a foot taller than Annalisa’s tiny frame, and shapely, with the regal bearing of a queen. Pale yellow hair was piled atop her head with jet combs. A blue black feather draped elegantly across one brow. Her dark gown was trimmed with an elaborate feather boa. Even in mourning clothes, she was stunning and fashionable.
    "And this is Delia," Gabrielle said, turning toward a small, waif like girl wearing a high-necked gown of black watered silk. Her sable brown hair had been cut very short, like a cap of curls that bounced with each movement of her head. Her eyes were the color of spring violets. In her hand was an ornate