Waiting for the Queen (10 page)

'Tis no wonder they be ill, living in that hut of sticks, with winter nigh!

Well, Estelle doesn't look sick in the least, and she makes fine company. The work is cheerier and goes faster. Emmeline Cooper, Mary Worthington, Rachel Stalk, and the new hired girls are too busy with their own duties for the French to be any sort of company, even on First Day. So it is most good to have Estelle here, on these early darkening days.

And 'tis a lesson, too, how she has forgiven us for causing those whippings. I have yet to be able to forgive Mr. Rouleau.

After we carry out the last loaf to cool on the long board, Estelle suddenly curtsies to me and says, “
Merci
, mademoiselle!”

Because we have been laughing so much at little things—a tree full of crows, the baby chipmunk on the window ledge wanting our bread—I forget myself and take a few steps backward and bend my knees. It throws me off balance and I teeter like some rickety pole.

We laugh and repeat the fun. But then there is Mademoiselle de La Roque, coming across the uppermost crossroad. She has a clear view of our antics.

“Estelle!” I whisper. But Estelle is again curtsying and laughing.
“Non, non!”
I say. Estelle goes still. Mademoiselle La Roque passes in silence.

It will go harder on Estelle than on me. I shake my head in apology. Inside, I am trembling so, I drop the wooden rising bowl. But somehow it doesn't crack. A while later, when we are filling baskets with the bread, Estelle turns slowly and stares at me, her eyes widely open.

“Qu'est ce que?”
I whisper. What is it?

She blinks, and then I see Mademoiselle de La Roque standing in our open doorway, with her dog. Its tail wags as the dog looks directly at me, awaiting another bone. I cannot move.

Estelle turns to her and curtsies. Mademoiselle gives her a hard look, but then regards the bread.

“What is it?” I whisper again in French. Estelle can tell me nothing. She has become a statue.

Mademoiselle sweeps one gloved hand through the air and points to the hearth's oven. Estelle stands there, not even blinking.

“Dost thou wish a loaf of bread?” I ask in poor French she does not seem to understand. So I take one of the loaves and offer it to her.

She steps backward, her eyes going round. Then she makes another dancelike motion with her hands.

“Estelle!” I say.
“Qu'est ce que!”

Estelle gestures toward mademoiselle.
“Faim!”

Fam? What is fam?

Mademoiselle pantomimes eating.

Hungry!

I quickly slice one of the loaves and spread butter upon the pieces. I offer mademoiselle one. The bread is still warm. But she takes another step backward, her eyes even larger. Estelle finally returns to life and has the good sense to motion her to the table. Then Estelle holds Father's armchair out for her and takes a plate from the cupboard, which she sets before her. I keep slicing and buttering bread. I know not what else to do.

Mademoiselle removes her gloves.
“Merci!”
she says in musical tones. The little dog sits close beside her, and she feeds it a piece of the bread.

I am tired from the day's work and go to sit down, but mademoiselle shouts
Non, non
, and quite a bit more in French. I look to Estelle. She is of no help, standing well away from the table, clasping her elbows and hunching her shoulders.

I remember the whippings, the hut. Anger shakes me up and down and every which way. I go to Estelle and lead her to the table. “Thou must sit,” I say. Estelle at first allows herself to be led—she is used to following orders. But when we near the table, she balks like a scared lamb. Mademoiselle takes all this in and I know that we are going to be punished.

So be it, Hannah
.

Since Estelle won't come to the table, I carry John's chair to her. But she will not sit, not even farther from the table. Mademoiselle stares at us. So does her little dog. I take our third chair and position it nearly in the center of the room
and sit down alongside the empty chair Estelle is hanging onto.

Oh, Hannah, she will think thou art mad
.

But mademoiselle only takes another piece of bread and quickly eats it.

“Délicieux!”

Estelle is shaking even while holding onto the chair back with both hands. Mademoiselle eats yet another piece of bread. My face feels numb. There's movement out on the road, a flash of color. Mr. La Roque, come looking for his daughter?

No. 'Tis the sour young Frenchman. I quickly look down, hoping he won't notice our open door, but he comes within three paces and stops. Mademoiselle does not see him; her back is to the door. I await the worst tongue-lashing yet, but he only turns away and keeps walking.

Was he looking for her? If so, why not address her? Is it because she is in our house?

Estelle quietly lets forth her breath. We await mademoiselle's next command, but she just looks at the loaf of bread on the table.

I go back to the table and cut several more slices and then butter each. I pour her a cup of black tea. Then I return to my chair in the center of the room and sit.

Finally she stands, shakes out her gown, and gathers her dog up into her arms.
“Merci
, Hannah Kimbrell,” she says, walking out into sunlight.

Merci, Hannah Kimbrell. Merci, Hannah Kimbrell. Merci, Hannah . . .

The words won't leave.

Estelle places her hand over her heart to show me how frightened she was—and probably still is. But I'm only hearing that
Merci, Hannah Kimbrell
.

A chiming bell.

Tonight, as Father, John, and I reflect upon the day, I find myself thinking about Estelle. Except for our language and the color of our skin, I do not see where we are different. She knows how to make bread; I know how to make bread. She likes our mild sunshine; I like it. She laughs at amusing things, and so do I. She loves her family; I love my family. Only, I am free and she is a slave. Why? 'Tis neither just nor understandable.

And here's another puzzle. The Rouleau young ladies. Yesterday one of them curtsied to a noble lady, but the noble lady did not address her or curtsy in return. She just continued on her way with nary a glance at the Rouleau young lady. Had the noble lady looked, she would have seen a face all hurt and not-wanting-to cry. The Rouleau young lady will not talk to us, and not a one of the nobles will talk to
her
. What sense does this make? Naught. What way is this for people to live? Foolish and wasteful and sad, to my thought. A ruination of the day's joy. And since I seem bent upon puzzles this evening, here are yet others. What led Mademoiselle La Roque to write to me about the slaves being whipped? And why did she come to our house today?

Here. At our table. A French noble! A vision filling me not with fear but warmth.

Eugenie

“It was a mistake to even go near that place. Never do so again!”

“But Maman . . .”

“You are lonely. I understand. Soon,
chérie
, the Queen will be here. Marie Antoinette with Marie-Thérèse and Louis-Charles! Perhaps you and Madame Royale, the
princesse
, shall grow closer here. Imagine! And one day you may even have the great honor of serving as a lady of honor, as I myself did. Think of it! Marie Antoinette will come, and we must be ready to receive her.
La Grande Maison
will glow.”

“Maman? What if the Queen scorns the house? It is not so grand, you know. Hardly a Versailles. It is merely . . . a large log
maison
.”

Maman draws back her shoulders. She raises her chin. “Au contraire,
chérie
. For now, it is a symbol and shall stand for the thing itself until we are able to return—together. And until then, we shall have this!”

Holding a bit of her gown between two fingertips, Maman gracefully begins a minuet. She is so beautiful, she gives light to our
petite maison
. But then I gaze out our one window and see Kimbrell fils bringing wood to the Aversilles. In better clothing and finely made wig, he might be considered
élégant
by the most discerning of ladies. Educate him in the art of the bon mot, in dance,
boules
, cards, and the proper etiquette, of course, and he would fit in well at Versailles. His sanguine
complexion speaks of good health and vigor. The eyes, of quick wit. But there he is instead, by some act of Providence, delivering firewood to French nobles improbably confined to this wilderness.

Through discreet inquiry I've learned that his Christian name is John. There was, I believe, an English king by that name.

“What are you looking at, Eugenie?”

“Nothing, Maman. The day.”

“Come here, then. I must dress your hair. The Du Valliers visit this evening. I hardly know what to serve them. We must get another servant! And how shall we all fit in this room?
Mon Dieu!”

“Maman? Why is rank necessary?”

“Rank? Our Lord Himself bestows power upon our kings and queens, and they upon us. It has always been thus.”

“Our Lord . . . in his human form . . . He was a common man, was he not? His disciples, fishermen?”

“You have been talking with Americans!”

“
Non
, Maman. Just . . . thinking.”

“Then you must stop. We have not come through all we have to simply throw away our titles now. Our very identities. We are who we are and must be, Eugenie. It is ordained. Surely you understand that.”

“I . . . do, Maman.”

“
Bon
. Now. What shall you wear this evening, for the Du Valliers?”

“Anything you wish.”

“Eugenie! Show some enthusiasm, please.”

“Maman? I miss my Henriette. Do you think she is . . . still alive?”

“She is still alive, Eugenie. Bernard is caring for her.”

“Do you think so? Really think so?”

Maman sighs. “You must wear your yellow gown tonight. It is festive. Hopeful.”

“Henriette looked so sad, Maman, when I ran to the stable for the last time.”

“And endangered all of us. You will wear your necklace tonight, Eugenie. Grand-mere's diamonds may divert attention from the cuisine.”

“I wish . . .”

“What do you wish,
ma chérie?
”

“That I might ride one of those horses. Out there.”

Maman looks through the window. “They are but work horses.”

“
Oui
, yet beautiful.”

“You are becoming as troublesome as your father. We must take care or the Du Valliers may think better of an alliance with our family. Florentine saw you with a servant and a slave today. I pray he will not relay this to his parents, but no doubt he will.”

“No doubt.”

These words of Maman's give me an idea.

I look out the window yet again. Kimbrell fils is nearly finished unloading the wagon. Do I imagine that he glances this way from time to time?

“Eugenie. Come! Your hair!”

“
Oui
, Maman.
Oui
.”