Waiting for the Queen (16 page)

Non
. She shall not go back. The thought fairly astounds me, coming from I know not where! What is this slave to me? Why do I even dwell upon the matter?

I do not know! I hardly know who I am these days. If not the old Eugenie, then who? Yet something within, now, craves
more
, something more. If Papa can walk off into the woods, these American woods, with their mountain lions and wolves, and return with a tree for us, then surely I, Eugenie Annette Marie de La Roque, can do something noble as well.

Noble?

And is that not who we are, finally?
Nobles?

When we return to our
maison
, we find a finely woven wreath of pine and fir hung upon our door. It is decorated with sprigs of bright red berries. Not holly berries—those I would recognize—but rather some berry clinging to dark thin branches.

“Did you do this, too, Papa?” I ask. “It is most beautiful!”

“Non, chérie
. That is certainly beyond my abilities.”

Maman frowns. “You see what happens in this new land of yours, Philippe?”

“It might be from Talon,
non?
”

“No one else has such a wreath.”

“It is but a small gift.”

“But one of great significance, perhaps.”

Papa laughs. “Ah,
chérie!
You are seeing too much in it, surely.”

“And you, too little,” Maman retorts.

“Well, we shall be the envy of the settlement, I think.”

“I can do without such envy. Remove it.”

“But Charlotte, it is so fine. Even
élégant.”

It is indeed, against the planks of our door—that green, the joyous red. I beg Maman to allow it to remain.

“Come inside!” she says. “It is too cold.”

But she does not say
non
.

John Kimbrell fils, I think. Or Hannah. Possibly both. The thought warms me so that I do not even feel the cold.

Walking with Sylvette later, I hear a staccato jingling of bells and turn. On the avenue behind us, John Kimbrell fils is trotting alongside one of the big Belgian horses. It shakes its great head every so often and seems most pleased with itself. I pick Sylvette up and step nearer to the high bank of snow on one side of the avenue. My feet are wet and cold, and I am sorry for having walked so far. This evening, though, we are to play cards again with Madame de Sevigny and the Du Valliers, and so this afternoon offered the only chance for Sylvette's walk. How tired I am of piquet! I see the cards in my sleep.

So it is most pleasurable to look upon, instead, the great prancing Belgian horse. But it doesn't continue on. It stops, and John Kimbrell bows.

I can only hold Sylvette close and stare.

He gestures toward the horse. It wears, I see now, a blanket in bright colors, held on by a wide girth. There is a bough of fir tied to the horse's bridle, along with three brass bells. John goes to the side of the horse and weaves his gloved fingers together, making a step for me.

Despite all my misgivings, Sylvette and I are soon high
atop the great horse. Its back is so wide and long it seems that we rest upon a warm settee.

Majestically, we proceed up the avenue. I feel most queenly! Surely when Marie Antoinette does come, she will adore riding upon this wondrous horse, now walking so gently and smoothly.

Abbé La Barre steps out of his
maison
to wave. So does Duc d'Aversille. And so does the entire Du Vallier family. Heat rushes to my face, but I call out,
“Bon matin, bon matin!”
The Du Valliers simply gape. John Kimbrell, I realize, has unwittingly given me another gift.

He glances back at times, making certain we are still secure on our high perch. Too soon, we approach my
maison
, but John turns the horse onto a crossroad, and then another avenue, and then a different crossroad so that we have, yet, some distance to go. I consider asking him to stop so that I may walk the rest of the way. But we have been seen. And there is Florentine, coming to relay this scandal, no doubt.

Ah, Eugenie, how complicated! A mere ride upon a horse!

“Maman, Papa!” I cry as Papa helps me dismount. “My shoes became so wet, I could not resist Monsieur Kimbrell's kind offer of a ride upon this beautiful horse. Is he not wonderful?”

“Which does she mean?” Florentine says. “Man or beast?”

My heated face stings.

“Eugenie,” Maman says, “come inside, please.” I quickly turn back to smile at John Kimbrell before entering our
maison
, all but holding my breath. But Maman will not scold me in front of Florentine. She offers our guest tea. I change my shoes and then must sit at the table with them and suffer
Florentine's scowl when he thinks Maman and Papa will not see.

Hypocrite!

Later, the storm.

“Eugenie, you risk your future! . . . Eugenie, the Du Valliers are most concerned about your behavior! . . . Eugenie, do not act so impulsively again, I beg you!”

Eugenie . . . Eugenie . . .
Eugenie
. . . While Papa remains thoughtful.

In my heart I ask forgiveness of Maman. It was necessary, I want to say, but know that this will hurt her too much.

My punishment—a night of piquet with the censorious Du Valliers, and poor Maman valiantly trying to charm them back.

Hannah

“Estelle! What is it?” I say in French and draw her into our cabin. She falls to her knees. Her head drops forward into her hands. Then she lies curled on her side, shivering.

“Estelle! Thou art ill!”

She is so slight 'tis nothing to carry her to my cot and remove the rags from her icy feet. I feel her brow. 'Tis hot. After reviving her with a cool cloth, I help her drink a cup of water before covering her. Then I must go back to my work at the hearth, turning the spit and basting the turkey in our roasting oven. Finally, I remove two apple tarts from the hearth's oven. Even from the distance of the hearth I can hear Estelle's teeth clattering against one another. But I cannot build up the fire any further without risk to my roasting turkey, so I take a heavy quilt from Father's bed and one from John's and put them atop those covering Estelle. I scoop embers into two warming pans and place them under the quilts, near her feet.

A harsh knocking, then, at the door. I go to open it, but Mr. Rouleau pushes it open himself. “Is she here?” he asks in French.

I stand dumfounded, not wanting to lie, yet wanting to.

He points to the footprints in snow. I tell him, in French, that they are mine. He pushes past me and enters our cabin. While he looks in the storeroom, I nudge the wet rags that
serve as Estelle's boots under my cot. Mr. Rouleau emerges from the storeroom and looks in every corner of our cabin's common room. He glances at each of our cots. I had not drawn the curtain around mine, and my bed looks made. I hold my hand over my heart.

The pies on the table distract him from his search. He points. “Bring us these,” he orders in French. I nod.

“Curtsy!” he orders.

I hesitate, but then do so.

“That's better.”

The La Roques and Aversilles praise the turkey. Instead of a pie, I bring them each a custard with applesauce. Before we have our own meal, I pack baskets with custards, applesauce, bread, cheese, and slices of cooked salt pork. Then, hidden by the woods, I follow my trail around the edge of the clearing to Estelle's shelter near the river. She must have come this way. She would not have wanted to be seen by the French.

“Hoo-hoo!”
I call, a few yards from Estelle and Alain's hut.
“Hoo-hoo-hoo.”
The call of a great horned owl.

I leave the basket on a stump and retreat. The snow is turning a soft blue color, and pink sunset light fills the sky.

At our cabin I give Estelle bread soaked in warm tea, then Father, John, and I take our places at the table. Tonight, on this special night, Father will serve as our Elder. He says grace, and then John stands and says, “God is Love.” John is seated, and I stand and repeat those words—words I have spoken each Christmas night for as long as I can remember. Tonight Mother, Suzanne, Grace, and perhaps even Richard
are saying these same words at the community house, before dinner and hymns. Comforting thought—how we can still be together even while apart.

We begin our simple meal of roasted fowl with potatoes, carrots, and stewed apple, but I cannot eat much. Every limb aches, and I long only to close my eyes. I fear that I shall not be able to visit anyone tomorrow, with Father and John, not if I am ill. They won't want me within a mile. And we are supposed to have our evening meal with the Worthingtons. Well, I shall not go. And they may not want Father and John to come now, either.

After dinner and chores, Father and John go to their cots, and I lie down before the hearth. Sometime later, furious knocking wakes us all.

“Kimbrell!” Marquis Talon shouts. “Open this door!”

Father removes the thick limb from its brackets and opens the door. Two men stand there, the marquis and Mr. Rouleau, who holds a torch. “You must help Monsieur Rouleau search for a runaway slave,” the marquis says in English. “She cannot have gotten far. Call several of your workers and go with monsieur.”

My heart fairly lurches. With torches, they shall see the tracks leading from the salves' shelter to our cabin.

Father stands with his head bowed.

“Hurry, man!” the marquis says.

“Thou needn't search for her tonight,” Father finally says in English. “She is here.” He remains standing there, blocking their way.

The marquis translates these words for Mr. Rouleau, then says, “Why did you not tell Monsieur Rouleau? Do you not
know that you can be severely punished for helping a slave run away?”

“She is not running away. She is ill. When she is well, she shall return to Mr. Rouleau.”

Mr. Rouleau gives Father a terrible look as the marquis translates the words.

“She is pretending!” Mr. Rouleau cries in French. “She is good at that. I should know.”

“Mr. Rouleau, she stayed with thee all through the troubles on thy island. I would not doubt her sincerity or good heart.”

The marquis translates all of this. It does no good.

“We need her,” Mr. Rouleau says. “Her place is with us.”

“She shall remain here until she is well. Look to the others. See if they not be sickly, too. I understand that thou art quite stingy with thy provisions.”

“Kimbrell, you go too far,” the marquis says. “I will not translate that.”

Father shuts the door and bars it.

“Kimbrell!” Mr. Rouleau shouts.
“Kimbrell!”

We look at one another, but Father does not open the door again. After a time, it is quiet.

“If they come to take me, my children . . . leave. Go to the next settlement downriver. Find a way. And then return home when you can.”

“And leave thou, Father?” John says.

“Aye.”

1794

Janvier /
January