Waiting for the Queen (19 page)

“Not well,” she replies in our language. “John, though, is with him now.”

John
. “But why?”

“The marquis ordered it.”

“Then you are all alone?”

“Eugenie,” Maman warns.

When she leaves, Maman scolds me for speaking with
Hannah. Papa comes to my defense and then says, “This affair, Charlotte, reflects badly upon us. I will not be surprised if all the Americans leave, come spring.”

“Let them.”

“Charlotte, Charlotte. They are not our peasants. Do not blame them, I beg you, for what they did not do.”

“Like the slaves, Papa. They do not deserve blame for anything, either.”

Maman stares at me a moment before turning to Papa. “Look what this America is doing to your daughter, Philippe!”

“I see.”

“You must speak to her.”

Later, after Maman falls asleep, he does.

“Ma chérie
, your father is proud of you.”

“Papa! Truly?”

“Truly. You have traveled far.”

It takes me awhile to understand that he does not mean in actual distance.

“What about Hannah?” I whisper. “And Monsieur Kimbrell? And . . . John? Is there anything we can do, Papa?”

“I have approached Talon about the matter but to no avail. He sees it as a test of wills.”

“And Maman. She is so unhappy with me. Papa? I greatly dislike Florentine even though he is one of us. He is reveling in all this.”

“Hush,
ma petite
.”

“But it is true!”

He kisses me on the brow and bids me sleep. The wind is fierce tonight, my poor word
fierce
hardly expressive of its fury. It seems almost sentient as it gathers
itself, becoming greater, ever greater, and then crashes against our
maison
with the force of an avalanche. And it has been snowing so hard! I gather Sylvette close but cannot sleep for thinking of the Kimbrells in their prison and the two slaves in their rude hut.

Morning tames the vicious wind, and Hannah arrives with our breakfast and something else—boots for all of us. It is finally Papa who invites her to speak.

“Who has made these fine boots, Hannah?”

She answers in French. “My father and my brother, comte.”

“They are well made!” He rubs the suede leather, the fringe at the top.

“They are for you, comte, and for madame and mademoiselle.”

“I do not wish to wear boots,” Maman says in our language, except for the word
boots
, which she gives an angry emphasis. “They are for savages.”

“May I wear mine, Maman? Just to take Sylvette outside? It is impossible otherwise, with all this snow.”

“Permit it, Charlotte. We all have had too much of our
petite maison.”

Maman finally permits. More than that, she even smiles, but it is because she is lapsing into memory gain. “Do you know,” she says, “Marie Antoinette loved the snow when she was a child in Austria? Perhaps she will like it here after all.”

“Kimbrell can make her a pair of boots, too,” Papa says, “and you can go off on some mountaineering adventure.”

Maman's smile fades. “If she comes.”

“She shall!” I quickly say. “Won't she, Papa?” I slip on
my boots, delighted by their softness and the fact that my gown nearly hides them from view so Maman won't be too offended.

“She shall indeed come,” Papa says. But I hear something in his voice and quickly regard him. The tone is too emphatic, as if he were speaking to children who need reassurance.

“Come, Sylvette.” I take my cloak. Hannah has left, and we haven't even thanked her.

Outside, I see her on the avenue. At first I take small quick steps. Soon I am running—forgetting everything for a moment but the sudden pleasure of it.

“Hannah!” I say, coming alongside her. I have to catch my breath.
“Merci!”

She smiles a little.

“But why,” I ask, “when we are so . . . uncivil to you?” Does she understand my French? She simply keeps walking toward the
maison
being used as a small prison. I stop and let her go. She must be taking them food.

But no. She merely touches the door with one hand, and waits awhile. Does she try to speak with them? Soon she is walking away, with her pots.

The small prison's window is barred shut on the outside, like its door. A thin line of smoke rises from the chimney. I approach the
maison
and go right up to the door itself. Sylvette barks, announcing our presence.
“Messieurs,”
I say loudly.
“C'est Eugenie de La Roque. Merci! Merci beaucoup!”

There is no response.

Trembling, I step away.

We walk to the river, Sylvette and I. It looks like a field of snow. In the boots, my feet are warm.

1794

Février /
February

Hannah

Here's love by the handful, here's love by the ball. Here's love for the Elders. Here's love for you all
.

Lines from the song come to me almost in mockery. I feel no love except for Father, John, and our family. I do not want to stay here! They won't even let me take Father and John their meals. I fear I am beginning to hate the nobles. They are not noble, but small and stingy and cruel.

This love it flows freely from this little store. To all Mother's children the wilderness o'er
.

Flames on the hearth burn hard and angry, drawn upward by the wind.

I cannot sleep, and then when I do, I cannot awaken, each dawn.

The girls here avoid me, even while we hang linen on the lines strung between sycamores near the river when the drying shed is full. They chatter with one another and pretend I am not there. Have the nobles told them not to speak with me? Are they afraid? Today is sun-filled and mild, with no wind, a day to cheer the heart—only mine cannot be cheered. Estelle approaches with a bucket and fills it from a hole in the river ice. Passing quite close to me with her full bucket, she whispers that she is to leave soon.

“When?” I whisper back. Mary and Rachel are watching us.

She looks out over the ice-and-snow-covered river. “Soon.” Tears hang like little icicles at her eyelashes.

“Back to the plantation?”

“Non
. New Orleans. We will be sold at the slave market there.”

“Sold? This cannot be!”

Her eyes round and she stiffens. I turn. 'Tis Mademoiselle de La Roque, approaching. She walks well, and she looks younger without the white powder on her face.

“Bonjour!”
mademoiselle calls.

The other girls all curtsy. Estelle and I also curtsy, causing the girls to giggle foolishly. My heart feels stony.

“Le Printemps
, Hannah!
Le Printemps est arrive!
” Spring is here!

I look across the river where tree limbs have taken on a red hue.
“Non,”
I say.
“Février.”

'Tis just like her not to care that I shall be the one fined if Madame de La Roque hears of this exchange. Nor does she notice Estelle's unhappiness. She is too busy teasing Sylvette with a branch. Estelle curtsies and begins walking back with her full bucket of water.

Mademoiselle de La Roque looks up.
“Au revoir!”
she calls. Estelle turns and curtsies. She raises a hand to her eyes before hurrying away.

“What is the matter with her?” Mademoiselle de La Roque asks in French.

“She leaves soon,” I reply slowly in French. “She and her brother will be sold in a place called New Orleans.”

“Oh, Hannah!”

“They leave when the river is clear of ice.”

She comes close, despite our audience, and says, “Perhaps we can find some way to help.”

We help them escape? My heartbeat quickens.
Nous
, in French. Does she mean her family will help? Or the nobles? Or—the two of us? But all this I do not know how to say in French.

“We create a plan,” she goes on. “Every escape first begins with a plan.”

“The two of us?”

“Oui!”

The thought fairly sets me shaking. Only at the last minute do I remember to curtsy as she turns to leave.

“Hannah,” she begins, but then does not say anything further.

The stoniness inside has become fear. Who can trust any noble? I think of Father and John in that little prison and tears come again. I cannot put them in more danger, can I? And yet, would not Father want Estelle and Alain to escape from Rouleau?

A word comes to me.
Sanctuary
.

My knees quake yet I am able to run back to our cabin. There I set about making a large apple tart. When it is ready, I carry it to the marquis's
maison
and rap on the door with the stone knocker.

He opens it himself—the marquis!—in a blue velvet frock coat very like General Washington's. A fire burns well on the hearth. Books are upon his table, and inkpot and quill. He has been writing, and I disturb him. Words refuse to form.

“What is this?” he asks, as if I hold some strange creature. “Enter.”

'Tis a very command. I close the door and place the tart upon his table but well away from the books. I nearly forget to curtsy.

“Ah! You are learning your lesson, Hannah Kimbrell. Now tell me. Do you wish to plead for your father and your brother, with this tart?”

I should!

“I forewarn you. It will do no good. They must remain where they are until they learn
their
lesson. And what is their lesson, Hannah?”

“I know not, Marquis Talon.”

“Of course you do. Think.”

My knees are quaking again, and my jaw. “'Tis not to . . . meddle in thy affairs.”

“Indeed. But now I suspect that you are here to do just that.”

Before leaving, I remember to curtsy.

“Wait,” he commands. “I wish to know why you hoped to bribe me with this.” He points to the tart, now scenting the room with cinnamon. “Tell me.”