Waiting for the Queen (22 page)

Six courtiers and six ladies disembark from the first boat, their expressions as strained as ours must have been last autumn. The ladies totter and have to be steadied, as we were. Then I see a vision so wonderful, so unexpected, joy overcomes all thought. Amelia! My cousin and dearest friend! I cannot restrain myself. Sylvette and I break from the line and run to her. In my happiness I forget to curtsy but instead grip Amelia so hard about the arms she lurches backward, and we both nearly fall atop Sylvette, circling us wildly.

“Eugenie!” she cries. “What manner of greeting is this?”

“The Queen! Have you come with the Queen, Amelia?”

She catches her breath.
“Non
. All winter we have been in Philadelphia. The vicomte found us a dwelling and there we stayed, since we could not travel until now.”

“Philadelphia? Have you at least had word of the Queen?”

“We heard that she has escaped the
Conciergerie
and is in hiding somewhere, with Marie-Thérèse and Louis-Charles.” Amelia steps farther away from me and regains her dignity.

“And this is certain?” I ask.

“Non
. But we believe it must be true.”

“But Amelia, you do not know it for certain?”

“There was to be a ship waiting offshore, an American
vessel. It was to take them to Southampton, in England, and finally to America. We heard this just before we ourselves left, secretly, of course.”

“But Amelia, if you heard of this plan, perhaps so did her captors.”

“They are stupid people! They will not have heard.”

We stare at one another. I notice how much older she appears. Her beautiful, lion-gold eyes are threaded with red. And under each is a sunken lilac crescent her face powder cannot fill, or mask.

“Eugenie,” she says. “What has happened to you? You look . . . completely different.”

I brush at my cloak, my hair, and see that I have forgotten to put on my gloves. My hands are red! I do not remember powdering my face today, so that must be red, too.

“I? Well, it is quite an amusing story, Amelia—”

But she has turned from me to stare at our settlement, the few trees mere sticks and the only green that of the pines and hemlocks climbing the hillsides and the steep mountain across the river.

“We are to live
here?
” she says.

“Oh, Amelia, I have much to tell you, and you, me.” I link my arm within hers and try not to be sad when she pulls away from me again.

At the riverfront the marquis is speaking with the Vicomte de Noailles, who has also arrived with the flotilla, and then the vicomte tells everyone what Amelia has just told me. Our neat lines dissolve. Workers depart from the landing. Maman and the Comtesse de Sevigny lead Amelia and my aunt Sophie and uncle Chemin to our
petite maison
for Hannah's flummery, cake, and tea. There will have to be
another lottery for the newly finished
maisons
. And Papa may soon have need to practice his joinery skill—if, now, Maman allows.

But Amelia! I hold her arm, steadying her as we walk, though I am trembling too. Will Hannah curtsy to Aunt Sophie and Uncle Chemin? Will they like her cuisine? And how scornful will Aunt Sophie be about her own
petite maison?
She is looking with disapproval upon everything as she walks up our avenue. Her tightly closed mouth forms a horseshoe. Upon reaching our
petite maison
, I step up onto the small porch John Kimbrell has built for us and lean to pull off my boots.

“What are you doing, Eugenie?” Aunt Sophie asks with dreadful censure.

“Eugenie!” Amelia adds. “What
are
those?”

To Maman's exceeding discomfort—and my own—both Aunt Sophie and Amelia study me with intense concentration. It reminds me of Versailles, how we all scrutinized one another, looking for flaws. Aunt Sophie is so beautiful, it has always frightened me to look directly at her, especially when she is looking directly at me. She has a Spaniard's dark hair and brows but fair, luminous skin, and she has always favored brilliant silk gowns to enhance her coloring. Today, her gown is cerise, with matching shoes and a hat with gray feathers. But, really, it is her eyes that unsettle one so. They are gray shading to a hint of blue or silver, depending on the light. With these eyes she regards my boots and then my hot face. I am before a judge never known to pardon anyone.

Attempting a diversion, Maman says, in her brightest tones, “You see what happens in this wilderness? You had best return to Philadelphia at once!”

“One moment, please!” I cry. “You must hear the story of these boots.” I begin to tell how the boots were made by the best joiner at the settlement, and how they helped me save Sylvette from the river.

I may as well not have spoken.
“Laid!”
Aunt Sophie pronounces.
Ugly!
As she steps back to get a better look at me—gown, hair, face—her expression says it as well.
Très laid!

But at least inside our
maison
, Hannah curtsies to each of them and says not a word. Her eyes, though, find mine, and I see fear there. Aunt Sophie ignores her.
Merci, My Lady
. It strikes me that Aunt Sophie is exactly as I was last autumn—incapable of seeing beyond appearances.

By evening my joy at Amelia's arrival has all but eroded when Papa tells us that Monsieur Rouleau, his wife, daughters, and two slaves will depart when the flotilla returns after taking provisions farther upriver.

In a week, perhaps, then.

Soon after dinner, I leave our
maison
on the pretext of giving Sylvette her evening walk and make my way to Hannah's.

Hannah

“Mademoiselle!”

Eugenie puts finger to mouth, hushing me.

Sylvette wishes to get down and sniff at the animals in our shed. I fear a commotion of barking and squawking and who knows what else. I fear John will come in, any moment, and then he does. He stops upon seeing Eugenie standing near Violet's stall—Eugenie in dark cloak, its hood raised. Her face and Sylvette's are as white as John's in the dusk of our shed.

She speaks in short French sentences that John and I do our best to comprehend. Her left hand clutches Sylvette against herself, and her right dances through the air, pantomiming what she is attempting to tell us.

The slaves
.

The forest
.

The skiff
.

The settlement downriver
.

On the air she sketches a round shape and then gestures to her own mouth.

Food
.

She lifts her cloak and mimics throwing it about herself.

Cloaks
.

She points to John and then, with her right hand, makes rowing motions.

John to take them
.

She crouches, head lowered.

Hidden. In the skiff
.

I look to the door connecting this shed to our cabin and pray that Father will stay inside, near the fire.

Sylvette begins whining.

“Hush,
ma petite!
Hush!”

“Quand?”
I ask. When?

She holds up nine fingers. “On the ninth day,” she continues in French, “we hide them. Rouleau goes with boats.”

I explain to John what I take to be the full meaning of her words. The flotilla arrives in nine days. Early on the day of its arrival, we hide Estelle and Alain until the flotilla must necessarily leave.

“What if the rivermen hold the boats for Rouleau?” John asks. “So he can search?”

“They won't hold the boats, will they, John?”

Uncomprehending, mademoiselle looks from one to the other of us.

“They might,” he says. “I wonder if the slaves understand the risk? Can you ask her that?”

I try out several sentences, and Eugenie finally nods. In the next minute she leaves through the shed's pasture door. I sit on the milking stool, my legs no match for the weight of me.

Violet gives a moan, and I stand. John takes the stool and begins the milking while I see to the chickens. What about after the settlement? I ask myself, who will take the slaves farther? Can John? How? Or, can he trust someone else to do that? And where should they go? To our farm? Surely someone will search for them there. Nay. Not our farm, then. But where?

“John, we may have to write a letter they can carry to show folks. A letter telling what they have endured and that
they wish, now, to be free. No matter, I think, if we give their names.”

“Nay, Hannah. No names. A letter in English, though, 'tis a good idea.”

“But if they are sought, there shall be descriptions. And Alain's scars . . .”

“Still, best not to give names.”

“Oh, the nobles will suspect us for certain. And what if the flotilla waits and does not leave with Rouleau at once? Waits so that a search . . .”

“Father said 'tis a high wall to scale.”

“I know not what to do, John. Now, I mean. Before, it seemed possible.”

“Aye.” He pauses in the milking. “Maybe I won't use the skiff, Hannah. Just walk them down. Or, better maybe, upriver.”

“But thy boot prints.”

“Oh. Aye.”

“What if they go by themselves? Alain can row, or even Estelle. Then they can keep going as far as they wish.”

“But they will be seen on the river and accused of stealing the skiff. Also, they need to be hidden by someone. I may have to go to the settlement first and try to arrange it. And, too, the current flows south, yet they should go north. Into New York, then on to Massachusetts. Or even Canada.”

“A terrible hard journey for them. Oh, John, we weave a web to catch ourselves. And maybe them, too.” “But it must be done, aye?”

Before sleep, I go over and over it. And then it is the French Queen I am trying to help escape.

When I open my eyes, I know I have been dreaming.

Eugenie