Waiting for the Queen (28 page)

John and Hannah come to my side, John carrying Sylvette, while Papa tries to comfort Maman. The day's new light dims. I mean to take Sylvette from John but instead grip his arm as I sway forward. Vaguely, I sense Hannah holding my other arm. Somewhere in the distance Florentine is challenging John to a duel, in French. Then I am seeing that fire again, engulfing my Annette, a roil of fire-cloud that swiftly burns everything dark.

I awake in my bed, the curtain open. Maman lies in her bed, Papa sitting alongside it, one hand holding his forehead.

“Papa, how is Maman?”

He merely nods.

“What is the hour?”

He raises five fingers. “In the afternoon.”

I close my eyes again.
Five
.

“Papa, I must go to Hannah and Monsieur Kimbrell. Permit this, please.”

Again he gestures listlessly. Do as you please, he seems to say. What matter, now.

“Papa, it is not Hannah's fault. It was my idea. Let any blame fall upon me, not upon her or Monsieur Kimbrell or John.”

“Oui, oui.”

There is no one at Hannah's
maison
. The joiners must still be working. As for Hannah, she could be anywhere. I walk to another large
maison
being built near
La Grande Maison
. Yes, workers are there. It surprises me to see Alain among them, on a ladder placed against a chimney. He is handing a stone to someone standing on the roof. A platform is braced against the roof and upon it are other stones, a bucket, and tools. The person on the roof kneels and positions the stone on the chimney, removes it, chips at it with a tool, and replaces it. When he takes off his hat to wipe his brow, I see that he is John Kimbrell fils. And approaching just now is Florentine, a wooden case under his left arm.

“Ah! The fair lady observes her prince.”

This time I make no retort, not wanting to goad him. “Florentine, he did not understand you. Why not leave? If you persist and he is killed, they will send you and your family away. Your pistols have already done enough damage.”

He winces. “They will not send me away! It is a point of honor.”

I am nearly too fatigued to go on but force myself to continue. “Florentine, only Hannah heard you. I doubt that she understood your meaning.”

“But you did, mademoiselle. And you are the one who
acted so stupidly, throwing away that necklace for slaves. And you did it because of him.”

“Then perhaps you should duel me.”

“Perhaps I should, but that would be most ungallant, would it not? Therefore, Kimbrell must duel.”

“My lady,” Alain says, after bowing. “Allow me, please, to take Monsieur Kimbrell's place.”

I had not noticed Alain's approach. I raise one hand. “Florentine, they will indeed force you to leave. The marquis and the vicomte will see to it.”

“Not over a mere slave.”

“But he is no longer a slave. He is a free citizen of France. You heard the vicomte. Florentine, you are brave and you fully understand honor, but here in America there is a law prohibiting duels. Papa has been making a study.”

“I do not believe you, mademoiselle.”

“Then you risk imprisonment or even . . .” I pause in my fabrication, gratified to see the oily tracks on Florentine's face. “. . . Execution!”

“Compared to a nobleman, he is nothing.”

“Here, murder is murder. But perhaps you are right. Given your nobility, the authorities may simply choose to send you back to France. Alone.”

An
odeur
rises off Florentine now. Sour. Like spoiled fish.

“A fate perhaps worse than execution,” I continue. “We find this law ludicrous, but there it is. So perhaps it is best to forget this matter as no one heard you but the Kimbrells.”

“He
knows. This so-called free citizen.”

I turn to Alain. “Monsieur, did you hear Du Vallier challenge anyone?”

Alain finally raises his head. “I was . . . mistaken.”

“Bah! Here, villain. Defend that other villain!”

Florentine pushes the open pistol box toward Alain. Alain hesitates, and in that pause, I take up one of the pistols and cock it.

“Mademoiselle is brave!” Florentine cries.

He is wincing again. With outstretched arm, I aim directly at his narrow chest.

“Wait, wait! I cannot—no! Give me the pistol, mademoiselle. Give it to me!”

I do not lower it.

“Mademoiselle!
S'il vous plait
. I cannot . . . shoot you.”

“Then I shall have to shoot you.” I look directly into his eyes. My hand shakes with some awful anger.

“Mademoiselle, do not fire, I beg you.”

His voice quavers like that of a distraught child. I lower the pistol and discharge its ball into the earth.

Florentine steps forward and pulls the pistol from my hand. His pimples gleam.

“You surprise me, mademoiselle, truly.” He offers a stiff bow.

Then John and Alain are at my side. Florentine walks off, his box of pistols under his arm. I can tell by his shoulders that he is unsuccessful in his attempt not to cry.

“I need to sit,” I say in French.

They lead me to a pile of stones and there I rest, seated upon a large stone. After some time, I no longer tremble. The late-afternoon sun is warm on my shoulders and arms. The scent of newly sawn pine, sweet.

Hannah

Tonight I know not how to ask for guidance. What we have done was wrong, yet also right. All has been gained, and all has been lost. Any possible friendship with Eugenie. Eugenie's necklace. The good will between our families. This evening Madame de La Roque would not even look at me when I brought their meal. Her anger filled the cabin.

Into my thoughts comes a verse from the little counting song Madame d'Aversille so loves.

Over in the meadow in a new little hive, lived an old mother Queen bee and her honey bees five. “Hum,” said the mother. “We hum,” said the five. So they hummed and were glad in their new little hive
.

Tonight Madame d'Aversille hummed the melody as if she were one of the little bees, and for a time I forgot my own misery. Now here it is again.

At the knock upon our door, Father rises.

'Tis the vicomte.

Father invites him to enter and sit near the hearth, in the armchair. But the vicomte stops just within the door. In high-crowned hat and flowing wig and purple cloak, he is a frightening figure. I rise and grip my hands before me. John has risen, too. Father backs away from the vicomte, and the three of us stand facing him.

In English he tells us that we must leave the settlement as soon as another flotilla passes. As for our restored
earnings this year, the money will be given to the La Roque family in recompense, however inadequate, for the loss of their irreplaceable family heirloom.

He turns and leaves. We stand there until he is out of view. “Father,” I whisper after closing the door. “Forgive us.”

“There is naught to forgive. Thou and John and Mademoiselle de La Roque have found a way to free two slaves. 'Tis a great thing, Hannah.”

“But our earnings! And our farm!”

Father places a hand on my shoulder. “Your mother will understand, child, as I do. 'Tis our teachings, you know, bearing fruit. Hush now. All will be well.”

As we sit at our table in the quiet, the day's events rush though me like dreams. Rouleau's coil of rope, his pistol. The dark capes. The shots. Eugenie's necklace. Sylvette yelping. The quill pen on the ground. The vicomte there in our doorway.

'Tis like falling in brambles, and thorny canes scraping arms, legs, face.

Heart, too.

But finally the images tire of me and there is only the sound of our fire on the hearth, and the stillness holding it. Then comes a small quiet thought. No one died this day, and Estelle and Alain are free.

Eugenie

“Throw those boots away! She must wash your stockings again. I shall not have the stench of that American leather upon them. Wear your own
souliers.”

“But Maman, it is so muddy now, with this rain, my
souliers
shall be completely ruined.”

“Then do not walk about so. When the Queen—ah, what do I say!”

Maman's brow furrows, her eyes fill, but she collects herself as if from some near fall. “We must show our new King that we have not forgotten who we are, in this wilderness. When the girl arrives, tell her we need more hot water.”

The girl. She
. Maman refuses to say Hannah's name, nor will she allow Papa or I to do so. She is still so angry about the necklace.
Clean that grate and then wash mademoiselle's stockings—the dirt still shows! And when you have finished, you must sweep the floor again. You have brought in mud!

Maman eats Hannah's delicious food willingly enough and then, immediately afterward, is so terribly mean. I am ashamed to even think it, but she reminds me, now, of Rouleau. Poor Hannah accepts it all and goes about her work with her usual grace. When she leaves, Maman cries that I have broken her heart—the precious necklace once worn at the courts of three kings, gone forever! “Of all the losses, this is the worst—no, not the worst, but you understand
my meaning—and for what, Eugenie? For what? Can you tell me?” Then, when I try yet again to explain, she says that I have lost even the essence of who I am. Throwing away the necklace is proof of this.