“We cannot stay here,” I say. “We must have something better than this.”
“Ah, but at least it is warm,” Papa says, maneuvering around us to get to the hearth. There, he removes his wet cape and drapes it over the back of the bench. “We are fortunate, are we not, my ladies? Tonight the formidable Madame de Sevigny has only the boughs once attached to these logs.”
“Perfectly appropriate, given her disloyalty,” I say. “Reveling in Florentine’s ignoble joke about our family crest! Poles, indeed. Still, you did bring it upon us by insisting upon poling the boat, Papa, when you needn’t have. It served only to humiliate us.”
“I am sorry, my Eugenie.”
“Why did you, Papa?”
“For the selfish pleasure of it, I am afraid. It relieved me, for a while at least, of the burden of thought.”
“While we had to bear the burden of their cruel words. How dare they, after all we have lost!”
“Ah, Eugenie, let us leave petty grievances behind. We have experienced too many grievous ones, have we not? They make all else insignificant.”
Papa’s play on words—grievances, grievous—cheers him. “This land inspires largeness, I think,” he goes on.
“Tell that to Talon,” Maman says, “when you see him concerning this hut, for he must do better than this. Also, please tell him that we require more candles and a lamp.”
“And Papa,” I add, “where is my bed? Tell him, please, that a bed for me must be brought here at once. If there is no other place for us to stay tonight, at least I must not sleep upon the floor, surely.”
“Ah, chérie—”
“Papa, this is more wretched than any peasant’s hut. At least they have something resembling beds.”
I am somewhat sorry to harass him so. He is sitting before the fire, his eyes nearly shut.
“I will see about it,” he says. “After dinner.”
“And we can well imagine what that will be. I shall not eat it. Nor will I sleep on this so-called floor. In fact, I would prefer traveling all the way back to Philadelphia and risking the rebel sympathizers and yellow fever rather than remain here.”
“Eugenie,” Papa begins, but he then pauses as if thinking. Soon he is slumped against one narrow corner of the bench, dozing.
Our poor luck holds. The girl who so rudely spoke to us before first being addressed is to be one of our servants. I look down at the food she has served and anticipate being repelled, as in so many American taverns and hostelries. But to my surprise, the meat looks like meat. The carrots and potatoes, too, are identifiable. And the ragoût offers a fragrant aroma. Cinnamon, perhaps. To mask rancidity, no doubt. Still, I offer a merci, which is an invitation for her to speak, but now she remains silent.
Maman tells her not to stand there like some mule, for heaven’s sake. “Curtsy!”
She remains motionless, her face quite scarlet. But after a moment she abruptly turns and leaves.
“Maman, when she comes tomorrow, we shall instruct her. Please do not be upset. She at least looks like a proper servant. Perhaps the curtsy is not an American custom.”
“Well, it should be, here. This is a French settlement, where our etiquette must prevail. Mon Dieu, if the Queen were here . . . You are right. We shall instruct the girl, Eugenie, for the Queen’s sake as well as our own. Clearly, this is a savage land, one that we must civilize.”
“Far better to just leave!” I look about the room again in lingering disbelief. The Comtesse de Sevigny’s harp takes up the back wall. The harpsichord Papa purchased for us in Philadelphia rests upended in a corner. Our two barrels, shoved into another corner at the foot of the bed, will have to serve as our wardrobe closet. Either that or our trunks. Intolerable! Most distressing, however, is that there is no salle de bain, but merely a wooden stand with a bowl and ewer upon it. And only two covered chamber pots. How humiliating. Papa shall have to request another. We do not even have a table for our toilet in the morning, or a mirror. All this Papa promises to discuss with the marquis. And too, the matter of the slaves being here, which we cannot tolerate.
Now Papa says, “My dear family. I have a surprise for you!”
He goes to one of the barrels in the corner, tips himself into it, rather like a duck bobbing for something in a pond, and retrieves a bottle of wine from our château. He’d wrapped it, he said, in one of our featherbeds.
Something very near joy burns away my ill mood, at least for a moment. Maman and I applaud, Maman’s eyes shining with tears.
Then he pours wine into the glass goblets Talon has brought us, and we raise our goblets to the Queen and her children, Marie-Thérèse and Louis-Charles, who by this time, we pray, have been safely delivered from the ruthless rebels in France. “God grant that they arrive here soon!”
The wine tastes of our vineyard, the sun, la France itself. Like Maman, I cannot restrain tears.
“Let us be thankful for our deliverance,” Papa is saying, “and hopeful for our future, God willing!” He takes our hands in his. “Now. Our dinner.”
I am thankful for our deliverance from the rebels, but where, in my heart, is any hope? There is just disbelief, still, that this is to be our home. I touch fork to the ragoût. My inclination is to push it aside, but I am so hungry. Anticipating the worst, I nibble on a carrot like a timid rabbit. Mon Dieu, it is decent. Not overly salted at all. I try another. The same! Then for the true test—the meat. Eyes closed, I raise a tiny bit to my mouth. I chew, swallow, and then open my eyes to meet Maman’s.
“C’est bon!” Maman exclaims.
We each take another forkful while Papa eats like one starved. The ragoût is not merely good but excellent. Sylvette is frantic for the bits of meat I give her. Our new servant has brought bread as well and it, too, is delicious, with its sweet butter. “You see?” Papa says. “All will be well yet, my ladies.”
After we finish, Maman asks, “But where is our servant?”
We look to the closed door.
“The plates must be removed and washed.”
Papa offers to do it. There is hot water in a pot hanging in the fireplace.
“Non!” Maman says. “In the morning she will do it—after she curtsies three times to each of us to make up for her insolence tonight.”
Insolence? Perhaps, yes. She frightens me, this servant, for in her eyes I see the stubbornness and antipathy of our peasants. Yet she is a commendable cook, if she has indeed made the meal herself.
“But where are our other servants?” I ask. “And how shall I sleep tonight, without a bed?”
“Eugenie,” Papa says, “tonight you must encamp upon the floor. I will get your featherbed for you, though no rugged campaigner has ever had that luxury.”
“Forgive me, Papa, but I am not a campaigner. I cannot sleep upon a floor, even if upon feathers. I must have a bed.”
“And where are we to find such an object this night, my lady?”
“I do not know! We must, though.”
Papa goes to our one door and opens it wide to wind and heavy rain. “Bonsoir, bonsoir! Does anyone have an extra bed out there? No? Not tonight?”
He closes the door. “A pity. No beds.”
I laugh despite myself. “Papa! No one could possibly hear you.”
“Well, but we do have the bench.”
“It will be too hard.”
He regards it. “So it will. And too narrow.”
Again he goes to one of our barrels and this time pulls out another of our featherbeds, which he places upon the floor before the hearth.
“Papa, I cannot sleep there.”
“But it is the finest place in our maison. Certainly the warmest.”
Sylvette goes to the featherbed and curls up on it.
“Voilà! The creature is intelligent, no?”
“Where shall I change my clothing? Where shall I hang things? This is impossible. You must discuss it all with Talon tonight.”
“Tonight, my lady?”
“Of cou
rse,” Maman says. “And why not demand that he provide a maison more conducive to civilization.”
“Oui,” I say. “A wonderful idea. And you did promise to take it all up with him, Papa.”
“Did I? Perhaps I was talking in my sleep.” He puts on his still-wet cloak.
“Papa, wait. Perhaps in a while the rain will—”
“Non, non! It will take but a minute.”
“Well, then, do not forget the matter of the slaves, either. They may be harboring the yellow fever that has been plaguing Philadelphia.”
And then he is gone. As Maman and I change into our nightgowns, cold and revulsion make me shudder. This, our home?
There is nothing to be done for now, Papa tells us when he returns, except to lower the piece of leather over our one unglazed window and keep close to the fire. As for returning to Philadelphia, that would be most unwise. Apart from the great number of American anti-Loyalists there—for after all, did not the American revolution inspire the French rebels?—French anti-Loyalists may have followed us to America with deadly intent. Papa’s voice has sunk to a near whisper, as if he does not wish to give voice to old worries in this new land.
The marquis, he goes on, promises that workers shall build us an extra bed as soon as they can. Later, they may even be able to enlarge our maison by adding a wing and then cutting a door through one of our walls. And then, soon after that, furniture shall be delivered from Philadelphia to make our new home more habitable.
But I know about the marquis’s promises.
“Papa, forgive me, but it is unacceptable. I must at least have a bed.”
His eyes are reddened and sleepy, even mournful now, and there are purple indentations underneath them. Still, I persist, though it shames me to do so. “Papa? At least that much?”
He draws a long breath and slowly exhales. “Eugenie,” he begins. Then he pauses for some time. Always before, he has been able to grant my every wish.
“You may, then, have that one,” he says finally, pointing to the room’s small bed. “Your mother and I shall . . .” Wearily, he looks toward the hearth.
Tonight my bedchamber is this, our common room. Lying here, on the floor, it seems that I am still on some swaying, dipping boat. My eyes close, but then I am seeing—yet again!—my beloved Annette in that farm cart, peasants thronged behind and all around, shouting. I open my eyes upon the dying fire on the hearth. My heart is beating fearfully. My breath comes too fast. “Sylvette,” I whisper. “Where are you?”
My hands cup her warm leathery paws as another scene forms, in memory.
Eugenie! Don’t stand there. Take one thing and come. Bernard is ready with the coach. Hurry! I look about my room. The great windows are open, the air sweet with late summer. Maman’s gaze follows mine.
The servants will close them. Come, come!
I scoop Sylvette up.
Leave her, Eugenie! We cannot take a dog. It will be too dangerous.
Then I cannot go. I will stay with Louisa and Bernard.
Then you will die here!
I cannot leave Sylvette. I will not. I know I must leave Henriette. I cannot take my horse, and now they will kill her.
They will not kill a mare. She is too useful.
Sylvette is not useful, so they shall kill her just as they did Annette. I will not leave her, Maman.
How dare you do this now, Eugenie.
I am sorry, Maman. I cannot leave her. You said to take one thing. I am taking Sylvette—or staying.
You stubborn girl, then hurry. We cannot remain here any longer. Bernard said . . .
What, Maman?
That we must go. Quickly! Quickly!
Turning my head from the fire, now, I cling to Sylvette and she, it seems, to me. But I dare not close my eyes again.
The rain sounds like applause that goes on and on.
Hannah
Still abed—at seven in the morning? I use the stone knocker again. After a long while, Comte de La Roque unbars the door. His wig is low upon his forehead, his eyes a sore red. He doesn’t know who I am, at first.
I don’t open my mouth, though. Learnt that lesson yesterday. I show him the porridge, bacon, and coffee. He shakes his head and says something in French. Perhaps he means for me to come later. I raise the pole, with my pots, and turn to leave.
“Non!” he says. “Entrez–vous!” He curves his arms and motions. “Entrez, entrez!”
Inside is a regular Hurra’s nest. Dirty plates and fancy glass upon the fine white cloth that covers the table. Well, ’tis my fault, that. Clothing everywhere about, and some of it still wet. The fire mere ashes.
I step ’round the young lady sleeping on a makeshift bed on the floor near the hearth. Her little dog sits up to watch me. Sweet thing! Ears like mittens. Would that I could touch one.
Thou musn’t, Hannah!
Now a bit of tinder to the ashes, and a few bits of kindling, and there it is, the fire cracklin’ nicely. I make a tepee of logs, and it’s soon full blazes.
Porridge pot gets set on a trivet amid some warm ashes. Coffee pot on another. The plate of bread and bacon goes on the warm hearthstone.
Ah, she’s a pretty lass, the young one. Yellow hair all a’fluff. Her face not so sickly white as yesterday. And a lot younger than I thought. More Grace’s age, or even my own. And here I was thinking she was a lady. Mayhap the meanness made her look older.
Quiet, I gather up the plates, each thin as a flower petal and blue as a summer’s sky rimmed with white cloud. I wish Mother could see them. She’d like the pictures of flowers inside the white, roses and something yellow linked by little leaves. Last night I paid them no heed. ’Tis a wonder I didn’t smash one with my ladle, scared as I was.
Well, my hands are still trembly. Careful, Hannah! The water has gone cold, so I carry the plates back to our cabin. Don’t know but we’d best get the La Roque family some sturdy pewter plates and porrigers. These mightn’t last the week.
One thing at a time! Don’t let thoughts race on so, for they’ll surely outrun you. Now get these nobles their breakfast, and they might cheer, some.
It cheers me, at least, to see them all up and dressed when I return with the washed plates. So that much they can do for themselves, anyway.
No mugs for coffee?
Back I go. The wind has come up now, out of the northwest. Mr. Talon does not understand wind in the least. First he had all the big trees cut and the stumps burnt out. Then he made the wide avenues and had a few cabins built along them. Playthings for the wind is all. And those avenues a place for it to rampage. I lower my chin and push against it. Our cabin is tucked away in the trees on the north side of the clearing. Other workers built their cabins at the fringe of woods, too. The trees behind us stop the wind from its games, but the sun can still find us when the leaves are down.
From our cupboard I take three mugs from a set made by my uncle Gearson at his pottery in Wilkes-Barre. In shape they are quite simple, with wide bases and narrower tops and pleasantly curved handles. The color is a warm oaken brown. I consider them handsome and hope they will not offend.
The La Roques find naught to complain about while they eat their breakfast. I step back from their table to await further orders and soon find myself staring at two objects I failed to notice last night, in my fear. A golden harp, reaching the ceiling, nearly. And next to it, another instrument I know only from pictures in books—a harpsichord.
Oh, Hannah, to think you may soon hear music from these instruments!
I am fair shivery with the thought.
The Aversille cabin is across the main avenue, but it takes a hundred paces to get there. Imagine—a road one hundred paces wide! The cabin was supposed to be the priest’s, but he gave it up to the elderly Aversilles. Father had much to say in praise of this.
Comte d’Aversille opens his door and says a string of French words that scorch my face. I try to read his expression, but he is an old man, and the wrinkles are all settled into a frow
n. There is a hump to his back. He’s wearing a white wig with three rows of curls on each side and a little tail in back tied with a black ribbon. His frock coat holds a pattern of crimson roses on a black background. He looks like a judge. Madame d’Aversille sits at the table with a fan in her right hand. She has on a fur-trimmed cloak over her gown. She also wears a white wig with curls like piled-up logs.
While I build up their fire, I wonder if the French people know how to smile or whether ’tis not customary. Madame d’Aversille’s wrinkles all droop down into a frown, too. Maybe after so much frowning, the skin just hardens in those ridges, like the clay we play with in Uncle’s pottery.
But look, Hannah, someone here has washed up their dishes!
These are fetching, too. White with a rose border. The French people must like flowers, so maybe they are not so mean as they act. But pretty or no, these plates are none deep enough.
After serving the Aversilles, I ask in my poor French if there be anything else they need.
More frowning.
I leave, not knowing if there is or isn’t. Still, ’tis something that one of them washed those dishes.
I wish I had been assigned to Abbé La Barre. Abbé, I have just learned, is a French word for priest. But little Rachel Stalk is to be his servant. He seems a good man, the way he gave up the cabin he won in the lottery and asked for a chapel to be built before any house for himself. There he is now, sprinkling water over wickets and cabins alike. Huffing, he walks as if his legs pain him and there isn’t enough breath within the whole of him to get him where he needs go. So he stops often and leans on his stick, his great chest heaving. Black fur lines his black cloak, but his hat is such as rivermen wear—wide-brimmed leather. He is using a sprig of white pine and dipping it into a bucket he himself carries. All the while he says words in a strange language, not French but something different. Perhaps ’tis a prayer.
It seems so unjust for the cross-grained slave owner to have a cabin but not the priest.
Waiting for the Queen Page 3