At one of the wickets, the youngest slave comes out and kneels at his feet. She bows her head, and the priest sprinkles her with water, too. She wears neither jacket nor cloak. ’Tis a most troubling sight. I am a few steps beyond them when the slave owner shouts, and the girl gets quickly to her feet. The owner points to the woods, and then returns to his cabin. The slave girl walks toward the woods just as she is, in her cotton gown, while the priest leaves to sprinkle other places. I fear that she will lose her way in the woods, and so I follow. A few paces into the forest, she stops and merely stands there. Then she raises both hands to her eyes and covers them.
“Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle,” I say, and she swings around, scared as anything. But I can only say, in French, How may I help you? Without relaxing, she leans down and picks up a long dry branch and begins pulling it toward the clearing.
Firewood.
I find another and pull it to the clearing, too. Soon we have a pile. She begins breaking one up, using her feet. But at the branch’s thick end, she cannot. Nor can I. She wears no shoes, just wet muddy cloth wrapped around each foot. She gathers an armful of the small pieces, and I gather one, too. But her master appears and shouts in French at both of us. She backs away from him and runs to the forest again.
I hurry to the half-finished cabin where Father and John are at work and tell them about the girl. They each take up saws, and we rush back to the place. There, the younger of the two dark men is with the girl now—his face is a jumble of lumpy scars, and his right eye is all but closed. He bows and she curtsies, but Father shakes his head. Then he and John carry more tree limbs out and saw them up as if possessed by Furies. The slaves wear neither shoes nor boots, just those mud-clumped rags. Their mouths shake with cold.
As we walk away, Father tells us he learned just that morning that Mr. Rouleau doesn’t want them under a proper roof when some of the nobles have to do without. As for the nobles, none of them wished to stay with us. Nor—strangest of all—did they want our cabin because we have been living there.
For this, anyway, I am grateful.
“Why don’t the slaves just leave him,” I ask. “They could run into these woods, hide, and—”
“Ah, Hannah, they know not these woods. They speak not our language. A bounty will be posted and whoever does help them . . . well, ’twill go hard.”
Aye. That law. The fine is five hundred dollars. And if ’tis a person of color who tries to help—a free man or woman—that person will be sold into servitude as punishment if the fine cannot be paid.
“Even here in Pennsylvania,” John says, “where there’s not supposed to be slaves?”
“That I know not,” Father says. “But ’tis possible.”
“At least we might help them to keep warm,” I say.
“Aye,” Father says quietly.
“But if we do, will it be breaking some law?”
“It may, here.”
I am fairly hobbled by the thought of a law against helping folk.
Madame de La Roque says something harsh in French, I know not what. Heat again stings my face. But then she curtsies before me! I back away from her. She raises her voice and says something more in French. Then curtsies again.
I am nearly at the door. She comes close and places her hands on my shoulders and presses down.
She wants you to curtsy to her, Hannah.
I take another step backward. Her hands slip off. French words pour around me. The pink of her skin deepens. Her eyes narrow. She points toward her daughter, and then toward Comte de La Roque and finally to herself. Again she drops low before me and looks like a swan, the way her neck curves. Then once more she points to me.
I shake my head. “S’il vous plaît, pardonnez-moi!” I want to run, but there are the dishes on the table. If I don’t get them now, I’ll have to return soon.
Quick, I dash around her, grab up the dishes, dash around her yet again, and then am outside, in the wind.
At our cabin, I’m surprised to find John there, leaning over a length of cherry plank set up on sawhorses. He is smoothing out the plank’s roughness with a hand plane. The marquis, he says, has ordered him to make a bed.
“But I thought thou must work on the cabins.” My voice is still shaky, and my hands.
“First, this.”
“Who is it for?”
“He did not say.”
Holding the plates with my other hand, I take up a curl of paper-thin wood spilling from the plane. The curl is nearly white, its scent calming. When the wood is oiled it will turn a golden pink, and then, in time, a deep red. I envy John his skill and often wish that I, too, had been taught to work with wood. Does he envy my ability to make bread?
I needn’t even bother to ask!
It takes all the courage I possess to return to the La Roques’ cabin with their supper and the clean plates. Marquis Talon is there. He tells me, in English, that I must never speak to a French noble unless one first speaks to me, inviting some response. Also, I must curtsy each time I enter a noble’s house and before I leave and anytime I come upon one. He asks where I was yesterday when he gave these instructions to all the serving girls, but he does not pause for me to reply. And because I did not curtsy last night, I must do so three times, now, to each of the La Roques. “Begin!”
“I am sorry, sir, but I . . . cannot.”
“And why is that? Do you have some infirmity?”
“Nay. We believe . . . sir . . . ’tis our religion that . . . forgive me, I speak poorly.”
“You ask that I forgive your speech but not your actions?”
“We believe . . . we believe that all are equal in the sight of God. We do not place ourselves above others . . . or . . . below. ’Tis our . . . religion.”
“Yes. Quakers. Your father did tell me this.” He rapidly shakes his head as some do to mock us. “A sect! Not a proper religion at all!”
“We call ourselves Friends. The Society of Friends.”
“Religion or not, I have decided that it is now necessary for you to curtsy and for your father and brother to bow when any noble approaches.”
“But thou did not—”
“I forbid you to address me as an equal. This is not a discussion. What is now is now. And you must not speak until first spoken to by a noble. It is for us to decide whether or not we wish to hear your voice.”
“General Washington,” I begin, but then stop.
“What about your president?”
Am I being invited to speak? It seems so. “He does not bow to royalty.”
“Ah! You impertinent child! You are not General Washington, are you?”
I stand there, mute.
“Answer me when I require an answer. Are you General Washington?”
“No, Mr. Talon.”
“Henceforth address me properly. I am a marquis!”
“No, Mr. Marquis.”
“Not mister, child! Do you not know anything? Call me . . . Excellency. Do you understand?”
“Yes . . . Excellency.”
“Bon. Now curtsy.”
I stand there trembling. I can fairly see my hands leaping about.
“Curtsy!”
I lower my head further. Marquis Talon’s face has become almost violet, as if all this is bruising him. What mine must look like I do not wish to guess.
“Pardonnez-moi,” I whisper.
He swings away from me, his cape whipping about and all but taking my apron. “I go to speak to your father. Remain outside.”
The desire to run is so strong that I must grab hold of a log sticking out from a corner of the cabin. For, surely, if I disobey, it will go hard on Father and John. At last there he is, the marquis, striding toward me, his cloak blowing back from his frock coat. Three gray feathers in the band of his high-crowned hat bob in the wind. His dark eyes are those of a hawk diving upon its prey. His face is still fairly violet.
“Hannah Kimbrell, enter the maison.”
I do so.
He speaks in French and then in English, telling me that he has no choice but to fine us for our insubordination. Each time I do not curtsy—or Father and John do not bow—it will cost a penny. The fines shall be taken from our earnings at the end of each month.
“What say you to this, Hannah Kimbrell?”
“If it be what my father wishes, then it must be so.”
“And you? Would you not prefer to put aside the money for your farm? Oh, yes, I know all about this. Your father has told me. If you choose to curtsy, Hannah Kimbrell, you will be helping your family. Do you see that? Not hindering.”
“I wish . . . to obey my father.”
“So be it. We shall keep tally. And so shall every other French nobleman and lady within the settlement. Those present now and those still to arrive. And so shall I, beginning immediately. Curtsy, Hannah Kimbrell.”
I stand there.
“One penny, then.” He extends his gloved hand.
“I do not have it.”
“Well, I shall mark it. And so shall the La Roque family. I give you one more chance. Curtsy!”
The door is two paces behind him. I hurry to it, squeeze myself through, and am out in open air, running.
“Father! They shall drain away our earnings with this rule.”
“They shall cut into it, surely.”
“Is it worth even staying, then?”
“Aye. There will be some profit.”
“Enough to purchase our farm?”
“Perhaps.”
“But can we believe their tallies? Or will Mr. Talon just . . . use any number so long as it is high, each month? Why is he like this, now? It was all right with him before! Is it because the nobles are here? When he wanted thou, he said we needn’t—”
“Hannah, Hannah. Take a breath, daughter.”
“Oh, Father, can we not go home?”
“We gave our word.”
“Could thou not stop work until—”
“’Tis not just to meet wrong with wrong, my Hannah.”
“But will they come to see the wrong of it? I think not!”
“Then they will not.”
“But our farm!”
“Then we shall find another way.”
“And this year will be for naught.”
“Things are never for naught. Perhaps in time thou shall see this for thyself. Now let us reflect.”
Closing my eyes, I see, at first, only Mr. Talon’s violet face, his black eyes. I hear only his storm of words. That fades and I am reflecting upon home—rocking bonny Richard and singing the counting song to him while a good fire burns on the hearth and Mother and Grace shell the last beans from our garden.
Peace does not come. Only longing.
Eugenie
The afternoon is quite warm, with thick white clouds filled with light. These great sails skim the mountaintop across the river and move swiftly on. Would that I could go with them! Everything seems in motion. Clouds. River. Leaves. They tear away from ancient oaks, fly with the wind, then swoop down en masse and rush along the avenue, only to rise again in whirlwinds Sylvette chases.
“Ma petite,” I call. “Do not become too accustomed to this place, now! Our true home is in France!” At my voice Sylvette turns and begins barking. I envision some wild animal’s approach and swing around to face—
Only a team of horses and a wagon. Well, I shall not give way and move to the side. What is a mere wagon to a French noble? I continue walking, but the clattering wagon brings that darker image of farm cart and peasants taking my Annette away, and fear spirals through me like those leaves.
The wagon stops—this I hear, and then cannot resist the temptation to turn again. A team of two great Belgian horses is pulling a load of logs. Or rather, has been, for now the horses stand there, flicking their long, plumelike tails and regarding me. One stamps a foreleg, with its cone of feathery “mane” covering its pastern. In the wagon’s seat are two men, one older and the other young. The younger one jumps down and, perhaps afraid that Sylvette’s barking shall unnerve the horses, goes to one of them and holds its harness.
He is dressed like a republican in a dark coat and trousers, with a white linen shirt and black hat. His unpowdered hair is held back with a simple tie. Despite his appearance, I am so relieved not to see a farm cart. “Sylvette, hush, ma petite. Do you not remember what horses look like?” I pick her up and walk closer. It seems years since I have been this near beautiful horses. Their manes and tails are the color of fresh cream. The flounce of mane falling over their pasterns, too. Their coats remind me of hazelnuts. And their harness looks clean and supple. The young man keeps hold of the horse as I reach up to touch its great dark muzzle. Ah! The warmth! The petal softness! A horse’s muzzle has never failed to astonish and delight me. Tears come, for this huge horse suddenly becomes my little Henriette.
But the young man ruins it all by addressing me in English.
“How impertinent!” I tell him in French. “I did not address you, did I?” It is gratifying to see him step backward as if struck.
I walk on toward the river, and the road behind me remains quiet. Perhaps they are afraid, now, to pass, as well they should be.
At the river there are no boats to be seen anywhere except for the small skiff tied at the landing farther down the bank of the river. I watch the water for a while. I toss a stick for Sylvette. She retrieves it, but lets it fall in order to bark at Florentine du Vallier’s approach.
Ignoring Sylvette, Florentine throws a stone far into the river. Sylvette sees the splash and whimpers. I take hold of her ribbon leash.
“Bon matin, Mademoiselle de La Roque!” He executes a deep bow, but I offer only a preemptory curtsy in response. “So here we are, then!” he says. “Throwing stones and sticks. What grand amusement, no?”
Florentine rarely smiles with anything like pleasure. Usually he grimaces. Possibly his teeth hurt him. But whatever the reason, the grimace does make him seem older than his sixteen years. Even at Versailles he found much to complain about. With Florentine one must remember not to be enthusiastic about anything. That only invites his derision.
I imitate his sarcastic tone. “A good day for throwing things, anyway.”
He offers his grimace and continues making distant splashes in the pewter-colored water. I keep tight hold of Sylvette.
“So what do you think of our grandes châteaux?” he asks.
“Hmmm . . .” I pretend to be thinking, but it truly is a difficult question to answer successfully. After visiting Madame de Sevigny in her poor hut of pine boughs and animal hides, I realized that we have been fortunate in the lottery despite the rudeness of everything. But to admit this won’t do. Either I must be witty or scornful, and best if I can be both, a talent much admired at court. “Such a place thwarts thinking,” I say finally. “Non?”
He laughs, but the successful parry gives me little pleasure. I wish I could ask how he feels, truly feels, about this place and about everything that has happened to us. Jest, witticisms now seem so irrelevant.
“Florentine—I say,” but he, too, has begun to speak, begging pardon for the witticism he made at Papa’s expense the day we arrived.
“It was nothing,” I say, offering my own dart.
“We all found ourselves admiring your father’s strength. We placed wagers on when he might tire and stop. No one won, mademoiselle. Remarkable!”
How dare they. “Ah, yes. Papa is a man of many surprises.”
“Indeed! It seems that now, instead of the river, he is testing his strength against the wood of these mountains.”
“We find it remarkable as well.”
“I daresay so shall Marie Antoinette.”
“Do you know, Florentine, you are quite right! She shall! We all know of her tenderness toward our late king, a man of great practical skills.”
I recall how our late king loved to tinker with locks, a skill not unlike joinery. And when he was younger, he’d go off somewhere in old clothes and
work alongside common stonemasons, erecting walls. Courtiers laughed behind his back and called him eccentric, or worse. Which is exactly what we fear for Papa.
Florentine hides his displeasure at my triumph by turning to the river. Then Sylvette is barking at the clouds, her neck straining upward.
“What is it, chérie?”
Other barking echoes hers, coming from above, in the sky.
Saperlotte! Lines of wild geese flying low, under the clouds! And they are all barking like little Sylvettes. Where do they come from? Where do they go? South, it must be. Perhaps following the river to Philadelphia and beyond. Florentine pretends to aim a gun and shoot at them.
Hannah Kimbrell appears and, ignoring Talon’s earlier lesson, addresses us first.
“Excusez-moi. C’est pour Sylvette.”
Florentine sweeps his hands outward. “How dare you! Away with you, insolent girl. I have heard about you and see that you still do not curtsy. I shall inform the marquis at once.”
His tone is so venomous that I find myself blushing in annoyance and almost siding with the girl.
“Ah!” I say and laugh. “I believe she meant to address the dog, not us, Florentine. You see? She has something for Sylvette.” Hoping to divert his attention, I quickly unfold the piece of broadsheet.
“It does not excuse disrespect.”
“Indeed, Florentine, but look. A bone for Sylvette!”
“I care not if it is a diamond collar. She must pay for her effrontery.”
Sylvette diverts me from my own anger at the girl. She dances. She stands balanced on her hind legs. She hops straight upward and then drops to the ground and begins gnawing on the bone. I have never seen her so happy in this America. But then Hannah Kimbrell stoops to stroke her fur, and I pull at the ribbon leash. Sylvette topples backward.
“You Americans,” Florentine rants on in French. “You are all barbarians. I’m surprised you do not wear bones in your noses as well as carry them about with you.”
True. And yet—
“The impertinent girl must be punished,” Florentine is saying.
“Florentine, she understands neither your words nor your wit.”
Waiting for the Queen Page 4