Waiting for the Queen

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Waiting for the Queen Page 6

by Joanna Higgins


  In a happy turning, Madame Rouleau ordered Estelle, the youngest slave, to use our hearth to bake their bread. The one in the Rouleaux’s cabin is too small for everything the family requires. Estelle has said—by gesture and a few words—that her mother is not well, and her master does not want any of them near, and that is the true reason.

  ’Tis no wonder they be ill, living in that hut of sticks, with winter nigh!

  Well, Estelle doesn’t look sick in the least, and she makes fine company. The work is cheerier and goes faster. Emmeline Cooper, Mary Worthington, Rachel Stalk, and the new hired girls are too busy with their own duties for the French to be any sort of company, even on First Day. So it is most good to have Estelle here, on these early darkening days.

  And ’tis a lesson, too, how she has forgiven us for causing those whippings. I have yet to be able to forgive Mr. Rouleau.

  After we carry out the last loaf to cool on the long board, Estelle suddenly curtsies to me and says, “Merci, mademoiselle!”

  Because we have been laughing so much at little things—a tree full of crows, the baby chipmunk on the window ledge wanting our bread—I forget myself and take a few steps backward and bend my knees. It throws me off balance and I teeter like some rickety pole.

  We laugh and repeat the fun. But then there is Mademoiselle de La Roque, coming across the uppermost crossroad. She has a clear view of our antics.

  “Estelle!” I whisper. But Estelle is again curtsying and laughing. “Non, non!” I say. Estelle goes still. Mademoiselle La Roque passes in silence.

  It will go harder on Estelle than on me. I shake my head in apology. Inside, I am trembling so, I drop the wooden rising bowl. But somehow it doesn’t crack. A while later, when we are filling baskets with the bread, Estelle turns slowly and stares at me, her eyes widely open.

  “Qu’est ce que?” I whisper. What is it?

  She blinks, and then I see Mademoiselle de La Roque standing in our open doorway, with her dog. Its tail wags as the dog looks directly at me, awaiting another bone. I cannot move.

  Estelle turns to her and curtsies. Mademoiselle gives her a hard look, but then regards the bread.

  “What is it?” I whisper again in French. Estelle can tell me nothing. She has become a statue.

  Mademoiselle sweeps one gloved hand through the air and points to the hearth’s oven. Estelle stands there, not even blinking.

  “Dost thou wish a loaf of bread?” I ask in poor French she does not seem to understand. So I take one of the loaves and offer it to her.

  She steps backward, her eyes going round. Then she makes another dancelike motion with her hands.

  “Estelle!” I say. “Qu’est ce que!”

  Estelle gestures toward mademoiselle. “Faim!”

  Fam? What is fam?

  Mademoiselle pantomimes eating.

  Hungry!

  I quickly slice one of the loaves and spread butter upon the pieces. I offer mademoiselle one. The bread is still warm. But she takes another step backward, her eyes even larger. Estelle finally returns to life and has the good sense to motion her to the table. Then Estelle holds Father’s armchair out for her and takes a plate from the cupboard, which she sets before her. I keep slicing and buttering bread. I know not what else to do.

  Mademoiselle removes her gloves. “Merci!” she says in musical tones. The little dog sits close beside her, and she feeds it a piece of the bread.

  I am tired from the day’s work and go to sit down, but mademoiselle shouts Non, non, and quite a bit more in French. I look to Estelle. She is of no help, standing well away from the table, clasping her elbows and hunching her shoulders.

  I remember the whippings, the hut. Anger shakes me up and down and every which way. I go to Estelle and lead her to the table. “Thou must sit,” I say. Estelle at first allows herself to be led—she is used to following orders. But when we near the table, she balks like a scared lamb. Mademoiselle takes all this in and I know that we are going to be punished.

  So be it, Hannah.

  Since Estelle won’t come to the table, I carry John’s chair to her. But she will not sit, not even farther from the table. Mademoiselle stares at us. So does her little dog. I take our third chair and position it nearly in the center of the room and sit down alongside the empty chair Estelle is hanging onto.

  Oh, Hannah, she will think thou art mad.

  But mademoiselle only takes another piece of bread and quickly eats it.

  “Délicieux!”

  Estelle is shaking even while holding onto the chair back with both hands. Mademoiselle eats yet another piece of bread. My face feels numb. There’s movement out on the road, a flash of color. Mr. La Roque, come looking for his daughter?

  No. ’Tis the sour young Frenchman. I quickly look down, hoping he won’t notice our open door, but he comes within three paces and stops. Mademoiselle does not see him; her back is to the door. I await the worst tongue-lashing yet, but he only turns away and keeps walking.

  Was he looking for her? If so, why not address her? Is it because she is in our house?

  Estelle quietly lets forth her breath. We await mademoiselle’s next command, but she just looks at the loaf of bread on the table.

  I go back to the table and cut several more slices and then butter each. I pour her a cup of black tea. Then I return to my chair in the center of the room and sit.

  Finally she stands, shakes out her gown, and gathers her dog up into her arms. “Merci, Hannah Kimbrell,” she says, walking out into sunlight.

  Merci, Hannah Kimbrell. Merci, Hannah Kimbrell. Merci, Hannah . . .

  The words won’t leave.

  Estelle places her hand over her heart to show me how frightened she was—and probably still is. But I’m only hearing that Merci, Hannah Kimbrell.

  A chiming bell.

  Tonight, as Father, John, and I reflect upon the day, I find myself thinking about Estelle. Except for our language and the color of our skin, I do not see where we are different. She knows how to make bread; I know how to make bread. She likes our mild sunshine; I like it. She laughs at amusing things, and so do I. She loves her family; I love my family. Only, I am free and she is a slave. Why? ’Tis neither just nor understandable.

  And here’s another puzzle. The Rouleau young ladies. Yesterday one of them curtsied to a noble lady, but the noble lady did not address her or curtsy in return. She just continued on her way with nary a glance at the Rouleau young lady. Had the noble lady looked, she would have seen a face all hurt and not-wanting-to cry. The Rouleau young lady will not talk to us, and not a one of the nobles will talk to her. What sense does this make? Naught. What way is this for people to live? Foolish and wasteful and sad, to my thought. A ruination of the day’s joy. And since I seem bent upon puzzles this evening, here are yet others. What led Mademoiselle La Roque to write to me about the slaves being whipped? And why did she come to our house today?

  Here. At our table. A French noble! A vision filling me not with fear but warmth.

  Eugenie

  “It was a mistake to even go near that place. Never do so again!”

  “But Maman . . .”

  “You are lonely. I understand. Soon, chérie, the Queen will be here. Marie Antoinette with Marie-Thérèse and Louis-Charles! Perhaps you and Madame Royale, the princesse, shall grow closer here. Imagine! And one day you may even have the great honor of serving as a lady of honor, as I myself did. Think of it! Marie Antoinette will come, and we must be ready to receive her. La Grande Maison will glow.”

  “Maman? What if the Queen scorns the house? It is not so grand, you know. Hardly a Versailles. It is merely . . . a large log maison.”

  Maman draws back her shoulders. She raises her chin. “Au contraire, chérie. For now, it is a symbol and shall stand for the thing itself until we are able to return—together. And until then, we shall have this!”

  Holding a bit of her gown between two fingertips, Maman gracefully begins a minuet. She is so beautiful, she give
s light to our petite maison. But then I gaze out our one window and see Kimbrell fils bringing wood to the Aversilles. In better clothing and finely made wig, he might be considered élégant by the most discerning of ladies. Educate him in the art of the bon mot, in dance, boules, cards, and the proper etiquette, of course, and he would fit in well at Versailles. His sanguine complexion speaks of good health and vigor. The eyes, of quick wit. But there he is instead, by some act of Providence, delivering firewood to French nobles improbably confined to this wilderness.

  Through discreet inquiry I’ve learned that his Christian name is John. There was, I believe, an English king by that name.

  “What are you looking at, Eugenie?”

  “Nothing, Maman. The day.”

  “Come here, then. I must dress your hair. The Du Valliers visit this evening. I hardly know what to serve them. We must get another servant! And how shall we all fit in this room? Mon Dieu!”

  “Maman? Why is rank necessary?”

  “Rank? Our Lord Himself bestows power upon our kings and queens, and they upon us. It has always been thus.”

  “Our Lord . . . in his human form . . . He was a common man, was he not? His disciples, fishermen?”

  “You have been talking with Americans!”

  “Non, Maman. Just . . . thinking.”

  “Then you must stop. We have not come through all we have to simply throw away our titles now. Our very identities. We are who we are and must be, Eugenie. It is ordained. Surely you understand that.”

  “I . . . do, Maman.”

  “Bon. Now. What shall you wear this evening, for the Du Valliers?”

  “Anything you wish.”

  “Eugenie! Show some enthusiasm, please.”

  “Maman? I miss my Henriette. Do you think she is . . . still alive?”

  “She is still alive, Eugenie. Bernard is caring for her.”

  “Do you think so? Really think so?”

  Maman sighs. “You must wear your yellow gown tonight. It is festive. Hopeful.”

  “Henriette looked so sad, Maman, when I ran to the stable for the last time.”

  “And endangered all of us. You will wear your necklace tonight, Eugenie. Grand-mere’s diamonds may divert attention from the cuisine.”

  “I wish . . .”

  “What do you wish, ma chérie?”

  “That I might ride one of those horses. Out there.”

  Maman looks through the window. “They are but work horses.”

  “Oui, yet beautiful.”

  “You are becoming as troublesome as your father. We must take care or the Du Valliers may think better of an alliance with our family. Florentine saw you with a servant and a slave today. I pray he will not relay this to his parents, but no doubt he will.”

  “No doubt.”

  These words of Maman’s give me an idea.

  I look out the window yet again. Kimbrell fils is nearly finished unloading the wagon. Do I imagine that he glances this way from time to time?

  “Eugenie. Come! Your hair!”

  “Oui, Maman. Oui.”

  Hannah

  Snow blurs the mountain across the river. It rushes down in fat bundles of flakes. Yesterday was a clear cold, with morning frost thick as snow, and today true snow, with wind from the northwest cutting across the settlement. Within this wind fly more geese. They like to ride the northwest winds. It all feels like the first stroke of winter.

  The clothing won’t dry well today. How I wish Father and John had time to finish the drying shed.

  And here comes Mademoiselle de La Roque, with Sylvette. Yesterday she was here to watch a small flotilla arriving with supplies, but no French people. She turned away after throwing a few sticks for Sylvette.

  I begin taking down the linens. Father and John will not like all the lines strung in our cabin, but maybe this’ll hurry them along with the shed.

  Mademoiselle holds a blue parasol. Sylvette wears a blue jacket. ’Tis a sight. A parasol in the snow. A dog in a jacket! The jacket is but a piece of cloth tied around with ribbons and bows. I smile as I search my pockets—and yes!—find a bone wrapped in paper. But mademoiselle stands over by herself, and I don’t know whether I should go any closer.

  It is the dog who makes the decision. She runs to me and dances on her small hind legs. Then mademoiselle comes a bit closer. Her eyes are red, and her face a blotchy pink. She has been crying. ’Tis hard to see her waiting in hope when there may be no other flotillas until spring. Supplies might come by pack train, but the river is becoming too dangerous, now, for boats. And soon it will be icebound. I do not like to think of her here every day, looking downriver for something that won’t be coming.

  It makes me want to learn, really learn, her language. Because if I knew French, I could tell her how I miss my family, too. Mother and Suzanne and Grace and Richard. I could say how I don’t feel like myself because so much is missing. And not being on our farm, that too.

  But look! She has not walked away. Courage, Hannah! I will say just one word to her. A person ought not be fined too much for just one word.

  “Maman.” I point downriver.

  She turns to me. Her little mouth curves downward, wanting to scold.

  “Ma famille,” I continue.

  She looks downriver. “Votre famille?”

  “Oui.”

  “Ah! Famille!”

  She lifts the dog and holds her close to her rust-red cloak.

  “Sylvette,” I say, and dare to extend my hand to her. Mademoiselle steps away from me. Unlike her mistress, the dog is such a friendly little creature. She wriggles and seems to be smiling as she strains toward me. Her white fur is all curls and looks to be very soft, like clumped milkweed seeds. Her nose is black, as are her eyes. Her ears are white mittens I long to touch. Just once! I imagine silk must feel somewhat this way.

  I show mademoiselle the bone. Sylvette squirms, and mademoiselle allows her to leap down. Then she nods at me, and I give Sylvette the bone.

  I wish I could ask whether the little dog has come all the way from France or if mademoiselle got her here in America. Other questions come. Where had her home been, in France? And what is the countryside like? Are there farms such as ours? What crops are grown? How large are the towns? Are they beautiful? Do all people in France have musical instruments such as the one in her cabin? Was she happy in France, before the troubles there?

  I wonder if she has any questions to ask of me.

  But she only looks over her shoulder every so often while Sylvette gnaws on the bone. Finally she urges the little dog to come with her, and Sylvette does, carrying the bone.

  I remember the bean soup simmering on our hearth. And my corn bread. “Mademoiselle, attendez!” I call. “Wait!”

  She turns. I gesture toward our cabin at the end of the clearing. “Mangez?”

  “Je regrette.”

  She is sorry! I want to ask why but am too frightened to say anything more.

  Snow whitens her cloak and feathered hat. Walking away, she looks like a small old woman uncertain of every step.

  Inside me there is something very like a cut. Perhaps she is not allowed to come to our cabin. Perhaps she does not want to, ever again.

  On the way back, I circle past Estelle’s hut and hide a packet of dried apples, dried venison, and a candle in a patch of yellowing fern. ’Tis our usual spot. Estelle’s hut looks the same, merely a heap of pine boughs woven into a lattice of poles. But at least we have been able to smuggle them food as well as some oiled cloth for walls and the earthen floor. And Alain, Estelle’s brother, has made them pallets for beds. He used scraps of wood the joiners secretly put aside for him. It is saddening to think of him out in the middle of the night, searching for these bits of wood, with no other light than that of the moon. All the nobles and all the workers, including the French ones, have cabins now. Only the slaves do not. Seeing their hut these days always makes me worry about the approaching winter. Mr. Rouleau may not know how cold it can g
et here. When he does, he might relent.

  Well, at least we have made them boots, John and I. And that is to the good.

  Eugenie

  Sylvette looks dressed for a ball, with her white jacket tied around with pink, blue, and yellow ribbons. I hold her blue-ribbon leash as we walk to the river. It is good to be walking unfettered by Florentine’s presence. Good not to have to think of witty rejoinders. And on a day of sunlight and near warmth! Yesterday’s snow has melted, and the river rushes on, brown and high, yet today’s sunlight dresses it with light, and all seems more hopeful.

  But every so often I look over my shoulder and to either side for wild animals, though I cannot believe that they would just charge into our clearing. There is too much noise from the carpentry, the joiners working on new maisons—another hopeful sign—and on La Grande Maison, too.

  I remove my gloves and find a stick to throw for Sylvette. For this I must release the blue ribbon. It always makes me worry that she might just rush off into the woods, on the scent of something. And then that will be the end of her.

  “Sylvette, stay close now, ma petite. Here is your stick.”

  I toss it nearby and she runs, in her ribbons and jacket—a comical sight. I toss the stick again and again. The third time she catches it in midair, but lets it fall from her mouth. Then she begins barking.

  I turn, fearing Florentine’s presence. But it is the petty despot Rouleau, with the slave girl Estelle. They are farther along the landing and walking down to the water. She carries something while he loudly berates her. “Who do you think you are, accepting such gifts? I have told you before. You are to accept nothing from those people! They are meddlers. They cause only trouble. While you—you have gotten sly, haven’t you? Hiding things from us. Secretive! And who knows? Even plotting, maybe!”

  “Non, monsieur, we—”

  “Dare not contradict me!”

  Sylvette is shivering and growling as I carry her up the landing, away from them. Still Rouleau has not seen us. At the top of the landing I look back. Rouleau and the girl are at the water’s edge. He has her throw something into the water and then shouts that she hasn’t thrown it far enough. Sylvette squirms to be free. She longs to chase whatever it is. I hold her tightly.

 

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