Go inside. Not come inside. Any illness, here, becomes the anteroom of death, it seems. Well, then, so let us die! Release us into the next life, surely better than this.
The thought shocks me. I do not wish to die, do I? Nor do I wish Maman to die. Nor Papa. And the thought of leaving Sylvette on her own, here, horrifies me.
I part the curtains and see Papa pacing in a small circle in front of the hearth while Maman moans and shivers, her face crimson. A bowl of melting snow is on the floor by her bed. I take the cloth from her brow, dip it in the ice water, wring it out, and put it back on her brow. Her skin is so hot and dry, like burning sand. Then I go to Papa and whisper two words. Papa stares at me a moment, his eyes a terrible red, but his face pale.
My Lord, please do not let him be ill, too.
Papa nods and in the next minute I am putting on my redingote.
Talon’s team of Belgian horses and the v-shaped plow have not yet cleared the avenues. For a time I can follow Abbé La Barre’s boot prints, but then soon must make my own. My feet sink in snow up to the knees, and I must hold my redingote and gown above the drifts as I walk—too slowly!—toward the cabin at the far end of the clearing.
It appears impossibly far away. So I think, instead, of the Grand Ballroom at Versailles, and flouncing over its gleaming floor in a polka, the music and every face brillant, and my body weightless as a bird’s. But then I find myself tipping forward into a drift too high to climb. I am so tired I wish only to lie there and sleep.
Non! Rise, rise, Eugenie! You shall not die like some fallen bird in a snowdrift! Get up! Everyone needs you. Maman. Papa. Sylvette. You must get up. Now.
I fight against the powder, but the American snow has its own strength. And yet I am able to right myself and push forward. The maison grows larger, and soon there are fewer drifts. And then, finally, a swept-clear yard over which new flakes sparkle. I climb down into it, and then the door opens upon warmth and light, and Hannah is removing my shoes and placing my wet feet in a pan of warm water and my hands in another.
“Maman,” I say. I keep repeating the word. Hannah nods.
Soon we are both trudging through the snow, my feet now in a pair of heavy wool stockings and American boots, and Hannah carrying a stewpot and basket of medicines and herbs.
Papa helps me back inside and urges Hannah to enter quickly, for the day is a frigid river flooding in around us. Maman opens her eyes, sees Hannah, and moans the word non several times. I go to her and whisper, “We have medicines for you, Maman.” Lavender spots whirl before my eyes. I have to sit and lower my head.
Papa helps Maman sit up, and Hannah kneels on the floorboards and offers Maman a spoonful of broth. Maman closes her eyes.
“Do this for us if not yourself,” Papa urges.
After a while Hannah stands. I fear she might leave, with her wondrous food and herbs. But she says, in her quiet manner, “Madame de La Roque.”
Maman opens her eyes.
With both hands, Hannah raises her gown a bit, bows her head and takes one tottering step backward, all the while sinking low in—mirabile dictu!—a curtsy. She repeats the movement twice.
No one speaks for several moments. Then Maman says, “Merci,” and raises her handkerchief to each eye. Soon after, she begins swallowing the broth.
While I help Maman, Hannah takes the basin and chamber pots outside. When she returns, she cleans the floor around the bed and bundles up the soiled linens. She scalds her hands clean with hot water and sets our table.
We all feel somewhat better after Hannah’s broth and sweet tea. Maman lies there sipping it, and although she shivers at times, she is at least more coherent now.
“Live, Maman,” I tell her. “Our Queen is coming and we shall walk in the garden with her, the garden at La Grande Maison. There will be lilacs and roses and great tall irises. Monsieur Deschamps—do you remember the gardener?—well, he promises this! Remember how he told us that his flowers shall tame this wild air with their perfume? And so they shall, Maman! And we will dance again, and these flowers shall decorate our ballroom!”
She takes my hand and holds it a long while. In France I did not feel this close to her. Nor was I aware of any lack within myself, as I am here. But at least I know more, now, about weather, wind direction, the great cloudscapes, their array of colors and shapes and the way the light transforms them. I vow that when the promised shops open here in the spring, I shall buy some paints and canvas, if such luxuries are to be had. I shall paint these magnificent clouds. I shall paint Sylvette on the riverbank. I shall paint Maman and Papa, for Maman shall live. And I shall paint Hannah, too, and the gardens at La Grande Maison, for there shall be lilacs and laburnum, and fleur-de-lis, and our Queen shall walk there, in the garden, and Maman and I with her.
Sitting by the hearth while Maman sleeps, I recall how she taught me to curtsy. There are so many rules about how to hold one’s gown and lower one’s head and step backward in such a way, the gesture meant to be a butterfly’s perfect flutter. But my little feet tangled, and I tumbled over and had to fight my way out of the snare of crinolines. I laughed and Maman with me. I could not know then that it would take months of practice to be able to do it even passably well, and years to perfect in all its variations. I wonder if Hannah will continue to curtsy for Maman. She did not curtsy to me when I half-fell into her maison. And, strangely, it did not seem a slight. In truth I did not think of it at all.
Maman could not sacrifice her pride but Hannah did. This fact holds forth no hope that Maman’s attitude will ever ease. I can dream all I wish about learning how to make bread, but Maman will never allow it.
Later, after Hannah returns for the dishes and her pots, she curtsies first—to me! in her clumsy manner. I find myself smiling.
“Like this,” I whisper in French, and then attempt to correct at least one awkwardness in the combination of them.
Valiantly, the girl tries to imitate me. “Bon!” I say, though it wasn’t very good at all. Then Hannah steps out into the cold night, the pots and dishes rattling like a tinker’s wagon.
Waking, Maman asks for water. I bring it to her and feel her forehead. It is not so hot or dry as before. In fact, there is moisture at her hairline and lips and a sheen to her face. “Maman! Hannah’s tea has broken your fever. And she has curtsied! Can we have her back? As our servant?”
“The curtsy does not make her any different. She still possesses . . . revolutionary ideas. Do not dishonor us. The Du Valliers will never agree to an alliance.”
Maman’s voice rasps. I give her more water. “If I do not speak with her, can she at least be our cook? Or—could I speak with her in our maison? Just here, Maman? No one will see. No one will know! Oh, allow it, please.”
We await her decision.
It comes, finally. “You must maintain dignity and rank.”
“Oui, Maman. But as for her cooking, can we not at least have that as well as our dignity and rank?”
“But nothing more. Do not speak with her other than to give an order.”
After Maman falls asleep, Papa and I each have a cup of tea and quietly express our relief about Maman. Although we are both fatigued, neither of us, it seems, wants to let go of this peaceful respite in favor of sleep. “What is that, Papa?” I ask, noticing the piece of paper next to our candle in its pewter holder.
“Oh, merely something I have been trying to understand.”
“Is it important?”
He smiles with weariness. “To many people, yes, it is. Most important.”
Papa goes on to explain that it is a French translation of the Americans’ Declaration of Independence. “I found it in Philadelphia. See these names at the bottom? Traitors all, according to the English king.”
“But France came to their aid. Why, Papa?”
“No doubt because it was beginning to appear that the Americans might win, against our old enemy.”
“Yet they were rebels, the Americans.”
�
��It does seem contradictory. Certainly a paradox—our nobles and navy supporting the American rebels. Here is something else I’ve been trying to understand. It says that some truths are self-evident. Do you know what that means?”
“That we should understand them right away? Without much thought?”
“Exactly. And what is supposedly self-evident? That men are created equal. That they have rights given them by our Creator. That if someone in authority violates these rights, then . . . it is allowable to overthrow him . . . or her. To me, Eugenie, all this has not been self-evident.”
“Papa, did the Kimbrells get their idea of equality from this Declaration?”
“Possibly. Equality. The rebels in France call for that. Liberté, equalité, fraternité!”
“So the French rebels took this idea from the Americans! No wonder Maman worries.”
“In fact, chérie, some of our own philosophers have put forth these ideas first. What I have been thinking, however, is that it was not self-evident to me because . . .” Papa rubs his eyes, and then the sore-looking place underneath each. “I refused to even allow the thought. Until now.”
“When the Queen comes, will you still think about such things?”
“I believe . . . yes. I will.”
I cannot sleep. My thoughts are a flock of birds trying to settle but then veering upward again and again. Egualité! Self-evident . . .
“Never mind, Sylvette,” I whisper. “When the Queen comes, all will be as before. And Maman will live. And even the wind shall stop this mad shrieking.”
Finally, sleep, but with it comes the dream. I hear shouting. See smoke. The fire surrounding Annette. I cry out but make no sound. The air is bright with fire, and Maman and Papa are gone.
My chest hurts when I open my eyes.
Our maison seems quite cold. Parting my curtain, I see that our hearth fire is merely a pile of glowing embers. It must not be allowed to go out! I get up and take one of the logs near the hearth—surprisingly heavy—and drop it upon the embers, causing a crackle of sparks. I take another and drop it alongside the first. Tendrils of smoke rise and a moment later, shoots of flame spring up.
Mon Dieu. Have I myself built up the fire?
Pride nudges away fear. I have! I, Eugenie Annette Marie de La Roque, have done something useful!
Tonight it means life, Sylvette. Warmth. Light. Life.
Hannah
I enter with the cider and curtsy to each of them. Madame de La Roque nods. Mademoiselle blushes and points to the hearth where a good fire burns. She points to herself.
Has she herself built up the fire? Often Mr. La Roque does, but has she, this time? I smile at her. She returns the smile. She has, I think. But why are they being so quiet? Why do they not speak to me? I have been learning many French words and so wish to use them. At least try! And what is different about Mademoiselle de La Roque today?
Oh! ’Tis her hair! White as on the day she came through the snow to our cabin.
I warm the cider at their fire while mademoiselle arranges her mother’s hair in high swirls and rolls. She pins switches into the hair—they put me in mind of squirrels’ tails. Then she blends the tails in with the other hair. Soon Madame La Roque’s hair is a high loaf of brown bread. Mademoiselle de La Roque takes something from a small tin and dabs it over the rolls and curls. Finally she upends a canister, and a dusting of powder falls onto the mass, but not quite changing the brown to white. Madame de La Roque’s hair now looks like a snowshoe hare just coming into winter.
Mademoiselle turns and dangles one of the switches before me. She is smiling but still says nothing. What does she want? Is she not allowed to speak to me?
I suspect this must be the reason for her silence. Again she dangles a brown switch and points to my hair.
“Non, non, mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît?
“Eugenie! Arretez!” Madame de La Roque says as mademoiselle comes near.
Mademoiselle dangles the switch for Sylvette, instead. Sylvette leaps for it, and they play awhile, but mademoiselle looks sad. So I undo my braid and quickly pile up my hair, then hold it in its “cloud.” This makes mademoiselle smile, but her mother repeats the word arretez several times and motions for me to leave.
I do, after curtsying to each of them again.
“Father,” I say during our evening meal. “I must tell thee, for it weighs upon my heart. I have been curtsying to the La Roque family.”
John looks up from his plate. Father, too. Both appear startled as raccoons.
“Forgive me for disobeying thee. Madame was so ill.” I go on to tell them how Mademoiselle de La Roque came asking for help, but how her mother refused my broth and tea.
“She is now well?”
“She is.”
“Yet thou continue to curtsy?”
“They shall send me away, otherwise.”
“And thou dost not wish to be sent elsewhere to work?”
“No, Father. I much like . . . mademoiselle and her little dog. I do not feel that I am . . . less, Father, because of the curtsy. I only wish them to be well. And not have to have young Rachel Stalk’s cooking. Or Mary’s. Not that they are . . . without skill.”
Father smiles at that.
“Dost thou curtsy to the Aversilles as well, or anyone else?”
“No, Father. Madame d’Aversille keeps a tally. Sometimes she strikes through it when pleased by what I do. Other noble ladies keep tallies, too. But the marquis so far has not forbidden me to cook for the La Roques or the Aversilles.”
“It may be that Philippe de La Roque has talked to him.”
“Has he ever required thou and John to bow, Father?”
“Nay. And few noble gentlemen come near our work, except for the one who walks about so much, Mr. Sevigny. But he seems addled most of the time.”
“Dost thou even know how to curtsy, Hannah?” John asks.
“Mademoiselle has been trying to teach me.”
I see Father’s sad look and apologize again.
“Daughter, dost thou feel that they are greater than thou?”
“No, Father.”
“Then ’tis a means to an end.”
“Aye.” I am further dismayed, thinking how Father taught us that the end never justifies the means.
“And so not a little tinged with hypocrisy.”
I draw in a long breath. “I knew not what else to do, Father, and mademoiselle has become more friendly of late. She even . . . speaks to me.”
“As well she should. Daughter, decide in thy heart what is best. Only . . .” Again Father regards me sadly. “Do not allow it to confuse thee.”
“Father, I do wonder. They have been to many places in our world. They read much. They play musical instruments.”
“And thou?”
“I read the Bible. Sometimes Poor Richard’s Almanac. I cook. I bake. I tend to animals. I wash clothes.”
“Dost Madame de La Roque know how to make butter?”
“No, Father.”
“Can she milk a cow?”
I laugh.
“Or shear a sheep and spin wool?”
“It would be a wondrous sight, indeed.”
“Aye. So you see, our talents may be different, yet as people we are equal. ’Tis a simple matter, truly, yet apt to be confused by outward things. The way one dresses or speaks. What one does to earn one’s bread. It seems a human weakness, wanting to put value where none exists.”
“Why is it that Mr. La Roque seems so different than the others?”
“Well, he has seen much, in France, these past months.”
“But the others must have seen many of the same things.”
“Aye, but seeing and understanding do not always go hand in hand. Nor understanding and our actions.”
“As with me.”
“But thy motivation is selfless, and that’s to the good.”
“Shall I stop, Father, and let them just . . . be? On their own?”
“Follow thy he
art, Hannah.”
“I like not being . . . false.”
“Then do not curtsy.”
These words make me triste, which means sad in French.
“John,” Father says, “thou art quiet tonight.”
“A bit weary.”
Aye, I think. And confused of heart, too.
“Father,” I say, “here’s another matter. Those slaves.”
“It troubles me as well. I have been trying to puzzle through it.”
John and I wait, but Father says no more until I clear the table. Then he says, “Let us have our evening reflection.”
My thoughts are leaves swirling. And my feelings. Curtsy or not? Will we be able to help the slaves? Fit belief to action there?
Decidedly, I want to. That thought is the brightest leaf of all.
Mayhap ’tis well we have come here after all. ’Tis no small thing to do some good.
In the lean-to washhouse, I notice how Estelle’s bones are showing even through the jacket I made for her. And on her feet, again, are oiled rags, all soggy. Since the snows, she has been cooking at the Rouleaux’s hearth, so I have not seen so much of her as before.
“Estelle, where are your boots?” I ask in French and point to her feet.
One shoulder lifts. “Dans la rivière.”
“What do you mean, in the river?”
She shrugs again; then she mimics throwing the boots away.
“You threw them in the river, Estelle? But why?”
She only shakes her head and looks away from me. So I know. Rouleau.
“All of them?” I say. “Your mother’s and brother’s and your uncle’s?”
She nods.
I think of Mr. Rouleau’s high boots with their wide leather cuffs. Each has some medal pinned there.
“Take these.” I slip mine off.
“Non!” She makes the throwing motion again.
“Then just wear them here. They are yours, here.” I show how I can make another pair for myself. Finally, she unbinds the rags, wipes her feet with a dry cloth, and puts on the boots. They are a finger’s width too large, but I shall knit her thick stockings.
“Merci, mademoiselle. Merci!” She smiles a smile I have never seen upon her before.
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