“C’est rien!” I say. It is nothing.
Estelle keeps glancing down at the boots as we hang clothing over poles in our new drying shed. Even with wool stockings, my feet are becoming cold from the damp earth, but I do not want her to know this. I keep hanging clothes until we are finished. Then I run through the snow to our cabin.
My thawing feet hurt. But it does not feel so bad when I think how Estelle’s, now, are warm.
After supper, I tell Father and John about the boots. Father looks thunderous but says naught. John follows him in this. I know why. They do not want to give vent to anger and then have to regret their harshness against a fellow human being.
“Could we buy the slaves, Father?” John asks. “And then make them free?”
“Nay. Not here in Pennsylvania. ’Tis against our law to purchase slaves. Besides, we have naught with which to buy them.”
“Then we must help them run away somewhere,” I say.
Father and John regard me. The silence becomes a weight on my shoulders and heart. When I think further, I see that by helping the slaves, we risk losing all. Even Father’s freedom.
“I fear we must wait ’til spring,” Father says. “The river will be open. The forest tracks . . .”
There is sorrow in his voice, and I understand. Winter can be cruel, and the slaves are ill prepared.
“Let us have our meditation,” he goes on. “Answers oft arrive when least expected.”
Thoughts come to do battle with peace. I see all of our savings depleted by fines. I see Father in the jail, in Wilkes-Barre. But after a long while, my thoughts get tired of driving me round and round, and so scatter. And then the quiet comes back, a good quiet. It tells me that somehow we shall help them.
I await further revelation, but there is only that.
Eugenie
“Sylvette, La veillée du Petit Jésus! Last year at this time we were in France, and our King alive, and we in our château. Do you remember the garlands in the salons? The holly and fir and candles? And the bells, Sylvette? The bells ending the watch for the Child Jesus? So many bells at midnight! So joyful, despite the troubles in our country, and we knew, didn’t we, that He was in our hearts.” I whisper all this, for I do not wish to make Maman sad.
“How much a year can hold, Sylvette! How much sadness and loss. But this year? This coming year? Well. Let me tell you how it will be for you, ma chérie. You shall play in the snow tomorrow! On Christmas Day! Then you shall have a bit of Hannah’s turkey. Soon there will be sun every day, Sylvette, and you shall run to the river again. And—are you listening, chérie? When the river is clear of ice, the Queen will arrive! Yes! And then we shall truly celebrate. There will be a grande fête and all manner of delicacies to eat. And the air will once again be warm, Sylvette, imagine! Warmth! Oh, and we shall dance and sit outside and tell each other wonderful stories, like this one. Only this is not a story. It is a promise!”
Hannah curtsies, bringing our evening meal, and the Yule log cake we asked her to make for us. Her eyes are red, and she seems most fatigued. Yet she smiles at me, and I at her. Earlier, she brought our clean linens. How does she dry them, I wonder, in such weather? Snow and cloud and wind day after day and so cold, mon Dieu, one hardly dares go outside.
Except Hannah. And John. And Estelle. And Alain and the other two slaves. A week ago, on a blessedly windless day, we saw them dragging dead limbs out of the woods. They were up to their waists in snow. Even Comte de Sevigny, with whom Maman and I were walking, said that Rouleau has no heart. When the slaves saw us, they dropped their firewood at once to bow and curtsy. “Do you suppose,” Maman asked, “they have been gathering wood all day?”
“I do not doubt it,” the comte said placidly, and we walked on to our warm maison, where Maman invited the comte in to sit before our fire.
Truly, it does not seem right, if the infant Jesus lives in each of our hearts.
Midnight—and a bell rings out. A single bell! Maman, Papa, and I go to our window. Mirabile dictu! Abbé La Barre has somehow found a bell for us!
“And look, Eugenie!” Papa says. “Look!”
Papa and Maman stand aside so that I may see. A large bonfire burns in the clearing.
I turn away.
“Child, what is the matter?” Papa says.
“Oh, it is nothing. I am merely tired.”
“Then you must rest.”
He is hurt. He must have arranged for it. I look out the window again, for his sake.
It is a lovely sight, in its way. The flames. The falling snow. The stillness.
I try to excise the image of a farm cart, right at its center. But no, it refuses to be excised.
The bell rings and rings.
“If we all had boots such as Hannah’s, Charlotte,” Papa says, “we might go out and stand near it, and then return and leave our capacious boots for Père Noël to fill!”
Maman shakes her head, but she is smiling.
Standing near the bonfire is the last thing I wish, yet to have Hannah’s boots! “Oh, Maman! Might I? I could take Sylvette on long walks. I’d prefer them to any number of bonbons on New Year’s Day.”
“Our daughter,” Papa says, “will create la nouveau mode.”
A new fashion! Sometimes Papa’s lightheartedness works with Mama. I regard her.
“It will not be proper,” Maman says. “Ladies will laugh at her. They will call her an Indian.”
Papa says nothing. He does not wish to spoil La veillée du Petit Jésus. Nor do I. I turn away from the window. Papa lets our “drapery” fall back in place.
Lying in my warm alcove, I remember last year’s Yule log, the centerpiece of our largest fireplace, and how sweets magically flew from it. Everything was arranged for my pleasure—always—and I, unable to imagine anything different.
Ah, Eugenie, you were so young, no?
On Christmas morning a beautiful fir tree stands in the corner of our petite maison, near the hearth! A garland of raisins and nuts decorates its boughs! There are pinecones as well, and also ribbons from Maman’s basket.
The tree is so green.
“And see the raisins, Maman?”
“They are from the Kimbrell family,” Papa says. “As are the black walnuts.”
“The Kimbrells! Is there something we might give them in return?”
“I have been thinking,” Papa says, “that the best gift might be to have those fines reduced or eliminated entirely.”
“Oh, could you do that, s’il te plaît?”
“It will not be a simple matter.”
“Yes, but you shall try?”
“I shall indeed. John Kimbrell has been an excellent teacher.” Papa turns to Maman. “My dear, I know that my behavior has been contrary to your wishes. Forgive me. But in this America, I am learning, one needs to be strong and self-reliant. How much better if I can take care of us all, here. And then, in France, if there is no need, voilà, no need. Though I doubt that, given the changes there. You see, it is a practical matter, my dear, not philosophical. And we French have always been, under it all, a practical people. Besides, in this new world, why cling to the old restrictions and bounds? Why not find here a measure of freedom that goes hand in hand with the new, yes?”
Papa’s words take my breath away. What about the Queen? The court? The proprieties and protocol? Perhaps Papa thinks that the Queen will not come! The thought is icy, and I shiver. Yet something within urges me to say, “And, Papa, if only we, that is, Maman and I, could take care of ourselves, somewhat, too. I mean here, in this America. And especially since we have no, that is, not many, servants.” Never before, except when I was a child, has my speech been so poorly formed. “As a practical matter. Until the Queen arrives,” I add for Maman’s sake.
Maman closes her eyes and presses down on both eyelids with the tips of her fingers.
“Charlotte, Charlotte, our daughter is growing wiser. We might do well to listen.” When Maman remains silent, Papa holds us close
, one on either side of him. “What do you think of my tree?”
“Your tree, Papa?”
“Oui! I found it and cut it myself! Who else among us will be enjoying such a tree this morning? Ah, Charlotte, how happy it makes me to do this one small thing for you both. Joyeux Noël!”
“Merci!” I hug him with all my strength. “Joyeux Noël, Papa! But did you decorate it as well?”
“Certainment!”
Maman finally smiles, perhaps at the thought of Papa hanging her hair ribbons from the boughs.
“Now! Breakfast, and then Mass at our new chapel!”
There, too, a fresh fir tree scents the air. Papa winks at me. After Christmas Mass I sit between Maman and Papa and watch Abbé La Barre’s puppets. There is the Star. There are the Three Kings following it. And little townspeople following the Three Kings to the crèche of the Petit Jésus.
I think of Papa alone in the woods, searching for our tree, in the snow. I think of our journey here, to America, this so-called new world. I think of the slave girl and her journey. And how she will one day go back to work on the plantation, for her despicable master. He is present in the chapel too, this morning. A Christian in name but not deed. For her, none of this is new. None of it is a beginning. For her, forever, there is just . . . the old.
Non. She shall not go back. The thought fairly astounds me, coming from I know not where! What is this slave to me? Why do I even dwell upon the matter?
I do not know! I hardly know who I am these days. If not the old Eugenie, then who? Yet something within, now, craves more, something more. If Papa can walk off into the woods, these American woods, with their mountain lions and wolves, and return with a tree for us, then surely I, Eugenie Annette Marie de La Roque, can do something noble as well.
Noble?
And is that not who we are, finally? Nobles?
When we return to our maison, we find a finely woven wreath of pine and fir hung upon our door. It is decorated with sprigs of bright red berries. Not holly berries—those I would recognize—but rather some berry clinging to dark thin branches.
“Did you do this, too, Papa?” I ask. “It is most beautiful!”
“Non, chérie. That is certainly beyond my abilities.”
Maman frowns. “You see what happens in this new land of yours, Philippe?”
“It might be from Talon, non?”
“No one else has such a wreath.”
“It is but a small gift.”
“But one of great significance, perhaps.”
Papa laughs. “Ah, chérie! You are seeing too much in it, surely.”
“And you, too little,” Maman retorts.
“Well, we shall be the envy of the settlement, I think.”
“I can do without such envy. Remove it.”
“But Charlotte, it is so fine. Even élégant.”
It is indeed, against the planks of our door—that green, the joyous red. I beg Maman to allow it to remain.
“Come inside!” she says. “It is too cold.”
But she does not say non.
John Kimbrell fils, I think. Or Hannah. Possibly both. The thought warms me so that I do not even feel the cold.
Walking with Sylvette later, I hear a staccato jingling of bells and turn. On the avenue behind us, John Kimbrell fils is trotting alongside one of the big Belgian horses. It shakes its great head every so often and seems most pleased with itself. I pick Sylvette up and step nearer to the high bank of snow on one side of the avenue. My feet are wet and cold, and I am sorry for having walked so far. This evening, though, we are to play cards again with Madame de Sevigny and the Du Valliers, and so this afternoon offered the only chance for Sylvette’s walk. How tired I am of piquet! I see the cards in my sleep.
So it is most pleasurable to look upon, instead, the great prancing Belgian horse. But it doesn’t continue on. It stops, and John Kimbrell bows.
I can only hold Sylvette close and stare.
He gestures toward the horse. It wears, I see now, a blanket in bright colors, held on by a wide girth. There is a bough of fir tied to the horse’s bridle, along with three brass bells. John goes to the side of the horse and weaves his gloved fingers together, making a step for me.
Despite all my misgivings, Sylvette and I are soon high atop the great horse. Its back is so wide and long it seems that we rest upon a warm settee.
Majestically, we proceed up the avenue. I feel most queenly! Surely when Marie Antoinette does come, she will adore riding upon this wondrous horse, now walking so gently and smoothly.
Abbé La Barre steps out of his maison to wave. So does Duc d’Aversille. And so does the entire Du Vallier family. Heat rushes to my face, but I call out, “Bon matin, bon matin!” The Du Valliers simply gape. John Kimbrell, I realize, has unwittingly given me another gift.
He glances back at times, making certain we are still secure on our high perch. Too soon, we approach my maison, but John turns the horse onto a crossroad, and then another avenue, and then a different crossroad so that we have, yet, some distance to go. I consider asking him to stop so that I may walk the rest of the way. But we have been seen. And there is Florentine, coming to relay this scandal, no doubt.
Ah, Eugenie, how complicated! A mere ride upon a horse!
“Maman, Papa!” I cry as Papa helps me dismount. “My shoes became so wet, I could not resist Monsieur Kimbrell’s kind offer of a ride upon this beautiful horse. Is he not wonderful?”
“Which does she mean?” Florentine says. “Man or beast?”
My heated face stings.
“Eugenie,” Maman says, “come inside, please.” I quickly turn back to smile at John Kimbrell before entering our maison, all but holding my breath. But Maman will not scold me in front of Florentine. She offers our guest tea. I change my shoes and then must sit at the table with them and suffer Florentine’s scowl when he thinks Maman and Papa will not see.
Hypocrite!
Later, the storm.
“Eugenie, you risk your future! . . . Eugenie, the Du Valliers are most concerned about your behavior! . . . Eugenie, do not act so impulsively again, I beg you!”
Eugenie . . . Eugenie . . . Eugenie . . . While Papa remains thoughtful.
In my heart I ask forgiveness of Maman. It was necessary, I want to say, but know that this will hurt her too much.
My punishment—a night of piquet with the censorious Du Valliers, and poor Maman valiantly trying to charm them back.
Hannah
“Estelle! What is it?” I say in French and draw her into our cabin. She falls to her knees. Her head drops forward into her hands. Then she lies curled on her side, shivering.
“Estelle! Thou art ill!”
She is so slight ’tis nothing to carry her to my cot and remove the rags from her icy feet. I feel her brow. ’Tis hot. After reviving her with a cool cloth, I help her drink a cup of water before covering her. Then I must go back to my work at the hearth, turning the spit and basting the turkey in our roasting oven. Finally, I remove two apple tarts from the hearth’s oven. Even from the distance of the hearth I can hear Estelle’s teeth clattering against one another. But I cannot build up the fire any further without risk to my roasting turkey, so I take a heavy quilt from Father’s bed and one from John’s and put them atop those covering Estelle. I scoop embers into two warming pans and place them under the quilts, near her feet.
A harsh knocking, then, at the door. I go to open it, but Mr. Rouleau pushes it open himself. “Is she here?” he asks in French.
I stand dumfounded, not wanting to lie, yet wanting to.
He points to the footprints in snow. I tell him, in French, that they are mine. He pushes past me and enters our cabin. While he looks in the storeroom, I nudge the wet rags that serve as Estelle’s boots under my cot. Mr. Rouleau emerges from the storeroom and looks in every corner of our cabin’s common room. He glances at each of our cots. I had not drawn the curtain around mine, and my bed looks made. I hold my hand over my heart.<
br />
The pies on the table distract him from his search. He points. “Bring us these,” he orders in French. I nod.
“Curtsy!” he orders.
I hesitate, but then do so.
“That’s better.”
The La Roques and Aversilles praise the turkey. Instead of a pie, I bring them each a custard with applesauce. Before we have our own meal, I pack baskets with custards, applesauce, bread, cheese, and slices of cooked salt pork. Then, hidden by the woods, I follow my trail around the edge of the clearing to Estelle’s shelter near the river. She must have come this way. She would not have wanted to be seen by the French.
“Hoo-hoo!” I call, a few yards from Estelle and Alain’s hut. “Hoo-hoo-hoo.” The call of a great horned owl.
I leave the basket on a stump and retreat. The snow is turning a soft blue color, and pink sunset light fills the sky.
At our cabin I give Estelle bread soaked in warm tea, then Father, John, and I take our places at the table. Tonight, on this special night, Father will serve as our Elder. He says grace, and then John stands and says, “God is Love.” John is seated, and I stand and repeat those words—words I have spoken each Christmas night for as long as I can remember. Tonight Mother, Suzanne, Grace, and perhaps even Richard are saying these same words at the community house, before dinner and hymns. Comforting thought—how we can still be together even while apart.
We begin our simple meal of roasted fowl with potatoes, carrots, and stewed apple, but I cannot eat much. Every limb aches, and I long only to close my eyes. I fear that I shall not be able to visit anyone tomorrow, with Father and John, not if I am ill. They won’t want me within a mile. And we are supposed to have our evening meal with the Worthingtons. Well, I shall not go. And they may not want Father and John to come now, either.
After dinner and chores, Father and John go to their cots, and I lie down before the hearth. Sometime later, furious knocking wakes us all.
“Kimbrell!” Marquis Talon shouts. “Open this door!”
Waiting for the Queen Page 9