Father removes the thick limb from its brackets and opens the door. Two men stand there, the marquis and Mr. Rouleau, who holds a torch. “You must help Monsieur Rouleau search for a runaway slave,” the marquis says in English. “She cannot have gotten far. Call several of your workers and go with monsieur.”
My heart fairly lurches. With torches, they shall see the tracks leading from the salves’ shelter to our cabin.
Father stands with his head bowed.
“Hurry, man!” the marquis says.
“Thou needn’t search for her tonight,” Father finally says in English. “She is here.” He remains standing there, blocking their way.
The marquis translates these words for Mr. Rouleau, then says, “Why did you not tell Monsieur Rouleau? Do you not know that you can be severely punished for helping a slave run away?”
“She is not running away. She is ill. When she is well, she shall return to Mr. Rouleau.”
Mr. Rouleau gives Father a terrible look as the marquis translates the words.
“She is pretending!” Mr. Rouleau cries in French. “She is good at that. I should know.”
“Mr. Rouleau, she stayed with thee all through the troubles on thy island. I would not doubt her sincerity or good heart.”
The marquis translates all of this. It does no good.
“We need her,” Mr. Rouleau says. “Her place is with us.”
“She shall remain here until she is well. Look to the others. See if they not be sickly, too. I understand that thou art quite stingy with thy provisions.”
“Kimbrell, you go too far,” the marquis says. “I will not translate that.”
Father shuts the door and bars it.
“Kimbrell!” Mr. Rouleau shouts. “Kimbrell!”
We look at one another, but Father does not open the door again. After a time, it is quiet.
“If they come to take me, my children . . . leave. Go to the next settlement downriver. Find a way. And then return home when you can.”
“And leave thou, Father?” John says.
“Aye.”
1794
Janvier / January
Eugenie
We learned of the confrontation from the marquis himself—and how the Kimbrells are now guarding Estelle. So that is why Hannah abandoned us! It spoiled our New Year’s Day fête, as we had to be satisfied with the indifferent offerings of Mary Worthington. I confess that my pique was at first quite selfish. We made to suffer. Our misfortune. Then I began to think, No, Hannah is nothing if not reliable. And she isn’t necessary for guarding Estelle from Rouleau. It must be something else.
When it is time for Sylvette’s morning excursion, I dress warmly and walk in the direction of the Kimbrells’ cabin at the far end of the clearing. No one is anywhere about. The air is so cold that walking through it feels more like pushing through frigid water. No wind troubles the air today, and except for smoke rising from chimneys, all is still. A thick pad of snow lies atop each roof like a featherbed. Tree limbs hold white replicas of themselves. The earth, white. The river, white. The stone walls, white humps. But the sky—ah! The sky a piercing brillant blue. Hope steals my breath. The very colors of Versailles—and Marie Antoinette. Surely a fortuitous omen in this new year.
But not much smoke is rising from the Kimbrells’ chimney. If I have learned one thing at all, in this America, it is that on such a morning smoke should be rising.
There is no answer to my knock. And the door is barred. “Hannah?” I call. “Hannah Kimbrell? Monsieur Kimbrell?”
Again, no answer.
“Hannah! It is I, Eugenie de La Roque.” In French I ask her to open the door. I am suddenly ashamed. Hannah has been speaking our language, yet I have not made the slightest attempt to learn hers.
Estelle may be there, so I call out in French, “I have come by myself. I and Sylvette. What has happened? Why can you not open the door? I wish to speak with Hannah. I must know if she is well.”
Inside, the bar slides off, and as the door opens slightly, a terrible stench emerges, the same as when Maman was so sick. I cover my nose and mouth.
“Hannah!” I whisper, raising my handkerchief. She is so pale, and her dark eyes appear huge. Her mouth is stained, as is her usually clean apron.
“We are ill,” she says in French and motions for me to leave. Before she can bar the door again, I push it open. The maison is dim; the fire low. Hannah goes to her bed and lies down, but it is more like falling into it. Estelle lies near the hearth. Hannah’s father and her brother are in beds along the opposite wall, both asleep—or worse.
I force myself to remain standing there, quite still. Should I go summon our abbé? But with Maman, I recall, he wasn’t the least helpful.
The fire, then.
Courage, Eugenie.
I look for wood. There is none near the hearth. “Hannah? Le bois?”
She points to another door. I go there, open it, and find a storeroom. Here are the logs, stacked to one side, and on the other, shelves holding food and supplies. I remove my gloves and choose, first, the kindling. This I pile atop ashes that seem warm enough. Soon threads of gray smoke rise and then the kindling bursts into flame. My stomach floats upward, but I force myself to continue building the fire, setting atop the flames larger pieces of wood. Part of me exults; part of me trembles.
I swing the iron crane outward and look into its black pot. Empty.
“Lentilles, mademoiselle,” Hannah says from her bed.
The legumes! But where? I go back into the cold storeroom and search. There is a box of dry river sand on the floor. How curious! I stoop and run fingers through this sand, discovering a number of carottes and several turnips, our navets, white and purple. Then, on a shelf, I find a crock labeled lentils.
So I must make soup, yes? How does one begin to make le potage?
With some liquid, I presume. I decide to begin with water and, yes!—there is a water bucket, half full. This I carry to the iron pot and pour some in. How heavy it is! And what a curious sensation to carry something heavy and rough to the touch! I feel a terrible strain on my fingers, hand, and arm, but there is something else, too, something I recognize as joy. I tip the crock and pour in some lentilles. I find a knife in the cupboard and, after wiping away the sand, slice carrots and turnips. Too late I realize that I probably should be peeling the turnips, but how does one do that? An unruly turnip slips from my fingers, the knife clatters down, yet my fingers have escaped harm. The inexpertly cut vegetables I drop into the water, skin and all. Then I swing the crane and its pot back over the flames. I am making soup!
I take a cup of water to Hannah. She points to her father and John, and I take them water as well. When John awakens and sees me, he blanches even further, while I sense color flooding my cheeks. Then I take water to Estelle. If they are feverish, then they need water. This I also know.
“What has happened here,” I ask Estelle.
In French, she tells me everything and then asks if I could find someone to feed and water the animals. John is too weak. They all are. And the cow must be milked soon. Her name is Violet.
Water. Feed. Milk.
Impossible.
“S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle,” Estelle says. “They will sicken, otherwise.”
Can you do this, Eugenie? Can you?
A covered passageway leads to a shed, and when I arrive there, the poor animals move toward me as if I were Hannah. At our château I watched our servants feeding chickens when I was a child. And I saw them feed hay to our milk cows, too. So what do all apprentices do when they are learning from a master? They imitate, of course!
And thus the chickens and the rooster are fed the cracked grain I find in a bin. The cow, the sheep, and the goats get dried grasses. All of them get water. But the cow—she does not want her food. She wants to be milked.
I must find Rachel Stalk or Mary. I look down at my ruined shoes. I think of the snow. The cow gives a loud bellow, and I back away from her. She t
urns to reproach me.
Ah, mon Dieu, how difficult can it be?
I take a bucket hanging from a peg, but it seems that it is not I doing this; rather, someone else. Then this someone else, who is somehow still me, is stooping, her face right up against the cow’s heaving side with its rough fur. This person gently grips a swollen teat and moves her hand downward as I have seen a little dairymaid once do, to my intense embarrassment, then. Tears come. The cow moans although not as loudly as before. “Do not cry, Madame Violette. See? I am trying my best. I, Eugenie Annette Marie de La Roque, your milkmaid. Do not cry s’il vous plaît, but allow me to have all your milk now.”
Strangely, my voice seems to calm her, and the milk flows. Streams of it steaming into the bucket!
“Merci, madame,” I sing to her.
Someone touches my shoulder and I turn my head a little, fear coursing through me.
It is John Kimbrell fils, saying something I cannot understand. Then he gestures for me to leave. Hardly able to keep himself upright, he clutches a post.
I shake my head. I have found the necessary rhythm, and the poor cow’s milk is flowing well. My face has never held more heat—to be seen like this. But there is something else, too, something I recognize as pride.
When the milk finally stops flowing into the bucket, the cow seems to give a great sigh. Her flank heaves outward against my cheek and then inward again. “I think she will be well now,” I say in French as I stand and rearrange my gown. “You must rest. Go, go!” I point to the door.
Still clutching the post, he leans forward to take the bucket of milk. Then he brushes at the air between us as if hoping to cleanse it. “Go!” I command, and he totters into the storeroom with the milk.
I raise my hand to my shoulder and hold it there a moment, but remove it when John reenters the shed with a different bucket and a cloth. He points to the cow, then seats himself on a small stool and begins washing her. It is too much for him, this up-and-down motion, and he tips forward, against her side.
“Monsieur Kimbrell!” I help him up and after a while we walk, slowly, back into the maison.
Estelle motions me over to her. Could I not find some way to help her people? She fears for them, now. “L’abbé, mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît!”
I nod.
“Bless you, my lady. You are so good!”
I fill a cup of water for each of them and leave it nearby. I take Hannah’s slate and draw a picture of the deerskin boots and point to my feet. When she understands what I am asking, she nods. I also take the crock of lentils from the shelf in the pantry and two carrots from the bin of sand and hold these up before her. Again, she nods. I bring three logs from the storeroom, one at a time, and place them by the hearth.
Before leaving, I stir the soup as I have seen our Louisa do. Then I remember.
Chamber pots.
Impossible!
I stand there until, somehow, I am moving. Carrying water outside, in the bucket. Carrying the chamber pots to the far end of the yard. There must be some other, proper place for the waste, but I know not where. One by one I empty the pots and then pour a little water into them.
It is the most awful thing I have done in my life.
Then, in Hannah’s boots, I fly to Abbé La Barre’s cabin, Sylvette barking and running alongside.
Bless you, my lady. You are so good.
At Versailles we flattered one another as a matter of custom. Ah, you are so beautiful! Ah, how clever! How delightful! What a superb gown! Ah, how good you are! We expected such words, even implicitly demanded them; to receive, you must give. And though these hyperboles were false most of the time, or at least bereft of the full truth—and we all aware of that—we still delighted in hearing them. But now I can see how different Estelle’s words are—rich and deep with conviction and truth, like a Chinese gong struck once, with force. At the court, our flatteries must have floated through the air like the glissando of a glass harmonica.
Struggling to breathe and talk at the same time, I tell Abbé La Barre about the Kimbrells and Estelle and the other slaves. He throws on his cloak. He will, he says, inform the marquis himself.
Outside, the cold no longer seems cold. The day is still all blue and white. At our maison, I heat water and clean my hands. Then I scrutinize them. They do not look bad. In fact, they still look like my own hands. Pink and white and finely formed, the fingernails clean and pretty.
I am still myself.
Only, some new person, too.
Maman weeps at the sight of me, in Hannah’s boots, in a soiled gown, my hair disordered. That I am making a pot of soup for us only increases her misery. Papa tries to console her, but it is futile.
“We thought wild animals had eaten you, Eugenie!”
“But Maman, I had to help them. Who else will?”
“Why could you not have told Talon, instead of going there yourself?”
Because . . . because I was right there and it was . . . urgent. But I say nothing, for she would not like those words.
“He is responsible for them, Eugenie. Not you. Why must you dishonor us? Running back and forth across the settlement! Soiling your clothing! Endangering yourself! Your gown we cannot save. Your redingote we must, and your shoes. But how shall we clean them? Whoever saw you must think you have gone mad. The Du Valliers—”
“Charlotte, Charlotte,” Papa murmurs. “I shall clean them.”
“And what if we ourselves become ill? Daughter, you were not thinking—again!”
“Maman,” I finally say. “I helped because she helped us.”
“It was her responsibility to do so.”
“And so, too, ours?”
“Oh, my child.”
“Maman, please have some of the soup, anyway. Then maybe you shall feel better.”
“She is right, Charlotte. The mind is not happy, sitting atop an empty stomach.”
“It will only make me feel worse.”
This night I think upon all that I have done today. I have milked a cow. I have built a fire. I have made soup. I have cared for the sick. I have done more in this one day, it seems, than in all my previous life. And now, as I listen to the wind—so much like waves beating against these logs—I am happy. I am truly happy! It has been months, many months, since I have felt happy. It is almost a new sensation entirely. I wish I could tell Maman. Perhaps I can tell Papa. Holding Sylvette’s paws, I lean back into the warmth of it.
But then, Abbé La Barre comes with the news that two of Monsieur Rouleau’s slaves have died four days ago—Estelle’s mother and the elderly man named Jacques, who was Estelle’s uncle. Her brother is still alive, though quite weak. He tells us, too, that there is talk of imprisoning the Kimbrells. All of them.
Mon Dieu! Papa is frowning. Maman says, “And well they should be imprisoned! They are far too disruptive.”
“But Maman . . .”
“Hush, child.”
After Abbé La Barre leaves, Maman says, “Now we shall all die.”
Hannah
Again comes the pounding against our door. It can only be Mr. Rouleau.
’Tis—with Marquis Talon. As they enter our cabin, Marquis Talon says, “we need her, Kimbrell. It’s time she returns.”
Father speaks in a calm voice. “She is not yet strong enough. Take her now and she may only become ill again.”
The marquis translates all that into French, and then Mr. Rouleau’s reply into English. “I need more help than just the one slave!” Mr. Rouleau shouts.
“Mr. Rouleau. You have two daughters who might help you, if they be well. Also, there be others here at the settlement to hire.”
Mr. Rouleau stamps his foot. “The one slave shall do it all, then, and if anything happens to him, the fault lies at your feet, sir! As for me, I shall make a full report to the vicomte.”
“Indeed thou must,” Father says. “It would be wise to let him know how a lack of care has caused the deaths of the man named Jacques and of Estelle an
d Alain’s mother. The vicomte can then advise others who come here seeking sanctuary. The bodies must be properly buried. I am sure Abbé La Barre has told you this as well.”
“And I will tell you the same thing I told him. In this cold? With the earth like iron? We have already carried the bodies into the forest and left them. Good day, sir. You shall hear more of this matter quite soon.”
Father steps outside, blocking the man’s way. “The remains must be properly buried. We shall dig below the frost, my son and I. Tell us where thou hast taken the bodies.”
Mr. Rouleau’s eyes shift away. “No doubt it is already too late.”
“Thou art a dishonorable man.”
“And you are a thief who shall be made to pay for your thievery.” Mr. Rouleau steps around Father.
“Kimbrell,” the marquis says, “you are meddling! The girl is properly Rouleau’s. You must stop interfering with the affairs of the French.”
“I shall give her up only when she is well.”
“Then I’ll have no choice but to punish you. Do you understand me?”
“I do.”
“Very well then.”
“John,” Father says after he bars the door. “There has been no new snow. It should be easy enough to find the tracks.”
“Do not despair,” Father says to Estelle. “Thy mother and thy uncle shall be buried and the graves properly marked. And there shall be prayers.” Explanatory gestures accompany the words.
Estelle merely nods her head. John begins to dress in his warmest clothing.
“Father,” I say. “If John goes, then Mr. Rouleau may see him and call someone to stop him.” I cannot bring myself to say the word imprison. “Why not let me go? I must still cook for the French, so they won’t harm me.”
Father considers this. “I cannot allow it. Yet it may be best for me to remain here. But then—”
“I won’t go too near, Father. Just to mark the place before I get Mr. Stalk.”
“John, go with her,” he finally says. “Stand guard there. Hannah will get Mr. Stalk to relieve thee. When he does, come back here, both of you. We will find a way to bury them. Go through the woods rather than across the settlement.”
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