I lift the rifle down from its pegs and fill the powder chamber. Then I take flint box, cartridges, and rifle, and we walk out into the cold.
My trail to Estelle’s shelter serves us well. The snow has been trampled by foraging deer and we can walk quickly. When we near the shelter, we turn eastward, thinking we might see other tracks.
Aye. Here they are. Lines upon the snow tell us that the bodies were dragged. Who did this? One of the workers? If so, he has not much honor.
We walk for several more minutes and then come upon wolf prints going in the same direction. John takes the rifle, and we walk on. Wind high up in the great pines and hemlocks makes a heavy thrumming. I am saddened to think of Estelle’s mother and uncle having to come so far from their home only to die here. And I am afraid now of what we will find.
The trail ends some hundred paces into the woods, where we soon come upon what I do not want to see. The disturbed white mounds. The strewn-about blankets and red-flecked snow.
“Hannah,” John whispers. “Do not look upon this.”
I turn away and utter a prayer.
Father had not been thinking—I blame the illness. He would not have wanted us to see this. But I forgive him. And the wolves and mountain lions and bobcats. They do only what instinct tells them to do. Unlike our own kind. Rouleau, I cannot forgive.
Trees creak and groan in the wind. I will not hear the wolves or the mountain lions should they return. But no fear enters me. There is no room, sadness and outrage filling the whole space.
My expression must give it away. Estelle cries out when I return.
I hold Estelle while she sobs. “Father, she cannot go back to him.”
“Aye.” But there is a measure of hopelessness in his voice.
Estelle moves away from me and wraps her shawl close about her. “I must be with Alain,” she says in French.
I go to stop her, but Father says ’tis best for her to be with her brother now.
Carrying a basket with bread, preserves, dried fish, and applesauce, Estelle slowly makes her way to the trail skirting the clearing.
“She will go there, Father. ’Tis near sunset, and the wolves—”
“I think not. She will stay with Alain.”
“Then they will both go. I cannot bear to think of it!”
“Hannah, calm thyself. I will follow to make certain they do not. John, stay here with Hannah. But first, I am sorry. I should not have let thee go. Forgive me, my daughter.”
“I already have, Father. But I cannot forgive Rouleau.”
“Thou must. Otherwise, what good our beliefs? Ah, my Hannah. ’Tis a high wall to scale. All of it.”
’Tis nigh midnight. Father has not returned. John and I regard the fire. To speak will only give voice to fear, so we are silent. My hands shake so. Wolves bark and yip, chasing something. Then that unfortunate creature shrieks wildly. I cover my ears. When I uncover them, it is quiet.
“Hannah,” John says, “fear not. He is with Mr. Stalk.”
I say naught but know what must have happened.
Eugenie
“Enough! The marquis did what was required. The Americans are here to serve us, not to conduct our affairs.”
“But Maman, did not Monsieur Kimbrell wish merely to help the ill girl and properly bury the others?”
“It was not his place to do so. He must be taught a lesson . . . and serve as an example for the other Americans.”
“Papa! What do you think?”
“I think that Talon will lose his best worker if he keeps him locked up. What is the point of it?”
“The point, Philippe,” Maman says, “is propriety.”
“Will it not stir up the Americans against us?” I ask.
“We shall see,” Papa says.
Then Hannah enters with our dinner, and a wondrous scent fills our maison as she serves a ragoût and warm bread after curtsying to each of us. Her eyes are tinged red. Her face, blotched and swollen. “Hannah,” I say, to Maman’s acute displeasure. “How is your father?” These words are in French, but she understands.
“Not well,” she replies in our language. “John, though, is with him now.”
John. “But why?”
“The marquis ordered it.”
“Then you are all alone?”
“Eugenie,” Maman warns.
When she leaves, Maman scolds me for speaking with Hannah. Papa comes to my defense and then says, “This affair, Charlotte, reflects badly upon us. I will not be surprised if all the Americans leave, come spring.”
“Let them.”
“Charlotte, Charlotte. They are not our peasants. Do not blame them, I beg you, for what they did not do.”
“Like the slaves, Papa. They do not deserve blame for anything, either.”
Maman stares at me a moment before turning to Papa. “Look what this America is doing to your daughter, Philippe!”
“I see.”
“You must speak to her.”
Later, after Maman falls asleep, he does.
“Ma chérie, your father is proud of you.”
“Papa! Truly?”
“Truly. You have traveled far.”
It takes me awhile to understand that he does not mean in actual distance.
“What about Hannah?” I whisper. “And Monsieur Kimbrell? And . . . John? Is there anything we can do, Papa?”
“I have approached Talon about the matter but to no avail. He sees it as a test of wills.”
“And Maman. She is so unhappy with me. Papa? I greatly dislike Florentine even though he is one of us. He is reveling in all this.”
“Hush, ma petite.”
“But it is true!”
He kisses me on the brow and bids me sleep. The wind is fierce tonight, my poor word fierce hardly expressive of its fury. It seems almost sentient as it gathers itself, becoming greater, ever greater, and then crashes against our maison with the force of an avalanche. And it has been snowing so hard! I gather Sylvette close but cannot sleep for thinking of the Kimbrells in their prison and the two slaves in their rude hut.
Morning tames the vicious wind, and Hannah arrives with our breakfast and something else—boots for all of us. It is finally Papa who invites her to speak.
“Who has made these fine boots, Hannah?”
She answers in French. “My father and my brother, comte.”
“They are well made!” He rubs the suede leather, the fringe at the top.
“They are for you, comte, and for madame and mademoiselle.”
“I do not wish to wear boots,” Maman says in our language, except for the word boots, which she gives an angry emphasis. “They are for savages.”
“May I wear mine, Maman? Just to take Sylvette outside? It is impossible otherwise, with all this snow.”
“Permit it, Charlotte. We all have had too much of our petite maison.”
Maman finally permits. More than that, she even smiles, but it is because she is lapsing into memory gain. “Do you know,” she says, “Marie Antoinette loved the snow when she was a child in Austria? Perhaps she will like it here after all.”
“Kimbrell can make her a pair of boots, too,” Papa says, “and you can go off on some mountaineering adventure.”
Maman’s smile fades. “If she comes.”
“She shall!” I quickly say. “Won’t she, Papa?” I slip on my boots, delighted by their softness and the fact that my gown nearly hides them from view so Maman won’t be too offended.
“She shall indeed come,” Papa says. But I hear something in his voice and quickly regard him. The tone is too emphatic, as if he were speaking to children who need reassurance.
“Come, Sylvette.” I take my cloak. Hannah has left, and we haven’t even thanked her.
Outside, I see her on the avenue. At first I take small quick steps. Soon I am running—forgetting everything for a moment but the sudden pleasure of it.
“Hannah!” I say, coming alongside her. I have to catch my breath. “Merc
i!”
She smiles a little.
“But why,” I ask, “when we are so . . . uncivil to you?” Does she understand my French? She simply keeps walking toward the maison being used as a small prison. I stop and let her go. She must be taking them food.
But no. She merely touches the door with one hand, and waits awhile. Does she try to speak with them? Soon she is walking away, with her pots.
The small prison’s window is barred shut on the outside, like its door. A thin line of smoke rises from the chimney. I approach the maison and go right up to the door itself. Sylvette barks, announcing our presence. “Messieurs,” I say loudly. “C’est Eugenie de La Roque. Merci! Merci beaucoup!”
There is no response.
Trembling, I step away.
We walk to the river, Sylvette and I. It looks like a field of snow. In the boots, my feet are warm.
1794
Février / February
Hannah
Here’s love by the handful, here’s love by the ball. Here’s love for the Elders. Here’s love for you all.
Lines from the song come to me almost in mockery. I feel no love except for Father, John, and our family. I do not want to stay here! They won’t even let me take Father and John their meals. I fear I am beginning to hate the nobles. They are not noble, but small and stingy and cruel.
This love it flows freely from this little store. To all Mother’s children the wilderness o’er.
Flames on the hearth burn hard and angry, drawn upward by the wind.
I cannot sleep, and then when I do, I cannot awaken, each dawn.
The girls here avoid me, even while we hang linen on the lines strung between sycamores near the river when the drying shed is full. They chatter with one another and pretend I am not there. Have the nobles told them not to speak with me? Are they afraid? Today is sun-filled and mild, with no wind, a day to cheer the heart—only mine cannot be cheered. Estelle approaches with a bucket and fills it from a hole in the river ice. Passing quite close to me with her full bucket, she whispers that she is to leave soon.
“When?” I whisper back. Mary and Rachel are watching us.
She looks out over the ice-and-snow-covered river. “Soon.” Tears hang like little icicles at her eyelashes.
“Back to the plantation?”
“Non. New Orleans. We will be sold at the slave market there.”
“Sold? This cannot be!”
Her eyes round and she stiffens. I turn. ’Tis Mademoiselle de La Roque, approaching. She walks well, and she looks younger without the white powder on her face.
“Bonjour!” mademoiselle calls.
The other girls all curtsy. Estelle and I also curtsy, causing the girls to giggle foolishly. My heart feels stony.
“Le Printemps, Hannah! Le Printemps est arrive!” Spring is here!
I look across the river where tree limbs have taken on a red hue. “Non,” I say. “Février.”
’Tis just like her not to care that I shall be the one fined if Madame de La Roque hears of this exchange. Nor does she notice Estelle’s unhappiness. She is too busy teasing Sylvette with a branch. Estelle curtsies and begins walking back with her full bucket of water.
Mademoiselle de La Roque looks up. “Au revoir!” she calls. Estelle turns and curtsies. She raises a hand to her eyes before hurrying away.
“What is the matter with her?” Mademoiselle de La Roque asks in French.
“She leaves soon,” I reply slowly in French. “She and her brother will be sold in a place called New Orleans.”
“Oh, Hannah!”
“They leave when the river is clear of ice.”
She comes close, despite our audience, and says, “Perhaps we can find some way to help.”
We help them escape? My heartbeat quickens. Nous, in French. Does she mean her family will help? Or the nobles? Or—the two of us? But all this I do not know how to say in French.
“We create a plan,” she goes on. “Every escape first begins with a plan.”
“The two of us?”
“Oui!”
The thought fairly sets me shaking. Only at the last minute do I remember to curtsy as she turns to leave.
“Hannah,” she begins, but then does not say anything further.
The stoniness inside has become fear. Who can trust any noble? I think of Father and John in that little prison and tears come again. I cannot put them in more danger, can I? And yet, would not Father want Estelle and Alain to escape from Rouleau?
A word comes to me. Sanctuary.
My knees quake yet I am able to run back to our cabin. There I set about making a large apple tart. When it is ready, I carry it to the marquis’s maison and rap on the door with the stone knocker.
He opens it himself—the marquis!—in a blue velvet frock coat very like General Washington’s. A fire burns well on the hearth. Books are upon his table, and inkpot and quill. He has been writing, and I disturb him. Words refuse to form.
“What is this?” he asks, as if I hold some strange creature. “Enter.”
’Tis a very command. I close the door and place the tart upon his table but well away from the books. I nearly forget to curtsy.
“Ah! You are learning your lesson, Hannah Kimbrell. Now tell me. Do you wish to plead for your father and your brother, with this tart?”
I should!
“I forewarn you. It will do no good. They must remain where they are until they learn their lesson. And what is their lesson, Hannah?”
“I know not, Marquis Talon.”
“Of course you do. Think.”
My knees are quaking again, and my jaw. “’Tis not to . . . meddle in thy affairs.”
“Indeed. But now I suspect that you are here to do just that.”
Before leaving, I remember to curtsy.
“Wait,” he commands. “I wish to know why you hoped to bribe me with this.” He points to the tart, now scenting the room with cinnamon. “Tell me.”
The marquis is smiling!
“Your . . . Excellency, I came to ask thee to . . . grant the slaves . . . sanctuary here and . . . your protection.”
“Aha! More meddling. I knew it, did I not? And you believe that I am able to protect them?”
I can only nod. Tears have welled up.
“You flatter me, child. That, I cannot do. They are not mine. They are the property of Monsieur Rouleau, and he will be leaving with them as soon as there is transport.”
“But thou,” I hear myself saying, “represent . . . the Queen of France.”
“Ho! A discussion, now, on what? The law? Monarchic privilege?” The marquis goes to his table and sits. “Since you have been forbidden to see your father and your brother, I can only assume you have come to this thought yourself. True?”
I nod again.
“Stop bobbing your head. You have a voice. Answer my question.”
“I . . . I have come to it myself.”
“Then I admire your intellectual effort but must repeat that I can do nothing in this regard. You have baked this wonderful tart for naught.”
Nothing is ever for naught, my dear Hannah. We simply do not have eyes to see, yet.
“Pour me some coffee and cut a piece of this.”
I look about the cabin, which is twice as large as our own. The marquis possesses a sideboard where plates are stacked and cutlery fills a drawer. I do as he bids and then go to the door again.
He eats.
“Do you miss them? Your father and your brother?”
I cannot trust my voice. I nod again.
“Stop that. Do you miss them?”
“I do, Excellency.”
“Are you faring all right on your own?”
“I . . . am.”
“Bon. This is delicious, by the way. You are to be congratulated. Now, go. I have work to do.”
Outside, the mild air soothes my face, but the ache of failure feels like something wanting to crush my very bones.
1794
&
nbsp; Mars / March
Eugenie
“Sylvette! Non!”
But she bounds, barking, toward the river, where cakes of ice are sliding rapidly by on brown water. Does she think they are hares afloat on the river?
“Sylvette!”
One piece floats toward the landing, and before I can reach the river’s edge, Sylvette has leaped atop it, barking furiously.
“Sylvette, jump into the water. Come back!!”
She will not. I know she will not. She likes to play with the water but does not swim in it. Mon Dieu. Already the river is taking her swiftly away. Her barking is becoming fainter.
She turns toward me, and I fear that she will jump. But the river is too fast, too strong. She shall drown!
“Wait, Sylvette. Wait!”
A large piece of ice skims close to the landing. I step onto it and then slide away, too.
The settlement falls behind us. There are just woods to either side. As fast as I go, Sylvette goes even faster on her smaller piece of ice.
Our Lady, help us.
Water ripples over the edges of the ice cake. When I shift my weight, the ice tilts. I must stand exactly in the center.
Eugenie, think, now!
That settlement. The one we passed in the autumn. Surely, someone will see. I will have to call out loudly as we pass.
There’s a larger piece of ice just ahead and I leap to it. But all the rest are small. My gown is sopping at the bottom, and heavy.
Be patient, Eugenie. Use your head. Do not think of the water below you. What matters is Sylvette.
She is still barking.
At a bend in the river, Sylvette’s piece of ice slides against others and slows. Oh, if only I had one of those poles Papa used last autumn. Then I see, floating quite near, a branch. Though it is not a pole, it may suffice.
I crouch down, wetting more of my gown, and grab for the limb. The water is so cold that it scalds, but I have the branch. I have it!
Bon! Now what?
I try to push with it, but the river is too deep. Still, I hang on to it as my meager raft bobs and bounces downriver. My hands, in their wet gloves, are becoming numb. Soon I will not be able to grip the branch at all.
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