Our Lady, I must save Sylvette! Help me do this, please.
The brown water froths onward, but ahead, at another bend, the river appears all white. As I approach, I see jumbled ice heaped there. My piece rushes toward the pile, but where is Sylvette? Crouched, I await the débâcle. It comes with a jarring crash that spills water all over my boots, gown, and redingote.
“Sylvette! Sylvette!”
At her loud barking, I turn.
Ah! She is at the edge of the ice pile and quite near shore. Seeing the branch, she races over the pile toward me and soon has the end of it in her jaw, as if all this were simply a variation of our old game. The pile suddenly groans, falling into individual chunks again. But Sylvette has the branch, and her piece of ice is approaching mine. “Sylvette, ma petite, come!” I get the branch from her, and she leaps to my side. Then I plunge the branch down into the brown water, and it touches bottom. Do as Papa did, Eugenie. Push! Push!
Great chunks and heaps of ice resume their swift journey. Ours desires to go with them. I push harder. Now only a few feet of brown water separate us from a snowy rise. I let the branch go and, holding Sylvette, jump.
We nearly slip back into the river but finally lie there, in the snow, both of us shaking. Are we on the right side of the river? I am not certain. And how far from that settlement? Again, I do not know. The snow is both wet and deep, and my feet are as numb as my hands.
Without losing hold of Sylvette, I get up and make my way through a stand of large trees where the snow is not so deep and then come out onto the bank of the river again. I must not allow it out of my sight. Tree limbs slide by, and pieces of ice. Otherwise, it is so quiet.
I must get warm—but how? With stiffened fingers, I tear off my gloves and blow on my hands. I stamp my feet. I make so much noise, I nearly do not hear the faint calling. I look downriver—no. I look upriver, and yes, something—the skiff!—approaches.
“Mademoiselle!”
“Here!” I cry out in French. “Sylvette! Bark, please!”
She does, and as the skiff quickly approaches, I shout as loudly as I can and wave. Never before have I done such shouting. The skiff angles toward shore and nearly slides past, but Hannah—yes, it is Hannah!—directs it toward the bank and throws me a rope. I cannot feel it in my hands but somehow wind it around a near tree and let the tree moor the boat. Holding something, Hannah jumps out and climbs the small bank. The mooring rope goes taut as the boat spins to the side, wanting to fly with the river.
Hannah speaks not a word but wildly tears at branches she finds lying on the snow, snapping and cracking them. She strips dry leaves off them. Her hands are shaking, but somehow she creates a fire by laying ashes from a pan upon the leaves.
She tells me by gesture and her oddly pronounced French how she happened to hear Sylvette’s barking and saw her jump onto the piece of ice. Then she saw me follow on another ice cake. She pantomimes hanging linen. Then she points to the pan and says, “Estelle.”
Again I understand. Rouleau’s maison is near the river. If Estelle and Hannah were nearby, hanging linen, Hannah might have observed it all and told Estelle to run for the pan of embers while she herself got the skiff. She anticipated, like a master at chess. She gambled like the shrewdest gamblers in the gaming rooms that there would be time enough to get the pan and skiff and find us.
“Merci, Hannah,” I say, tears blurring the scene before me.
The fire’s heat soon thaws my fingers and toes and it is time to go. But we cannot use the skiff—the river’s current is too strong. We will leave the skiff tied there and walk back, Hannah explains—to my relief. I am not eager to go upon the river again, in any kind of conveyance.
Hannah leads, breaking us a trail. Some time later, we hear voices calling and return the shouts. Then Papa appears with several others, including the marquis, and rushes ahead to embrace me before bowing to Hannah and declaring her a heroine of the greatest magnitude.
“Mademoiselle is the brave one,” Hannah tells Papa. He shakes his head. Foolish! I know he wants to say, but will not insult Hannah now. “Name your reward, Hannah Kimbrell, and I will do my best to grant it.”
I look to Hannah, whose eyes are now filling.
“No,” she begins. “’Tis enough . . .” She continues in French, “The deed enough.”
“If it were not for those boots, Charlotte!” Papa keeps saying. Exulting, really.
“If it were not for the boots, Philippe, she would not have jumped upon that piece of ice in order to chase that disobedient dog.”
“But Charlotte, she is safe. Hannah Kimbrell saved our daughter.”
Never before have I seen Papa so joyful. All evening people have been coming to the marquis’s maison to hear the story. Maman dressed my hair and took out Grand-mère’s necklace for me to wear with my favorite blue gown. It is almost as if we are in attendance upon the Queen.
Comte and Comtesse d’Aversille smile with Papa and commend “their” Hannah Kimbrell. The Sevignys and Du Valliers say little, however. I am hopeful that this latest feat of mine will finally, and forever, dampen Florentine’s ardor and dissuade his parents from any further thoughts of a match.
But Florentine comes close, his scornful smile in place. “So, mademoiselle,” he says in a low voice, “were you pretending to be an American Indian out there?”
“I was indeed. How did you ever guess?”
“You are, apparently, quite talented.”
“Do you think so, Florentine? You see, I am working on some amusing entertainment for our Queen.”
“I’m certain she shall be quite amused.”
“Oh, I’m pleased to hear that you think so. Your opinion means so much to me.”
“Indeed? Then you might be further pleased to know that I have not forgotten about your peasant, Kimbrell fils.”
“Ah, yes. And the Queen, I’m sure, shall be most delighted to know of his sister Hannah’s courage. And now excuse me, please. I must speak with Hannah.”
“Of course. You must not keep your heroine waiting.”
“Thank you, Florentine. You are most understanding.”
Clash, clank go our swords. But I am determined not to allow him to ruin this evening for me.
Passing near Hannah, who is serving apple cider, I say, in English, “Hannah, I am . . . happy tonight.” The marquis taught me the words, and I am most proud of myself for having learned them.
“I am also happy, mademoiselle,” she says in English. She may well be though she hardly looks it.
Then I must revert to French. “You and Estelle saved us. So now, truly, it is my turn.”
Her eyes darken. She nods slightly. “Oui, mademoiselle.”
“Eugenie.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle Eugenie.” She curtsies.
“So she can curtsy!” Florentine says, suddenly at my side again.
“And in the most novel ways, with her deeds, in fact.”
She curtsies with her deeds. The thought—no, the revelation—has just come. I see her rushing toward me with the pan of embers. I see her breaking branches and gathering leaves and with trembling fingers creating a fire, there on the snow.
“Well, she does not curtsy to me,” Florentine says, “either in form or in deed. You, mademoiselle, obviously possess superior charms.”
I look at Florentine in disbelief, for I hear tenderness in his words, and not scorn. But then he adds, in his more customary tone, “Perhaps you might use those charms to better instruct your—what shall I call her?—servant, still?”
“Ah, Florentine. You do not change, do you.”
“And why should I, mademoiselle?”
“Of course you should not, perfect as you are.”
“You flatter me.”
“That is my end in life, Florentine.”
“A truly noble one.”
“Indeed!”
“Attention! Attention!” the marquis calls. “I must make an announcement.”
The marqu
is waits until all is quiet. He is standing alongside the hearth, his face pink from the heat of the fire in the overly warm room.
“But first . . . Comte de La Roque, open the door, please!”
Papa does so and there stand John Kimbrell père and fils. A gasp arises from all of us. Hannah moves toward them as best she can in this crowded room. When they embrace, we applaud.
“At Comte de La Roque’s request,” the marquis says, “I have pardoned the Kimbrells for meddling in the affairs of Monsieur Rouleau. So be it. They are now free to . . . work!”
We laugh and applaud again. The marquis notices, I am certain, that the Kimbrells do not bow to us, yet he says nothing. At least not tonight. Fear for them burns away the happiness. John Kimbrell surveys the room until he sees me. In the next moment, he is looking at Hannah again.
The Du Valliers begin murmuring. Florentine says, “I believe a duel is most certainly necessary.”
“Talon will never permit it.”
“And he will know?”
“I will tell him.”
“So I am right. He is your Américain courtier.”
“Florentine, you struggle too hard to spoil my evening. Just your being here is sufficient.”
The coup d’état. He moves roughly away, and I know for certain that I have made an enemy. Hannah turns to curtsy and then all three Kimbrells leave. I lower my face to Sylvette, who has been deemed naughty by everyone in the room. She whines, wanting down, but I refuse to indulge her.
Then Papa is there, alongside me. “Merci, Papa,” I whisper. “Merci.”
Hannah
John and I work in silence as we settle the animals for the night. When our chores are finished, he sits on the narrow bench where we change our boots before entering the cabin. But he doesn’t bend forward to unlace his boots. I sit alongside him. Can he sense my thoughts? Does he know what I have been longing to tell him these past days?
“Hannah,” he says, “Gabriel Stalk told us a flotilla may arrive tomorrow. Word has come from downriver.”
“Tomorrow!”
“Aye.”
“The Queen?”
“The messenger said naught about any queen aboard.”
“Will those boats then take the Rouleau family and their slaves?”
“Not right away, but after the flotilla returns from upriver.”
“John, if ’tis the Queen, how shall we . . . be? Must I curtsy and you bow? I do not wish to hurt Father any further.”
“We will be who we are, Hannah.”
“And if ’tis the Queen, John, Eugenie will just go back to being like she was.”
“Then she will be who she is, too. Only more so. I’m such a fool. To have any sort of hope, I mean.”
“Oh, John, I, too, have had . . . hope.” I worry my fingers some. The need to tell my brother everything finally overwhelms prudence.
“John, she says she wishes to help the slaves. At least she tells me so. Can it be?”
He turns to regard me, his face all surprise. I tell him how, after the rescue, she wanted to reward Estelle, too. How she asked my help. How we haven’t formed a plan yet. How I haven’t told Father anything. All these words, wanting out of the cage, fly wildly. “But John, I don’t know if I can . . . trust her.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . she is a noble.”
He is quiet for a long while. Finally he says, “I believe thou can, Hannah.”
“Thou wishes to believe it.”
“Aye. I do. And I will help thee.”
“Oh, John. I wanted thee clear of it.” My fingers are back to being little chicks pecking at grain.
“Well, I’m not, now.”
“John, she will always be an . . . aristocrat.”
“Aye.”
My brother puts his arm around my shoulder and holds on. ’Tis good not to be alone in it anymore. I will not think of the danger. I will just give thanks for this moment.
Eugenie
Comte de Sevigny shouts out something as he and the comtesse hurry past our maison. Then the Du Valliers rush by. “The Queen!” Du Vallier calls. “The Queen!”
We throw on our cloaks. I slip into my boots and pick up Sylvette. Maman and I hurry out into warmth and sunlight. Even the elderly Comte and Comtesse d’Aversille are hurrying, aided by their walking sticks. We make our own stream flowing to the Susquehanna.
“Sylvette! At last!” Joy blends with fear. What will she think of this place? And of us, now? I want to run but must wait for Maman. Our steps are so slow it is maddening. Then here is Papa. And all the workers. For a moment it seems we are at the racetrack near Paris, everyone crushing together, eyes widely open, breath held.
A shout goes up as three longboats come clearly into view. “Oh, Maman! Marie Antoinette!” Sylvette wriggles down, but I pick her up again so that she might be among the first to see our Queen.
“Eugenie! Sylvette is soiling your cloak! Set her down.”
I see no dirt against the dark of the cloak but obey Maman. There is so much fear in her voice, it charges through me as well. Our hair neither powdered nor dressed, clogs (and my boots!) clumped with earth, few jewels to be seen, the hems of our gowns stained brown where they drag in the mud each day. Imagining this moment, I have never envisioned it to be quite like this.
Then Hannah and John arrive. Courage, Hannah’s smile seems to say. John glances in our direction but turns away quickly. I raise my handkerchief to Hannah after dabbing my eyes. Despite my fear, despite our poor appearance, despite everything, this still feels like a beginning, new and wonderful. And how much more so than when we arrived last November.
But where . . .
“Are there no banners?” I ask. “No flag?”
“Perhaps, because this is America,” Maman whispers.
The boats appear to be the same as those in which we traveled upriver—simple longboats riding low in the water. Two with canopies, and one open. But three? Only three for the Queen and her entourage?
High above the river, wild geese form an arrowlike shape wavering northward. A good omen, I tell myself.
“Form two lines,” the marquis calls. “Workers, move back. Farther, farther!”
Hannah and John and the other workers walk back up the landing and stand in a group to one side while we form two well-spaced lines. In my thoughts I practice my curtsy, but then cold rushes through me. Hannah. Hannah and John and Monsieur Kimbrell. I whisper my concern to Papa that the Kimbrells will not demonstrate proper etiquette, and Papa goes to the marquis. After a moment, the marquis breaks from our line and strides over to the workers. The Kimbrells leave. Then as the boats turn toward the landing, the marquis walks forth to be the first to greet our Queen.
Nobles step from the boats, as clumsy as we were. This cannot be proper. Surely the Queen must be the first to set foot upon this land. Is she within a closed compartment? Could she be ill from the voyage? I wonder, too, if it will be easier to approach her, here. She has always been surrounded by so many attendants—the ladies of honor, the chambermaids and pages and butlers, the ministers and secretaries and doctors, and she the center of it all. So encircled! I remind myself not to address her until she first speaks to me.
Six courtiers and six ladies disembark from the first boat, their expressions as strained as ours must have been last autumn. The ladies totter and have to be steadied, as we were. Then I see a vision so wonderful, so unexpected, joy overcomes all thought. Amelia! My cousin and dearest friend! I cannot restrain myself. Sylvette and I break from the line and run to her. In my happiness I forget to curtsy but instead grip Amelia so hard about the arms she lurches backward, and we both nearly fall atop Sylvette, circling us wildly.
“Eugenie!” she cries. “What manner of greeting is this?”
“The Queen! Have you come with the Queen, Amelia?”
She catches her breath. “Non. All winter we have been in Philadelphia. The vicomte found us a dwelling and there we stayed, since we could
not travel until now.”
“Philadelphia? Have you at least had word of the Queen?”
“We heard that she has escaped the Conciergerie and is in hiding somewhere, with Marie-Thérèse and Louis-Charles.” Amelia steps farther away from me and regains her dignity.
“And this is certain?” I ask.
“Non. But we believe it must be true.”
“But Amelia, you do not know it for certain?”
“There was to be a ship waiting offshore, an American vessel. It was to take them to Southampton, in England, and finally to America. We heard this just before we ourselves left, secretly, of course.”
“But Amelia, if you heard of this plan, perhaps so did her captors.”
“They are stupid people! They will not have heard.”
We stare at one another. I notice how much older she appears. Her beautiful, lion-gold eyes are threaded with red. And under each is a sunken lilac crescent her face powder cannot fill, or mask.
“Eugenie,” she says. “What has happened to you? You look . . . completely different.”
I brush at my cloak, my hair, and see that I have forgotten to put on my gloves. My hands are red! I do not remember powdering my face today, so that must be red, too.
“I? Well, it is quite an amusing story, Amelia—”
But she has turned from me to stare at our settlement, the few trees mere sticks and the only green that of the pines and hemlocks climbing the hillsides and the steep mountain across the river.
“We are to live here?” she says.
“Oh, Amelia, I have much to tell you, and you, me.” I link my arm within hers and try not to be sad when she pulls away from me again.
At the riverfront the marquis is speaking with the Vicomte de Noailles, who has also arrived with the flotilla, and then the vicomte tells everyone what Amelia has just told me. Our neat lines dissolve. Workers depart from the landing. Maman and the Comtesse de Sevigny lead Amelia and my aunt Sophie and uncle Chemin to our petite maison for Hannah’s flummery, cake, and tea. There will have to be another lottery for the newly finished maisons. And Papa may soon have need to practice his joinery skill—if, now, Maman allows.
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