“Yes, knowledge . . . I suppose, but—”
“And now these Kimbrells, who can do everything—Did you know, Maman, that they will not be paid at all for their work?”
“Oui. I knew.”
“It is not right. And today Amelia scattered flour all over, to be mean, and Hannah said nothing. She—oh, Maman, are we nobles going to be the same way here in America? Mean to those below us?”
“Eugenie, stop, please. You are talking nonsense.”
“But I am not, Maman!”
“Oui. You are tired, after your day, and I am, too.”
“Oh, Maman. I am sorry. Rest, please. You must. And do not be sad. We have so much, do we not?”
Words startling us both.
“And now, Maman, I have something to beg of you.”
Hannah
“The harpsichord?”
“Aye, Father! She would like us to play a simple tune together at the opening of La Grand Maison. She will play the harder part. I will merely create the rhythm, she says.”
“Daughter, ’tis one thing to learn to play the harpsichord, but quite another to play it before nobles. But first, why does she wish to teach thee?”
I hesitate. Finally I say, “Mademoiselle de La Roque wants to . . . repay me for helping her.”
Father looks down at the table. I know he is thinking of how we will earn naught this year.
“And she is so . . . taken with the idea of this fête. I think she is just happy and desires everyone to be a part of this happiness, too.”
Again I pause but then decide to tell him everything except our escape plan, should our harpsichord plan fail. “And, too, Father, she thinks that Mr. Talon will then help Estelle and Alain if she asks him for that favor.” I explain her idea—that on an evening when Father is to be honored for managing the completion of La Grand Maison, and when his daughter shows that she can play the harpsichord, Mr. Talon will be in a generous mood. For this is how, she explained, things worked at the Queen’s court in France and so will work here, too.
“I doubt, child, that he will be so generous. He seems set hard against any interference.”
I have made this very argument to Eugenie and even told her about my futile visit to the marquis. Her response was that at least we must try, which is what I now say to Father.
“Dost thou think that thou can learn well enough?” Father asks.
“I believe I can, Father.”
I understand why Father asks this question. ’Tis because he believes we must do well whatever we set out to do. That is why he is such a good joiner, and when he farms, a good farmer. It is why most people soon come to respect him.
After a long silence, he says, “Thou may learn to play the harpsichord, Hannah. As for the day of the fête, if thou wishes not to play, then I’ll not judge thee harshly for declining. Mademoiselle de La Roque may have some success with the nobles on her own.”
“I thank thee, Father.”
“Good night, now, child. Thou art a treasure. Always remember that I love thee well.”
“And I love thee well, Father!”
This wealth of ours, this love, causes me to think about Estelle and Alain. They do not seem in the least joyful. Shunned by the French and ignored by the workers, they are truly orphans. Estelle says little now as she washes clothing. And she is so thin and looks poorly. There is no song in her. She does not smile. Today I found her brushing last autumn’s leaves from the graves of her mother and uncle. Father and John and Mr. Stalk dug them as deep as if they were to hold bodies. But the bodies, of course, are not there. Just bits of clothing and a few bones.
“Estelle,” I said, “I am sorry.” She nodded and lowered her head. Then she braced her forehead with one hand and wept.
“Estelle, remember that Mademoiselle de La Roque has a plan to help you and Alain,” I added in French. “Do not weep so, please.”
She shook her head and murmured something. I stooped alongside her—she was kneeling on the wet earth, unmindful of her thin gown.
“Pardonnez-moi, Estelle, but I did not hear you.”
“Je désire la mort.”
“Estelle! I do not want you to die,” I said carefully in French. “Please do not think thus.”
Using sawn tree limbs bound with rope, she and Alain have made two crosses for the graves. There’s a white sea-shell and also a small bowl she fills with pieces of fish and other food when she visits. I do not tell her that animals come in the night and eat it. She probably knows. At that moment the bowl was heaped with slices of dried apple. “Your mama,” I said, “wants you to live.” I knelt and held her as she went on weeping and trying to say words I took to mean, “But I want to be with her.”
I helped her stand and brought her to our cabin. There, she sat close to the hearth and shivered like a lamb born in cruel weather and brought in from the wind and sleet.
Our plan must work.
“Bon! You can do it! See? Now, again.”
Eugenie plays the melody with her right hand in the upper keys, and I make a thumping rhythm with my left at the opposite end of the instrument, where the low-sounding keys are. Then I must also play a bit of melody with my left hand, too. For the thumping, my fingers have to stretch far over the keys, back and forth. For the melody, they must play nine notes quite nimbly. Eugenie is patient. She waits for me like a bird that can already fly. I am so awkward. “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle! I cannot.”
“Yes, you can, Hannah. Watch.”
Thump-thump, thump-thump goes her left hand, then a sprightly tap-tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. She lifts her fingers from the keys and hums the bass melody. I wipe my brow and hands, take a breath, and set shaky fingers on the correct keys for the first thumping notes.
“All right? Un, deux, trois—”
We get through two measures and then the hard sprightly part. Eugenie slows her flitting so that I can keep up.
“Bon! Magnifique, Hannah!”
We have done four measures, and the next four, she tells me, are exactly the same. So if I can do these four, I can do eight.
When we finally raise our hands from the keys again, even my legs are shaking. Looking at the rest of the notes on the page of music, I can tell that there will be quite a lot of thumping but also more melody, which is harder than the rhythm.
“Mademoiselle, I fear that I cannot—”
“But you can, Hannah. In fact, you are already doing so. Now, again.”
This time, I can hear it! Music. It fills the cabin, swirls there, tumbles away, and then returns. Like this spring.
It is a work, Eugenie tells me, by a German composer named Johann Sebastian Bach. A simple piece, she says. I say nothing, for I do not wish to be rude. Yet ’tis anything but simple for me. “Musette” is the name of the piece. It means little music, she explains. I like the name. It reminds me of Sylvette.
Madame de La Roque surprises us both by applauding. When I leave their cabin, I am tired as never before.
Dearest Mother, Grace, Suzanne, and Bonny Richard. ’Tis finally spring here. The days warm. The light strengthens. The river is full and brown and reminds me how, soon, it shall bring us back to thee. How big thou must be, my Richard—near two years old! I can fair see thee, tottering from Grace to Suzanne and back again. Wilt thou remember thy sister Hannah when she returns? Oh, thou must! How I long to hold thee again, wee one. And my dear sisters, thou must be boiling down the sap these warm days. Thy hands sticky with it. My heart hurts to think of thee working so hard and I not there to help. I want so much to be with thee in this springtime. I want so much to share thy work, Mother. To plant the garden with thee. Shear the sheep. Spin our yarn. Tuck wee Richard in and then sing to him. Thou art a tree, Mother, whose strength I dearly miss. And thy wisdom, for trees are wise, are they not? They seem so.
These days the scent of wet earth fills the night. Air and earth are like becoming one! Curious, how the word spring also means water . . .
I ra
ise the quill and think how I will miss Jenny, too, when we finally leave. Jenny—my secret name for her. A name sweet as her little dog.
Tonight I am naught but longing.
Nay, fears, too. For all of us.
Eugenie
The more closely I look at her, the prettier she becomes. And—now here is the mystery—her plain garb has either nothing or perhaps everything to do with it. Because it does not distract from her face, one focuses on that and gradually comes to see that what appears to be plainness is truly beauty in simplicity, as in our little Bach piece, “Musette.” Tonight her unadorned face burns with a lovely inner light. A simple white cap covers her dark hair, her long braid wound up under it. I wish I could paint her portrait in that cap and dark gown. The light of cap and face and collar, the dark of eyebrow and gown. And the only color, a lovely pink blush to her skin. The warmth of La Grande Maison gives her face the sheen of a tulip. Certainly all present tonight must notice these attributes. See and be amazed.
But no. Hannah, her equally striking brother, and their father stand unnoticed to one side of the great parlor, while the rest of us float about in our cloudlike gowns, delighted by so much space within which to circle. We resemble boats all festooned, bobbing here and there. Maman is so happy this night! I think we have forgotten how cramped we have been in our little maisons—forgotten until tonight. It is almost like being home. Or at least it is not so difficult to imagine being home again. The log walls of La Grande Maison have been burnished to the glow of copper pans. There are chairs and tables of cherry wood. Glazing for the windows and brocade draperies. Chandeliers for candles, many candles, the pewter bright as silver. A thick Persian carpet in shades of red, blue, pink, green, and beige. I can almost see Marie Antoinette seated on the tapestry settee, playing cards at one of Monsieur Kimbrell’s lovely little tables, while breezes flow in through the tall open doors.
Ah! The Comtesse de Sevigny signals that it is time for the music. The early program will be informal. We lesser musicians are to play while people continue to chatter or listen, as they please. Bon. That will be better for Hannah. After supper will come the formal program, during which the true musicians will play. The Marquis de Talon, our dear abbé, the Comtesse de Sevigny, and Monsieur Ridenour, who was choirmaster in the chapel at Versailles. Then after those performances, dancing.
“Amelia,” I say. “It is time. Do you wish to play first?”
“Are you truly going to play with your servant?”
“If Hannah so wishes.”
“Why do you persist in wanting to do that? If she makes a mistake, as she no doubt will, and you have to start over, everyone will laugh.”
“She will not make any mistakes, Amelia.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“She knows the piece well. Also, everyone is engaged in conversation. They will neither notice nor laugh if there should be a small mistake.”
“Of course they will laugh. Besides, is it not like asking your Sylvette to walk on her hind legs?”
“That is a mean thing to say. Are you so jealous of Hannah, Amelia?”
“Non! But you are being foolish. She can never fit in with us.”
“You are wrong, cousin. She already has.”
“The Queen will not approve, Eugenie.”
“I believe that Marie Antoinette, were she here, would indeed approve—and applaud us. She has an eye for beauty and Hannah is beautiful. She appreciates courage and Hannah is courageous. She values accomplishment and Hannah is accomplished, in her own way.”
“A mere servant!”
“Non! An American.”
“Go then. Your Américaine awaits you.”
Amelia, jealous. Why? I am to play a duet with her as well, a far more complicated piece. When one is jealous, one is usually afraid. What could Amelia possibly be afraid of? She is still my cousin, still my dear friend, though not so dear at this moment. In fact, her jealousy makes her most unattractive. A scowl and furrows—when she should be joyful. A brillant flower, not a mule!
I am detained by Comtesse de Sevigny, and when I turn, I see that Amelia is curtsying before Hannah and saying something. Fear steals my breath as I move toward them, hampered at every step by hoop skirts.
Hannah
“Ah, ma petite!” Amelia says. “C’est ton grand début, non? Bonne chance!” Then she turns to face the nobles. “Écoutez, écoutez!” she calls out. It means listen. But after that I know not what she’s saying, for she speaks too fast until the words, “Oui! L’artiste! Très bonne!”
She’s telling them that I am an artist! A very good artist. Why does she do this?
The nobles are applauding now, and every eye seems fixed upon me. My hands and face, my whole body stiffens. The rug’s fanciful shapes rise up and appear large, surrounding me.
Someone pulls me forward. Amelia. Urging me toward the harpsichord.
“Non,” I say. “S’il vous plaît! Excusez-moi!”
Then Eugenie appears at my side and takes my other arm. She raises her voice and speaks to the gathering, but I do not understand these words either. I give both arms a downward tug and free myself of the two. The quiet is frightening as I walk back to Father and John.
“Father, please remain, for they have invited thee and John, but I wish to go back to the cabin.”
“I will walk with thee.”
“Please stay, thou and John. It may appear disrespectful.”
But John takes my arm and soon we’re outside in the cool spring evening, with Father. Robins are chirping. The watery scent of the earth is strong. From behind us comes the sound of the harpsichord. Perhaps it is Eugenie, playing our piece by herself. But no, ’tis not “Musette.” Rather, something much harder.
“Art thou very disappointed?” John asks.
“Aye,” I say, after a while. “I do not understand why Amelia would do such a thing.”
Father walks a few paces before saying, “It may be because she wants her cousin to herself.”
“But Eugenie loves her as a sister.”
“For some people ’tis not enough.”
John picks up a stone and heaves it into a rough plot that one day might be someone’s yard. I feel less cold now though very tired and hungry. All the cooking I did today has been for the fête.
“Father,” I say, “please return with John. At least have thy supper there. Let them see that it is no great matter, for truly ’tis not.”
“Then perhaps thou should return with us?”
I understand his reasoning, and something in me urges, Do it for Estelle. Yet my limbs go weak at the thought of reentering La Grande Maison.
“I am sorry, Father, but I cannot. It would please me much, though, if thou and John were to return. There is but bread and cheese at home.”
“And tea?” he asks.
“And tea.”
“And a bit of applesauce, perchance?” John says.
“Yes, some applesauce,” I say, lighter of heart for their teasing.
“Well, that sounds fine!”
As I’m setting the table, we hear a soft knock upon our door.
Eugenie. With her hair all white and piled high, she looks like a queen. Her face is a snowfield under the sun, her gown a blue I could not have imagined before—lighter, greener than the sky’s blue, with red roses cascading down from shoulder to hem. At La Grande Maison she blended in with the rainbow of ladies there, but here in our cabin, she is the sun itself.
Finally, I can speak. “Thou bringest La Grand Maison to us!”
John and Father have gone stone quiet. I say in French, “Will you have some tea?”
“Of course! Merci!”
John and Father stood when she entered. Now John slides one of our chairs out far from the table to accommodate Eugenie and her gown. His hands seem fixed to the chair back.
“John,” I whisper. “John!”—breaking his trance.
Eugenie seats herself slowly but pretends not to notice how long i
t all takes. Finally she says in slow French, “I wish to tell you how much I regret such inexcusable behavior.” She gives me a piercing look that conveys her deeper meaning: Do not allow her to spoil our plan.
“Merci, mademoiselle.” I set a plate of cheese upon the table. I slice bread. I set out mugs for us.
She eats some of the bread and cheese and applesauce.
“Thou wilt spoil thy appetite for the feast,” I say. The thought of Jenny here on such a night brings tears I blink away.
“Ah, non! This makes a delicious first course!”
“You should return soon,” I say in French. “They will soon miss thee.”
“And they will miss you also.”
Her eyes are full upon me, and I fully understand her meaning.
Father says in French, “Hannah wishes us to return without her.”
“And you, John?” Eugenie asks in French and laughs.
John regards the table as if it were some valuable. “I believe . . . Well, it was quite . . .” In his panic, he can utter only English.
I know he felt as out of place as I, there, but I say, “John did not wish to leave, Eugenie. He did so for me.”
Eugenie is almost too bright. Like John, I want to keep my eyes lowered.
“Hannah,” Eugenie says quietly, with no trace of teasing, “please return. You need not play. Come for the supper, please, and to hear the others perform. It will be most beautiful.” This she says half in French and half in English. “And then,” she adds, “there may be some . . . speeches of interest.”
Her meaning is clear.
“Please, Hannah? Be courageous, no?”
Courage. The word is the same in both languages despite the different pronunciation.
I tell myself that I should have just laughed when Amelia said those things. Or simply smiled and then gone on to do what we’d intended. Now I see it clearly: my pride is standing in the way of our helping Estelle and Alain. My fear that the nobles think that I believe myself to be a musician.
So much worry to so little end.
Waiting for the Queen Page 14