“But, Maman, she is my—”
Then in front of Hannah Maman says, “Are you about to say that she is your friend? That cannot be. Amelia is your friend. This one is nothing to you. Amelia is coming this afternoon with sheet music. Learn it, please. Use your time well. Now come, my daughter. Assure me that you shall change for the better.”
She opens her arms and I go to her.
“You must be understanding,” Papa tells me as we walk with Sylvette after dinner. “She is not herself these days.”
None of us are!
“Papa, do you think we will ever be able to live the way we once did?”
“I do not know.”
“Will you go on being a joiner if King Louis-Charles comes here?”
“Non. It would make your Maman too unhappy. In fact, I have all but stopped.”
“You shall not be happy, will you, merely playing boules or cards.”
“There is so much to miss, it is all blended together in a cassoulet, so I suppose another ingredient will not matter so much.” He smiles to cheer me.
So much to miss. The wretchedness returns, pain everywhere piling up, stone upon stone upon stone: the boots, the necklace, and John, too. And I not being able to make bread ever again, or do anything of importance. But then I remember how I prevented a duel, and that, at least, was something of importance.
“Papa, I am weary.”
“I, too.”
“I simply wished to do some good.”
“Be assured that you did.”
“But at what cost!”
“That is sometimes the way of it.”
“Papa? What if—ah, I cannot bear to even say it!”
“What is it, chérie? Tell me.”
“I fear that Louis-Charles is dead, too. And that we may never be able to return to France. What, then, Papa?”
“Then, chérie, we must find our own way. The paths here are not so clearly laid out, except, perhaps, for the vicomte’s few avenues. But this does not mean all is impossible, in America.”
“Papa, who will we be here? I am not even certain who I am at this moment.”
“Well, let me see. You are Eugenie Annette Marie de La Roque, and I remain Philippe August Pierre de La Roque, chevalier, comte de Saint-Simon.”
His arm around me, Papa lets me cry, there in the dusk.
I finally stop, more out of exhaustion than anything else, and then call Sylvette. I want, now, my bed. And sleep. And no dreams.
But Sylvette is gone. She was here just moments ago, her white shape careening about in the near-dark. “Something has happened to her, Papa!”
“Oh, she will return to us later tonight.”
“But she has never left us before!”
“She will find her way, Eugenie. As we will, in time. Come, it is getting cold, and your Maman will worry.”
I call Sylvette several times, and then we turn from the wall of dark forest to a somber view of our few maisons and chapel. The maisons are dark, and the chapel, all the unglazed windows covered with pieces of velvet, brocade, or tapestry. Except for the chimney smoke, it looks like an abandoned, soulless place.
My sense of loss grows to encompass everything—our château and lands, Versailles, our Queen, our country, and now even Sylvette. Mon Dieu, let it not be. I will do anything. I will accept all Maman’s rules without question. Just let Sylvette return, s’il vous plaît. I do not think I can live, otherwise.
Again I call her, but she does not appear. Papa steadies me as we return.
I cannot sleep. Several times I get up, thinking, Sylvette! Whining at the door! Jumping against it! But no. Each time it is but the wind. I imagine an owl, talons extended, plunging down upon her and carrying her away. The image is a torment until I imagine wolves chasing her. Five of them. Eight. She tires and crouches . . .
At the door I throw on my cloak and put on my mud-crusted souliers. I open the door and call her name.
“Eugenie!” Maman says. “You must not go out. Close the door!”
I lie down again and listen.
Hours later comes a soft tapping of our stone knocker. Quietly I rise and unbar the door.
Estelle! With Sylvette in her arms. The girl curtsies and presents wriggling Sylvette to me.
“Where did you find her?” I whisper, tears forming.
“At the river, my lady. Drinking.”
Embracing the girl, I again whisper, “Merci, merci, Estelle.” I look behind me, but the room is quiet. “You must have some reward. What do you wish? If I can grant it, then I shall.”
“You are so good, my lady, but I do not wish a reward. It is enough that Sylvette is home and that I have been able to do something for you, now.”
Home.
She curtsies and then leaves in the flat light of dawn. She is wearing the velvet cloak I gave her for her escape. Her step is almost . . . regal.
The night’s fire has all but died. Quickly I place two smaller logs on the embers, a traitorous act I cannot resist in my euphoria. Sylvette settles into her place on the feather bed, and I alongside her, one hand on her head while she sleeps. Ah, Sylvette, you disobedient creature. How dare you leave me.
On the hearth the logs catch, and soon our maison warms. I do not want sleep now. I want to lie here, in this quiet, and just be in it. With Sylvette.
Soon an idea floats clear, rising like a bubble from the froth of this small happiness.
Hannah
I look about our cabin. The floors are clean. Eight loaves of bread wait on the table. A plate of shriveled apples. Another of dried fish. And still another of raisins and walnuts. What we do not eat tonight, we will take for our journey home tomorrow.
Home. A thought bringing joy wreathed around with pain.
Father and John are finishing work on the last cabin they will build here. Father wants to be certain that the chimney is completed well.
I look at the loaves before me. The fragrance of baking still fills our cabin. No, not ours anymore.
After a while, I take one of the loaves and walk out into the day.
A spring wind eddies about, carrying bits and clumps of poplar fluff that float in the air like snow. At the Aversille cabin, I raise the river stone and let it fall against the door. Some time later it opens, and Madame d’Aversille peers out into the strong light. “For you,” I tell her in French. When she takes the loaf with her trembly, crooked hand, I turn to go. But her other hand grasps my arm and draws me into the cabin. How strong she still is!
Inside, she puts the bread on her table and then turns to regard me, as I do her. All the wrinkles. The wig that is mashed down on one side, so I know that she has been having a nap. “Au revoir,” I tell her. Still she says naught.
But then she draws me to her. Her wig tickles my chin. I will always remember this wig! A little possum, with its tail. When she steps away again, I see that the wrinkles all about her eyes are like streamlets filled to the brim.
I tell her in French not to be sad. I am going home, to my mama and sisters and brother. Soon there will be many French people here to cheer her. And soon it will be warm, with much sun. She may even have a boat ride on the river.
Madame keeps shaking her head. The little streamlets flow, causing my own eyes to brim.
I tell her she can come visit our farm. This, I cannot imagine. Madame d’Aversille at our farm—if Mr. Coffey does not raise the rent beyond what we can pay him. This, a worry. I tell madame that my mama cooks very well, and madame will enjoy the food.
Then madame begins speaking in French I cannot understand. She goes too fast. She gestures and exclaims, and I can only watch her. While she talks, she keeps pulling at her hand, her fingers.
I back away. The open door is behind me.
Madame grasps my left hand and places something there. Then she fairly pushes me outside. With a bang the door closes.
I open my hand and see what it is.
“Non, madame, s’il vous plaît!” I call. “C’est non
necessaire!”
I think of leaving the ring at the doorstep, but the door opens a bit—as if she sensed this thought.
“Allez, allez!” she says, shooing me away. But she places two fingers to her lips and turns her palm toward me.
Before leaving, I do the same.
The ring’s stone, in the sunlight, is the red of a cardinal. I turn back to look at the cabin I shall probably never see again. Madame is standing in the doorway.
I curtsy. “Merci, madame. Merci!”
Eugenie
The chapel is again filled for yet another Requiem Mass for our late Queen. Even a few workers are present, standing outside the open doors. Apart from them—and Abbé La Barre in his black vestments—none of us wears black. None of us apparently thought to bring mourning clothes to America, which bespeaks of some blind optimism, if not our haste. A stranger looking in might think the same thing, observing us in our brilliant finery. The protocol all wrong! L’etiquette lacking!
Ah! But what does it matter, such an insignificant thing as cloth?
Candle flames on the altar sway in the breeze from open windows. Looking out, I see the river in the near distance. No boat passes. There is just the silvered water, its wavelets catching light and carrying it southward. And beyond the water, leafing trees, their gold-green reminding me of ancient stained glass.
We heave ourselves up with effort. We sit heavily. We whisper our responses without the least sign of vigor or conviction. Abbé La Barre’s Latin may as well be Russian. It is merely sound. The Mass’s solemnity, though, and the priest’s slow movements do feel exactly right. I make up my own small prayer. May you be with the angels, my Queen. May all your transgressions have been forgiven.
After the Gospel, while others are seated and awaiting the homily, I glance at Papa and he at me. Then I rise and walk to the pulpit while Abbé La Barre seats himself at the opposite side of the sanctuary.
The murmuring sounds like waves, and then it seems as if these waves are washing right over me. I draw in breath and release it slowly. My heart pounds so, I fear Maman may hear it. She is sitting there stiffly but not looking at me at all. She seems about to weep again. Oh, Maman.
“Thank you, Abbé La Barre,” I begin, “for allowing me to speak.” My voice is so small! I must make it larger. I suddenly know what Hannah must have felt, trying to address us at the fête.
“I wish to offer apology for any distress I may have caused you these past days.” I look directly at Florentine, who gazes at his knees. Maman’s face is a mask. Nearby are the marquis and vicomte. I cannot look at them.
“Coming here, we had so much . . .” I look to Papa. He nods a little. Go on, keep going. “. . . hope. But we did not want change. Is this not true? And yet everything changes.”
This is not a good beginning. The words I prepared were so much better. Now I cannot remember them.
“When we heard of our Queen’s death, our hearts were wounded. We are a wounded people now. There is nothing to be done, you may think, but suffer this terrible pain that fills us completely. Perhaps, you may think, we can erect a monument here to our late King, Louis XVI, and our dear Queen, Marie Antionette. A monument of stone.
“But is not stone cold? Is it not lifeless?
“I have been thinking that to live may be a greater monument. But to live how? Exactly as before?” Again I look at Maman and Papa. Again Papa nods slightly. Maman seems far away.
“We cannot, I fear. But we can live well. Oh, I do not mean sumptuously, as before. I mean with heart.” A few words from last night’s preparation finally do come to me. “A queen dies; slaves are reborn into a new life of freedom. A queen has a heart capable of sorrow and longing, but so has a slave. In the pain of grief we are all equal. So . . .” But again, all is blank. I can only look out at everyone. Aunt Sophie and Amelia and Uncle Chemin. The Aversilles. The Du Valliers. The Sevignys. Maman. Papa. Everyone is so very quiet!
“Mes amis, Hannah Kimbrell is a good person. She lives with heart because she considers others. It is true she is not of noble blood, but she lives . . . nobly. Even, one could say, in the very tradition of the old chivalric code. Yet we have wronged her and her family. In some respects I know why, but I do not fully understand why. Can anyone here tell me?”
I fear that Florentine will jump up to do verbal battle. Or the Du Valliers. Or even the vicomte. Yet all remain seated—and silent. Florentine’s eyes meet mine briefly before he lowers them again. Madame d’Aversille slowly stands. Leaning on her stick, she says, “It is because we have been stupid. I defy anyone to say otherwise.” Slowly, she sits. Her husband takes her hand.
The silence deepens. Never before have I been aware of such a silence. A vast lake of silence.
“Let us live well,” I am finally able to conclude. “As a memorial to . . . our Queen.”
I do not know how I find my way back to my place alongside Papa, but somehow I do, and the Liturgy continues in its ancient, soothing rhythms, carrying us from Credo, to Sanctus, to Consecration and Communion. Someone plays the lovely hymn “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” on the harpsichord, and then we sit awhile in silence before leaving the chapel. Coming into the brilliant sunlight is like waking from sleep. Could it be I have said all those artless words? Some nobles smile at me, but others look away, so I must have. The Du Valliers do not linger to speak with us. Poor Maman.
There is to be a dinner for us at La Grande Maison, and some nobles walk in that direction. Among them are Amelia and her family. I turn to look at the river again. Three longboats are moored at the landing. The sight of them shakes me for a moment—the Queen!—but that thought soon dissolves.
And there is the Kimbrell family, their barrels on a handcart, their animals—the cow, two goats, and two sheep—following behind. I recall how I fed these animals last winter. And milked Violette.
I wipe my face with both hands, smearing, I know, my powder. Maman whispers that I must collect myself. She places an arm around me and draws me closer to her, which causes the burn of fresh tears.
“Look, Maman, Alain is taking Violette, the cow. And Estelle, the goats.”
Estelle leads all three animals to the side, while Alain helps the Kimbrells load their belongings. Then Monsieur Kimbrell takes a crate of chickens from the cart and carries it to Estelle. Hannah looks down at the two sheep, pats each of them, and leads them to Estelle as well. The sheep bleat. Estelle shakes her head several times, but Hannah persists as only Hannah can, and then she quickly embraces Estelle before walking toward the boats.
“Maman, they are giving their animals away!”
Maman seems to be studying the scene, her eyes still. At her mouth, the top of her closed fan. I want to run down to the landing but dare not. Yet I cannot stop more words from rushing forth. “Forgive the Kimbrells, I beg you. Intercede with the vicomte. Hannah saved you. Truly, she did. She saved you for us, Maman, and now you will have a child—our family shall! But what will she have, after so much effort?”
The Kimbrell family boards one of the boats, and rivermen shove it farther into the river. Maman looks over at Papa. I lower my head and turn away. I do not want to have that picture inside me, too, the longboat carried away on the current, and Hannah perhaps raising her arm in farewell as the sheep bleat and Violette moans.
But then Papa calls out “Stop!” in a voice far more commanding than I have ever heard it.
I open my eyes. Four rivermen lean against their poles, holding the boat still. Water piles up at its stern, creating a bunch of lace there.
Maman removes a glove and touches my cheek. Her soft hand wipes tears from each eye. “Eugenie,” she whispers. “Please do not cry. It will ruin your beauty.” But her own eyes shine with tears, and at that moment she is most beautiful. Then Papa is gesturing for the longboat to return to the landing. Again Maman leans to me. “He is quite eccentric, no? What a spectacle he again creates! No doubt we shall never hear the end of it.”
But she is smili
ng somewhat. With all my strength I embrace her and hang on while the Kimbrells disembark and walk up the landing toward us, their expressions as fearful as ours must have been so many months ago.
Together, Maman, Papa, and I go to meet them.
When we are quite close, I step forward and take Hannah’s hand in my own gloved one. It is like gripping a tree limb. I see her surprise, even shock, but then fear leaves her eyes, and she is again the serene Hannah I know.
And have come—I see this now—to love.
Epilogue
1794
Septembre / September
Hannah
The baby—Marie—looks like a fat little queen in a white gown with a wide lace collar. For her crown, a puffy, lace-edged cap. Eugenie carries her to her cradle, and we take turns rocking it while Eugenie sings the first verse of “Over in the Meadow” in French and then I in English. Soon the baby falls asleep smiling. But we go on rocking her cradle—and watching her. She is so sweet. So perfect. Now there is just the gentle thumping of the cradle moving back and forth over floorboards. ’Tis very like slow heartbeat. I give thanks for Eugenie and for this new little one. I pray that she and her family will find here, in our new country, all that is good. It is much to ask, I know, but let it be, s’il vous plaît!
In a wonderful whirl of thought, I imagine Eugenie wearing a necklace of river stones, round and polished and holding within themselves water, light, and time, so much time. And the stones linked with silver, just as the river has linked us all together. Surely if Father can make such fine boots, John and I can fashion such a thing.
We shall learn.
Eugenie
We travel downriver some distance farther than Sylvette and I traveled last spring—or was it winter?—on our little floats of ice. This time our boat, poled by Mr. Kimbrell, John, and Papa, lands at a small settlement, and Monsieur Kimbrell arranges for a wagon with seats in its bed to convey us somewhere. Seeing that wagon, I shudder, but holding Sylvette, I climb in and sit alongside Maman and Papa. Little Marie has been looking about in wonder. The river today is a glorious amber color, with great green trees on either side. For Marie, all this will be something as natural as our château, with its fields and meadows, was for us. Something even of solace, perhaps.
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