Waiting for the Queen (21 page)

“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 marquis 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.