Waiting for the Queen (15 page)

“It troubles me as well. I have been trying to puzzle through it.”

John and I wait, but Father says no more until I clear the table. Then he says, “Let us have our evening reflection.”

My thoughts are leaves swirling. And my feelings. Curtsy or not? Will we be able to help the slaves? Fit belief to action there?

Decidedly, I want to. That thought is the brightest leaf of all.

Mayhap 'tis well we have come here after all. 'Tis no small thing to do some good.

In the lean-to washhouse, I notice how Estelle's bones are showing even through the jacket I made for her. And on her feet, again, are oiled rags, all soggy. Since the snows, she has been cooking at the Rouleaux's hearth, so I have not seen so much of her as before.

“Estelle, where are your boots?” I ask in French and point to her feet.

One shoulder lifts.
“Dans la rivière.”

“What do you mean, in the river?”

She shrugs again; then she mimics throwing the boots away.

“You threw them in the river, Estelle? But why?”

She only shakes her head and looks away from me. So I know.
Rouleau
.

“All of them?” I say. “Your mother's and brother's and your uncle's?”

She nods.

I think of Mr. Rouleau's high boots with their wide leather cuffs. Each has some medal pinned there.

“Take these.” I slip mine off.

“Non!”
She makes the throwing motion again.

“Then just wear them here. They are yours, here.” I show how I can make another pair for myself. Finally, she unbinds the rags, wipes her feet with a dry cloth, and puts on the boots. They are a finger's width too large, but I shall knit her thick stockings.

“Merci
, mademoiselle.
Merci!
” She smiles a smile I have never seen upon her before.

“C'est rien!”
I say.
It is nothing
.

Estelle keeps glancing down at the boots as we hang clothing over poles in our new drying shed. Even with wool stockings, my feet are becoming cold from the damp earth, but I do not want her to know this. I keep hanging clothes until we are finished. Then I run through the snow to our cabin.

My thawing feet hurt. But it does not feel so bad when I think how Estelle's, now, are warm.

After supper, I tell Father and John about the boots. Father looks thunderous but says naught. John follows him in this. I know why. They do not want to give vent to anger and then have to regret their harshness against a fellow human being.

“Could we buy the slaves, Father?” John asks. “And then make them free?”

“Nay. Not here in Pennsylvania. 'Tis against our law to purchase slaves. Besides, we have naught with which to buy them.”

“Then we must help them run away somewhere,” I say.

Father and John regard me. The silence becomes a weight on my shoulders and heart. When I think further,
I see that by helping the slaves, we risk losing all. Even Father's freedom.

“I fear we must wait 'til spring,” Father says. “The river will be open. The forest tracks . . .”

There is sorrow in his voice, and I understand. Winter can be cruel, and the slaves are ill prepared.

“Let us have our meditation,” he goes on. “Answers oft arrive when least expected.”

Thoughts come to do battle with peace. I see all of our savings depleted by fines. I see Father in the jail, in Wilkes-Barre. But after a long while, my thoughts get tired of driving me round and round, and so scatter. And then the quiet comes back, a good quiet. It tells me that somehow we
shall
help them.

I await further revelation, but there is only that.

Eugenie

“Sylvette,
La veillée du Petit Jésus!
Last year at this time we were in France, and our King alive, and we in our château. Do you remember the garlands in the salons? The holly and fir and candles? And the bells, Sylvette? The bells ending the watch for the Child Jesus? So many bells at midnight! So joyful, despite the troubles in our country, and we knew, didn't we, that He was in our hearts.” I whisper all this, for I do not wish to make Maman sad.

“How much a year can hold, Sylvette! How much sadness and loss. But this year? This coming year? Well. Let me tell you how it will be for you,
ma chérie
. You shall play in the snow tomorrow! On Christmas Day! Then you shall have a bit of Hannah's turkey. Soon there will be sun every day, Sylvette, and you shall run to the river again. And—are you listening,
chérie?
When the river is clear of ice, the Queen will arrive! Yes! And then we shall truly celebrate. There will be a
grande fête
and all manner of delicacies to eat. And the air will once again be warm, Sylvette, imagine! Warmth! Oh, and we shall dance and sit outside and tell each other wonderful stories, like this one. Only this is not a story. It is a promise!”

Hannah curtsies, bringing our evening meal, and the Yule log cake we asked her to make for us. Her eyes are red, and she seems most fatigued. Yet she smiles at me, and I at her.
Earlier, she brought our clean linens. How does she dry them, I wonder, in such weather? Snow and cloud and wind day after day and so cold,
mon Dieu
, one hardly dares go outside.

Except Hannah. And John. And Estelle. And Alain and the other two slaves. A week ago, on a blessedly windless day, we saw them dragging dead limbs out of the woods. They were up to their waists in snow. Even Comte de Sevigny, with whom Maman and I were walking, said that Rouleau has no heart. When the slaves saw us, they dropped their firewood at once to bow and curtsy. “Do you suppose,” Maman asked, “they have been gathering wood all day?”

“I do not doubt it,” the comte said placidly, and we walked on to our warm
maison
, where Maman invited the comte in to sit before our fire.

Truly, it does not seem right, if the infant Jesus lives in each of our hearts.

Midnight—and a bell rings out. A single bell! Maman, Papa, and I go to our window.
Mirabile dictu!
Abbé La Barre has somehow found a bell for us!

“And look, Eugenie!” Papa says. “Look!”

Papa and Maman stand aside so that I may see. A large bonfire burns in the clearing.

I turn away.

“Child, what is the matter?” Papa says.

“Oh, it is nothing. I am merely tired.”

“Then you must rest.”

He is hurt. He must have arranged for it. I look out the window again, for his sake.

It is a lovely sight, in its way. The flames. The falling snow. The stillness.

I try to excise the image of a farm cart, right at its center. But no, it refuses to be excised.

The bell rings and rings.

“If we all had boots such as Hannah's, Charlotte,” Papa says, “we might go out and stand near it, and then return and leave our capacious boots for
Père Noël
to fill!”

Maman shakes her head, but she is smiling.

Standing near the bonfire is the last thing I wish, yet to have Hannah's boots! “Oh, Maman! Might I? I could take Sylvette on long walks. I'd prefer them to any number of bonbons on New Year's Day.”

“Our daughter,” Papa says, “will create
la nouveau mode.”

A new fashion! Sometimes Papa's lightheartedness works with Mama. I regard her.

“It will not be proper,” Maman says. “Ladies will laugh at her. They will call her an Indian.”

Papa says nothing. He does not wish to spoil
La veillée du Petit Jésus
. Nor do I. I turn away from the window. Papa lets our “drapery” fall back in place.

Lying in my warm alcove, I remember last year's Yule log, the centerpiece of our largest fireplace, and how sweets magically flew from it. Everything was arranged for my pleasure—always—and I, unable to imagine anything different.

Ah, Eugenie, you were so young, no?

On Christmas morning a beautiful fir tree stands in the corner of our
petite maison
, near the hearth! A garland of raisins and nuts decorates its boughs! There are pinecones as well, and also ribbons from Maman's basket.

The tree is so green.

“And see the raisins, Maman?”

“They are from the Kimbrell family,” Papa says. “As are the black walnuts.”

“The Kimbrells! Is there something we might give them in return?”

“I have been thinking,” Papa says, “that the best gift might be to have those fines reduced or eliminated entirely.”

“Oh, could you do that,
s'il te plaît?
”

“It will not be a simple matter.”

“Yes, but you shall try?”

“I shall indeed. John Kimbrell has been an excellent teacher.” Papa turns to Maman. “My dear, I know that my behavior has been contrary to your wishes. Forgive me. But in this America, I am learning, one needs to be strong and self-reliant. How much better if I can take care of us all, here. And then, in France, if there is no need, voilà, no need. Though I doubt that, given the changes there. You see, it is a practical matter, my dear, not philosophical. And we French have always been, under it all, a practical people. Besides, in this new world, why cling to the old restrictions and bounds? Why not find here a measure of freedom that goes hand in hand with the
new
, yes?”

Papa's words take my breath away. What about the Queen? The court? The proprieties and protocol? Perhaps Papa thinks that the Queen will not come! The thought is icy, and I shiver. Yet something within urges me to say, “And, Papa, if only we, that is, Maman and I, could take care of ourselves, somewhat, too. I mean here, in this America. And especially since we have no, that is, not many, servants.” Never before, except when I was a child, has my
speech been so poorly formed. “As a practical matter. Until the Queen arrives,” I add for Maman's sake.

Maman closes her eyes and presses down on both eyelids with the tips of her fingers.

“Charlotte, Charlotte, our daughter is growing wiser. We might do well to listen.” When Maman remains silent, Papa holds us close, one on either side of him. “What do you think of my tree?”

“Your tree, Papa?”

“Oui!
I found it and cut it myself! Who else among us will be enjoying such a tree this morning? Ah, Charlotte, how happy it makes me to do this one small thing for you both.
Joyeux Noël!”

“Merci!”
I hug him with all my strength.
“Joyeux Noël
, Papa! But did you decorate it as well?”

“Certainment!”

Maman finally smiles, perhaps at the thought of Papa hanging her hair ribbons from the boughs.

“Now! Breakfast, and then Mass at our new chapel!”

There, too, a fresh fir tree scents the air. Papa winks at me. After Christmas Mass I sit between Maman and Papa and watch Abbé La Barre's puppets. There is the Star. There are the Three Kings following it. And little townspeople following the Three Kings to the crèche of the
Petit Jésus
.

I think of Papa alone in the woods, searching for our tree, in the snow. I think of our journey here, to America, this so-called new world. I think of the slave girl and her journey. And how she will one day go back to work on the plantation, for her despicable master. He is present in the chapel too, this
morning. A Christian in name but not deed. For her, none of this is new. None of it is a beginning. For her, forever, there is just . . . the old.