Waiting for the Queen (30 page)

“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 smiling 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