Waiting for the Queen (13 page)

“I know not, surely. Bits of colored glass perhaps. Or stone.”

“Well, I never saw the like. And the young gentleman with her, he never left her side!”

“The one who frowns so much?”

“Aye. The very one. Only he weren't, tonight.”

Poor John, I think.

“That necklace—'tis but pieces of earth, Rachel. Nothing more. Why, we could make necklaces of river stones if we had a mind to. Polish those to glittering, but to what good, such vanity?”

“What did ye say, Hannah?”

“It be simple vanity.”

Rachel Stalk sighs. “Aye. But a pretty vanity all the same. Oh! I be remembering. She said to give you this.”

A pink satin ribbon! Long as one of Sylvette's leashes.

“She musta liked yer cake.”

Thoughts spin me over head and ears. A gift? From her?

“Ye ain't gonna wear it, are ye?”

“No, Rachel.” I see it against my dark braid, a flower there.

“Then might I have it? I'd like wearin' it, an' no rule 'gainst it for me.”

Inside, I find my scissors and snip it in half, though it pains me to do so.

“I thank ye, Hannah! Ye be a good person though I don't see why ye couldna give it all, fer all yer talk about vanities.”

I give her the other half. “For your braids, Rachel.” Then I turn away before she can see my eyes filling. “Good night!”

1793

Decembre /
December

Eugenie

With feverish intensity, Maman says, “I must live to see my Queen.”

“Oh, you shall, Maman! But if so, you must eat something.” I offer, once again, the porridge. “Our new servant made this, Maman. Not Rachel Stalk. Have some,
s'il te plaît!”

“
Non!
Its smell makes me ill.” As if to prove her words, poor Maman heaves into the basin Papa holds for her.

“That you should see me this way!
Mon Dieu
.”

The stench of the basin and the chamber pots is so thick and terrible, I grow light-headed. In my room, I lie down while everything whirls about and the room darkens. Closing my eyes does not help. There is still the smell, and the sensation of falling headlong down some chute.

“Call Annette,” Maman is saying. “Call Annette, I say!”

“Charlotte,” Papa says to Maman. “Charlotte, my dear.”

“Isabel, then! Call them both, and summon Monsieur Robarge. Tell him that I have been poisoned. Does Sevigny want my position so badly?”

Maman is delirious. I fear she will die now, as delirious people often do.

“Eugenie,” Papa says. “You must stop crying. It helps nothing. In fact, the opposite!”

His tone scares me into silence. Never before has he been this sharp with me. Then he says to Maman, “Ah! Monsieur
Robarge has just now arrived. We summoned him, and now he will care for you himself.”

I hold Sylvette while Papa does his best to bathe Maman and change the linens. Icy air blows into our
maison
from our one window. Papa has hooked up the flap and the piece of tapestry so fresh air might enter and clear away the stench of sickness. Yet it is still so strong. And it, too, tells me that Maman will die. The river is frozen, and no boats shall come. No post riders can get through the high snow in the forest, and surely no physician. Why has not Talon foreseen such a thing? Because he is a proud, ignorant man.

Has Mary's cooking poisoned Maman? There is no jaundice, just the fever's flush. Surely even I could cook better than Mary Worthington and Rachel Stalk! Oh, what value to be good at cards or
boules
or the
quadrille
and
polonaise
and
allemande
but not know how to properly prepare food? How foolish to assume that there will always and forever be someone to do this for us, and do it well. I do not even know how to roast garlic.

Yet could I not learn?

Oui!
Somehow I shall—for Maman, Papa, Sylvette, and myself. Living one's life as a helpless child is
absurde
.

A knock at our door!

No one has come to visit of late, everyone having heard of Maman's illness. Not even Florentine's mother so that she might gossip about us. I imagine a physician, summoned by Talon. But it is only our
abbé
. “Enter, please,” Papa says, holding open the door to the cold. I know he wants to quickly shut it.

“Oh, no, thank you. I shall bless your dear wife from here.” He sprinkles the room with his pine branch and
departs, quite nimbly. He has lost nearly half his bulk, thanks to Rachel Stalk's fine cooking.

“So much for
le courage,”
Papa says, shutting the door and barring it.

It is true. Our countrymen and women have been shunning us. Yesterday when I went out with Sylvette, Florentine's mother called from her
maison
window, “It is too cold to be out, mademoiselle! Go back inside!”

Go inside. Not come inside. Any illness, here, becomes the anteroom of death, it seems. Well, then, so let us die! Release us into the next life, surely better than this.

The thought shocks me. I do not wish to die, do I? Nor do I wish Maman to die. Nor Papa. And the thought of leaving Sylvette on her own, here, horrifies me.

I part the curtains and see Papa pacing in a small circle in front of the hearth while Maman moans and shivers, her face crimson. A bowl of melting snow is on the floor by her bed. I take the cloth from her brow, dip it in the ice water, wring it out, and put it back on her brow. Her skin is so hot and dry, like burning sand. Then I go to Papa and whisper two words. Papa stares at me a moment, his eyes a terrible red, but his face pale.

My Lord, please do not let him be ill, too
.

Papa nods and in the next minute I am putting on my redingote.

Talon's team of Belgian horses and the v-shaped plow have not yet cleared the avenues. For a time I can follow Abbé La Barre's boot prints, but then soon must make my own. My feet sink in snow up to the knees, and I must hold my redingote and gown above the drifts as I walk—too slowly!—toward the cabin at the far end of the clearing.

It appears impossibly far away. So I think, instead, of the Grand Ballroom at Versailles, and flouncing over its gleaming floor in a polka, the music and every face
brillant
, and my body weightless as a bird's. But then I find myself tipping forward into a drift too high to climb. I am so tired I wish only to lie there and sleep.

Non! Rise, rise, Eugenie! You shall not die like some fallen bird in a snowdrift! Get up! Everyone needs you. Maman. Papa. Sylvette. You must get up. Now
.

I fight against the powder, but the American snow has its own strength. And yet I am able to right myself and push forward. The
maison
grows larger, and soon there are fewer drifts. And then, finally, a swept-clear yard over which new flakes sparkle. I climb down into it, and then the door opens upon warmth and light, and Hannah is removing my shoes and placing my wet feet in a pan of warm water and my hands in another.

“Maman,” I say. I keep repeating the word. Hannah nods.

Soon we are both trudging through the snow, my feet now in a pair of heavy wool stockings and American boots, and Hannah carrying a stewpot and basket of medicines and herbs.

Papa helps me back inside and urges Hannah to enter quickly, for the day is a frigid river flooding in around us. Maman opens her eyes, sees Hannah, and moans the word
non
several times. I go to her and whisper, “We have medicines for you, Maman.” Lavender spots whirl before my eyes. I have to sit and lower my head.

Papa helps Maman sit up, and Hannah kneels on the floorboards and offers Maman a spoonful of broth. Maman closes her eyes.

“Do this for us if not yourself,” Papa urges.

After a while Hannah stands. I fear she might leave, with her wondrous food and herbs. But she says, in her quiet manner, “Madame de La Roque.”

Maman opens her eyes.

With both hands, Hannah raises her gown a bit, bows her head and takes one tottering step backward, all the while sinking low in—
mirabile dictu!
—a curtsy. She repeats the movement twice.

No one speaks for several moments. Then Maman says,
“Merci,”
and raises her handkerchief to each eye. Soon after, she begins swallowing the broth.

While I help Maman, Hannah takes the basin and chamber pots outside. When she returns, she cleans the floor around the bed and bundles up the soiled linens. She scalds her hands clean with hot water and sets our table.

We all feel somewhat better after Hannah's broth and sweet tea. Maman lies there sipping it, and although she shivers at times, she is at least more coherent now.

“Live, Maman,” I tell her. “Our Queen is coming and we shall walk in the garden with her, the garden at
La Grande Maison
. There will be lilacs and roses and great tall irises. Monsieur Deschamps—do you remember the gardener?—well, he promises this! Remember how he told us that his flowers shall tame this wild air with their perfume? And so they shall, Maman! And we will dance again, and these flowers shall decorate our ballroom!”

She takes my hand and holds it a long while. In France I did not feel this close to her. Nor was I aware of any lack within myself, as I am here. But at least I know more, now, about weather, wind direction, the great cloudscapes, their
array of colors and shapes and the way the light transforms them. I vow that when the promised shops open here in the spring, I shall buy some paints and canvas, if such luxuries are to be had. I shall paint these magnificent clouds. I shall paint Sylvette on the riverbank. I shall paint Maman and Papa, for Maman shall live. And I shall paint Hannah, too, and the gardens at
La Grande Maison
, for there
shall
be lilacs and laburnum, and fleur-de-lis, and our Queen shall walk there, in the garden, and Maman and I with her.

Sitting by the hearth while Maman sleeps, I recall how she taught me to curtsy. There are so many rules about how to hold one's gown and lower one's head and step backward in such a way, the gesture meant to be a butterfly's perfect flutter. But my little feet tangled, and I tumbled over and had to fight my way out of the snare of crinolines. I laughed and Maman with me. I could not know then that it would take months of practice to be able to do it even passably well, and years to perfect in all its variations. I wonder if Hannah will continue to curtsy for Maman. She did not curtsy to me when I half-fell into her
maison
. And, strangely, it did not seem a slight. In truth I did not think of it at all.