Waiting for the Queen (17 page)

Eugenie

We learned of the confrontation from the marquis himself—and how the Kimbrells are now guarding Estelle. So that is why Hannah abandoned us! It spoiled our New Year's Day
fête
, as we had to be satisfied with the indifferent offerings of Mary Worthington. I confess that my pique was at first quite selfish.
We
made to suffer.
Our
misfortune. Then I began to think, No, Hannah is nothing if not reliable. And she isn't necessary for guarding Estelle from Rouleau. It must be something else.

When it is time for Sylvette's morning excursion, I dress warmly and walk in the direction of the Kimbrells' cabin at the far end of the clearing. No one is anywhere about. The air is so cold that walking through it feels more like pushing through frigid water. No wind troubles the air today, and except for smoke rising from chimneys, all is still. A thick pad of snow lies atop each roof like a featherbed. Tree limbs hold white replicas of themselves. The earth, white. The river, white. The stone walls, white humps. But the sky—ah! The sky a piercing
brillant
blue. Hope steals my breath. The very colors of Versailles—and Marie Antoinette. Surely a fortuitous omen in this new year.

But not much smoke is rising from the Kimbrells' chimney. If I have learned one thing at all, in this America, it is that on such a morning smoke should be rising.

There is no answer to my knock. And the door is barred. “Hannah?” I call. “Hannah Kimbrell? Monsieur Kimbrell?”

Again, no answer.

“Hannah! It is I, Eugenie de La Roque.” In French I ask her to open the door. I am suddenly ashamed. Hannah has been speaking our language, yet I have not made the slightest attempt to learn hers.

Estelle may be there, so I call out in French, “I have come by myself. I and Sylvette. What has happened? Why can you not open the door? I wish to speak with Hannah. I must know if she is well.”

Inside, the bar slides off, and as the door opens slightly, a terrible stench emerges, the same as when Maman was so sick. I cover my nose and mouth.

“Hannah!” I whisper, raising my handkerchief. She is so pale, and her dark eyes appear huge. Her mouth is stained, as is her usually clean apron.

“We are ill,” she says in French and motions for me to leave. Before she can bar the door again, I push it open. The
maison
is dim; the fire low. Hannah goes to her bed and lies down, but it is more like falling into it. Estelle lies near the hearth. Hannah's father and her brother are in beds along the opposite wall, both asleep—or worse.

I force myself to remain standing there, quite still. Should I go summon our abbé? But with Maman, I recall, he wasn't the least helpful.

The fire, then.

Courage, Eugenie
.

I look for wood. There is none near the hearth. “Hannah?
Le bois?
”

She points to another door. I go there, open it, and find
a storeroom. Here are the logs, stacked to one side, and on the other, shelves holding food and supplies. I remove my gloves and choose, first, the kindling. This I pile atop ashes that seem warm enough. Soon threads of gray smoke rise and then the kindling bursts into flame. My stomach floats upward, but I force myself to continue building the fire, setting atop the flames larger pieces of wood. Part of me exults; part of me trembles.

I swing the iron crane outward and look into its black pot. Empty.

“Lentilles
, mademoiselle,” Hannah says from her bed.

The legumes! But where? I go back into the cold storeroom and search. There is a box of dry river sand on the floor. How curious! I stoop and run fingers through this sand, discovering a number of
carottes
and several turnips, our
navets
, white and purple. Then, on a shelf, I find a crock labeled
lentils
.

So I must make soup, yes? How does one begin to make
le potage?

With some liquid, I presume. I decide to begin with water and, yes!—there is a water bucket, half full. This I carry to the iron pot and pour some in. How heavy it is! And what a curious sensation to carry something heavy and rough to the touch! I feel a terrible strain on my fingers, hand, and arm, but there is something else, too, something I recognize as joy. I tip the crock and pour in some
lentilles
. I find a knife in the cupboard and, after wiping away the sand, slice carrots and turnips. Too late I realize that I probably should be peeling the turnips, but how does one do that? An unruly turnip slips from my fingers, the knife clatters down, yet my fingers have escaped harm. The inexpertly
cut vegetables I drop into the water, skin and all. Then I swing the crane and its pot back over the flames. I am making soup!

I take a cup of water to Hannah. She points to her father and John, and I take them water as well. When John awakens and sees me, he blanches even further, while I sense color flooding my cheeks. Then I take water to Estelle. If they are feverish, then they need water. This I also know.

“What has happened here,” I ask Estelle.

In French, she tells me everything and then asks if I could find someone to feed and water the animals. John is too weak. They all are. And the cow must be milked soon. Her name is Violet.

Water. Feed. Milk.

Impossible
.

“S'il vous plaît
, mademoiselle,” Estelle says. “They will sicken, otherwise.”

Can you do this, Eugenie? Can you?

A covered passageway leads to a shed, and when I arrive there, the poor animals move toward me as if I were Hannah. At our château I watched our servants feeding chickens when I was a child. And I saw them feed hay to our milk cows, too. So what do all apprentices do when they are learning from a master? They imitate, of course!

And thus the chickens and the rooster are fed the cracked grain I find in a bin. The cow, the sheep, and the goats get dried grasses. All of them get water. But the cow—she does not want her food. She wants to be milked.

I must find Rachel Stalk or Mary. I look down at my ruined shoes. I think of the snow. The cow gives a loud bellow, and I back away from her. She turns to reproach me.

Ah,
mon Dieu
, how difficult can it be?

I take a bucket hanging from a peg, but it seems that it is not I doing this; rather, someone else. Then this someone else, who is somehow still me, is stooping, her face right up against the cow's heaving side with its rough fur. This person gently grips a swollen teat and moves her hand downward as I have seen a little dairymaid once do, to my intense embarrassment, then. Tears come. The cow moans although not as loudly as before. “Do not cry, Madame Violette. See? I am trying my best. I, Eugenie Annette Marie de La Roque, your milkmaid. Do not cry
s'il vous plaît
, but allow me to have all your milk now.”

Strangely, my voice seems to calm her, and the milk flows. Streams of it steaming into the bucket!

“Merci
, madame,” I sing to her.

Someone touches my shoulder and I turn my head a little, fear coursing through me.

It is John Kimbrell fils, saying something I cannot understand. Then he gestures for me to leave. Hardly able to keep himself upright, he clutches a post.

I shake my head. I have found the necessary rhythm, and the poor cow's milk is flowing well. My face has never held more heat—
to be seen like this
. But there is something else, too, something I recognize as pride.

When the milk finally stops flowing into the bucket, the cow seems to give a great sigh. Her flank heaves outward against my cheek and then inward again. “I think she will be well now,” I say in French as I stand and rearrange my gown. “You must rest. Go, go!” I point to the door.

Still clutching the post, he leans forward to take the bucket of milk. Then he brushes at the air between us as if
hoping to cleanse it. “Go!” I command, and he totters into the storeroom with the milk.

I raise my hand to my shoulder and hold it there a moment, but remove it when John reenters the shed with a different bucket and a cloth. He points to the cow, then seats himself on a small stool and begins washing her. It is too much for him, this up-and-down motion, and he tips forward, against her side.

“Monsieur Kimbrell!” I help him up and after a while we walk, slowly, back into the
maison
.

Estelle motions me over to her. Could I not find some way to help her people? She fears for them, now.
“L'abbé
, mademoiselle,
s'il vous plaît!
”

I nod.

“Bless you, my lady. You are so good!”

I fill a cup of water for each of them and leave it nearby. I take Hannah's slate and draw a picture of the deerskin boots and point to my feet. When she understands what I am asking, she nods. I also take the crock of lentils from the shelf in the pantry and two carrots from the bin of sand and hold these up before her. Again, she nods. I bring three logs from the storeroom, one at a time, and place them by the hearth.

Before leaving, I stir the soup as I have seen our Louisa do. Then I remember.

Chamber pots.

Impossible!

I stand there until, somehow, I am moving. Carrying water outside, in the bucket. Carrying the chamber pots to the far end of the yard. There must be some other, proper place for the waste, but I know not where. One by one I empty the pots and then pour a little water into them.

It is the most awful thing I have done in my life.

Then, in Hannah's boots, I fly to Abbé La Barre's cabin, Sylvette barking and running alongside.

Bless you, my lady. You are so good
.

At Versailles we flattered one another as a matter of custom. Ah, you are so beautiful! Ah, how clever! How delightful! What a superb gown! Ah, how good you are! We expected such words, even implicitly demanded them; to receive, you must give. And though these hyperboles were false most of the time, or at least bereft of the full truth—and we all aware of that—we still delighted in hearing them. But now I can see how different Estelle's words are—rich and deep with conviction and truth, like a Chinese gong struck once, with force. At the court, our flatteries must have floated through the air like the glissando of a glass harmonica.

Struggling to breathe and talk at the same time, I tell Abbé La Barre about the Kimbrells and Estelle and the other slaves. He throws on his cloak. He will, he says, inform the marquis himself.

Outside, the cold no longer seems cold. The day is still all blue and white. At our
maison
, I heat water and clean my hands. Then I scrutinize them. They do not look bad. In fact, they still look like my own hands. Pink and white and finely formed, the fingernails clean and pretty.

I am still myself.

Only, some new person, too.

Maman weeps at the sight of me, in Hannah's boots, in a soiled gown, my hair disordered. That I am making a pot of soup for us only increases her misery. Papa tries to console her, but it is futile.

“We thought wild animals had eaten you, Eugenie!”

“But Maman, I had to help them. Who else will?”

“Why could you not have told Talon, instead of going there yourself?”

Because . . . because I was right there and it was . . . urgent. But I say nothing, for she would not like those words.