Waiting for the Queen (3 page)

“It will express our displeasure.”

“Surely we wish to express more than that.”

Maman is silent.

“Well, I shall not douse Sylvette with vinegar. Nor my gowns.”

“Of course not, my dear. Nor shall—”

Maman lurches against me as our longboat spins backward and into the prow of the boat behind us. Water sloshes in, wetting my suede shoes, redingote, and gown. Maman and I right ourselves, and there is the Rouleaux's youngest slave in the boat alongside us. Her cotton gown is sopping to the waist, her eyes wide with fright. The pole is useless in her hands.

“Idiots!” Rouleau shouts. I think he means us until he adds, “Look what you have done to the noble ladies and gentlemen! You shall be punished! Now, away from their boat!”

The younger of the male slaves pushes hard against his pole, his scarred face trembling with exertion. But the current is holding us locked fast, and both boats are losing hard-won distance.

“My fault, monsieur,” Papa calls. “Do not punish them, I beg of you. I lost the bottom again. They are blameless.”

“Nevertheless, comte, they should have steered clear in time.”

I bow my head to hide tears. Papa, poling with slaves and savage-looking rivermen in deerskin jackets and fringed trousers stained black with tobacco juice. Papa making apology to Rouleau.

“Mademoiselle,” Florentine du Vallier calls out. “Perhaps the lances on your family crest are in fact poles, do you think?” Florentine is sixteen and believes he is a great wit. He is also thin and pimply and, when not attempting jests, surly.

Still, the nobles in our boat laugh. Maman and I ignore them. But then elderly Duc d'Aversille, usually a kind and most generous man, addresses Papa, saying, “La Roque, had you remained in France, you might be wearing the revolutionists' red cap and tricolor cockade by now.”

How dare he. I turn to stare at him and hope that Papa will come up with some sharp rejoinder, but Papa merely laughs along with everyone and then says, “If you knew what pleasure I derive from getting this boat to move in one direction or another, Duc, you would be vying for this work, I assure you.”

“Not I, Philippe. I am far too old for such sport.”

Everyone laughs again, but the Comtesse de Sevigy first gives us a falsely sympathetic look. Hypocrite! Supposedly, she is Maman's friend. Oh, I can just hear her.
Madame Queen, we have the most delightful little story to tell you about our river journey here. It seems that Comte de La Roque has kept his true talent hidden until now . . .

It will ruin us.

But an even greater fear is that the events of these past months have overburdened Papa's mind.

The boats separate. Papa and the rivermen plant their poles in the river, lean forward, and pull. Our boat inches forward again. Rain drips from the rivermen's broad leather hats. It sluices down off the boat's canopy. Clouds descend even farther, obscuring the tops of these mountains bristling with leafless trees. But then Maman points to a patch of color on a mountainside—sienna, maroon, dark green, and lemon hues faded in the mist.

“Chêne,”
Maman says. Oak. “And see that lighter shade? Lovely!”

“Like your brocade gown. Did you bring that one with you, Maman? You could wear it here, for the Queen. You know the one—you like to wear it on the Feast of All Saints Day.” I stop, remembering how we observed that holy day quietly, in Philadelphia, with no pomp or feasting whatsoever. Maman had worn one of her other, simpler, gowns.

“Non,”
she says. “I did not bring it.” After touching each eye with her handkerchief, she gazes ahead, into the mist.

Soon the fog thins again to reveal a long tawny creature crouched on a tree that has toppled into the water.

“Maman,” I whisper. “A mountain lion!”

“Where?”

“On that tree trunk. Drinking from the river.” But even as I say these words, the fog thickens again, hiding the creature.

“You imagined it, Eugenie.”

“
Non!
It was there, truly.” I lower my voice, not wanting Florentine to overhear. “Mountain lions will catch Sylvette and kill her.”

“Eugenie.”

“We must go elsewhere, Maman. We must.” “But we cannot.”

“It will be impossible here. There is nothing but forest—and wild creatures. Perhaps Indians, too.”

“Not Indians, Eugenie. They have moved farther west, we have been assured. As for our dwellings, we shall have proper
maisons
. The marquis has pledged this.”

“
Maisons
with stoves?”

“With hearths and stoves, surely.”

“And servants?”

“Of course.”

“And furnishings and beds and drapery?”

“It has all been promised.”

The rain slackens, but clouds still curtain the river and mountains. The Caribbean slaves, poling the Rouleaux's boat, sing in their poor French. Our boat is silent, the rivermen grim.

“Maman?”

“Eugenie, you tire me. Allow me to rest, please.”

“Just this, Maman. The Queen will come, will she not?”

“She will.”

“She has escaped her captors and will come.”

“Yes.”

“We shall see her again.”

“Of course.”

“Even at this moment she may be on a ship nearing America.”

“Oui.”

“Maman, you must speak with Papa. He cannot—”

“Eugenie, enough for now.”

Then for a long while there is nothing but cloud and rain and the faint singing of the slaves. It tempts me to close my eyes and sleep, but no! I must not.
My Lady, let this day pass soon. We are cold. We have not eaten since morning
.

I hold Sylvette close and promise her a warm room and food. I do not tell her how the rain gives this day—or evening, if that is what it is—a gloomy aspect I do not at all like.

At last the Marquis de Talon stands in the boat ahead of us and gestures with his plumed hat. Our three boats begin turning toward a break in the forest on the left side of the river.

“
Mes amis
, we arrive!” the marquis calls. “Long live Marie Antoinette! Queen of France!”

Appearing along the riverbank are a number of silent figures. Maman takes my hand in hers. Sylvette looks alertly forward. Beyond the figures, a few hutlike structures appear indistinct in the mist like something in a dream.

Breath leaves me. Mama is holding herself stiffly, while Papa sags in undignified fashion against his pole. The nobles in our boat begin murmuring as our boat glides toward the landing. Then the boat is held fast and except for Florentine and us everyone else disembarks.

“I refuse to leave this boat,” I am finally able to say. “The marquis must take us elsewhere.”

“Eugenie,” Maman says. “You are creating a scene.”

“I care not! This is impossible!”

“Come now,” Papa says. “We are all tired and prone to worrisome thoughts.” He offers his hand.

“And famished, too,” I add. “But
non!
I shall not leave until we are taken to a proper settlement.”

“The mist and cloud obscure the
maisons
, Eugenie,” he says after helping Maman out. “Come now.”

“Papa, I am . . . afraid.”

“There is nothing to fear,
chérie
.”

“You do not know that for certain, Papa.”

“Eugenie, you have been courageous for many weeks. Do not allow your courage to fail you now, at this moment of arrival.” He offers his hand again, but I lower my head and tighten my hold on Sylvette. After a while, Papa, Maman, and Florentine leave the boat. Rivermen replace the gangplank and pull the boat, with Sylvette and me still in it, farther up onto the landing and walk off.

“Eugenie,” Papa says. “Please. Let us go and find warmth.”

I look at his sodden cloak and boots and almost relent, but say, “Papa, the marquis has tricked us. There is nothing here.”

“Florentine,” Papa says, “remain with mademoiselle, please. I shall find Talon.” Florentine bows, and then Maman and Papa walk away. My heart hurts as I watch them leave. Smirking Florentine asks if I am about to pole the boat back to Philadelphia. “It will be easier, mademoiselle. The current will be in your favor.”

I cannot allow him to see how fearful I am, or how angry
and hurt. When Sylvette begins whimpering, wanting to leave the boat, I extend my arm to Florentine and unsteadily step out onto a large flat stone. It seems to sway underneath us, and for a long while I can only stand there, hoping not to pitch over.

Hannah

“Look, Hannah!” John says. “Surely, 'tis them.”

A rider brought word but an hour ago, and now a canopied longboat is coming into view at the bend in the river. Two others appear behind it. Any hope that this flotilla be simply an ordinary one is fully dashed. These boats appear to hold a cargo of flowers.

Nobles
. My hands begin shaking so, I have to clasp them lest my brother tease me about being scared. Broadsheet sketches show how nobles favor elaborate clothing and ornaments like silver buckles and feathers, ribbons and lace and jewelry. How they powder their hair and wear it piled up like loaves of bread. They are used to much service, Father has told us. We may oft be called upon to practice patience and charity.

“I'm counting seventeen . . . nay . . . twenty passengers,” John says, “and but three cabins finished.”

“Surely not thy fault, John. If thou didn't have to work so on the Queen's house, the others might be done by now.”

“And even her house remains unfinished. It will go hard, I fear.”

Father is standing with many of the joiners who have stopped work in order to see these nobles. They are talking among themselves and look worried. So do several of the other girls hired as servants for the French. Ten-year-old Rachel Stalk is tearing at a thumbnail with her small front
teeth. Emmeline Cooper and Mary Worthington are leaning against one another. Older women, too, clump together like scared hens.

“John,” I whisper. “We're in a real hobble, there being so many. Dost thou think the Queen be with them?”

His jaw is hard-set, like Father's. “Could be.”

“Will they take our cabin?”

“Might.”

“Then how shall we do our work for them?”

“Don't know.”

“Oh, John. Would that Mr. Talon had never found Father.”

“He wanted the best, and Father is that.”

“Aye, but all the same.”

“'Tis fifty cents a day, sister.”

“For thou, but twenty-five for me.”

“And more for Father. We shall prosper this year, Hannah, and earn enough for our farm.”

“We know their language but poorly, John. I fear we shan't be able to do their bidding.”

“We will learn.”

“And they, English?”