Waiting for the Queen (8 page)

“What is it,
chérie?
”

Other barking echoes hers, coming from above, in the sky.

Saperlotte!
Lines of wild geese flying low, under the clouds! And they are all barking like little Sylvettes. Where do they come from? Where do they go? South, it must be. Perhaps following the river to Philadelphia and beyond. Florentine pretends to aim a gun and shoot at them.

Hannah Kimbrell appears and, ignoring Talon's earlier lesson, addresses us first.

“Excusez-moi. C'est pour Sylvette.”

Florentine sweeps his hands outward. “How dare you! Away with you, insolent girl. I have heard about you and see that you still do not curtsy. I shall inform the marquis at once.”

His tone is so venomous that I find myself blushing in annoyance and almost siding with the girl.

“Ah!” I say and laugh. “I believe she meant to address the dog, not us, Florentine. You see? She has something for Sylvette.” Hoping to divert his attention, I quickly unfold the piece of broadsheet.

“It does not excuse disrespect.”

“Indeed, Florentine, but look. A bone for Sylvette!”

“I care not if it is a diamond collar. She must pay for her effrontery.”

Sylvette diverts me from my own anger at the girl. She dances. She stands balanced on her hind legs. She hops straight upward and then drops to the ground and begins gnawing on the bone. I have never seen her so happy in this America. But then Hannah Kimbrell stoops to stroke her fur, and I pull at the ribbon leash. Sylvette topples backward.

“You Americans,” Florentine rants on in French. “You are all barbarians. I'm surprised you do not wear bones in your noses as well as carry them about with you.”

True. And yet—

“The impertinent girl must be punished,” Florentine is saying.

“Florentine, she understands neither your words nor your wit.”

“She soon shall!”

“Yes, of course. My dear Florentine, you are right. It is unforgivable of her to approach us like that, and with a bone, no less. But see how happy it has made poor Sylvette? She hasn't had such a treasure since we left France. If Talon hears of this, then it will be hardest on Sylvette. The girl is quite taken with her and no doubt will bring her other gifts—if we do not interfere. Will you not desist for Sylvette's sake?”

“And yours, mademoiselle?” he asks with sly innuendo.

“Of course! What is good for Sylvette is good for me as well.”

It is the closest I've ever come to speaking truthfully with Florentine. I fear, though, that in my truthfulness, I am quite misleading him. A fine irony, no?

“Allow me to escort you back to your
maison
, lest any other barbarians decide to take advantage of a lady's vulnerability.”

Vulnerability
. Weakness. It must be true, for look—I am incapable even of extricating myself from his presence. Hannah Kimbrell has moved smoothly away, swift as the American Indians of stories, while I totter alongside Florentine like a child.

Shouts come from somewhere nearby. “The Queen?” I cry. “She arrives?” But the voice seems to be saying
Stop!

“We must learn what it is!” Florentine pulls me in the direction of the shouting.

It is only the boorish slave owner, Rouleau. And there are the horses, the wagon, and the two men, all of them at the edge of the forest, not far from the river.

“Kimbrell, I warn you,” Rouleau shouts in French. “Whatever you build here, I shall pull down. They are not to have a shelter to best the nobles'. Do you understand me?”

I doubt that either of them does. They continue unloading logs while Rouleau rages. “It will give them ideas. It is dangerous, Kimbrell. What they have now is good enough.”

Then, as if it has been emerging from the forest all this while, I finally see a green hut, not unlike Madame de Sevigny's. Its roof and sides have been formed by boughs of pine and fir. A small cooking fire burns before it, and the white-haired slave woman emerges from the hut with a pot in hand. Her gown is of some thin and faded cotton, and she wears an equally thin half cape over her shoulders. Seeing us, she pauses in her work to curtsy.

“If you persist, Kimbrell,” Rouleau is saying, “I shall whip my slaves for each day you dare to come here. Beginning today.”

Whip them? For something they themselves do not do?

Kimbrell
. The young man's name—and Hannah's. They must be brother and sister, for I see a resemblance in the dark hair, dark eyes, and fair skin. The older man must be their father—and the one Papa has been working with on the chapel.

“Excusez-moi
, Monsieur Rouleau,” I call. “They do not understand French. They are but ignorant Americans.”

Rouleau bows before replying. “Whether they understand or not, mademoiselle, is not your affair.”

Florentine stiffens at this insult yet does nothing other than lead me away. Of course—he is afraid of the man and his whip.

I decide to tell Papa of this matter, and then Papa can inform the marquis, and the marquis will relay word to the Kimbrells.

But the four slaves are whipped by Rouleau. It is some three hours later, and Florentine has come to tell us about it, reveling in the news. Maman turns her head to the side and says nothing, a subtle expression of displeasure lost upon Florentine. Papa regards Florentine with reserve. This afternoon Talon told Papa that we must not interfere in Rouleau's affairs.

“Is he not a citizen of France?” Papa asked. “And thus answerable to us for his treatment of the slaves?”

Talon merely said, “What is all this concern about his slaves? Besides, Rouleau is right. We must first have
maisons
for our own people. I, too, have forbidden the Kimbrells to work on a
maison
for the slaves when I need them to do so much else. But they are meddlesome, I fear, and no doubt will continue.”

“They must be told about the whippings,” Papa said.

“Let them find out on their own, and be sorry for it. Maybe that will stop them.”

Now I am near sickened, imagining these whippings, and yet . . . surely it is not right for slaves to have a
maison
before Madame de Sevigny does. “You see all the trouble these slaves bring!” I cannot help saying. “They should not be here at all. I have thought this all along. It is Talon's fault—and Noailles's.”

“Indeed,” Florentine says, offering his smirk.

It disgusts me, Florentine trying to ally himself with me. I give him a look and refuse to say anything further until after he leaves.

“Papa. You must inform the Kimbrells. I do not think people should be whipped for something they do not do.”

Maman and Papa regard me.

“Well? I speak truly, do I not?”

“Your father must not interfere, Eugenie. We are here at the marquis's pleasure. And Noailles's.”

After playing the harpsichord, as Maman requested, I write a note in simple French, telling Hannah about the whippings. I plan to quickly tuck it into her apron pocket when she serves us this evening. But a different American girl comes with a steaming pot and, after curtsying, clumsily fills our bowls with some gray potage. I stare at it. A fish head rises to the surface and stares back.
Mon Dieu!
Then the girl places a scorched piece of yellow bread to one side of the bowl. Her ragged fingernails are dark with dried blood. Her fingers are dirty. I look at Maman. Her chin is high. Her eyes appear to notice nothing amiss. After the girl curtsies and leaves, with her ill-smelling pot, Maman says, “I do not wish to keep a tally. I do not wish to witness Hannah Kimbrell's discomfort day after day when I have enough of my own to occupy me. We demanded satisfaction from Talon and received it.
Bon
. Now we shall have the respect due our rank.” She sips a spoonful of the potage and after a moment swallows. Slowly, she dips her spoon again. Papa, saying nothing, eats.

Fish-head soup. High price to pay for respect, no?

The bread is inedible. The potage—I give mine to Sylvette. Even she hesitates. Soon after, I retreat to my featherbed by the hearth. The fire snaps and flickers. I cannot bear to look at it. But when I close my eyes, I am again encased within the roll of Italian velvet, stifling, airless, being smuggled onto the merchantman ship.

Sleep seems impossible. The odor of that potage still permeates the
maison
. I take the note from under the featherbed. How shall I get it to her?

The night is long. In time, a plan forms.

Hannah

“Chantez, chantez,”
Madame d'Aversille commands.

I sing, for the hundredth time, it seems, the old counting song “Over in the Meadow.”
Over in the meadow in the sand in the sun, lived an old mother turtle and her little turtle one. “Dig,” said the mother. “I dig,” said the one. So he dug and was glad in the sand in the sun
. On and on, all ten verses in English, but still madame touches each eye with her lacy handkerchief. When I finish, madame takes up a quill, makes three marks on her tally, then strikes through them. She holds up the paper for me to see. I smile a little, for she is grinning like a mischievous child.

But why make the marks at all, then? These French people truly are a puzzle.

Madame d'Aversille sighs and leans back in her straight chair. Her feet rest upon the pillow of lamb's wool I made for her. Her eyes are half-closed, yet she draws the sheet nearer to her elbow and makes yet another mark but does not strike through it.

Then she gives me a wide smile. 'Tis like young Richard's, if I could erase the wrinkles. She says something in French and draws her arm through the air. She says something more in French. Is she having a talk with herself? I wish I knew what about.

Now she groans and points to her head.

The wig, Hannah?

I am afraid to move. She points again and pulls at the thing. It seems stuck there. Possum holding fast by its tail.

I go behind her chair and lift it away, but then do not know what to do with it. Finally I hang it on the other chair. She looks so old and tired now. Her own bit of hair is stuck damply to her scalp like the few feathers on a chick just come out of an egg, all crumpled and wet. I do the only thing I can think of, then. I dip a cloth in the basin and dab her head and the few strands of hair. I pat her head dry and comb the wisps straight back.

“Ah!
Merci, merci!
”

I wash the damp powder from her face. Dab away the tears gathering at the withered corners of her eyes.

“Chantez,”
she says again.
“Chantez!”

In the middle of the second verse comes a tapping at the door. Visitors? I hurriedly replace her wig, but 'tis on crooked!
“Entrez!”
Madame calls, eager, it seems, for this new diversion. I step well back as the door opens.

Mademoiselle de La Roque enters, with her little dog. Seeing me, it barks and barks. When she sets it down, it runs to me and keeps hopping up. Madame d'Aversille laughs and claps her hands. She calls to the dog in quick French, and finally it goes to her. She picks it up and holds it against her wrinkled face. The dog squirms but then begins licking her face. Madame laughs some more. So does mademoiselle. I move farther back, awaiting the order to curtsy, and the new tally marks.