Waiting for the Queen (11 page)

Hannah

Snow blurs the mountain across the river. It rushes down in fat bundles of flakes. Yesterday was a clear cold, with morning frost thick as snow, and today true snow, with wind from the northwest cutting across the settlement. Within this wind fly more geese. They like to ride the northwest winds. It all feels like the first stroke of winter.

The clothing won't dry well today. How I wish Father and John had time to finish the drying shed.

And here comes Mademoiselle de La Roque, with Sylvette. Yesterday she was here to watch a small flotilla arriving with supplies, but no French people. She turned away after throwing a few sticks for Sylvette.

I begin taking down the linens. Father and John will not like all the lines strung in our cabin, but maybe this'll hurry them along with the shed.

Mademoiselle holds a blue parasol. Sylvette wears a blue jacket. 'Tis a sight. A parasol in the snow. A dog in a jacket! The jacket is but a piece of cloth tied around with ribbons and bows. I smile as I search my pockets—and yes!—find a bone wrapped in paper. But mademoiselle stands over by herself, and I don't know whether I should go any closer.

It is the dog who makes the decision. She runs to me and dances on her small hind legs. Then mademoiselle comes a bit closer. Her eyes are red, and her face a blotchy pink. She has been crying. 'Tis hard to see her waiting in hope when
there may be no other flotillas until spring. Supplies might come by pack train, but the river is becoming too dangerous, now, for boats. And soon it will be icebound. I do not like to think of her here every day, looking downriver for something that won't be coming.

It makes me want to learn, really learn, her language. Because if I knew French, I could tell her how I miss my family, too. Mother and Suzanne and Grace and Richard. I could say how I don't feel like myself because so much is missing. And not being on our farm, that too.

But look! She has not walked away.
Courage, Hannah!
I will say just one word to her. A person ought not be fined too much for just one word.

“Maman.” I point downriver.

She turns to me. Her little mouth curves downward, wanting to scold.

“Ma famille,”
I continue.

She looks downriver.
“Votre famille?”

“Oui.”

“Ah!
Famille!
”

She lifts the dog and holds her close to her rust-red cloak.

“Sylvette,” I say, and dare to extend my hand to her. Mademoiselle steps away from me. Unlike her mistress, the dog is such a friendly little creature. She wriggles and seems to be smiling as she strains toward me. Her white fur is all curls and looks to be very soft, like clumped milkweed seeds. Her nose is black, as are her eyes. Her ears are white mittens I long to touch. Just once! I imagine silk must feel somewhat this way.

I show mademoiselle the bone. Sylvette squirms, and
mademoiselle allows her to leap down. Then she nods at me, and I give Sylvette the bone.

I wish I could ask whether the little dog has come all the way from France or if mademoiselle got her here in America. Other questions come. Where had her home been, in France? And what is the countryside like? Are there farms such as ours? What crops are grown? How large are the towns? Are they beautiful? Do all people in France have musical instruments such as the one in her cabin? Was she happy in France, before the troubles there?

I wonder if she has any questions to ask of me.

But she only looks over her shoulder every so often while Sylvette gnaws on the bone. Finally she urges the little dog to come with her, and Sylvette does, carrying the bone.

I remember the bean soup simmering on our hearth. And my corn bread. “Mademoiselle,
attendez!
” I call. “Wait!”

She turns. I gesture toward our cabin at the end of the clearing.
“Mangez?”

“Je regrette.”

She is sorry! I want to ask why but am too frightened to say anything more.

Snow whitens her cloak and feathered hat. Walking away, she looks like a small old woman uncertain of every step.

Inside me there is something very like a cut. Perhaps she is not allowed to come to our cabin. Perhaps she does not want to, ever again.

On the way back, I circle past Estelle's hut and hide a packet of dried apples, dried venison, and a candle in a patch of yellowing fern. 'Tis our usual spot. Estelle's hut looks the same, merely a heap of pine boughs woven into a lattice of poles. But at least we have been able to smuggle them food
as well as some oiled cloth for walls and the earthen floor. And Alain, Estelle's brother, has made them pallets for beds. He used scraps of wood the joiners secretly put aside for him. It is saddening to think of him out in the middle of the night, searching for these bits of wood, with no other light than that of the moon. All the nobles and all the workers, including the French ones, have cabins now. Only the slaves do not. Seeing their hut these days always makes me worry about the approaching winter. Mr. Rouleau may not know how cold it can get here. When he does, he might relent.

Well, at least we have made them boots, John and I. And that is to the good.

Eugenie

Sylvette looks dressed for a ball, with her white jacket tied around with pink, blue, and yellow ribbons. I hold her blue-ribbon leash as we walk to the river. It is good to be walking unfettered by Florentine's presence. Good not to have to think of witty rejoinders. And on a day of sunlight and near warmth! Yesterday's snow has melted, and the river rushes on, brown and high, yet today's sunlight dresses it with light, and all seems more hopeful.

But every so often I look over my shoulder and to either side for wild animals, though I cannot believe that they would just charge into our clearing. There is too much noise from the carpentry, the joiners working on new
maisons—
another hopeful sign—and on
La Grande Maison
, too.

I remove my gloves and find a stick to throw for Sylvette. For this I must release the blue ribbon. It always makes me worry that she might just rush off into the woods, on the scent of something. And then that will be the end of her.

“Sylvette, stay close now,
ma petite
. Here is your stick.”

I toss it nearby and she runs, in her ribbons and jacket—a comical sight. I toss the stick again and again. The third time she catches it in midair, but lets it fall from her mouth. Then she begins barking.

I turn, fearing Florentine's presence. But it is the petty despot Rouleau, with the slave girl Estelle. They are farther along the landing and walking down to the water. She carries
something while he loudly berates her. “Who do you think you are, accepting such gifts? I have told you before. You are to accept nothing from those people! They are meddlers. They cause only trouble. While you—you have gotten sly, haven't you? Hiding things from us. Secretive! And who knows? Even plotting, maybe!”

“
Non
, monsieur, we—”

“Dare not contradict me!”

Sylvette is shivering and growling as I carry her up the landing, away from them. Still Rouleau has not seen us. At the top of the landing I look back. Rouleau and the girl are at the water's edge. He has her throw something into the water and then shouts that she hasn't thrown it far enough. Sylvette squirms to be free. She longs to chase whatever it is. I hold her tightly.

Rouleau takes something else from the girl and heaves it into the center of the rapid river. It immediately sinks. She hands him another object. He throws it and it, too, sinks. The next time something arcs over the river, I shade my eyes and look carefully. A boot! They are throwing boots into the water. Why in heaven's name are they doing that? Four have gone in. Then another, another, and finally still two others. Then the arm that has been heaving the boots out over the water flies toward the girl, striking her on the head. She falls to one knee on the stones. He raises his arm again.

“Monsieur Rouleau,” I call, as I move closer.

He turns and, seeing us, bows. “Ah, my lady! I am merely teaching my servant an important lesson. Allow me to proceed, if you please.”

“And what lesson might that be, Monsieur Rouleau?”

“One in obedience. You would agree, would you not, that such lessons are necessary for our servants. Otherwise”—his shoulders lift and fall—“we have anarchy and rebellion and even revolution.”

“How is this girl rebelling?”

“By accepting what I ordered her not to accept.”

“And what might that be?”

“Gifts—from the Americans. The free-thinking Americans.”

“What, exactly, have they given her?”

“Boots, my lady, when I forbade it.”

“Boots! Can they not use boots? Are boots not useful in their work for you?”

“Be that as it may, I have forbidden it, and I am their master. Not the Americans. My slaves must not have divided loyalties.”

“Which Americans in particular have given your slaves boots?”

“The Kimbrells, mademoiselle.”

“The ones who attempted to build them a
maison?
”

“Indeed, the very ones.”

“And why do you not wish them to have a house?”

“Pardon me, but it is not for me to fully explain my reasoning to you, mademoiselle. Perhaps you might ask your father for enlightenment. Or the marquis. Now, if you will excuse me.”