Waiting for the Queen (18 page)

“He is responsible for them, Eugenie. Not you. Why must you dishonor us? Running back and forth across the settlement! Soiling your clothing! Endangering yourself! Your gown we cannot save. Your redingote we must, and your shoes. But how shall we clean them? Whoever saw you must think you have gone mad. The Du Valliers—”

“Charlotte, Charlotte,” Papa murmurs. “I shall clean them.”

“And what if we ourselves become ill? Daughter, you were not thinking—again!”

“Maman,” I finally say. “I helped because she helped us.”

“It was her responsibility to do so.”

“And so, too, ours?”

“Oh, my child.”

“Maman, please have some of the soup, anyway. Then maybe you shall feel better.”

“She is right, Charlotte. The mind is not happy, sitting atop an empty stomach.”

“It will only make me feel worse.”

This night I think upon all that I have done today. I have milked a cow. I have built a fire. I have made soup. I have cared for the sick. I have done more in this one day, it seems, than in all my previous life. And now, as I listen to the wind—so much like waves beating against these logs—I am happy. I am
truly happy! It has been months, many months, since I have felt happy. It is almost a new sensation entirely. I wish I could tell Maman. Perhaps I can tell Papa. Holding Sylvette's paws, I lean back into the warmth of it.

But then, Abbé La Barre comes with the news that two of Monsieur Rouleau's slaves have died four days ago—Estelle's mother and the elderly man named Jacques, who was Estelle's uncle. Her brother is still alive, though quite weak. He tells us, too, that there is talk of imprisoning the Kimbrells. All of them.

Mon Dieu!
Papa is frowning. Maman says, “And well they should be imprisoned! They are far too disruptive.”

“But Maman . . .”

“Hush, child.”

After Abbé La Barre leaves, Maman says, “Now we shall all die.”

Hannah

Again comes the pounding against our door. It can only be Mr. Rouleau.

'Tis—with Marquis Talon. As they enter our cabin, Marquis Talon says, “we need her, Kimbrell. It's time she returns.”

Father speaks in a calm voice. “She is not yet strong enough. Take her now and she may only become ill again.”

The marquis translates all that into French, and then Mr. Rouleau's reply into English. “I need more help than just the one slave!” Mr. Rouleau shouts.

“Mr. Rouleau. You have two daughters who might help you, if they be well. Also, there be others here at the settlement to hire.”

Mr. Rouleau stamps his foot. “The one slave shall do it all, then, and if anything happens to him, the fault lies at your feet, sir! As for me, I shall make a full report to the vicomte.”

“Indeed thou must,” Father says. “It would be wise to let him know how a lack of care has caused the deaths of the man named Jacques and of Estelle and Alain's mother. The vicomte can then advise others who come here seeking sanctuary. The bodies must be properly buried. I am sure Abbé La Barre has told you this as well.”

“And I will tell you the same thing I told him. In this cold? With the earth like iron? We have already carried the
bodies into the forest and left them. Good day, sir. You shall hear more of this matter quite soon.”

Father steps outside, blocking the man's way. “The remains must be properly buried. We shall dig below the frost, my son and I. Tell us where thou hast taken the bodies.”

Mr. Rouleau's eyes shift away. “No doubt it is already too late.”

“Thou art a dishonorable man.”

“And you are a thief who shall be made to pay for your thievery.” Mr. Rouleau steps around Father.

“Kimbrell,” the marquis says, “you are meddling! The girl is properly Rouleau's. You must stop interfering with the affairs of the French.”

“I shall give her up only when she is well.”

“Then I'll have no choice but to punish you. Do you understand me?”

“I do.”

“Very well then.”

“John,” Father says after he bars the door. “There has been no new snow. It should be easy enough to find the tracks.”

“Do not despair,” Father says to Estelle. “Thy mother and thy uncle shall be buried and the graves properly marked. And there shall be prayers.” Explanatory gestures accompany the words.

Estelle merely nods her head. John begins to dress in his warmest clothing.

“Father,” I say. “If John goes, then Mr. Rouleau may see him and call someone to stop him.” I cannot bring myself to say the word
imprison
. “Why not let me go? I must still cook for the French, so they won't harm me.”

Father considers this. “I cannot allow it. Yet it may be best for me to remain here. But then—”

“I won't go too near, Father. Just to mark the place before I get Mr. Stalk.”

“John, go with her,” he finally says. “Stand guard there. Hannah will get Mr. Stalk to relieve thee. When he does, come back here, both of you. We will find a way to bury them. Go through the woods rather than across the settlement.”

I lift the rifle down from its pegs and fill the powder chamber. Then I take flint box, cartridges, and rifle, and we walk out into the cold.

My trail to Estelle's shelter serves us well. The snow has been trampled by foraging deer and we can walk quickly. When we near the shelter, we turn eastward, thinking we might see other tracks.

Aye. Here they are. Lines upon the snow tell us that the bodies were dragged. Who did this? One of the workers? If so, he has not much honor.

We walk for several more minutes and then come upon wolf prints going in the same direction. John takes the rifle, and we walk on. Wind high up in the great pines and hemlocks makes a heavy thrumming. I am saddened to think of Estelle's mother and uncle having to come so far from their home only to die here. And I am afraid now of what we will find.

The trail ends some hundred paces into the woods, where we soon come upon what I do not want to see. The disturbed white mounds. The strewn-about blankets and red-flecked snow.

“Hannah,” John whispers. “Do not look upon this.”

I turn away and utter a prayer.

Father had not been thinking—I blame the illness. He would not have wanted us to see this. But I forgive him. And the wolves and mountain lions and bobcats. They do only what instinct tells them to do. Unlike our own kind. Rouleau, I cannot forgive.

Trees creak and groan in the wind. I will not hear the wolves or the mountain lions should they return. But no fear enters me. There is no room, sadness and outrage filling the whole space.

My expression must give it away. Estelle cries out when I return.

I hold Estelle while she sobs. “Father, she cannot go back to him.”

“Aye.” But there is a measure of hopelessness in his voice.

Estelle moves away from me and wraps her shawl close about her. “I must be with Alain,” she says in French.

I go to stop her, but Father says 'tis best for her to be with her brother now.

Carrying a basket with bread, preserves, dried fish, and applesauce, Estelle slowly makes her way to the trail skirting the clearing.

“She will go there, Father. 'Tis near sunset, and the wolves—”

“I think not. She will stay with Alain.”

“Then they will both go. I cannot bear to think of it!”

“Hannah, calm thyself. I will follow to make certain they do not. John, stay here with Hannah. But first, I am sorry. I should not have let thee go. Forgive me, my daughter.”

“I already have, Father. But I cannot forgive Rouleau.”

“Thou must. Otherwise, what good our beliefs? Ah, my Hannah. 'Tis a high wall to scale. All of it.”

'Tis nigh midnight. Father has not returned. John and I regard the fire. To speak will only give voice to fear, so we are silent. My hands shake so. Wolves bark and yip, chasing something. Then that unfortunate creature shrieks wildly. I cover my ears. When I uncover them, it is quiet.

“Hannah,” John says, “fear not. He is with Mr. Stalk.”

I say naught but know what must have happened.

Eugenie

“Enough! The marquis did what was required. The Americans are here to serve us, not to conduct our affairs.”

“But Maman, did not Monsieur Kimbrell wish merely to help the ill girl and properly bury the others?”

“It was not his place to do so. He must be taught a lesson . . . and serve as an example for the other Americans.”

“Papa! What do you think?”

“I think that Talon will lose his best worker if he keeps him locked up. What is the point of it?”

“The point, Philippe,” Maman says, “is propriety.”

“Will it not stir up the Americans against us?” I ask.

“We shall see,” Papa says.

Then Hannah enters with our dinner, and a wondrous scent fills our
maison
as she serves a
ragoût
and warm bread after curtsying to each of us. Her eyes are tinged red. Her face, blotched and swollen. “Hannah,” I say, to Maman's acute displeasure. “How is your father?” These words are in French, but she understands.