Waiting for the Queen (5 page)

Looking through the low door, I can only gasp. Our
maison
is merely a single room! Hardly even that—a mere storeroom! Still, warmth flows outward from the fire on the hearth, and so, compressing our redingotes about our traveling gowns, we dare to enter, Maman first.

Inside, we take in the rude furnishings. Gateleg table against one log wall. Candleholder and candle upon the table. Three wooden, utterly plain chairs. A peculiar small bed against the opposite wall. A bench with a high back near the fireplace. Black iron utensils to either side of the raised hearth, with wood stacked on the left. One unglazed window open to the darkness gathering outside. As workers carry in our three barrels and two trunks, Maman and I must press against one another to make room for them. When they leave, I set Sylvette down on the plank floor. At once she jumps upon the bench and sits trembling before the fire.

“We cannot stay here,” I say. “We must have something better than this.”

“Ah, but at least it is warm,” Papa says, maneuvering around us to get to the hearth. There, he removes his wet cape and drapes it over the back of the bench. “We are fortunate, are we not, my ladies? Tonight the formidable Madame de Sevigny has only the boughs once attached to these logs.”

“Perfectly appropriate, given her disloyalty,” I say. “Reveling in Florentine's ignoble joke about our family crest! Poles, indeed. Still, you did bring it upon us by insisting upon poling the boat, Papa, when you needn't have. It served only to humiliate us.”

“I am sorry, my Eugenie.”

“Why did you, Papa?”

“For the selfish pleasure of it, I am afraid. It relieved me, for a while at least, of the burden of thought.”

“While we had to bear the burden of their cruel words. How dare they, after all we have lost!”

“Ah, Eugenie, let us leave petty grievances behind. We have experienced too many grievous ones, have we not? They make all else insignificant.”

Papa's play on words—
grievances, grievous
—cheers him. “This land inspires largeness, I think,” he goes on.

“Tell that to Talon,” Maman says, “when you see him concerning this hut, for he must do better than this. Also, please tell him that we require more candles and a lamp.”

“And Papa,” I add, “where is my bed? Tell him, please, that a bed for me must be brought here at once. If there is no other place for us to stay tonight, at least I must not sleep upon the floor, surely.”

“Ah,
chérie
—”

“Papa, this is more wretched than any peasant's hut. At least they have something resembling beds.”

I am somewhat sorry to harass him so. He is sitting before the fire, his eyes nearly shut.

“I will see about it,” he says. “After dinner.”

“And we can well imagine what that will be. I shall not eat it. Nor will I sleep on this so-called floor. In fact, I
would prefer traveling all the way back to Philadelphia and risking the rebel sympathizers and yellow fever rather than remain here.”

“Eugenie,” Papa begins, but he then pauses as if thinking. Soon he is slumped against one narrow corner of the bench, dozing.

Our poor luck holds. The girl who so rudely spoke to us before first being addressed is to be one of our servants. I look down at the food she has served and anticipate being repelled, as in so many American taverns and hostelries. But to my surprise, the meat looks like meat. The carrots and potatoes, too, are identifiable. And the
ragoût
offers a fragrant aroma. Cinnamon, perhaps. To mask rancidity, no doubt. Still, I offer a
merci
, which is an invitation for her to speak, but now she remains silent.

Maman tells her not to stand there like some mule, for heaven's sake. “Curtsy!”

She remains motionless, her face quite scarlet. But after a moment she abruptly turns and leaves.

“Maman, when she comes tomorrow, we shall instruct her. Please do not be upset. She at least looks like a proper servant. Perhaps the curtsy is not an American custom.”

“Well, it should be, here. This is a French settlement, where our etiquette must prevail.
Mon Dieu
, if the Queen were here . . . You are right. We shall instruct the girl, Eugenie, for the Queen's sake as well as our own. Clearly, this is a savage land, one that we must civilize.”

“Far better to just leave!” I look about the room again in lingering disbelief. The Comtesse de Sevigny's harp takes up the back wall. The harpsichord Papa purchased for us
in Philadelphia rests upended in a corner. Our two barrels, shoved into another corner at the foot of the bed, will have to serve as our wardrobe closet. Either that or our trunks. Intolerable! Most distressing, however, is that there is no
salle de bain
, but merely a wooden stand with a bowl and ewer upon it. And only two covered chamber pots. How humiliating. Papa shall have to request another. We do not even have a table for our
toilet
in the morning, or a mirror. All this Papa promises to discuss with the marquis. And too, the matter of the slaves being here, which we cannot tolerate.

Now Papa says, “My dear family. I have a surprise for you!”

He goes to one of the barrels in the corner, tips himself into it, rather like a duck bobbing for something in a pond, and retrieves a bottle of wine from our château. He'd wrapped it, he said, in one of our featherbeds.

Something very near joy burns away my ill mood, at least for a moment. Maman and I applaud, Maman's eyes shining with tears.

Then he pours wine into the glass goblets Talon has brought us, and we raise our goblets to the Queen and her children, Marie-Thérèse and Louis-Charles, who by this time, we pray, have been safely delivered from the ruthless rebels in France. “God grant that they arrive here soon!”

The wine tastes of our vineyard, the sun,
la France
itself. Like Maman, I cannot restrain tears.

“Let us be thankful for our deliverance,” Papa is saying, “and hopeful for our future, God willing!” He takes our hands in his. “Now. Our dinner.”

I am thankful for our deliverance from the rebels, but where, in my heart, is any hope? There is just disbelief, still,
that this is to be our home. I touch fork to the
ragoût
. My inclination is to push it aside, but I am so hungry. Anticipating the worst, I nibble on a carrot like a timid rabbit.
Mon Dieu
, it is decent. Not overly salted at all. I try another. The same! Then for the true test—the meat. Eyes closed, I raise a tiny bit to my mouth. I chew, swallow, and then open my eyes to meet Maman's.

“C'est bon!”
Maman exclaims.

We each take another forkful while Papa eats like one starved. The
ragoût
is not merely good but excellent. Sylvette is frantic for the bits of meat I give her. Our new servant has brought bread as well and it, too, is delicious, with its sweet butter. “You see?” Papa says. “All will be well yet, my ladies.”

After we finish, Maman asks, “But where is our servant?”

We look to the closed door.

“The plates must be removed and washed.”

Papa offers to do it. There is hot water in a pot hanging in the fireplace.

“Non!”
Maman says. “In the morning she will do it—after she curtsies three times to each of us to make up for her insolence tonight.”

Insolence? Perhaps, yes. She frightens me, this servant, for in her eyes I see the stubbornness and antipathy of our peasants. Yet she is a commendable cook, if she has indeed made the meal herself.

“But where are our other servants?” I ask. “And how shall I sleep tonight, without a bed?”

“Eugenie,” Papa says, “tonight you must encamp upon the floor. I will get your featherbed for you, though no rugged campaigner has ever had that luxury.”

“Forgive me, Papa, but I am not a campaigner. I cannot sleep upon a floor, even if upon feathers. I must have a bed.”

“And where are we to find such an object this night, my lady?”

“I do not know! We must, though.”

Papa goes to our one door and opens it wide to wind and heavy rain. “Bonsoir, bonsoir! Does anyone have an extra bed out there? No? Not tonight?”

He closes the door. “A pity. No beds.”

I laugh despite myself. “Papa! No one could possibly hear you.”

“Well, but we do have the bench.”

“It will be too hard.”

He regards it. “So it will. And too narrow.”

Again he goes to one of our barrels and this time pulls out another of our featherbeds, which he places upon the floor before the hearth.

“Papa, I cannot sleep there.”

“But it is the finest place in our
maison
. Certainly the warmest.”

Sylvette goes to the featherbed and curls up on it.

“Voilà! The creature is intelligent, no?”

“Where shall I change my clothing? Where shall I hang things? This is impossible. You must discuss it all with Talon tonight.”

“Tonight, my lady?”

“Of course,” Maman says. “And why not demand that he provide a
maison
more conducive to civilization.”

“Oui,”
I say. “A wonderful idea. And you did promise to take it all up with him, Papa.”

“Did I? Perhaps I was talking in my sleep.” He puts on his still-wet cloak.

“Papa, wait. Perhaps in a while the rain will—”

“Non, non!
It will take but a minute.”

“Well, then, do not forget the matter of the slaves, either. They may be harboring the yellow fever that has been plaguing Philadelphia.”

And then he is gone. As Maman and I change into our nightgowns, cold and revulsion make me shudder.
This, our home?

There is nothing to be done for now, Papa tells us when he returns, except to lower the piece of leather over our one unglazed window and keep close to the fire. As for returning to Philadelphia, that would be most unwise. Apart from the great number of American anti-Loyalists there—for after all, did not the American revolution inspire the French rebels?—French anti-Loyalists may have followed us to America with deadly intent. Papa's voice has sunk to a near whisper, as if he does not wish to give voice to old worries in this new land.

The marquis, he goes on, promises that workers shall build us an extra bed as soon as they can. Later, they may even be able to enlarge our
maison
by adding a wing and then cutting a door through one of our walls. And then, soon after that, furniture shall be delivered from Philadelphia to make our new home more habitable.

But I know about the marquis's promises.

“Papa, forgive me, but it is unacceptable. I must at least have a bed.”

His eyes are reddened and sleepy, even mournful now, and there are purple indentations underneath them. Still, I persist, though it shames me to do so. “Papa? At least that much?”

He draws a long breath and slowly exhales. “Eugenie,” he begins. Then he pauses for some time. Always before, he has been able to grant my every wish.

“You may, then, have that one,” he says finally, pointing to the room's small bed. “Your mother and I shall . . .” Wearily, he looks toward the hearth.

Tonight my bedchamber is this, our common room. Lying here, on the floor, it seems that I am still on some swaying, dipping boat. My eyes close, but then I am seeing—yet again!—my beloved Annette in that farm cart, peasants thronged behind and all around, shouting. I open my eyes upon the dying fire on the hearth. My heart is beating fearfully. My breath comes too fast. “Sylvette,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

My hands cup her warm leathery paws as another scene forms, in memory.

Eugenie! Don't stand there. Take one thing and come. Bernard is ready with the coach. Hurry!
I look about my room. The great windows are open, the air sweet with late summer. Maman's gaze follows mine.

The servants will close them. Come, come!

I scoop Sylvette up.

Leave her, Eugenie! We cannot take a dog. It will be too dangerous
.

Then I cannot go. I will stay with Louisa and Bernard
.

Then you will die here!

I cannot leave Sylvette. I will not. I know I must leave Henriette. I cannot take my horse, and now they will kill her
.

They will not kill a mare. She is too useful
.

Sylvette is not useful, so they shall kill her just as they did Annette. I will not leave her, Maman
.

How dare you do this now, Eugenie
.

I am sorry, Maman. I cannot leave her. You said to take one thing. I am taking Sylvette—or staying
.

You stubborn girl, then hurry. We cannot remain here any longer. Bernard said . . .

What, Maman?

That we must go. Quickly! Quickly!

Turning my head from the fire, now, I cling to Sylvette and she, it seems, to me. But I dare not close my eyes again.