Waiting for the Queen (25 page)

Amelia, jealous. Why? I am to play a duet with her as well, a far more complicated piece. When one is jealous, one is usually afraid. What could Amelia possibly be afraid of? She is still my cousin, still my dear friend, though not so dear at this moment. In fact, her jealousy makes her most unattractive. A scowl and furrows—when she should be joyful. A
brillant
flower, not a mule!

I am detained by Comtesse de Sevigny, and when I turn, I see that Amelia is curtsying before Hannah and saying something. Fear steals my breath as I move toward them, hampered at every step by hoop skirts.

Hannah

“Ah,
ma petite!
” Amelia says.
“C'est ton grand début, non? Bonne chance!”
Then she turns to face the nobles.
“Écoutez, écoutez!”
she calls out. It means
listen
. But after that I know not what she's saying, for she speaks too fast until the words,
“Oui! L'artiste! Très bonne!
”

She's telling them that I am an artist! A very good artist. Why does she do this?

The nobles are applauding now, and every eye seems fixed upon me. My hands and face, my whole body stiffens. The rug's fanciful shapes rise up and appear large, surrounding me.

Someone pulls me forward. Amelia. Urging me toward the harpsichord.

“Non,”
I say.
“S'il vous plaît! Excusez-moi!”

Then Eugenie appears at my side and takes my other arm. She raises her voice and speaks to the gathering, but I do not understand these words either. I give both arms a downward tug and free myself of the two. The quiet is frightening as I walk back to Father and John.

“Father, please remain, for they have invited thee and John, but I wish to go back to the cabin.”

“I will walk with thee.”

“Please stay, thou and John. It may appear disrespectful.”

But John takes my arm and soon we're outside in the cool spring evening, with Father. Robins are chirping. The
watery scent of the earth is strong. From behind us comes the sound of the harpsichord. Perhaps it is Eugenie, playing our piece by herself. But no, 'tis not “Musette.” Rather, something much harder.

“Art thou very disappointed?” John asks.

“Aye,” I say, after a while. “I do not understand why Amelia would do such a thing.”

Father walks a few paces before saying, “It may be because she wants her cousin to herself.”

“But Eugenie loves her as a sister.”

“For some people 'tis not enough.”

John picks up a stone and heaves it into a rough plot that one day might be someone's yard. I feel less cold now though very tired and hungry. All the cooking I did today has been for the
fête
.

“Father,” I say, “please return with John. At least have thy supper there. Let them see that it is no great matter, for truly 'tis not.”

“Then perhaps thou should return with us?”

I understand his reasoning, and something in me urges,
Do it for Estelle
. Yet my limbs go weak at the thought of reentering
La Grande Maison
.

“I am sorry, Father, but I cannot. It would please me much, though, if thou and John were to return. There is but bread and cheese at home.”

“And tea?” he asks.

“And tea.”

“And a bit of applesauce, perchance?” John says.

“Yes, some applesauce,” I say, lighter of heart for their teasing.

“Well, that sounds fine!”

As I'm setting the table, we hear a soft knock upon our door.

Eugenie
. With her hair all white and piled high, she looks like a queen. Her face is a snowfield under the sun, her gown a blue I could not have imagined before—lighter, greener than the sky's blue, with red roses cascading down from shoulder to hem. At
La Grande Maison
she blended in with the rainbow of ladies there, but here in our cabin, she is the sun itself.

Finally, I can speak. “Thou bringest
La Grand Maison
to us!”

John and Father have gone stone quiet. I say in French, “Will you have some tea?”

“Of course!
Merci!
”

John and Father stood when she entered. Now John slides one of our chairs out far from the table to accommodate Eugenie and her gown. His hands seem fixed to the chair back.

“John,” I whisper. “John!”—breaking his trance.

Eugenie seats herself slowly but pretends not to notice how long it all takes. Finally she says in slow French, “I wish to tell you how much I regret such inexcusable behavior.” She gives me a piercing look that conveys her deeper meaning:
Do not allow her to spoil our plan
.

“Merci
, mademoiselle.” I set a plate of cheese upon the table. I slice bread. I set out mugs for us.

She eats some of the bread and cheese and applesauce.

“Thou wilt spoil thy appetite for the feast,” I say. The thought of Jenny here on such a night brings tears I blink away.

“Ah,
non!
This makes a delicious first course!”

“You should return soon,” I say in French. “They will soon miss thee.”

“And they will miss you also.”

Her eyes are full upon me, and I fully understand her meaning.

Father says in French, “Hannah wishes us to return without her.”

“And you, John?” Eugenie asks in French and laughs.

John regards the table as if it were some valuable. “I believe . . . Well, it was quite . . .” In his panic, he can utter only English.

I know he felt as out of place as I, there, but I say, “John did not wish to leave, Eugenie. He did so for me.”

Eugenie is almost too bright. Like John, I want to keep my eyes lowered.

“Hannah,” Eugenie says quietly, with no trace of teasing, “please return. You need not play. Come for the supper, please, and to hear the others perform. It will be most beautiful.” This she says half in French and half in English. “And then,” she adds, “there may be some . . . speeches of interest.”

Her meaning is clear.

“Please, Hannah? Be courageous, no?”

Courage
. The word is the same in both languages despite the different pronunciation.

I tell myself that I should have just laughed when Amelia said those things. Or simply smiled and then gone on to do what we'd intended. Now I see it clearly: my pride is standing in the way of our helping Estelle and Alain. My fear that the nobles think that I believe myself to be a musician.

So much worry to so little end.

“It is not too late?” I ask.

“Not if we go quickly!”

Father and John follow as Eugenie and I walk side by side under the stars, back to
La Grand Maison
. It is quite dark, with no moon. She was brave to come—alone!—to our cabin. Can I do any less?

My throat feels swollen, my hands are stiff with cold. How shall I move my fingers over the keys? And when I open my mouth to speak, will any sound at all come out?

But Eugenie takes my arm as we walk together toward the lighted house.

Then, somehow, I am stepping toward the instrument placed in a corner of a fancy room. I am seating myself alongside Eugenie at the keyboard. She glances at me and whispers,
“Un, deux, trois.”

And then we are playing.

I try to think only of the notes. I do not even hear the music. Soon 'tis over and we are raising our hands from the keyboard. Eugenie smiles at me and whispers,
“Bon
, Hannah!” She pushes back her chair and stands, and so do I. My chair does not tumble backward. Both of us curtsy to the nobles.

“Mes amis,”
Eugenie begins in French. “Honorable nobles of the French court, Hannah Kimbrell, who has just played so delightfully, wishes to address us tonight and begs your permission to do so. I ask you, please, to grant it and to listen closely to what she has to say. I shall translate where necessary.”

At least this is what she told me earlier, in simple French, that she would say. Now the words shake me to the bones. There are murmurs followed by an awful silence. I am not
about to speak to Marie Antoinette's nobles, am I? I fear they all can see my mouth trembling, and my jaw with it. But the thought of Estelle at the grave steadies me.

“Thank you,” I begin in French. A bit of light appears like a widening circle, and I can see Madame d'Aversille, her wrinkly face snowy with powder. Her eyebrows are raised halfway up her forehead. Her mouth tugs upward. The wrinkles follow like ripples. She is smiling!

“It is good of you . . .” But all the French words I practiced as hard as I had practiced the piece with Eugenie scatter from my mind.

“English, Hannah,” Eugenie whispers.

After drawing a breath, I go on in simple French. I tell how I came upon Estelle at the graves. How thin and weak she is, and sad. How she has lost everything in this world but her brother and her memories of her family. “You all have lost much as well, but yet you hope for a return to your old life. Estelle has no such hope. Could you find a way to free her and her brother and offer them sanctuary here? A sanctuary as you yourselves have? They did nothing to deserve their fate. And they have much to offer the settlement. Estelle is a very good cook. Abbé La Barre can get a book about the cheeses you enjoyed in France. You can have a creamery here, with Estelle and Alain in charge of it. Together, you can purchase goats and milk cows and have cheese for yourselves and to sell.”

I want to say much more but my throat swells shut.
“Pardonnez-moi,”
I can only whisper.
“Merci.”

The room grows murky, and I want to run from it. But someone begins speaking in French I cannot understand except for the words
John Kimbrell
.

I fear more punishments shall be heaped upon us.

The vicomte steps forward. In his wig he looks like a judge. I lower my eyes as he nears but for Father's sake do not curtsy again.

The vicomte takes my right hand and says in English, “Hannah Kimbrell, you are a brave girl and your idea is a good one. We regret, however, that we cannot interfere in the matter of Monsieur Rouleau's slaves. We have decided, however, that because of your father and brother's great efforts on our behalf, as well as their excellent workmanship, we shall restore all your family's earnings, even as we respect your right to your beliefs.
Merci
, mademoiselle, for your excellent performance tonight. We had no idea that, in addition to all your other skills, you possess musical ability. And
courage
too!”

He bows and steps back. I hear clapping, but it seems a distance away.

I look to Father and John. John smiles a bit, then goes crimson. I look at Eugenie. She is smiling at him.

And I am seeing our farm, right there amid the nobles in the bright parlor. This joy fades, though, when I remember Estelle at the gravesite.

Eugenie takes my arm and leads me back to Father and John. To Father, she curtsies and says,
“Merci
, Monsieur Kimbrell,
pour tout
. And to you, John.”

John closes his eyes, and I fear he may topple over.