Waiting for the Queen (7 page)

“I am sorry, sir, but I . . . cannot.”

“And why is that? Do you have some infirmity?”

“Nay. We believe . . . sir . . . 'tis our religion that . . . forgive me, I speak poorly.”

“You ask that I forgive your speech but not your actions?”

“We believe . . . we believe that all are equal in the sight of God. We do not place ourselves above others . . . or . . . below. 'Tis our . . . religion.”

“Yes.
Quakers
. Your father did tell me this.” He rapidly shakes his head as some do to mock us. “A sect! Not a proper religion at all!”

“We call ourselves Friends. The Society of Friends.”

“Religion or not, I have decided that it is now necessary for you to curtsy and for your father and brother to bow when any noble approaches.”

“But thou did not—”

“I forbid you to address me as an equal. This is not a discussion. What is now is now. And you must not speak until first spoken to by a noble. It is for us to decide whether or not we wish to hear your voice.”

“General Washington,” I begin, but then stop.

“What about your president?”

Am I being invited to speak? It seems so. “He does not bow to royalty.”

“Ah! You impertinent child! You are not General Washington, are you?”

I stand there, mute.

“Answer me when I require an answer. Are you General Washington?”

“No, Mr. Talon.”

“Henceforth address me properly. I am a marquis!”

“No, Mr. Marquis.”

“Not
mister
, child! Do you not know anything? Call me . . .
Excellency
. Do you understand?”

“Yes . . . Excellency.”

“
Bon
. Now curtsy.”

I stand there trembling. I can fairly see my hands leaping about.

“Curtsy!”

I lower my head further. Marquis Talon's face has become almost violet, as if all this is bruising him. What mine must look like I do not wish to guess.

“Pardonnez-moi,”
I whisper.

He swings away from me, his cape whipping about and all but taking my apron. “I go to speak to your father. Remain outside.”

The desire to run is so strong that I must grab hold of a log sticking out from a corner of the cabin. For, surely, if I disobey, it will go hard on Father and John. At last there he is, the marquis, striding toward me, his cloak blowing back from his frock coat. Three gray feathers in the band of his high-crowned hat bob in the wind. His dark eyes are those of a hawk diving upon its prey. His face is still fairly violet.

“Hannah Kimbrell, enter the
maison.”

I do so.

He speaks in French and then in English, telling me that he has no choice but to fine us for our insubordination. Each time I do not curtsy—or Father and John do not bow—it will cost a penny. The fines shall be taken from our earnings at the end of each month.

“What say you to this, Hannah Kimbrell?”

“If it be what my father wishes, then it must be so.”

“And you? Would you not prefer to put aside the money for your farm? Oh, yes, I know all about this. Your father has told me. If you choose to curtsy, Hannah Kimbrell, you will be helping your family. Do you see that? Not hindering.”

“I wish . . . to obey my father.”

“So be it. We shall keep tally. And so shall every other French nobleman and lady within the settlement. Those present now and those still to arrive. And so shall I, beginning immediately. Curtsy, Hannah Kimbrell.”

I stand there.

“One penny, then.” He extends his gloved hand.

“I do not have it.”

“Well, I shall mark it. And so shall the La Roque family. I give you one more chance. Curtsy!”

The door is two paces behind him. I hurry to it, squeeze myself through, and am out in open air, running.

“Father! They shall drain away our earnings with this rule.”

“They shall cut into it, surely.”

“Is it worth even staying, then?”

“Aye. There will be some profit.”

“Enough to purchase our farm?”

“Perhaps.”

“But can we believe their tallies? Or will Mr. Talon just . . . use any number so long as it is high, each month? Why is he like this, now? It was all right with him before! Is it because the nobles are here? When he wanted thou, he said we needn't—”

“Hannah, Hannah. Take a breath, daughter.”

“Oh, Father, can we not go home?”

“We gave our word.”

“Could thou not stop work until—”

“'Tis not just to meet wrong with wrong, my Hannah.”

“But will they come to see the wrong of it? I think not!”

“Then they will not.”

“But our farm!”

“Then we shall find another way.”

“And this year will be for naught.”

“Things are never for naught. Perhaps in time thou shall see this for thyself. Now let us reflect.”

Closing my eyes, I see, at first, only Mr. Talon's violet face,
his black eyes. I hear only his storm of words. That fades and I am reflecting upon home—rocking bonny Richard and singing the counting song to him while a good fire burns on the hearth and Mother and Grace shell the last beans from our garden.

Peace does not come. Only longing.

Eugenie

The afternoon is quite warm, with thick white clouds filled with light. These great sails skim the mountaintop across the river and move swiftly on. Would that I could go with them! Everything seems in motion. Clouds. River. Leaves. They tear away from ancient oaks, fly with the wind, then swoop down en masse and rush along the avenue, only to rise again in whirlwinds Sylvette chases.

“Ma petite,”
I call. “Do not become too accustomed to this place, now! Our true home is in France!” At my voice Sylvette turns and begins barking. I envision some wild animal's approach and swing around to face—

Only a team of horses and a wagon. Well, I shall not give way and move to the side. What is a mere wagon to a French noble? I continue walking, but the clattering wagon brings that darker image of farm cart and peasants taking my Annette away, and fear spirals through me like those leaves.

The wagon stops—this I hear, and then cannot resist the temptation to turn again. A team of two great Belgian horses is pulling a load of logs. Or rather, has been, for now the horses stand there, flicking their long, plumelike tails and regarding me. One stamps a foreleg, with its cone of feathery “mane” covering its pastern. In the wagon's seat are two men, one older and the other young. The younger one jumps down and, perhaps afraid that Sylvette's barking
shall unnerve the horses, goes to one of them and holds its harness.

He is dressed like a republican in a dark coat and trousers, with a white linen shirt and black hat. His unpowdered hair is held back with a simple tie. Despite his appearance, I am so relieved not to see a farm cart. “Sylvette, hush,
ma petite
. Do you not remember what horses look like?” I pick her up and walk closer. It seems years since I have been this near beautiful horses. Their manes and tails are the color of fresh cream. The flounce of mane falling over their pasterns, too. Their coats remind me of hazelnuts. And their harness looks clean and supple. The young man keeps hold of the horse as I reach up to touch its great dark muzzle. Ah! The warmth! The petal softness! A horse's muzzle has never failed to astonish and delight me. Tears come, for this huge horse suddenly becomes my little Henriette.

But the young man ruins it all by addressing me in English.

“How impertinent!” I tell him in French. “I did not address you, did I?” It is gratifying to see him step backward as if struck.

I walk on toward the river, and the road behind me remains quiet. Perhaps they are afraid, now, to pass, as well they should be.

At the river there are no boats to be seen anywhere except for the small skiff tied at the landing farther down the bank of the river. I watch the water for a while. I toss a stick for Sylvette. She retrieves it, but lets it fall in order to bark at Florentine du Vallier's approach.

Ignoring Sylvette, Florentine throws a stone far into the
river. Sylvette sees the splash and whimpers. I take hold of her ribbon leash.

“Bon matin
, Mademoiselle de La Roque!” He executes a deep bow, but I offer only a preemptory curtsy in response. “So here we are, then!” he says. “Throwing stones and sticks. What grand amusement, no?”

Florentine rarely smiles with anything like pleasure. Usually he grimaces. Possibly his teeth hurt him. But whatever the reason, the grimace does make him seem older than his sixteen years. Even at Versailles he found much to complain about. With Florentine one must remember not to be enthusiastic about anything. That only invites his derision.

I imitate his sarcastic tone. “A good day for throwing things, anyway.”

He offers his grimace and continues making distant splashes in the pewter-colored water. I keep tight hold of Sylvette.

“So what do you think of our
grandes châteaux?
” he asks.

“Hmmm . . .” I pretend to be thinking, but it truly is a difficult question to answer successfully. After visiting Madame de Sevigny in her poor hut of pine boughs and animal hides, I realized that we have been fortunate in the lottery despite the rudeness of everything. But to admit this won't do. Either I must be witty or scornful, and best if I can be both, a talent much admired at court. “Such a place thwarts thinking,” I say finally.
“Non?”

He laughs, but the successful parry gives me little pleasure. I wish I could ask how he feels, truly feels, about this place and about everything that has happened to us. Jest, witticisms now seem so irrelevant.

“Florentine—I say,” but he, too, has begun to speak, begging pardon for the witticism he made at Papa's expense the day we arrived.

“It was nothing,” I say, offering my own dart.

“We all found ourselves admiring your father's strength. We placed wagers on when he might tire and stop. No one won, mademoiselle. Remarkable!”

How dare they. “Ah, yes. Papa is a man of many surprises.”

“Indeed! It seems that now, instead of the river, he is testing his strength against the wood of these mountains.”

“We find it remarkable as well.”

“I daresay so shall Marie Antoinette.”

“Do you know, Florentine, you are quite right! She shall! We all know of her tenderness toward our late king, a man of great practical skills.”

I recall how our late king loved to tinker with locks, a skill not unlike joinery. And when he was younger, he'd go off somewhere in old clothes and work alongside common stonemasons, erecting walls. Courtiers laughed behind his back and called him eccentric, or worse. Which is exactly what we fear for Papa.

Florentine hides his displeasure at my triumph by turning to the river. Then Sylvette is barking at the clouds, her neck straining upward.