and tell them about the girl. They each take up saws, and we rush back to the place. There, the younger of the two dark men is with the girl now—his face is a jumble of lumpy scars, and his right eye is all but closed. He bows and she curtsies, but Father shakes his head. Then he and John carry more tree limbs out and saw them up as if possessed by Furies. The slaves wear neither shoes nor boots, just those mud-clumped rags. Their mouths shake with cold.
As we walk away, Father tells us he learned just that morning that Mr. Rouleau doesn’t want them under a proper roof when some of the nobles have to do without. As for the nobles, none of them wished to stay with us. Nor—strangest of all—did they want our cabin because we have been living there.
For this, anyway, I am grateful.
“Why don’t the slaves just leave him,” I ask. “They could run into these woods, hide, and—”
“Ah, Hannah, they know not these woods. They speak not our language. A bounty will be posted and whoever does help them . . . well, ’twill go hard.”
Aye. That law. The fine is five hundred dollars. And if ’tis a person of color who tries to help—a free man or woman—that person will be sold into servitude as punishment if the fine cannot be paid.
“Even here in Pennsylvania,” John says, “where there’s not supposed to be slaves?”
“That I know not,” Father says. “But ’tis possible.”
“At least we might help them to keep warm,” I say.
“Aye,” Father says quietly.
“But if we do, will it be breaking some law?”
“It may, here.”
I am fairly hobbled by the thought of a law against helping folk.
Madame de La Roque says something harsh in French, I know not what. Heat again stings my face. But then she curtsies before me! I back away from her. She raises her voice and says something more in French. Then curtsies again.
I am nearly at the door. She comes close and places her hands on my shoulders and presses down.
She wants you to curtsy to her, Hannah.
I take another step backward. Her hands slip off. French words pour around me. The pink of her skin deepens. Her eyes narrow. She points toward her daughter, and then toward Comte de La Roque and finally to herself. Again she drops low before me and looks like a swan, the way her neck curves. Then once more she points to me.
I shake my head. “S’il vous plaît, pardonnez-moi!” I want to run, but there are the dishes on the table. If I don’t get them now, I’ll have to return soon.
Quick, I dash around her, grab up the dishes, dash around her yet again, and then am outside, in the wind.
At our cabin, I’m surprised to find John there, leaning over a length of cherry plank set up on sawhorses. He is smoothing out the plank’s roughness with a hand plane. The marquis, he says, has ordered him to make a bed.
“But I thought thou must work on the cabins.” My voice is still shaky, and my hands.
“First, this.”
“Who is it for?”
“He did not say.”
Holding the plates with my other hand, I take up a curl of paper-thin wood spilling from the plane. The curl is nearly white, its scent calming. When the wood is oiled it will turn a golden pink, and then, in time, a deep red. I envy John his skill and often wish that I, too, had been taught to work with wood. Does he envy my ability to make bread?
I needn’t even bother to ask!
It takes all the courage I possess to return to the La Roques’ cabin with their supper and the clean plates. Marquis Talon is there. He tells me, in English, that I must never speak to a French noble unless one first speaks to me, inviting some response. Also, I must curtsy each time I enter a noble’s house and before I leave and anytime I come upon one. He asks where I was yesterday when he gave these instructions to all the serving girls, but he does not pause for me to reply. And because I did not curtsy last night, I must do so three times, now, to each of the La Roques. “Begin!”
“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
