descend even farther, obscuring the tops of these mountains bristling with leafless trees. But then Maman points to a patch of color on a mountainside—sienna, maroon, dark green, and lemon hues faded in the mist.
“Chêne,” Maman says. Oak. “And see that lighter shade? Lovely!”
“Like your brocade gown. Did you bring that one with you, Maman? You could wear it here, for the Queen. You know the one—you like to wear it on the Feast of All Saints Day.” I stop, remembering how we observed that holy day quietly, in Philadelphia, with no pomp or feasting whatsoever. Maman had worn one of her other, simpler, gowns.
“Non,” she says. “I did not bring it.” After touching each eye with her handkerchief, she gazes ahead, into the mist.
Soon the fog thins again to reveal a long tawny creature crouched on a tree that has toppled into the water.
“Maman,” I whisper. “A mountain lion!”
“Where?”
“On that tree trunk. Drinking from the river.” But even as I say these words, the fog thickens again, hiding the creature.
“You imagined it, Eugenie.”
“Non! It was there, truly.” I lower my voice, not wanting Florentine to overhear. “Mountain lions will catch Sylvette and kill her.”
“Eugenie.”
“We must go elsewhere, Maman. We must.” “But we cannot.”
“It will be impossible here. There is nothing but forest—and wild creatures. Perhaps Indians, too.”
“Not Indians, Eugenie. They have moved farther west, we have been assured. As for our dwellings, we shall have proper maisons. The marquis has pledged this.”
“Maisons with stoves?”
“With hearths and stoves, surely.”
“And servants?”
“Of course.”
“And furnishings and beds and drapery?”
“It has all been promised.”
The rain slackens, but clouds still curtain the river and mountains. The Caribbean slaves, poling the Rouleaux’s boat, sing in their poor French. Our boat is silent, the rivermen grim.
“Maman?”
“Eugenie, you tire me. Allow me to rest, please.”
“Just this, Maman. The Queen will come, will she not?”
“She will.”
“She has escaped her captors and will come.”
“Yes.”
“We shall see her again.”
“Of course.”
“Even at this moment she may be on a ship nearing America.”
“Oui.”
“Maman, you must speak with Papa. He cannot—”
“Eugenie, enough for now.”
Then for a long while there is nothing but cloud and rain and the faint singing of the slaves. It tempts me to close my eyes and sleep, but no! I must not. My Lady, let this day pass soon. We are cold. We have not eaten since morning.
I hold Sylvette close and promise her a warm room and food. I do not tell her how the rain gives this day—or evening, if that is what it is—a gloomy aspect I do not at all like.
At last the Marquis de Talon stands in the boat ahead of us and gestures with his plumed hat. Our three boats begin turning toward a break in the forest on the left side of the river.
“Mes amis, we arrive!” the marquis calls. “Long live Marie Antoinette! Queen of France!”
Appearing along the riverbank are a number of silent figures. Maman takes my hand in hers. Sylvette looks alertly forward. Beyond the figures, a few hutlike structures appear indistinct in the mist like something in a dream.
Breath leaves me. Mama is holding herself stiffly, while Papa sags in undignified fashion against his pole. The nobles in our boat begin murmuring as our boat glides toward the landing. Then the boat is held fast and except for Florentine and us everyone else disembarks.
“I refuse to leave this boat,” I am finally able to say. “The marquis must take us elsewhere.”
“Eugenie,” Maman says. “You are creating a scene.”
“I care not! This is impossible!”
“Come now,” Papa says. “We are all tired and prone to worrisome thoughts.” He offers his hand.
“And famished, too,” I add. “But non! I shall not leave until we are taken to a proper settlement.”
“The mist and cloud obscure the maisons, Eugenie,” he says after helping Maman out. “Come now.”
“Papa, I am . . . afraid.”
“There is nothing to fear, chérie.”
“You do not know that for certain, Papa.”
“Eugenie, you have been courageous for many weeks. Do not allow your courage to fail you now, at this moment of arrival.” He offers his hand again, but I lower my head and tighten my hold on Sylvette. After a while, Papa, Maman, and Florentine leave the boat. Rivermen replace the gangplank and pull the boat, with Sylvette and me still in it, farther up onto the landing and walk off.
“Eugenie,” Papa says. “Please. Let us go and find warmth.”
I look at his sodden cloak and boots and almost relent, but say, “Papa, the marquis has tricked us. There is nothing here.”
“Florentine,” Papa says, “remain with mademoiselle, please. I shall find Talon.” Florentine bows, and then Maman and Papa walk away. My heart hurts as I watch them leave. Smirking Florentine asks if I am about to pole the boat back to Philadelphia. “It will be easier, mademoiselle. The current will be in your favor.”
I cannot allow him to see how fearful I am, or how angry and hurt. When Sylvette begins whimpering, wanting to leave the boat, I extend my arm to Florentine and unsteadily step out onto a large flat stone. It seems to sway underneath us, and for a long while I can only stand there, hoping not to pitch over.
“Look, Hannah!” John says. “Surely, ’tis them.”
A
