too, that work done with love is joy.
Mother’s voice fades, but I feel warmer now, less shaky. I hold my face to the soothing rain.
Mr. Talon is calling to the girls and older women who have been hired to help. I hurry toward them.
Rushing back to our cabin, I pass Rachel, Mary, and Emmeline. Instead of getting to their tasks for the French, they are playing at curtsying before one another. “Hannah! Your Majesty!” Emmeline cries. “What shall be your bidding? I shall do it forsooth!” Grasping her gown with both hands, she bobs down, then up again, her face merry.
“Now you, Hannah!” they cry. “’Tis but a game.”
I shake my head and keep going.
“Your Majesty,” Mary calls. “What matter a bow if thou dost not believe in it?” They laugh. Not worried a whit.
Oh, I wish Father had picked Grace instead of me. She is but a year younger, at twelve, and so wanted to come. But Mother decided upon me because I’m older and can do more work. Grace will help Mother with the chores and with six-year-old Suzanne and watch Richard, our baby.
Thinking of Richard, his bonny cheeks and pointed nose and agreeable smile at whatever you say to him, makes tears come again. I have not seen him since July past and will not ’til July next. A year! And he shall be so different by then. He may not even remember me.
How hard it is to do what is bid thee.
I stir the venison stew and take several loaves from the warming oven. Then John and Father both enter.
“Dost thou wish thy tea?” I ask. “Or supper?”
“Hannah, daughter,” Father says. “John tells me that one of the ladies was rude.”
I take my chair at the table, and Father and John, theirs. “I tried to welcome her in French. It seems I did wrongly.”
“Nay,” Father says. “’Twas not wrong. Let us not be troubled by their bad manners. In time, perhaps, they shall learn better.”
Words push forth, needing to be spoken. They are so different from us. Could I not just take care of our house and animals and make our meals? Could not another be found to do for them?
But I draw a long breath and remain silent so as not to offend Father.
“Hannah, remember how France came to our aid during the war with England? Had she not, we might still be under English rule. But apart from that, ’tis our Christian duty to help these nobles, now. They’ve lost near everything.”
Tears pinch through. I feel as if I’ve lost near everything, too.
“Daughter, daughter, come now.” He places one hand, still cold from outside, over mine. “With our earnings this year we shall finally be able to buy our farmland. Fine valley land. No more rent that continually rises. We might even earn enough for a team of oxen. ’Tis all to the good, child, aye?”
“Aye, Father.” Blinking, I keep the tears back.
“And Hannah,” John says, “thou needn’t have one reason in the world to be afeared of anyone who walks thus.” He lurches on his toes from one end of our cabin to the other, Father saying, “Now, John,” but smiling.
I smile, too, as I pour cups of elderberry tea for us. “Where are they to dwell, Father?”
“’Tis a problem. Talon fully sees his error—now.”
“Are they still out there, in this drizzle?”
“They are, and need shelter but don’t want to double up. So for some, it will have to be pine boughs and animal hides for now. John and I must leave in a trice.”
“Dost thou wish they supper first?”
“Nay, not when others are doing without.”
Father’s words remind me how the nobles were bowing and curtsying to one another in the cold mist. One gentleman’s clothing looked wet through and through and yet there he was, bowing to everyone. Most folks would rather just run somewhere dry and warm.
“They must be hungry,” I finally say.
“Aye. And John, we need to build fires within the few cabins we do have. I’m told these people are quite helpless. Unlike the great La Fayette.”
“Father,” I ask. “Dost thou know, is the Queen among them?”
“Nay, but they expect her in the next weeks or, if not, then in the spring.”
“Those others, the dark-skinned ones. Are they . . . slaves?”
Father bows his head awhile. His hair is wet. The shoulders of his deerskin jacket are wet as well. After a moment, he raises his head and regards us gravely. “Aye. Their owner is a sugar cane planter from Hispaniola. Dost thou remember thy geography, Hannah?”
“Hispaniola. ’Tis in the Caribbean Sea, to the south of our country.”
“Aye. See John, our Hannah forgets naught. Well, the man has sanctuary here as well but is in a thundering tirrit at the state of things. And the unfortunate souls be bearing the brunt of his ill will. I said to Talon that we might shelter them here.”
“The slave owners, Father?” John fairly shouts.
“Nay. His slaves.” Father stands. “Should there be no dwelling for them, as there shan’t be, I fear. John, we need—”
“Could we help them run away, Father?” I ask, the idea of it just there, bright and large.
“Hannah,” John says, “art thou forgetting that law?”
And now I do remember. The Fugitive Slave Act. It was passed in February of this year by our new Congress in Philadelphia. Even though our country’s Declaration of Independence states that all men are created equal and have inalienable Rights, many of those who signed this wonderful document turned around and wrote a law that condones slavery! Are we already snarled in hypocrisy as a nation? Father worries that we indeed are.
“These be French slaves,” Father is saying. “So any law of ours may not apply to them. But now let us have a moment of quiet before we see to our tasks.”
I close my eyes and a scene shapes itself around me, a grove of young maples, my favorite summer place, at home. At my feet, long thin blades of grass, curving over last year’s leaves, brown and crumpled. I sit on a rock ledge and just look. The green all about gladdens my heart. So, too, the shade. The whisper of wind. My face grows warm, and my hands. I breathe in the grove’s sweetness and my heart slows.
After Father and John leave, I fill a pot with stew and a basket with bread and sweet butter and prepare to carry these things to my two families, the La Roques and the Aversilles, who have been fortunate to have won, in a lottery, cabins for themselves.
As I hurry toward the new cabins, I shiver with cold and the strangeness of it all. Nobles, here. Slaves. And soon, the Queen of France.
