is hot water in a pot hanging in the fireplace.
“Non!” Maman says. “In the morning she will do it—after she curtsies three times to each of us to make up for her insolence tonight.”
Insolence? Perhaps, yes. She frightens me, this servant, for in her eyes I see the stubbornness and antipathy of our peasants. Yet she is a commendable cook, if she has indeed made the meal herself.
“But where are our other servants?” I ask. “And how shall I sleep tonight, without a bed?”
“Eugenie,” Papa says, “tonight you must encamp upon the floor. I will get your featherbed for you, though no rugged campaigner has ever had that luxury.”
“Forgive me, Papa, but I am not a campaigner. I cannot sleep upon a floor, even if upon feathers. I must have a bed.”
“And where are we to find such an object this night, my lady?”
“I do not know! We must, though.”
Papa goes to our one door and opens it wide to wind and heavy rain. “Bonsoir, bonsoir! Does anyone have an extra bed out there? No? Not tonight?”
He closes the door. “A pity. No beds.”
I laugh despite myself. “Papa! No one could possibly hear you.”
“Well, but we do have the bench.”
“It will be too hard.”
He regards it. “So it will. And too narrow.”
Again he goes to one of our barrels and this time pulls out another of our featherbeds, which he places upon the floor before the hearth.
“Papa, I cannot sleep there.”
“But it is the finest place in our maison. Certainly the warmest.”
Sylvette goes to the featherbed and curls up on it.
“Voilà! The creature is intelligent, no?”
“Where shall I change my clothing? Where shall I hang things? This is impossible. You must discuss it all with Talon tonight.”
“Tonight, my lady?”
“Of course,” Maman says. “And why not demand that he provide a maison more conducive to civilization.”
“Oui,” I say. “A wonderful idea. And you did promise to take it all up with him, Papa.”
“Did I? Perhaps I was talking in my sleep.” He puts on his still-wet cloak.
“Papa, wait. Perhaps in a while the rain will—”
“Non, non! It will take but a minute.”
“Well, then, do not forget the matter of the slaves, either. They may be harboring the yellow fever that has been plaguing Philadelphia.”
And then he is gone. As Maman and I change into our nightgowns, cold and revulsion make me shudder. This, our home?
There is nothing to be done for now, Papa tells us when he returns, except to lower the piece of leather over our one unglazed window and keep close to the fire. As for returning to Philadelphia, that would be most unwise. Apart from the great number of American anti-Loyalists there—for after all, did not the American revolution inspire the French rebels?—French anti-Loyalists may have followed us to America with deadly intent. Papa’s voice has sunk to a near whisper, as if he does not wish to give voice to old worries in this new land.
The marquis, he goes on, promises that workers shall build us an extra bed as soon as they can. Later, they may even be able to enlarge our maison by adding a wing and then cutting a door through one of our walls. And then, soon after that, furniture shall be delivered from Philadelphia to make our new home more habitable.
But I know about the marquis’s promises.
“Papa, forgive me, but it is unacceptable. I must at least have a bed.”
His eyes are reddened and sleepy, even mournful now, and there are purple indentations underneath them. Still, I persist, though it shames me to do so. “Papa? At least that much?”
He draws a long breath and slowly exhales. “Eugenie,” he begins. Then he pauses for some time. Always before, he has been able to grant my every wish.
“You may, then, have that one,” he says finally, pointing to the room’s small bed. “Your mother and I shall . . .” Wearily, he looks toward the hearth.
Tonight my bedchamber is this, our common room. Lying here, on the floor, it seems that I am still on some swaying, dipping boat. My eyes close, but then I am seeing—yet again!—my beloved Annette in that farm cart, peasants thronged behind and all around, shouting. I open my eyes upon the dying fire on the hearth. My heart is beating fearfully. My breath comes too fast. “Sylvette,” I whisper. “Where are you?”
My hands cup her warm leathery paws as another scene forms, in memory.
Eugenie! Don’t stand there. Take one thing and come. Bernard is ready with the coach. Hurry! I look about my room. The great windows are open, the air sweet with late summer. Maman’s gaze follows mine.
The servants will close them. Come, come!
I scoop Sylvette up.
Leave her, Eugenie! We cannot take a dog. It will be too dangerous.
Then I cannot go. I will stay with Louisa and Bernard.
Then you will die here!
I cannot leave Sylvette. I will not. I know I must leave Henriette. I cannot take my horse, and now they will kill her.
They will not kill a mare. She is too useful.
Sylvette is not useful, so they shall kill her just as they did Annette. I will not leave her, Maman.
How dare you do this now, Eugenie.
I am sorry, Maman. I cannot leave her. You said to take one thing. I am taking Sylvette—or staying.
You stubborn girl, then hurry. We cannot remain here any longer. Bernard said . . .
What, Maman?
That we must go. Quickly! Quickly!
Turning my head from the fire, now, I cling to Sylvette and she, it seems, to me. But I dare not close my eyes again.
The rain sounds like applause that goes on and on.
Still
