Maman watches as I put the clove on my tongue. “You must swallow it now, Eugenie.”
Reluctantly, I obey. “Those slaves, Maman. They endanger us as much as Philadelphia might. Are they not from the Caribbean, supposedly the source of the yellow fever? Why must they travel with us? It is beyond insulting. And remember how we heard they are from a rebellious area? What if their loyalty to Rouleau isn’t so assured? How safe shall we be then? By allowing Rouleau and his slaves, the marquis has doubly betrayed us.”
“Eugenie. We know not whether the marquis has betrayed us at all. And why should he not offer sanctuary to Rouleau? We cannot begrudge the man. He, too, has suffered. Besides, there are but four slaves and those, by all accounts, loyal. You have seen the scars on that one. It is said he tried to put out the fire in Rouleau’s maison, a fire set by other slaves.”
“Well, but Rouleau is not nobility, though he pretends to be. A pompous little tyrant, ingratiating to us, but quite mean to his supposedly loyal slaves. No wonder the others rebelled, and perhaps these shall too. Maman, the Rouleau family cannot stay with us. Either they must go elsewhere or we must.”
“Eugenie, we have no choice in this matter.”
“But the stink of them! Dousing themselves in vinegar!”
“Lower your voice, please.”
“Well, but we agree, do we not?”
“Your speech is too direct. It is not seemly.”
“Yet it is the truth.”
“The truth must be better clothed.”
“Well, how can one better say that they are a threat to our lives? How can we best clothe that truth, Maman?”
“We could tell the marquis that we prefer not to have Caribbean slaves and commoners at the settlement. Better that they find more suitable accommodation elsewhere.”
“But that hardly makes the point.”
“It will express our displeasure.”
“Surely we wish to express more than that.”
Maman is silent.
“Well, I shall not douse Sylvette with vinegar. Nor my gowns.”
“Of course not, my dear. Nor shall—”
Maman lurches against me as our longboat spins backward and into the prow of the boat behind us. Water sloshes in, wetting my suede shoes, redingote, and gown. Maman and I right ourselves, and there is the Rouleaux’s youngest slave in the boat alongside us. Her cotton gown is sopping to the waist, her eyes wide with fright. The pole is useless in her hands.
“Idiots!” Rouleau shouts. I think he means us until he adds, “Look what you have done to the noble ladies and gentlemen! You shall be punished! Now, away from their boat!”
The younger of the male slaves pushes hard against his pole, his scarred face trembling with exertion. But the current is holding us locked fast, and both boats are losing hard-won distance.
“My fault, monsieur,” Papa calls. “Do not punish them, I beg of you. I lost the bottom again. They are blameless.”
“Nevertheless, comte, they should have steered clear in time.”
I bow my head to hide tears. Papa, poling with slaves and savage-looking rivermen in deerskin jackets and fringed trousers stained black with tobacco juice. Papa making apology to Rouleau.
“Mademoiselle,” Florentine du Vallier calls out. “Perhaps the lances on your family crest are in fact poles, do you think?” Florentine is sixteen and believes he is a great wit. He is also thin and pimply and, when not attempting jests, surly.
Still, the nobles in our boat laugh. Maman and I ignore them. But then elderly Duc d’Aversille, usually a kind and most generous man, addresses Papa, saying, “La Roque, had you remained in France, you might be wearing the revolutionists’ red cap and tricolor cockade by now.”
How dare he. I turn to stare at him and hope that Papa will come up with some sharp rejoinder, but Papa merely laughs along with everyone and then says, “If you knew what pleasure I derive from getting this boat to move in one direction or another, Duc, you would be vying for this work, I assure you.”
“Not I, Philippe. I am far too old for such sport.”
Everyone laughs again, but the Comtesse de Sevigy first gives us a falsely sympathetic look. Hypocrite! Supposedly, she is Maman’s friend. Oh, I can just hear her. Madame Queen, we have the most delightful little story to tell you about our river journey here. It seems that Comte de La Roque has kept his true talent hidden until now . . .
It will ruin us.
But an even greater fear is that the events of these past months have overburdened Papa’s mind.
The boats separate. Papa and the rivermen plant their poles in the river, lean forward, and pull. Our boat inches forward again. Rain drips from the rivermen’s broad leather hats. It sluices down off the boat’s canopy. Clouds 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.”