“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 rider brought word but an hour ago, and now a canopied longboat is coming into view at the bend in the river. Two others appear behind it. Any hope that this flotilla be simply an ordinary one is fully dashed. These boats appear to hold a cargo of flowers.
Nobles. My hands begin shaking so, I have to clasp them lest my brother tease me about being scared. Broadsheet sketches show how nobles favor elaborate clothing and ornaments like silver buckles and feathers, ribbons and lace and jewelry. How they powder their hair and wear it piled up like loaves of bread. They are used to much service, Father has told us. We may oft be called upon to practice patience and charity.
“I’m counting seventeen . . . nay . . . twenty passengers,” John says, “and but three cabins finished.”
“Surely not thy fault, John. If thou didn’t have to work so on the Queen’s house, the others might be done by now.”
“And even her house remains unfinished. It will go hard, I fear.”
Father is standing with many of the joiners who have stopped work in order to see these nobles. They are talking among themselves and look worried. So do several of the other girls hired as servants for the French. Ten-year-old Rachel Stalk is tearing at a thumbnail with her small front teeth. Emmeline Cooper and Mary Worthington are leaning against one another. Older women, too, clump together like scared hens.
“John,” I whisper. “We’re in a real hobble, there being so many. Dost thou think the Queen be with them?”
His jaw is hard-set, like Father’s. “Could be.”
“Will they take our cabin?”
“Might.”
“Then how shall we do our work for them?”
“Don’t know.”
“Oh, John. Would that Mr. Talon had never found Father.”
“He wanted the best, and Father is that.”
“Aye, but all the same.”
“’Tis fifty cents a day, sister.”
“For thou, but twenty-five for me.”
“And more for Father. We shall prosper this year, Hannah, and earn enough for our farm.”
“We know their language but poorly, John. I fear we shan’t be able to do their bidding.”
“We will learn.”
“And they, English?”
“They may know it already. Father says they know a great many things despite their grand ways.”
Ladies walk down the gangplank like unsteady calves. The gentlemen do their best to keep them upright. Everyone’s feathers are drooping in the rain. All together, these nobles look like a flock of wet fancy birds.
“John, the colors!”
“Aye.”
Some ladies in rust red, others in deep green or blue. Some in light green and pink. The loveliest paint-box colors! The gentlemen, too. Frock coats of red and black, gold and black, blue and purple. Fur-trimmed cloaks of cranberry red and sky blue. And stockings so white. And beaver hats all beplumed. The ladies’ hats, as well. It fairly takes the breath. I clasp my hands all the harder.
They are like birds that don’t want to alight on the saw-dusty ground. Shaking their feathers, shaking their heads, holding up parasols, holding up gowns. Everyone is scowling. It bodes not well.
“Hannah,” John says.
The tone of his voice tells me something more is amiss. And then I see the two dark-skinned men hauling up the last longboat. One is tall and thin, the other much shorter and with white hair. A Frenchman shouts at them, but they say naught. There are two other dark-skinned people in the boat, both women. One appears young. The other is stouter and older. Both are plainly dressed compared to the Frenchman, who wears a bunch of green feathers