Waiting for the Queen by Joanna Higgins Page B

reach into the basket and bring out the dried fish. Even this much movement may cause her to spring forward.
    Father, John, Mother—farewell. I have loved thee much. And Grace, Suzanne, Richard .
    â€œIf thou shall not leave, have this!”
    Her mouth opens as she sniffs the air. Quickly, I toss the fish. It lands near her forelegs, and she lowers her head to it. When she settles on her haunches and begins tearing at it, I grab up my basket and run.
    Down, down past the springhouse. Down past the oaks and into our cabin.
    Inside, I am shaking hard as any forest of leaves. Quite awhile later I notice all the black walnuts, still in the basket.
    I look up at the Kentucky rifle above our mantle.
    But she has spared my life, and so I shall spare hers—by saying nothing.
    â€œTake much care with this, Rachel. Thou knowest not what all has gone into the making of it. And there be two others to carry over as well.”
    With small unsteady hands, Rachel takes the large platter. I watch that she doesn’t stumble and fall with it. Herdoing so would hurt me more than the nobles’ not knowing who made it.
    â€™Tis true, how much does go into the making of a thing. Thought and feeling and effort and sometimes danger, too. And so the thing finally becomes all of that, and is good.
    After feeding our animals, John and I stand outside awhile, listening to music coming from the marquis’s cabin near the center of the clearing. ’Tis wondrous, truly! Like rushing water. Or the swirl of stars at night.
    â€œDost thou think they be dancing?” John asks.
    â€œThere may not be enough room for dancing.”
    â€œDost thou think it be a hard thing to learn?”
    â€œDancing? I think thou, John, do harder things every day.”
    â€œI believe not.”
    â€œJohn, ’tis mere amusement.”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œDost thou wish to dance?”
    â€œNay.”
    â€œIt is for those who, unlike us, have little else to occupy them.”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œImagine, though, being able to make such music! That must take much time to learn.”
    His arms hang at his sides. He stares in the direction of the cabin. “Dost thou think she is there, Hannah?”
    â€œWho, John?”
    â€œMademoiselle de La Roque.”
    â€œShe may well be.”
    â€œYou say she talks to thee now, sometimes?”
    I begin to understand. “Ah, John,” I say finally. “Thou art a foolish boy if thou thinks—”
    â€œI think nothing!” Quick, he turns and enters our cabin. I follow him and offer apology for calling him foolish.
    â€œNay,” he says, “thou art right, Hannah.”
    I say nothing further, for John’s eyes shy from mine.
    Father tells us how the marquis devised a clever plan—the French families again drew lots to see when their time of calling upon Mr. Talon might be. They liked this idea, Father says. They are used to games of chance. “For them ’tis like the spices in your cake, Hannah.”
    It is near eleven when Rachel returns with our platter, plates, and stewpot, everything clean. “I thank thee, Rachel.”
    â€œOh, your cakes, Hannah, they be greatly received. The French want to know who made them! Talon tells them you, Hannah! At least he be honest, no? He says to tell you if only you might curtsy half so well, you could name your price with any of the French families. Imagine! Ye’d be rich, Hannah, an’ I wouldn’t need t’work so hard. They want so much all the time, I can noways keep up. An’ they always complain no matter how good I go an’ do a thing.”
    â€œRachel, ’tis a foolish custom. To curtsy. But more, ’tis wrong.”
    â€œDo you set yourself above them, then?”
    â€œNay. They set themselves above us.”
    â€œMy father says that you Quakers be too big for yer britches, Hannah Kimbrell, and goin’ for a fall. All you Kimbrells.”
    Surely