Free Waiting for the Queen by Joanna Higgins Page A

from the northwest cutting across the settlement. Within this wind fly more geese. They like to ride the northwest winds. It all feels like the first stroke of winter.
    The clothing won’t dry well today. How I wish Father and John had time to finish the drying shed.
    And here comes Mademoiselle de La Roque, with Sylvette. Yesterday she was here to watch a small flotilla arriving with supplies, but no French people. She turned away after throwing a few sticks for Sylvette.
    I begin taking down the linens. Father and John will not like all the lines strung in our cabin, but maybe this’ll hurry them along with the shed.
    Mademoiselle holds a blue parasol. Sylvette wears a blue jacket. ’Tis a sight. A parasol in the snow. A dog in a jacket! The jacket is but a piece of cloth tied around with ribbons and bows. I smile as I search my pockets—and yes!—find a bone wrapped in paper. But mademoiselle stands over by herself, and I don’t know whether I should go any closer.
    It is the dog who makes the decision. She runs to me and dances on her small hind legs. Then mademoiselle comes a bit closer. Her eyes are red, and her face a blotchy pink. She has been crying. ’Tis hard to see her waiting in hope whenthere may be no other flotillas until spring. Supplies might come by pack train, but the river is becoming too dangerous, now, for boats. And soon it will be icebound. I do not like to think of her here every day, looking downriver for something that won’t be coming.
    It makes me want to learn, really learn, her language. Because if I knew French, I could tell her how I miss my family, too. Mother and Suzanne and Grace and Richard. I could say how I don’t feel like myself because so much is missing. And not being on our farm, that too.
    But look! She has not walked away. Courage, Hannah! I will say just one word to her. A person ought not be fined too much for just one word.
    â€œMaman.” I point downriver.
    She turns to me. Her little mouth curves downward, wanting to scold.
    â€œMa famille,” I continue.
    She looks downriver. “Votre famille?”
    â€œOui.”
    â€œAh! Famille! ”
    She lifts the dog and holds her close to her rust-red cloak.
    â€œSylvette,” I say, and dare to extend my hand to her. Mademoiselle steps away from me. Unlike her mistress, the dog is such a friendly little creature. She wriggles and seems to be smiling as she strains toward me. Her white fur is all curls and looks to be very soft, like clumped milkweed seeds. Her nose is black, as are her eyes. Her ears are white mittens I long to touch. Just once! I imagine silk must feel somewhat this way.
    I show mademoiselle the bone. Sylvette squirms, andmademoiselle allows her to leap down. Then she nods at me, and I give Sylvette the bone.
    I wish I could ask whether the little dog has come all the way from France or if mademoiselle got her here in America. Other questions come. Where had her home been, in France? And what is the countryside like? Are there farms such as ours? What crops are grown? How large are the towns? Are they beautiful? Do all people in France have musical instruments such as the one in her cabin? Was she happy in France, before the troubles there?
    I wonder if she has any questions to ask of me.
    But she only looks over her shoulder every so often while Sylvette gnaws on the bone. Finally she urges the little dog to come with her, and Sylvette does, carrying the bone.
    I remember the bean soup simmering on our hearth. And my corn bread. “Mademoiselle, attendez! ” I call. “Wait!”
    She turns. I gesture toward our cabin at the end of the clearing. “Mangez?”
    â€œJe regrette.”
    She is sorry! I want to ask why but am too frightened to say anything more.
    Snow whitens her cloak and feathered hat. Walking away, she looks like a small old woman uncertain of every step.
    Inside me there is something very like a cut. Perhaps she is not