House of Rougeaux(41)
Though the clandestine tutoring afforded Hetty no small nourishment, the four years after landing in Québec City were the loneliest of her life. She was parted from everyone who loved her, from the only mother she had ever known, and whom, she feared, rightly, she would never see again. Thérèse and Nicola were both kind and familiar, and Hetty was obliged to them, but they existed in another world. They brought her stories of their days the way they had brought her tidbits from their dinner table back when they all lived on the Mont Belcourt Estate. The stories were colorful, full of gossip about other young ladies and their overly proper instructors. Nicola was a great mimic and they did laugh.
But while the Belcourt girls were at school, or parties, or outings, as they often were, Hetty was alone in the house scrubbing the coal bin, ironing shirts, peeling vegetables. The best she could hope for was a trip to the market for groceries. Even if the Belcourt girls had once in a while thought to ask Hetty about her day, she would have had no amusing tales to tell them.
There was one treasure that Hetty had brought with her from Martinique, a threadbare rag doll given to her by her father, that she had named Claudine, after an older child she had known in the quarters. Those nights in Québec City when she lay in her bed, after the candle stub had spent itself, the darkness became vast. Her loneliness was wide as an ocean and keen as a sword. She would pull Claudine out from under the pillow and tuck the doll in the space between her chin and shoulder, and whisper to her that she had cut her thumb with the paring knife that day, or seen a bird’s nest from the upstairs window, or that she’d forgotten to buy apples at the market, and had to go back a second time.
Every time Hetty returned to that ocean of loneliness she groped for something solid. Slowly, as one year turned to two, and then three, she finally felt something beneath her, holding her up. She had seen a boat, long ago on the beach of her island, Martinique. Left by some visitor, it was small and beautiful, with polished wood carved into long curves. The little boat shone in the sun, a rich mahogany, at the edge of the brilliant blue sea, with two long oars laid carefully inside, waiting for its owner’s return. Hetty began to imagine herself in such a boat. She might be adrift, but there was something to keep her afloat.
Hetty had a talent for music, something the Belcourt girls did not possess. Once they had taught her the basics, she studied their music books, and was allowed to practice after she had finished her chores. As the family noticed her growing abilities, Hetty was often called upon to play for guests. This led to paid offers to play at parties in the homes of some of those guests, as well as to requests that she give lessons to children. It was at one of these households, where she taught weekly piano lessons to two little boys, that she chanced to meet a young light-skinned, hazel-eyed mulatre. He was an apprentice saddler who came to the house one day to deliver a set of new harnesses, arriving just as Hetty was leaving, and they crossed paths on the carriage driveway. They greeted each other with a polite exchange, “Bonjour Mademoiselle,” and “Bonjour Monsieur,” he touching his hat brim and she nodding in return. So taken was he by this momentary encounter that he made it his business to ask one of the housemaids who she was, and after that found a way to return to the house the next week at the same time.
As she came around the corner of the house, Hetty spotted him on the walk that led from the back door to the carriage way, knocking something from the top of his boot with his hat. He held his hat to his chest and waited for her to pass. When she stopped to greet him, he bowed.
“Has the Mademoiselle enjoyed her lesson?”
“Oui Monsieur,” said Hetty, curious at this special attention. In fact she had not enjoyed the lesson, as these particular pupils whined and fought a great deal, but the pleasure of the moment was quickly overriding it.
His name was Dax Rougeaux, and he was eighteen years old, one year her senior. He asked her name, and after exchanging a remark or two about the weather they prepared to take their leave. This was all that decorum would allow in a first conversation.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Hetty,” Dax said, bowing again. He mounted his horse, a fine bay Morgan, and went away, leaving her alive with questions.
* * *
The next week he waited for her at the bottom of the carriage way. The day was bright but a chill hung in the air, announcing the beginning of autumn. After greeting each other Hetty asked Dax if this were his horse. She had a special love of horses and this one was especially pretty. She reached up to stroke the soft nose.
“He’s mine alright,” said Dax with evident pride. “His name is Casimir and he’s a rascal.”
Hetty laughed, saying that every rascal was surely intelligent.
Dax drew a little oval-shaped tin from his coat pocket and presented it to Hetty. A pink rose printed on the lid beckoned her to open it, revealing the sweet-rose smell of the hard candies inside. She accepted the gift, at once so flustered she had trouble putting it away in the covered basket she carried. She thanked him very much, and thought she saw him blush.
That night, when Hetty went to bed, she spent the candle stub turning the tin box over in her hands. Had it really happened that this young man had thought of her, was perhaps thinking of her now? She recalled Monsieur Rougeaux’s smile, the charming gap between his front teeth, the lovely timbre of his voice. Would he come again the next week?
He did, this time with a little bag of candied orange peel. He asked if he might walk with her toward town. This time he pointed out the street of the saddlery where he worked, not so far from where Hetty lived with the Belcourts, but each on the opposite side of a thoroughfare. More importantly he asked about her station. Hetty had already guessed Dax was a freedman, because he owned his horse, had money for candy and was able to come see her when he chose. In answer to his question Hetty just shook her head.