Becoming Josephine: A Novel Read online

  On the chosen day, Hortense, Mimi, and I set out for a walk to the Governor’s office. I surveyed the road ahead. No bodies; no danger seemed to lurk—not today. My armed escort had accompanied Aunt Tascher to the market, leaving me on edge, but I refused to miss the opportunity with the Governor. He was my last hope.

  We had almost arrived at our destination when the unmistakable prattle of gunshots echoed from a distance.

  I froze.

  “What is it, Maman?” Hortense tugged on my skirts.

  Mimi met my eye. “Gunfire.”

  “We must hurry,” I said.

  More gunshots, and voices drew nearer. Angry voices.

  “They’re coming this way!” I squeezed Hortense’s hand. “Back to the house.” We retreated in the direction from which we had come.

  A blast from a cannon exploded. The ground shook as it landed.

  “Run, Hortense!” I screamed over the rising din of voices. They grew louder as we raced toward Uncle Tascher’s house.

  When we rounded the corner, a throng of slaves and white men crashed into town. They waved makeshift weapons and torches over their heads.

  In an instant, the town hall blazed.

  A slave dragged a white woman down an alley by her hair, her pleas barely audible in the deafening roar of voices.

  Mimi gasped and Hortense began to cry.

  “Run, darling!” I dragged Hortense along. Past the market and through the square and we’d be safe at the house.

  As we neared the coiffeur, I stopped, yanking Hortense to my side.

  Monsieur Bernard, the town barber, was kicked into the street, head sheared with a cane knife. A slave emerged behind him with the curved knife, dripping with blood and chunks of flesh.

  My knees went weak. Hortense screamed.

  “Don’t look.” I covered her eyes, though my own were glued to the gruesome scene.

  The slave did not notice us, but fixed upon a group of men running across the street. He tore after them.

  I slung Hortense into my arms and wrapped her legs around my torso. Mimi raced at my side.

  “Hurry, Maman, hurry,” she sobbed as I ran. “They’re coming.”

  My arms burned under her weight; my lungs screamed for air. Mimi ducked in front of me to shield Hortense from all sides. Terror propelled us forward.

  Townspeople scattered, searching for shelter.

  I pushed through a crowd in the square, holding fast to Hortense, and there, on the other side of the square, was the green door of Uncle Tascher’s house. I ran with every ounce of strength I possessed. But as we neared the house, a handful of slaves broke through the front door with clubs and knives.

  “Oh God! No!” I screamed, halting in my tracks. “My family!” I looked around frantically. Dieu, where could we go? Sweat poured down my temples. I swallowed air in large gulps.

  Mimi scanned the crowd, eyes wild. “We could hide in the boats at the harbor.”

  “They’re coming!” Hortense screeched.

  I turned. A mob of men battled behind us, drawing closer. I looked back at the house. Flames burst from the windows, sending shards of glass in every direction.

  I turned, frantic, and plowed full-force into a man, slamming Hortense and me to the ground.

  “Maman!” she screeched in terror as we were separated.

  I sat up in a daze and turned to pull Hortense fast to my chest. But she had rolled a few paces away.

  She lay at the feet of a slave, with a pitchfork pointed at her little body.

  Revolution

  Fort-Royal and Paris, 1790–1792

  The slave towered above my daughter, muscles rippling, face contorted with murderous rage. Time stopped. The world vanished.

  Only Hortense’s stricken face remained.

  “Don’t move!” A masculine voice tore into my consciousness. A soldier stepped in front of me and aimed his gun at the slave. Captain du Roure.

  The slave let loose a battle cry, raising the pitchfork above his head.

  “Hortense! Move!” I screamed. Hot tears strangled my throat.

  The slave swung downward.

  He wasn’t fast enough.

  A bullet exploded in his chest, ripping skin, blasting through tissue and blood. The pitchfork clattered to the ground. The slave’s body fell, a crimson mound of tattered flesh, on top of my little girl.

  “Maman!” she screamed.

  The captain rolled the body off Hortense and yanked her to her feet.

  I wrapped myself around her, too stunned to speak. I wiped her blood-splattered face. I’d almost lost her. I’d almost lost my little girl. Hortense’s cries became hysterical. I crushed her against my chest.

  Mimi stood still, as if made of stone, and stared at what was left of the dead slave.

  “Rose, we’ve got to go! I’m on my way to the frigate docked in the harbor,” the captain shouted, pointing at its sails. “You’re welcome to come aboard, if you choose. There is room, but I’m leaving for France and I’m leaving now!”

  Our fortune seemed too good to be true. Thank you, God.

  “I don’t have any money . . . I—” The screeching in the streets drowned out my words.

  “Come on!” He wrenched Hortense from my arms, despite her protests, and ran as fast as he could. We weaved in and out of the terrorized mob, around piles of wood and goods thrown into the street.

  I dashed behind him, holding Mimi’s hand, trying not to trip. The ash-laden air choked me, the smell of burning wood, of death. I threw a look over my shoulder.

  Mon Dieu. The town and surrounding fields blazed. Houses collapsed into piles of charred scraps. My family. My throat began to close.

  In a few more strides, we reached the dock and dashed up the gangway. Captain du Roure helped a handful of others aboard. We set sail within minutes. A bit farther and we would be out of the harbor.

  I stood at the helm, watching my home descend into ash. I scooped Hortense into my arms and stroked her back to calm her. Uncle and Aunt Tascher. They were safe. They had to be safe. I stared out at the chaos. Everything had changed. My childhood home, my haven, no longer existed.

  “What are they doing?” Hortense pointed at a pack of slaves wheeling a cannon along the shore.

  They pointed it directly at the ship.

  “Oh my God!”

  Just then, the captain ordered, “Get belowdecks!”

  We raced to the cabins and down the ladder. Other passengers crammed in behind us, screaming and shoving, their faces panicked. Mimi, Hortense, and I squeezed into a small cubby to avoid the mass of bodies.

  Just in time.

  A deafening burst shook the boat. A chorus of screams followed. But no destruction, no bodies or splintered wood catapulted into the air.

  “They missed!” someone shouted.

  Cheers erupted. A woman wailed into her husband’s shoulder.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten, twenty.

  My head spun as I rocked Hortense in my arms. The cabin was eerily silent despite the two dozen bodies crammed inside. What was there to say?

  A clattering of boots on the ladder cut through the tension.

  Captain du Roure bounded into the room. “We’ve cleared the harbor. You can move to your cabins.” More cheering erupted as people pushed by him and up the ladder. “Rose, are you all right?” He wrapped his arms around us.

  Words failed me. The man who had saved my daughter’s life—my life—held me. The enormity of what he had done sank in. Sobs shattered my calm and Hortense, too, began to cry.

  “Shh . . . all will be well.” He patted Hortense on the head. “You’re safe now.” When I calmed, he kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll catch up with you later.” He disappeared above decks.

  Mimi sat silent, stunned by the events, her cocoa cheeks strea
ked with tears. I could only guess at her thoughts.

  “What will happen to Grand-mère and Grand-père?” Hortense searched my face.

  “Try not to worry, doucette,” I said in a tremulous voice. “They will be safe. Our plantation is in good order.”

  I leaned against Mimi’s shoulder, closed my eyes, and prayed.

  Our water journey proved hazardous, fraught with British warships and ocean squalls, but we survived, arriving seven weeks later at the southern port of Toulon. I sent a letter to Maman at once to assure her of our safety and to verify theirs. After two days’ rest in Toulon, the captain escorted Hortense and me to Fontainebleau.

  During the weeklong ride the captain kept a watchful eye on the roads, gun loaded.

  “Is that necessary?” I motioned to Hortense. “You’re frightening her.”

  “I would prefer to be safe.” He placed a hand on his pistol. “Vagabonds have been raiding châteaus in the country and ransacking towns.” He pointed to a once-regal statue of the King. The monarch lay toppled and beheaded. “Signs of the Revolution.”

  Tricolor flags dangled in every doorway. Storefronts were draped in tattered banners that read, THE CITIZEN LIVES FOR THE NATION, or LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY.

  “You must take care with your opinions, Rose,” he warned. “A great shift is at hand.”

  “I will mind what I say.” I gave him a silencing look. Hortense had seen and heard far too much already.

  The wreckage became more frequent, the changes more drastic, as we neared Paris.

  Let the bloodshed be over, I prayed. Leaving one war zone for another was more than I could bear. I hid my unease, though I could not escape Hortense’s ceaseless questions. I answered them like a protective mother—with a sugar-glazed version of the truth.

  The day we arrived in Fontainebleau, the captain continued on to Paris to report to his garrison.

  “I will write.” He kissed me on the forehead and leapt back into the coach.

  Our time together had not inspired love. I wondered at his lack of affection. Neither had Alexandre loved me, nor Charles or the others. Regret washed over me as his coach disappeared down the tree-lined drive.

  Désirée greeted us at the door.

  “Rose! Little Hortense!” she called out in joy. Her aged features startled me. It appeared the crumbling monarchy had taken its toll. Her gaunt face was a shadow of its former beauty, her once-honey hair streaked with gray. “We’re so delighted you’re home.” She kissed me. “Your clothes are hanging on you, darling. Haven’t you eaten?”

  “I haven’t had much of an appetite.” I frowned. “Désirée, are you unwell?”

  “Recovering. Hortense, let me look at you.” Hortense smiled shyly and let Désirée kiss her. “I want to speak with your mother. We can play a game later, if you like?”

  “Oui,” Hortense raced to her bedroom.

  I followed Désirée through a side door and into the garden. “Shall we sit?” She eased into a chair.

  “We made very good time.” A servant poured tea into Sevres porcelain cups with gold handles. I stared out at the pruned hedges, the flitting robins, and the multicolored leaves, lustrous in the fall sunshine. The scent of damp earth and leaves was so different here. I sighed. What a relief to be back.

  “How is your family?” she asked.

  I answered Désirée’s questions, assured her of the family’s health, and then described the violent slave uprisings.

  “Dieu! I can’t imagine how Hortense must have reacted. Poor dear.”

  I spread jam on my bread. “I can hardly wait to see Eugène.” A surge of longing pulsed in my chest. My little boy. I changed the subject before the tears came. “What have I missed in Paris?”

  “You have heard about Alexandre’s position?” Désirée selected a chunk of bread from the basket.

  “We communicated little while I was away. How is he?”

  “Quite well, I imagine. He’s the elected president of the National Assembly.”

  I put down my knife. How in the world had he contrived that? “President? What does that mean, exactly?” I asked.

  “From what I gather, the assembly elects a new president each month, at least for now. They’re changing the laws so quickly. It is difficult to keep up.” She slathered rhubarb jam on her bread. “Alexandre is foolhardy. He shames his father. Even François speaks out against him.”

  “François disputes his own brother, the president of the assembly, in public?” I asked in disbelief. He seemed the more foolhardy of the two.

  “They were so different as children. François will always support the King. As will the Marquis and I.”

  “And Alexandre is a Constitutionalist?”

  “He is a traitor. They call themselves Patriots, Republicans, Girondists, Brothers of Liberty. When the dust settles, they will all pay for their crimes against the King.”

  A bite of bread stuck in my throat. So much at stake for his views. Alexandre had better be careful. I sipped from my teacup.

  “Is the royal family still at the Tuileries?” I asked at last.

  “For now.”

  “Is Paris safe?” A vision of Eugène sent another wave of yearning through me. And fear.

  “The violence has ceased, but, Rose, be careful. You either support the laws of God under King Louis, or you do not. The King sends for support from his allies—the Austrians and the Prussians, perhaps the English. There’s talk of civil war.”

  My mind whirred with the news. “Better to be prudent with our opinions,” I mused aloud.

  Yes, better to be prudent.

  I rented a small stone house at 43 rue Saint-Dominique in Paris to be near my son and friends, to send Hortense to school, and to begin again. Patches of purple and white petunias flourished on either side of the blue-painted door, and narrow balconies jutted from the second- and third-floor windows. Marie-Françoise Hosten, a Creole from Saint Lucia, and her daughter lived with us to share the rent. Living as a family made the girls giddy.

  “Désirée!” Hortense called to her new friend. “Let’s have a tea party.”

  “Only if I get to wear the blue hat and gloves this time.” Désirée smashed the hat on her head.

  The last addition to our home was Fortuné, a black-faced pug with sandy fur. He licked our palms and nipped at our heels. I loved him on sight.

  I packed my schedule from my first night. To be in Paris again! How I had missed Claire and Fanny and my other friends, and the city’s liveliness. But sentiments had changed. Energy pulsed on every street corner, in each tavern and coffeehouse. Everyone debated. Who would run the country? What to do with the King? Should divorce be legal for all? Should slavery be illegal? So much to decide and no one knew the answer.

  I had been in Paris a full month before I laid eyes on Eugène. His headmaster made no allowance for a visit before a school break, even for a mother who had been away. I wrote to Alexandre to join us. He missed Hortense and looked forward to seeing me, or so his letter said. I assumed him eager to gloat about his new position.

  On the morning we arrived, I gripped Eugène in a ferocious hug.

  “Darling, I’ve missed you more than words.” How much he had grown in two years! His once-chubby cheeks had thinned and he looked taller, leaner.

  “I missed you, too,” he said, voice muffled in the crook of my neck.

  “You’re growing up, mon amour.” He wore a cap, gray coat, and culottes, and stood at attention like a soldier.

  “Yes, Maman.” He grinned.

  His smile was still boyish, angelic. “How can you be nine years old already?” I took his hands and kissed them.

  Eugène looked behind me, then quickly pulled his hands from mine. I followed his gaze. A pack of his classmates walked along the opposite end of the courtyard.

  I embarrass
ed him—my boy did not want to show affection for his mother in front of his friends. A pang of regret hit me. It had to happen sooner or later. I forced a smile.

  Hortense took advantage of my pause and leapt at Eugène.

  “Hortense!” Eugène hugged his sister. “You grew.”

  “Almost as big as you!” she said.

  “You are not! I’m almost a man. I’m going to be a soldier and fight the traitors of the Revolution like Papa.”

  Even Eugène had been affected. By his father, no doubt.

  We turned toward the clacking of boots on stone. Alexandre strode across the courtyard, chest out, head high, more handsome than I remembered. His smile sparkled. His stance exuded regality.

  “Hello, my boy.” He tousled Eugène’s hair. “Hortense, give your father a hug.” He spread his arms in welcome.

  Hortense advanced slowly toward the father she had not seen in two years. “Hello, Papa.”

  “You are a beauty like your mother.” Alexandre kissed her forehead. “I have a surprise for you.” He produced a charm bracelet and a doll.

  “Thank you, Papa!” She hugged him, cheeks flushed with excitement.

  “Rose, how are you?” He brushed my cheeks with his lips, then bent to help Hortense with her bracelet.

  “Well, thank you. I’m relieved you are unaffected by the revolts.”

  “Unaffected?” He roared with laughter. “I’m quite affected! You mean I am unharmed. Unharmed, but on fire with ideals of freedom, constitutions, representation! Times have changed for the better, Rose. Have you heard? I am the president of the National Assembly. You are married to a celebrity, a mastermind of the times.”

  I smirked at his conceit. No one wore arrogance as well as my husband. “I have heard.” Still, I was truly happy for him. I squeezed his hand. “Congratulations. I’m pleased you are so happy.” A group of boys passed through the courtyard, their laughter echoing from the walled-in space. “I’m sure you’re aware that your father and Aunt Désirée do not share your views.”