Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 2

  “You’re filthy.” He glared down at me. “Change at once and meet me in the salon. I have news for you.”

  Étrangère

  Brest, France, 1779

  The priestess’s voice vibrated in my soul, her black magic as real as flesh. I could not make sense of her words and dreamt of her most nights at sea, or those I managed to sleep. Papa sent me in Catherine’s stead. A marriage in a distant land, as the old woman had promised.

  I rubbed my chilled arms. The journey had ended, merci au bon Dieu.

  My feet touched solid ground. Not the salty gray sands I had expected of the Brittany coast, but rather an enormous port crammed with all manner of vessels. Boats bobbed in a gentle procession over the wake, creaking as the water slapped their sides. Sailors and soldiers, boat hands and passengers scurried in every direction as bells announced the incoming fog. Brest was grander than Fort-Royal in every way but color. Slate blue, charcoal, and lifeless gray dominated the sky, the land, and everything between.

  I would miss my vibrant home. But at least there would be no more blasted ship, no more hurtling through the sea. I gathered my filthy skirts and stumbled up the walk on wobbly legs. My pink shoes stood out like pearls against the jet of the dock and the black water below.

  A familiar nausea rolled in my belly and crept up my throat. I clutched my midsection.

  “You ill?” Mimi called as she dragged our trunks behind her. Clumps of her crimped hair stuck out from beneath the colorful scarf tied over her head.

  “Still a bit seasick. A proper bed will be heaven. Mon Dieu, Mimi, I thought we’d never make it.” I descended the dock stair and stepped onto the dirt path. It led to several boathouses and a tavern with fogged windowpanes. The next row of buildings faced the harbor, lit doorways open, inviting. Women in vermillion corsets and netted stockings lounged within, beckoning with their painted nails and heavily rouged smiles.

  A memory of Papa surfaced, his face lost in the bosom of a half-dressed mulatto woman. I had sneaked from school with Guillaume one night to hide behind the empty crates near the brothel door—a silly dare. And there Papa stood, pawing at a woman who was not my mother.

  I turned away from the whores. Time to look forward, not back.

  I scanned the line of fiacres and hackney coaches in eager anticipation. Here at last!

  “A gentleman hired transportation and rooms for us. Would you see to it? The captain said I am to wait here for a courier.” I stroked the creased letter. Aunt Désirée and Alexandre expected to hear from me right away.

  “I’ll get to finding him.” Mimi mopped her face with a handkerchief.

  I nodded and turned back to the frigate, my home and prison these past months. The familiar faces of its passengers had dispersed in a hundred directions. A lump of apprehension lodged in my throat. I would make friends straightaway, without doubt. But Alexandre. I sighed. I hoped he would be a man I could love.

  The courier arrived, toting his sack of letters. I delivered my own and paid him as I felt a hand at my elbow.

  “Our coach is waiting round the bend.” Mimi pointed to a road that snaked around the corner of a gray boathouse.

  We traveled to an inn on the outskirts of Brest. Knobby pastures dotted with grazing sheep and fattened dairy cows stretched as far as the horizon. Gone were the throngs of travelers and the slate blue sea, though the vacant arc of pallid sky followed us from the shore. The grayness soaked into my skin and filled the hollow in my chest.

  Papa couldn’t have loved a place as lackluster as this. Certainly Paris would be more appealing. I imagined the King’s court of handsome men in pressed coats, swirling courtiers across a perfectly polished floor, their jewels glinting in the light. I smiled. I would visit the court one day soon with Alexandre.

  I paced the dilapidated inn for three days awaiting news from Désirée. How long would it take her to respond? Mimi and I strolled through the wilted garden to pass the time. One afternoon as we made our way up the front walk, an elegant carriage pulled into the drive. My palms grew clammy inside my only gloves.

  “It must be them.” I laughed a shrill sound and clutched Mimi’s arm. “I didn’t expect to be so nervy.”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head, girl. He’ll be taken with you.” She kissed my cheek to comfort me.

  When the coach stopped, an elegant blond woman alighted. Aunt Désirée glided toward me. Her pale blue dress hung in perfect folds, its embroidery of silver flowers shimmering in the watery sunlight. Her vast skirts swelled around her hips as if pillows were hidden beneath the fabric, accentuating her tiny waist. A ribbed corset wound around her middle to boost her lace-trimmed bosom. Teardrop baubles swung from her earlobes and a ribbon-embellished hat perched fashionably atop her head.

  I smoothed my own water-stained shift and flushed with embarrassment.

  “Hello, Rose.” Désirée embraced me lightly. A feigned gesture—was she displeased with me?

  “Hello, Aunt Désirée,” I said, kissing her cheeks.

  “You were a child the last time I saw you.” She had left Martinique a decade ago and she still looked as beautiful as I remembered.

  Désirée stepped back to assess my appearance. We stood in awkward silence.

  At last she said, “Chérie, your lips are blue!” She took my hands in hers. “I have some warm things for you. I haven’t forgotten my first weeks in France. It’s difficult to bear the cool weather in the beginning.”

  “Thank you. I have shivered ever since we arrived.”

  She patted my shoulder. “You will adjust.”

  I turned. “This is my maid, Mimi.”

  Désirée nodded. “Your voyage—how did you fare?”

  “I’ve never been so sick. My stomach still rocks.” I glanced at the carriage. “Where is Alexandre? Has he come?”

  “Of course, dear. He has fallen asleep in the coach.” She cupped her mouth with a gloved hand and called, “Alexandre? Alexandre!”

  “I’ll wake him, madame,” the coachman said.

  Désirée glanced at the shabby inn. The sign near the door hung crookedly from a single rusty hinge. My aunt’s lips pinched as if she tasted something sour.

  “Goodness, child. You stayed here? We’ll find a more suitable place.” She looked at Mimi. “Why don’t you see to Rose’s things?”

  “Madame.” Mimi curtsied and rushed off in the direction of the inn.

  “Aunt Désirée, I—”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “I will pay, of course.”

  I fidgeted for several long moments.

  A door screeched, in need of oil. My breath caught as my future husband staggered from the coach. He stretched, and looked around with a bored expression.

  Our eyes met.

  Alexandre raised one dark eyebrow in a perfect arc.

  I caught my breath. He possessed such fine features—a straight nose and high cheekbones, full lips and light eyes. He held himself like a prince in his white officer’s uniform, embellished with silver buttons, ornate lapels, and blue culottes. His powdered hair appeared coiffed to perfection. Even his boots gleamed.

  I sneaked a glance at my own scuffed shoes and musty dress. My reflection in the glass this morning had shown sun spots and bleached hair from my time on deck. I looked like a commoner, as the wiser women on board had warned me I would.

  I straightened my shoulders. I was attractive and I possessed rare charm. Maman always said so.

  Alexandre stared, but made no move in my direction. I smiled in greeting. A fleeting emotion shone in his eyes, though I could not identify it from a distance. Surely not disdain?

  I flinched and turned to Désirée. She looked away.

  He must dislike the lodging, I told myself, to repudiate my doubts. I shifted from one foot to the other. Alexandre lingered for an eternity, eyes roving over the scenery and wei
ghing its worth. I winced. This was not an auspicious place to meet your future wife.

  He moved toward me. I stiffened until he stopped before me and bent in a slight bow.

  “Mademoiselle Marie-Josèphe-Rose de Tascher de La Pagerie, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Finally,” I breathed. How long I had anticipated this moment.

  Surprise filled his eyes. Confused, I glanced at Désirée.

  “If you will excuse me,” she said, “I will see about another inn.”

  “Allow me,” Alexandre offered.

  “Thank you, dear, but I can manage. I’ll leave you to become acquainted.” She gave me a tight smile before leaving.

  I played with the sad bow hanging from my sleeve. Alexandre cleared his throat and looked around.

  Silence.

  Finally, I asked, “How is the Marquis?”

  “Father is in bed most days,” he answered in a disinterested tone.

  “He is ill? I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s been a slow degradation. He’s still sharp of mind. It is only his body that fails him. Even so, I suspect he has many years left.”

  “Well that’s a relief.”

  Disbelief crossed his features once more.

  I frowned. What had I said?

  He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “And your brother, François?” I tried again.

  “Well, thank you. I trust your voyage wasn’t too grueling?” He looked over my head at a pair of women leaving the inn.

  “It was dreadful. Storms nearly drowned us. And I couldn’t eat or drink—the rocking made me so ill. I—” Alexandre’s incredulous expression stopped me.

  “Do you always speak so plainly?” he asked.

  Heat crept up my neck to my cheeks. “Monsieur? You asked about my trip.”

  “Never mind. We have other, more pressing changes to make than your speech . . . your accent, and . . .” He looked down his nose at my dress.

  “Excuse me?” Pricks of anger barbed under my skin. How dare he be so rude!

  Mimi emerged from the inn, hauling the trunks.

  Désirée reappeared behind her, a list in hand. “I have found another inn not far from here.”

  Alexandre nodded, a grim expression reflected on his features. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment. His first impression of me had not been a favorable one.

  Désirée clapped her hands and pretended not to notice. “Merveilleux!”

  We began our journey to Paris the following day, traversing pastures and hills that rose in waves of green carpet, forked by streams and covered in brush. Most days clouds blanketed the sky and drizzle filtered through golden and peach-colored leaves. The smell of cool air and wet ground pervaded—so unlike my island’s smoky sweetness of burning sugarcane and wildflower perfume. Despite Désirée’s wool cloak, the raw weather soaked into my bones.

  We rode much of the way in silence. I amused myself by studying the landscape of trees and the few autumn flowers.

  “How vivid Martinique must be,” Alexandre said. “I hardly remember it from childhood.” He had left the island with Désirée to seek a more refined life in Paris.

  “I had never given it a second thought until now,” I said. “There is a realness. . . . Trois-Îlets has a heartbeat. It is so alive. But it is lovely here, too,” I added in haste, not wishing to insult.

  Alexandre chuckled, blue eyes twinkling. “Paris may be more alive than you can manage, farm girl.” He took my hand and caressed it as if stroking a kitten. “I’m sure you will adore it.”

  His fingertips left a trail of flames on my skin. I blushed, timid at my reaction to his affection. He did like me. We just needed to get to know one other.

  “I’m certain I will.” I smiled.

  We stopped at an inn after the long day of travel.

  “I have a present for you.” Alexandre had joined Désirée and me in the common room for an aperitif.

  I perked up at once.

  “De l’Esprit des Lois.” He handed me a worn book and settled into a chair with a brandy glass. “Montesquieu. A great philosophe. His works were not always praised in France, but it is a new era. You’ll enjoy his inspired theories of human injustice.” Passion lit his eyes.

  “Wonderful.” I smiled in spite of my doubt. Lessons on music, art, or gardens, perhaps, I would enjoy far more. No matter. His enthusiasm delighted me. “I’ll begin reading tonight.”

  In the morning, I settled into my carriage seat, happy to be spending more time in close proximity with him.

  Alexandre smiled. “And how did you find the book? The Americans have taken to his ideals of separation of powers.”

  I shifted in my seat. I had hardly read the first ten pages before drifting to sleep. “Your views are surely more informed than mine. Would you care to share them?”

  “I find his thoughts on personal freedoms . . .”

  My attention drifted as he explained theory after theory. His lips, the excitement in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed on his perfect face proved an interesting study. When he paused from time to time, I could not hide how much he impressed me. Nor could I resist attempting to charm him.

  “Fascinating, Alexandre.” I placed my hand on his arm. “You are so knowledgeable.”

  He beamed at my obvious admiration. I smiled back at him. Perhaps this marriage would turn out better than I had hoped.

  The final morning of our journey we embarked early, eager to reach our destination by nightfall. The ride passed in a blur of sunshine and trees, and by dusk, Paris emerged. As we entered the city gates, the setting sun glowed in a dreamy swirl of pink and orange, resembling the inside of a papaya. Along the horizon arose the largest number of buildings I had ever seen.

  I gaped. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  Alexandre flashed a brilliant smile and laughed. “Paris is the most remarkable city in the world.”

  “Incredible!” I clapped in delight.

  The sheer number of people rendered me speechless. Hordes shuffled along the roadside carrying packages, toting their children, or walking arm in arm with friends. Odors assailed my senses; rich coffee wafted from cafés, sweaty horses and fetid piles of animal waste assaulted, flowery perfumes and warm bread tempted. Street vendors, juggling performers, and the incessant clopping of hooves whirled together in an orchestra of sounds.

  “Mon Dieu, look at all the coaches!”

  Gilded carriages and speeding fiacres dodged pedestrians and splattered mud in every direction. I gaped at the opulent homes of stone and imposing state buildings guarded by the King’s army. The city hummed like a swarm of bees on a cluster of begonias.

  Alexandre enjoyed my awe, pointing out the Palais-Royal and Luxembourg, explaining their histories. I tried to listen, but the throngs captured my attention.

  After a long ride through the city, Alexandre enveloped my hand in his. “Here we are. Noisy-le-Grand, your new neighborhood.”

  A pungent stink burned my nostrils. “Alexandre, what is that smell?” I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

  “Excrement and mud. You won’t notice it for long. I don’t smell it at all.”

  I looked at him in surprise. Of course I would notice it. I covered my nose with my handkerchief to block the horrid odor.

  Our coach stopped in front of a two-story house composed mostly of stone.

  “Welcome home,” Alexandre said.

  Désirée kissed my cheek. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you.” I suppressed another delighted squeal—I shouldn’t appear too childish.

  I stepped down from the coach and surveyed the neighboring houses. Rickety dwellings cramped the spaces between the grander homes, a curious scene. The wealthy separated into their own quartiers in Fort-Royal, but not in Paris, it seemed. St
ill, the neighborhood possessed a sense of faded glory, though I had envisioned more elegance from a vicomte.

  A servant opened the front door and ushered us into a vestibule with towering ceilings.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” another servant said, curtseying. Her voice echoed in the hall. “May I bring you anything?”

  “Non, merci.” I walked toward the staircase dominating the hall and ran my hand along the worn banister.

  “Rose, the Marquis awaits our arrival,” Désirée said.

  “Of course.” I followed her, studying the rooms and their furnishings as we went.

  Despite the golden glow from oil lamps and candles, the house was cold and dark, like the stone of which it was made. Its depressive ambience lacked the luxury I had expected—so unlike the airy, wooden mansions of the Grands Blancs in Fort-Royal, decked with palms and wildflowers. Heavy drapes replaced the gauzy curtains that billowed on sea breezes I remembered from home. Cool air leaked under doorways and crept over icy marble floors, mingling with the stale air inside.

  Unimpressive furniture filled the rooms, save for one stunning table veneered with layers of priceless wood. Its gilded-bronze finish glinted in the firelight. I ran my fingers over the smooth veneer, warm from the heat of the fire. A perfect spot to play cards or read my tarot deck.

  “Have a seat, my dear. They’ll join us in a moment.”

  I settled into a blue silk chair facing Désirée. Where had Alexandre gone? He would greet his father, I assumed. I tried not to fidget.

  A servant assisted the Marquis into the room. Another gentleman followed, likely Alexandre’s brother, François. All three men resembled one another; proud chins and wide blue eyes distinguished them as family. I stood quickly.

  “You must be Rose.” The Marquis approached and took my hand in his. “Welcome. We’re happy you have arrived.” His smile was kind and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “Thank you, monsieur. I am thrilled to be here.” I returned his smile.

  “And this”—he motioned to François—“is my other son, François, your soon-to-be brother.”