Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 3

  François bowed, creasing his stiff suit coat sewn with gold thread. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. Please forgive me, but I’m afraid I must go. I am late for an engagement.” He inclined his head toward me. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course.” I nodded and he hurried from the room.

  “Please make yourself at home, Rose,” the Marquis said. “We are family, after all.”

  “You’re very kind.” Relief washed over me. Désirée and the Marquis were lovely.

  When shown to my room to dress for supper, I cheered inwardly. Rest at last. I snatched the blanket at the foot of my bed and snuggled in by the fire. I relished the heat like an iguana scorching in a treetop under the tropical sun. The vision of midday warmed my blood.

  It seemed odd Alexandre should allow Désirée to play hostess. I supposed he admired her a great deal, despite her being only a sort of stepmother.

  After an hour of rest, I returned to the hall. A dining table had been set with an ivory cloth and fine dishes. I slid into an empty chair.

  “Shall we dine?” Désirée lowered her graceful form into a chair across from the Marquis. She had changed from her riding dress to a blue silk gown and twisted her hair into a perfect chignon decorated with pearls. She rang a porcelain bell, bringing a flurry of servants. One filled our wineglasses as others brought parsnip soup. Braised venison and beet salad would follow.

  Alexandre joined us at the last moment. “Pardon my tardiness.”

  Désirée gave him a reproachful look.

  He helped himself to a piece of bread and soaked the crust in his soup. After a large bite, he blotted his mouth with his napkin and turned to me. “I do hope you feel at home.”

  “I don’t feel at home quite yet.” When his expression turned grim, I amended my comment. “But I’m sure I will very soon.” Best not to be too direct, it seemed.

  His face relaxed. “Very good, then.”

  I stared as he shoveled food into his mouth. Not rude, exactly, but hurried.

  “Alexandre, the venison will not wander from your plate,” Désirée said.

  I smiled behind my goblet.

  He laid down his fork and knife. “I’m afraid I’m in a rush. I am meeting a friend this evening.”

  “Oh? May I accompany you?” A pulse of excitement tingled in my stomach. My first night in Paris with Alexandre!

  He finished chewing, then replied, “I’m afraid not. I have important business to attend to. I won’t have time to introduce you to everyone.” He waved his hand in my direction. “You have nothing suitable to wear, at any rate.”

  “Very well.” I tried to control the disappointment in my voice. “Not tonight. But another?”

  “Of course.” He stood abruptly. “Excuse me, Father, Désirée. I will see you tomorrow morning for breakfast, Rose.”

  “We will expect you,” Désirée said, as if implying a threat.

  We finished our meal in relative silence. After a digestif by the fire, we retired to our rooms. I tossed in bed for hours. A few new gowns, music lessons, perhaps some history, and Alexandre would be proud to call me his. I could not wait to see him in the morning, to tell him I wanted to meet with a tutor immediately.

  But Alexandre did not join me for breakfast. I did not see him again for two days.

  My third day in Paris, I sat impatiently at the breakfast table while Désirée finished eating. I could hardly wait to explore the city.

  “Your tutor will arrive at ten sharp. At two, you will have music or dance on alternating days.” She paused to chew a bite of her bread. “We take tea in the salon at five and supper at nine. Please be prompt. You have had several days to adjust to your surroundings.”

  “Yes, Désirée.” I shifted in my chair for the tenth time. When would she finish?

  “I’m so glad you’re looking forward to our excursion, dear.”

  “I can’t wait to purchase a new gown!” Anything to feel more a Parisian.

  She drained the last of the coffee from her cup. “To the rue Saint-Honoré.”

  We rode through alleyways and along grand boulevards. The river Seine gushed pewter water in torrents as boats pushed upstream. Lively markets flourished in the squares of most quartiers. Cooks inspected lumpy vegetables, silvery fish on trays of ice, and bins of spices in russet, green, and plum. The scent of ripe cheeses permeated the air. Désirée stared unseeing out the window.

  For every fashionable boulevard, a pocket of hovels sprawled. I looked past the women and children moaning for bread. Guilt flooded, intense and unsettling. If only I could help them. But nothing could be done, so I pretended not to see them.

  The rue Saint-Honoré did not disappoint. Paris’s finest boutiques displayed a staggering selection of jewelry, shoes, and fabrics. I fingered silk gloves and delicate lace, and held brooches to the light to examine their dazzling facets.

  “The hats, Désirée! A thousand would not be too many.” Straw hats à la bergère with ribbons; bonnets; broad-brimmed felt hats with feathers, jewels, or lace netting in every color—I would have happily died to own one.

  I gaped at ladies browsing in voluptuous gowns that rustled as they moved, their poufs piled high on their heads and powdered pale blue. I could not remove my faded gown fast enough.

  “First your corset and petticoats.” The dressmaker’s assistant jammed me into my undergarments.

  “It’s crushing my ribs,” I cried, as she tugged on the last of the stays. I pulled at the fabric.

  “Don’t touch it!” she barked. “It should be tight to boost your décolletage and shrink your waist.”

  “How on earth am I going to wear this awful thing?”

  The woman made a tsk-tsk with her tongue and helped me step into a pannier. My eyes bulged at its inconceivable girth. One would suffocate in Martinique in such a gown.

  “We need your measurements.” She moved quickly, scribbling numbers on her paper. “There. Now we’re ready for the gowns.” Madame ushered two women forward who paraded an array of fabrics before me—brocades and velvets, silks and lace, cottons and wool in a dozen colors. I tried the few model dresses available. The finer boutiques would never allow such a thing; we had not bothered to enter them.

  I twirled for the second time in a yellow brocade. Who was the elegant stranger in the looking glass? Her cheeks were flushed, her form graceful. I smiled with glee.

  “Do you like this one, Désirée?” I asked.

  “It’s lovely. We’ll have one made for you. As you can see it doesn’t fit precisely as it should. And what about the green one?”

  “It’s quite expensive. I have already asked madame.”

  “I am aware of the price. Why don’t you try it on? It looks to be about your size,” Désirée said.

  Madame helped me into the rich silk gown and I moved to the mirror.

  “Oh.” My hand flew to my lips. “C’est magnifique.” I turned slowly, swishing the glossy skirts. I stroked the black lace cuffs that extended the length of my forearms. If only Maman could see me look a lady.

  “I believe that gown was made for you.”

  “I’ve never worn anything so beautiful.”

  “Nor owned one, I suppose? Well, you do now, dear.” Désirée turned to madame. “We’d like this one as well.”

  “Oh, Désirée! Do you mean it?” I rushed to embrace her, bumping a small table in my hurry. A set of porcelain figurines rattled as if coming to life. I steadied them, stifling a laugh.

  “Attention.” Désirée gave me a disapproving look. “You must be aware of your person at all times.”

  I bowed my head in embarrassment.

  “Of course I mean it,” she said, her tone softened. “Now. You’ll need another for tomorrow. We can’t have you wearing your soiled dresses another day. Shall we?”

  I squealed and kissed her che
ek. “Thank you, thank you!”

  By day’s end, I had a start to a proper Parisian wardrobe. I chose a gold-threaded brocade glittering with iridescent beads, three day dresses, and one made of navy wool. Hats, shoes and silk stockings, an evening handbag, and gloves. Never had I owned so many beautiful things.

  I wondered at the Beauharnaises’ fortune. Neither the house nor the furniture reflected wealth, and I had witnessed Désirée scowling at the bills. I dismissed the thought. Not my concern. Alexandre’s knees would buckle when he saw me.

  The following morning, I arose early for my toilette. I spent an hour on my hair alone to arrange my curls into a perfect chignon like Désirée’s. I applied my new powders with a careful hand and painted my cheeks with rouge. After a dab of perfume, I called to Mimi to assist me with dressing.

  “Stockings first, Yeyette.” She used my childhood nickname.

  I pulled the silky film along my calves and over my knees, and secured them in place with frilly garters.

  Mimi laced up my corset, thankfully with less force than the dressmaker. “Can you breathe?”

  “Barely.” I laughed.

  She helped me into my petticoats and pannier, and at last I pulled on a milky white dress dotted with embroidered cherries. It had been the only frock ready for wearing after minor adjustments. The gown happened to be one of my favorites.

  I smiled into my hand mirror. A Parisian lady, head to toe—a temptation for any man.

  As I swept down the stairs to the hall, Alexandre leaned over the table to select a hunk of bread from the basket.

  “How was your evening?” I touched a lose curl on my forehead lightly.

  “Quite fine. I’ve only just arrived.” He slathered his bread with apricots and ate it in a few bites, all without sitting.

  “I hope I may accompany you one evening soon.” I swished my skirts to and fro as I approached him. “I’ve been to see the dressmaker. Do you like it?”

  He eyed me silently for a moment. “It’s nice.”

  Nice? I looked down to hide my disappointment.

  He closed the short distance between us. “I’d like a closer view.”

  My stomach flip-flopped at his silky tone.

  He pressed his body closer and tucked his face into my neck. His hot breath reeked of cigars and wine.

  “Alexandre,” I said breathlessly.

  He kissed the sensitive skin under my ear. “You smell divine. Lavender?”

  I nodded as he drew his fingers softly over the roundness of my breast. Warmth spread through my limbs.

  “I can’t . . . we can’t . . .” I leaned against the wall for support.

  “Shh.” He pulled me hard against him and forced my lips open with his tongue. In a swift instant, his hand slid down my frame and lifted the hem of my skirts.

  I yielded to his mouth as it became more insistent. He moved expertly, pushing aside my petticoats, groping for bare skin.

  “Alexandre.” I tried to pull away. “Alexandre!” I pushed at his chest. Fabric ripped.

  “Don’t you want me?” His hand ran the length of my bare thigh. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

  I inhaled a sharp breath. “I . . . not now—”

  “I know you’ve had lovers in Martinique. Creoles are known for their sensuality.” He drew circles on my thigh with his fingertips. Fire blazed over my skin and I flushed. “You’re beautiful in this gown. I can’t resist you.” He planted a trail of kisses along my collarbone and his hand inched higher.

  My head dizzied and I wilted in his arms. The sudden plunge of his warm fingers into my sex made me cry out.

  Footsteps echoed from the next room.

  “Rose? Is that you?” Alexandre’s father called.

  The Marquis’s cane clunked across the study floor. His slow pace allowed just enough time to adjust my clothing. Alexandre wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. When his father opened the door, all appeared normal, or so I thought.

  “Are you well, Rose?” The Marquis’s eyes widened when he saw me.

  I swallowed hard and squared my shoulders. “I am quite well, monsieur. Merci.”

  He regarded Alexandre with a weary glance and limped back to his study. Alexandre bounded up the stairs without a word.

  I looked into the circular mirror on the opposite wall. My cheeks appeared stained, my eyes feverish, and the torn sash floated from my waist. A single tear slid down my cheek.

  One chilly morning the next week, I gazed at the geraniums nestled in their window boxes, their leaves painted with frosty patterns that glittered in the sun. I remembered Alexandre’s sudden passion. His kiss. His hands. He had treated me like a whore, then never mentioned it again. I didn’t know what to make of his behavior—his kindness and charming nature had returned. I laid my head against the pane. It must have been his drunken state that morning. I hoped that was all.

  I sighed. How I missed Maman and Manette, even Papa. And my friends—I longed to make new ones.

  “Mademoiselle, you’ll not learn your history by staring out the window,” my tutor scolded.

  I could not resist calling him Monsieur Ennui, at least in my head. His lessons bored me to death.

  “And your posture is atrocious. Like this.” He wrenched my shoulders back and tilted my chin up.

  “Oui, monsieur.” I stared into his cold face. His pale lips were the only spot of color on his over-powdered face. Why couldn’t Désirée have found someone more likable? At least my lessons were nearly done for the day.

  An unknown voice echoed from the foyer. Company? I forgot my manners in my eagerness and bounded into the front hall.

  Désirée gave me an exasperated look. “Like a lady, Rose.”

  Though she meant well, I tired of the constant admonitions. “Yes, Désirée.” I slowed my pace and then stopped suddenly to stare at the colorful woman by her side.

  “May I present to you, Madame . . .” a servant began his stiff introductions.

  Using her full hips and enormous skirts, the woman pushed him aside. He gave her a pinched look, and I giggled.

  “I am Fanny de Beauharnais, wife of François, Alexandre’s brother. But you have probably met my husband by now. Please, call me Fanny.” She beamed and kissed me on both cheeks. “Welcome to Paris. I’ve been dying to meet you.”

  Fanny’s style of dress resembled those in fashion, though a bit disheveled and overly vivid in purples and reds. The popular pastels were unsuited for her; her character would not be contained in a pale corset. Heavy curls hung in thickly powdered ringlets adorned with silk feathers, and rouge colored her lips and cheeks to the point of overdone. She resembled a rare bird flitting through the treetops of my jungle home.

  A smile spread across my face. “I am very pleased to meet you, Madame—”

  “Fanny, love. No one calls me Madame de Beauharnais. I insist.” She regarded my face and dress. “You’re adorable. And how is Alexandre? Has he shown you around town?”

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen much of him—”

  Désirée interrupted me. “He meets with his garrison and stays with the La Rochefoucould family when he can. You know how dedicated he is to his duties and his friends, Fanny.”

  “Among other things,” Fanny answered with a pointed look at Désirée.

  My heart skipped in my chest. What did that mean?

  Before I could ask, Fanny changed the subject. “You must attend my salon one evening. With Alexandre, of course. My soirees are quite famous, you know.” She rattled off many names, none of which I had ever heard, but I was assured of their importance. Her rapid speech left her breathless and I laughed when she paused for air.

  “It all sounds so wonderful! I’ve been restless in this cold season,” I said. “Would you care for a drink of chocolate?”

  “Chocolat chaud would
be divine. Come. Tell me all about yourself.” She took my hand in hers.

  “If you will excuse me, Fanny, I must speak with the doctor,” Désirée said. “He is upstairs with the Marquis.”

  I hid a smile with my hand. The doctor had not yet arrived; Désirée wanted to escape. She must not enjoy Fanny’s company.

  “Of course, Désirée. Give him my love.”

  “And will you dismiss my tutor?”

  “For today.” Désirée glided through the door.

  I found myself at ease in Fanny’s presence. I adored her jovial laugh and frank nature.

  “Tell me about your home,” she said. “Your friends and family. And I hear there are strange jungle creatures?”

  She fired question after question, and I withheld nothing. But her greatest interest lay in plantation life with the Africans.

  “And the slaves? What is their life like on your plantation?”

  Fanny didn’t notice the clink of silverware behind her. I glanced back to see Mimi collecting a dropped knife she had been polishing. I met her eyes. She looked down, concentrating on her task as if her life depended on it.

  “They live in huts unless they are part of the household. The dearest, most hardworking dine and sleep in the main house.”

  Mimi did not look in our direction, but her silence throbbed in the air. She knew she was my dearest—my friend, even.

  “Do they work from sunrise to sunset? What do they eat? What’s the punishment for a slave that misbehaves? I’ve heard horrible tales,” Fanny pressed.

  I found it curious she should be so consumed with their routine. Slaves were not our equals, after all. What could be so interesting?

  “All men and women should have rights, regardless of their position, gender, or upbringing, doucette,” Fanny insisted. “Or the color of their skin.”

  Mimi’s eyes widened.

  I cleared my throat and said, “Mimi, could you fetch us some cakes if there are any left?” She placed her polishing rag on the bureau and scurried to the kitchen.

  What a grandiose idea. I had never given a slave’s freedom any thought, let alone the “rights” of women. I accepted our roles—those of the slaves in their fields and the Grands Blancs running their plantations. Our sugarcane would rot, our plantations crumble without the Africans. Where would we be then? Yet Fanny had given me much to ponder.