Becoming Josephine: A Novel Read online

  Alexandre and I married in a small church in Noisy-le-Grand. The sanctuary sat shrouded in filtered light. Broken patterns of color streamed from stained glass windows and illuminated patches of cold stone floor. Alexandre’s cousins and friends filled the pews. Fanny, the only familiar face, reassured me with a wink the moment I emerged from the priest’s chamber. I smiled at her, despite the doubt that snaked through my limbs. Did I love Alexandre?

  Papa’s words resurfaced. “Marriage is about property. Love in marriage is nothing but a silly girl’s fantasy.”

  A blast of organs signaled the commencement of the ceremony. Those in attendance fixed their gaze on me. I gulped and began the procession.

  Maman, why couldn’t you be here? I imagined her blue eyes shining with tears, pride swelling at my beauty. She would have curled my hair and Manette would have helped me into my dress. A dull ache pulsed in my chest.

  I moved down the aisle toward my future.

  Alexandre posed near the altar, handsome as ever in his uniform, his face set in a firm mask, making him impossible to read. Had he regrets?

  We celebrated at home later that evening with an elegant dinner, complete with hired musicians. A smattering of friends and family arrived. When Fanny appeared, a sigh of relief escaped my lips.

  “Congratulations.” She wrapped me in her embrace.

  “Am I happy to see you!” The first smile of the evening crossed my face.

  “After supper we’ll chat.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  I wound through circles of men and women who stared at me but said little. An outsider in my own home. I held my head high despite my unease. At dinner I sipped my soup in silence, sampled the tarte aux champignons, and indulged in champagne. The bubbles played on my tongue, relaxing me despite my discomfort.

  Alexandre sat to my right, enthralling our guests with his discourse. How could I add to their discussions? I knew nothing of theater gossip or the royals’ abuse of privileges. The feel of black earth between my toes, the scent of rain on hibiscus blossoms, and the magic of tarot—this was my well of knowledge. I blithely smiled or nodded when appropriate, certain my eyes were glazed over.

  I glanced at my empty flute. When the servant arrived with the tray of champagne, I took two glasses. Before long, giddiness coursed through my limbs and I forgot my isolation.

  When the music began, Alexandre took my arm. “Darling wife.” He kissed my forehead. “Shall we dance?”

  Wife. I am a wife. I smiled at the warmth in his eyes. “Yes!” How I missed dancing.

  Everyone formed two parallel lines for a quadrille, thankfully a dance I knew well. Alexandre stood across from me and nodded. We met in the middle, palm to palm, and twirled to the rhythm of the music.

  I held my breath as our eyes locked, our hands touched. The heat of his skin made me blush.

  “You’re blushing, Madame de Beauharnais. And it suits you. You’re lovely.”

  A thought of our wedding bed flashed behind my eyes. My stomach quivered in excitement and nerves; my neck burned. Perhaps I’d had too much champagne.

  I slid to my spot in line and hiccupped. A giggle erupted in my throat and I missed the next step of the dance. I laughed at my idiocy.

  Alexandre shot me a grim expression. “Rose,” he whispered in an angry voice as our shoulders met in the middle, “behave like a lady, please. No more champagne.”

  “Isn’t that what a wedding is for? Merriment?” I hiccupped again. “I am the bride, after all.”

  “You are the fool with your sputtering and stumbling. You’ll sit out the next dance.”

  “I don’t need a break,” I slurred.

  He stiffened. When the song ended, he led me to an uncomfortable chair.

  “I’m not finished . . . d-dancing.” My tongue was too thick to form proper syllables.

  He straightened his jacket and stood erect. “Stop this embarrassment. You’re drunk.”

  “Oh, silly man.” I waved a hand at him in dismissal. “Don’t be offended. I’m the guest of honor. I’ll do as I please. No one even knows I’m here.” The absurdity of my words did not sink in.

  He paced away.

  Was he serious? I stared after him in disbelief as he joined a crowd of gentlemen.

  A cloud of melancholy enveloped me as the hours ticked by. Alexandre ignored me. He glided across the floor, an exquisite dancer with lithe movements. Every man looked on in envy. Women admired him, adoration and lust on their countenances. My temples pounded and jealousy sickened me. But I was Madame de Beauharnais. No other could claim him.

  Still Alexandre did not invite me to dance.

  Stupid girl, I berated myself.

  When I could no longer bear his disregard, I said my good nights and went to my room. A white nightdress lay on the edge of my bed. I stroked the smooth fabric. I would apologize and he would forgive me, and I would forgive him.

  “Mimi?” I called through the door. “I need your help.”

  She rushed into the room and helped me undress. I stepped into a circle of fabric. Folds of satin cascaded from a bustier adorned with ribbons and lace. My bosom bulged into fleshy mounds.

  “Sweet Lord, Yeyette. You’re going to drive him mad.” She tied the last of the ribbons.

  I scooped her hands to my chest. “I am afraid.”

  “It’s natural,” she said. “But you’ll be just fine. You may even like it, if he’s gentle.”

  I kissed her cheek. Excitement tingled in my belly. I would no longer be a maid. If my darling Guillaume in Fort-Royal had had his way, I would have been spoiled on a balmy evening long ago. In this moment, I was glad I had resisted.

  I sat on the edge of the bed to wait. I chewed my nails. Such a horrible habit, Maman said. I sat on my hands, but my feet twitched.

  I jumped up and paced. What could be taking him so long?

  An hour passed and the champagne enveloped me in a tired haze. I climbed between the burgundy sheets and closed my heavy lids. I would rest while I waited.

  He would take me in his arms. All would be well.

  Alexandre did not come that night. Nor the next, or the next.

  Marriage

  Noisy-le-Grand, 1780–1782

  I didn’t see Alexandre until a week later, just before dawn. He climbed into bed, clumsy, his cheeks rosy from the fine brandy he adored.

  “Where have you been?” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

  “Busy with my garrison, darling. We’ve had many drills of late. But I’m here now.”

  I wanted to shout my frustration. How dare he leave me alone on my wedding night! I had dressed in my nightgown each evening since, but he never came. I pressed my lips together and rolled away, giving him my back.

  His hand cupped my shoulder, slid down my arm, and rested on the curve of my waist. A delicious sensation tingled under the trail of his fingertips in spite of my anger.

  “I’ve missed your sweet face,” he purred in my ear. His slurring had evaporated.

  “You have a strange way of showing it.”

  “Shh.” He put a finger to my lips. “I’m bringing you to one of the best known salons in all of Paris next week.” His silky voice could charm a serpent.

  My resolve melted. “Really?” I turned to face him.

  He quieted me with an urgent kiss. His hands slipped over the fluid fabric of my nightdress until he found an opening. I gasped at his touch, a fire smoldering below.

  Alexandre sensed my change of heart and threw back the covers. “I want to see you.” He tugged the shift over my head.

  I blushed at my nakedness and lay perfectly still.

  Alexandre caressed my shoulders softly, my breasts and stomach, and finally the triangle of dark hair.

  A moan escaped my lips. I blushed again at my body’s response to him.
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  “The scent of your skin.” He inhaled and took my nipple in his mouth.

  I surrendered to his heat, and wrapped myself around him.

  Sometime later, I dozed to sleep, warm and nestled in his arms.

  Alexandre slipped into bed in the hours before dawn, slept much of the day, and stole away into the night without a word. If he came home at all. During his brief visits, he whispered proclamations of love and soothed my resentment at his absence with gifts. I treasured the baubles and showed enthusiasm for the books he shared. I tried to forgive him for the days he did not return home.

  One afternoon, I sat at the cherry desk in the study. A long week of lessons without company had left me dejected. I sighed and thumbed through the pages of a dull novel. A vision of Catherine shimmered in my memory, my sister hunched over the desk in our shared bedchamber, reading about centuries past as her candle burned to the quick.

  One such evening, Papa had knocked at our door.

  “Come in,” I called, shifting my position on the bed. Manette squirmed while I plaited her hair.

  “Young ladies, it’s time to put out your candles.”

  “But Papa, I am at the best part,” Catherine complained.

  He kissed her on the head. “My little bookworm. You make a father proud. Have you done your day’s reading, Rose?”

  I tied Manette’s braid with a strip of cloth. “Well . . .”

  He gave me a stern look. “Catherine is younger and yet surpasses you in your studies. A gentleman will never want you at this rate.”

  I ducked my head. He scolded me so often, one would think I’d have grown accustomed to it. I had not. I wanted to toss my sister’s book into the fireplace.

  Guilt swam in the pit of my stomach. I hated myself for my envy, for the hateful thoughts that crept in when I thought of those days. I looked down again and the pages blurred. Catherine had been the better choice for Alexandre’s wife. I pushed the thought away.

  She couldn’t be anyone’s wife.

  I closed the book and ran my finger along its spine. La Nouvelle Héloïse. I had wrestled with its dense intrigue all week. I tossed the abominable book on the shelf with a thud. Rousseau could not be that important.

  “You throw down Rousseau! Have you finished it?” Alexandre’s voice startled me. I whipped around in my chair.

  “Yes,” I lied. “I don’t see what is so great about him.” Spite dripped from my tongue. It would anger him if I challenged his favorite philosopher and writer. I relished the opportunity. I had tired of his constant lessons and haughty opinions, never mind his continued absence.

  “You’re insupportable! How can you not see his genius? His theories of—”

  “Please, Alexandre. I’ve just read his work for two hours. Can we speak of something else?” I was in no mood for another monologue.

  “Fine.” The muscle in his jaw twitched. “What would you prefer to talk about?”

  “The court.” I sat on the divan and moved to make room for him. “Queen Marie Antoinette, her ladies, the elaborate balls. How lavish they must be! We are nobility, are we not?” I took his hand in mine as he sat beside me. “I’ve dreamed of the court since I was a girl. Would you . . . could we solicit an invitation? I have a proper gown. I’ve been learning etiquette with my tutor. I’m a splendid dancer, as are you. We would make a lovely addition to the court, don’t you think?”

  “You wish for me to escort you to Versailles?” His eyes bulged like those of a frog trapped in a little boy’s hand. “As if anyone would allow you at court!” He dissolved into laughter.

  My irritation returned. “What do you mean?”

  “It isn’t as easy as that”—he snapped his fingers—“to obtain invitations. And you would be hideous in the presence of royalty.”

  I dropped his hand as if I’d touched a leper. “You needn’t be mean.”

  “You haven’t the slightest idea how much breeding courtiers have endured to become so refined.”

  I lowered my eyes. Perhaps not, but I could learn their manners. How difficult could it be?

  His expression softened. “Why don’t you choose something to wear tonight? We’re going to the salon I promised. We’ll leave at eight o’clock.” He kissed my cheek and strutted from the room.

  I studied the silk rug. I would go to court, I vowed. I would mingle with nobility, with or without Alexandre. But first I must make friends. I would begin tonight.

  I took extra pains to be beautiful for our evening together. Pale pink and yellow flowers scrolled in dainty webs across the bodice of my gown. I arranged my hair in a cascade of curls adorned with flowers. I glanced at my clock: five minutes before eight. Perfect. I swished from the room in a cloud of flowery perfume to look for Alexandre.

  I knocked at his bedroom door. “Alexandre?” No answer.

  I scooted down the staircase as quickly as my skirts would allow. “Alexandre? I’m ready.”

  Silence.

  Where was everyone? I popped into the sitting room, into the empty study, and into the front hall. I climbed the stairs to find Désirée and inquire as to his whereabouts.

  “She has gone to dinner with friends,” her maid said.

  “Have you seen Alexandre?”

  “He left while you were bathing, Madame de Beauharnais. He did mention flowers.”

  I smiled. He must regret our squabble.

  For an hour I watched carriages file down our narrow street, wheels thundering over cobblestone. I grew angry, then worried, and angry again.

  Another hour passed.

  My hope cracked in a hundred places. At last, I raced upstairs and slammed the bedroom door. I kicked my shoes across the room. I had dressed for nothing! The flowers had not been for me at all.

  Alexandre punished me with his absence, with his sequestering me to a life without social engagements or friends. I busied myself with letters to Maman, promenades through the city’s gardens, and shopping. Rainy days found me indoors reading to Monsieur Ennui, plucking my harp, or playing cards with Mimi, though Désirée scolded me for the latter.

  “Servants do not consort with their masters,” she insisted.

  “Really, Désirée, Mimi is more than a servant,” I said in defiance. She was my confidante, a beacon of home.

  Désirée threw me a weary glance. “And do not touch your hair. You will have to curl it over again. Ladies do not fidget.”

  I sighed in exasperation as she skirted from the room. Mimi smothered a laugh.

  “You’re much more than a slave, my friend.” I kissed her strong brown hand.

  Her eyes filled with love. “I know. Since we was girls.”

  “Thank God for you.” Life would be unbearable without her.

  One frigid winter evening I huddled in bed remembering Papa’s tales of Paris. What I wouldn’t give to be admired, influential at the court he had described, to have a life, a real life in the city. How different Paris was . . . my husband. . . .

  My tears soaked the satin pillows. I had prayed feverishly to leave Martinique, for adventure and love, but here I lay, lamenting a life I could not abide. What man would not wish to sleep in the warmth of his love’s embrace? He had told me he loved me many times.

  A rapping at the door startled me. I sat up.

  “Rose?” Another knock. “May I come in?”

  Before I answered, Fanny barged through the door. She glowed, a cheerful orb of gold taffeta, her rouge as thick as ever.

  “Fanny.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and sniffed. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re going out with me, chérie. A friend of mine, Madame de Condorcet, is hosting a salon. Let’s get you dressed.”

  “But—”

  “No time to waste. Up, up!”

  Mimi had heard the commotion from the hall and entered the
bedroom. She threw open my armoire and sorted through my gowns. “Time to get on with things, Yeyette.”

  Yes, time to get on with things. Alexandre be damned.

  I leapt from the bed and threw my arms around Fanny’s neck. “Thank you for coming!”

  “No more tears.” She patted me on the back. “That wretched husband of yours isn’t taking very good care of you, is he, love? Arrogant ninny! One never needs a husband. I left mine long ago.”

  My mouth fell open in shock. “I didn’t realize you and François—”

  “I have no use for my husband’s views.”

  I threw her an admiring glance. How brave Fanny was.

  “I’ll just wait for you outside.” She closed the door behind her.

  Mimi helped me into the lustrous green gown I had yet to wear. A quick pinning of my hair with Maman’s pearl combs and I stepped into the night.

  When we arrived, a servant escorted us through a row of beribboned evergreen topiaries to the entrance. The house in which Madame de Condorcet lived did not impress in size, but it possessed a charm, as did Sophie herself. I admired her intelligence and accomplishments. I did not share her desire to write for publication or give fine speeches on the King’s taxation, though if I could be as accomplished a lady as she, I would be happy.

  Fanny guided me through circles of people. I participated as best I could, repeating opinions I had heard about the popular Encylopédie or the Queen’s latest hat. Mostly, I observed. Parisian women presented an incredible study, their gestures theatrical and conversations dramatic. A slight tilt of the head, a gleam in the eye led gentlemen their way. I made a mental note to practice their expressions.

  After an aperitif, Sophie de Condorcet signaled the start of a play. I selected a seat next to several women with powdered poufs. I pitied the souls who sat behind them—they wouldn’t see a thing behind the towering wigs.