Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 5

  As everyone filed to their seats, a cloud of mingled odors permeated the space. Perfumes and pomades of lilac, rosewater, and orange blossom tickled my nose and I sneezed. The woman to my right didn’t speak, but revulsion twisted her features. I brought my handkerchief to my face and averted my eyes. Really, as if she never sneezed.

  A shuffle of bodies near the front of the makeshift theater caught my attention. Newcomers bustled in and moved to open seats, laughing as they went. I noted a pair of squared shoulders and a perfectly coiffed wig.

  My breath stopped. Alexandre.

  He scanned the curtain-draped room cluttered with palme-patterned settees before he selected a place in the row directly in front of me, two seats down from mine.

  My heart raced. He had not seen me.

  I couldn’t focus on the farce about the King and his downtrodden subjects. I fixated on the back of Alexandre’s head.

  Should I approach him? He was my husband, after all. Or maybe I should pretend not to see him and engage myself elsewhere—show him I could manage alone.

  I jumped from my chair when the play ended, and I joined a group deep in conversation. Two ladies eyed me with suspicion and gave me no welcome. A gentleman told a story that made everyone laugh.

  I laughed along with the others as a hand tightened on my shoulder.

  “Rose?”

  I turned. “Alexandre, what are you doing here?” My voice was an octave too high. We kissed one another’s cheeks.

  Astonishment registered on his features. “I could ask you the same.” He glanced at my gown. “You’re stunning.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “I wanted to look my best for my friends.”

  “Your friends? Well, I’m pleased you have made some.”

  No thanks to you. I smiled sweetly.

  “Shall we ride home together later?”

  “That would be splendid. If I can get away, that is.”

  “Until then.” He grinned and disappeared into the crowd.

  He had seemed happy to see me. Suddenly cheerful, I said a silent prayer of thanks.

  My elation dissolved as Alexandre skirted the room, kissing the hands of every pretty lady, sweeping across the dance floor like a prince. Women did not seem to mind that his wife stood in the same room.

  My stomach roiled. I placed my glass on a footman’s tray and went in search of a washroom. Nausea surged as I left Alexandre whispering in the ear of a beautiful brunette. I closed the washroom door. Sweat beaded on my forehead. My pale expression stared back at me from a gilded mirror. The fish must have been rotten. I patted my face with cool water from the pitcher and leaned into the mirror. Powder ran in milky streams down my cheeks.

  Once my stomach settled, I powdered my face and rejoined the fete, pushing through the sea of faces to find Fanny. I couldn’t face another moment of humiliation. Fanny would understand. She stood near the refreshment table. I walked in her direction, until the acidic odor of alcohol hit me with force. I stopped abruptly.

  Oh, God. I covered my mouth with my hand.

  “Are you well?” Fanny raced toward me.

  “I think I ate something spoiled.”

  She wrapped an arm around me. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Our cloaks are in the study. This way.” We weaved through the hall and toward the back of the house, away from the din of voices and laughter.

  “Here it is.” Fanny opened the door to reveal three couples huddled in the dimly lit room, lost in one another’s embrace.

  We sorted through piles of overcoats, finding ours at last. I slipped into my own as a couple untangled themselves and sauntered to the door. The gentleman made eye contact with me and stopped.

  Alexandre.

  “You?” I whispered, mouth agape. What . . . who was she?

  “Leaving so soon? Well, good night, then.” He pushed past me, escorting his beautiful dark-haired companion.

  “Alexandre!”

  He didn’t turn but closed the door behind him.

  “Get me out of here,” I choked, clutching Fanny’s arm. “Tout de suite.”

  He had taken me in his arms, told me he loved me. Pain ripped through me, then fury. Why had he bothered endearing himself to me at all? A greasy wave of nausea swept up my throat. “I’m going to be sick.” I held my stomach.

  Fanny pushed me through the front door and into the garden. I leaned against a stone column for support and gasped in deep breaths.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear.” She dabbed my forehead with her handkerchief.

  “He said his garrison kept him away.” I groaned. “I should have known. Papa . . .”

  “Alexandre is . . . well, he’s always been this way. He has always had many lovers. I assumed you knew.”

  Another wave of regret crushed me. I was a blind, ignorant girl, just as Alexandre said.

  “Do not center your life or your happiness around your husband.” Fanny’s eyes met mine. “You must create your own.”

  My head felt as if it would explode. Anger and sorrow warred within. My marriage was everything I had known and nothing I had longed for.

  When my stomach had settled, I gave her a rueful smile and stood tall. “I will. I’ll do my wifely duties, but from now on, my life and happiness are my own.”

  Alexandre never gave me the chance to confront him. A month passed without my laying eyes on him. At last, I questioned Désirée in the garden.

  “I haven’t seen him in weeks,” I said to her. I bent to examine the crocuses pushing their way through sodden earth. Désirée did not need to see me upset. “I know about his liaisons.”

  She inspected the buds on a nearby branch. “Spring is here.” She released the branch. It bounced up and down as if thrilled by her proclamation. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Rose. I’m appalled he did not tell you himself.”

  I stood rapidly. A barrage of white dots flushed my vision. I put my hand to my head to steady myself. “What’s happened?”

  “Alexandre has gone to Italy on holiday. For several months, at least.”

  Alexandre wrote to me often from Italy, but I did not respond to his letters. I had little desire to please him. I yearned for Maman, in her cotton skirts, for her strong arms holding me. She did not trust men; Papa’s trysts had hurt her too many times. She would have plenty to say about Alexandre. What I wouldn’t give to be with her.

  I considered making the voyage home again, but Désirée pushed the idea from my mind.

  “Your place is with your husband. Alexandre will come around and you’ll make your own life here.”

  “He isn’t here. Why should I be?”

  “Give him time.”

  I grew ill and fatigued, spending hours in bed. Désirée worried at my lack of appetite and sent for a doctor. He arrived within the hour, toting his brown leather bag.

  “She has no fever or chills. Her fluids are normal.”

  “She rarely eats and when she does, she vomits,” Désirée said, her voice concerned.

  “And I’m so fatigued,” I added.

  “Well, Madame de Beauharnais, I have good news.” The doctor smiled. “You are with child.”

  My eyes widened in disbelief. I counted back the days. . . . Weeks had gone since my courses. “Mon Dieu! I’m pregnant?” My menses had been the furthest thing from my mind. In my sickened state and ill temperament I had forgotten it entirely.

  “Rose is pregnant?” Désirée smiled, her excitement plain.

  “Congratulations, madame. You are going to be a mother.”

  I collapsed backward onto my pillows. A mother! But I still felt like a child. And now I would be fastened to Alexandre’s side, dependent on him, the child’s father, always. I threw my arm across my eyes and groaned.

  A second thought brought a twinge of hope. I detested myself f
or caring, but I could not hide from my wish. Perhaps the news would bring Alexandre home.

  My nausea eased after several weeks, as did my astonishment at being with child. When Alexandre discovered the news, his letters came more frequently.

  April 12, 1781

  Ma très chère,

  I received word you are pregnant. Why should I learn this happy news from Désirée and not my darling wife? I wait for the post each day, but your letters do not come. I want to hear about the baby’s room and the gifts bestowed on him.

  I say “him,” for I know him to be a son and I am overjoyed!

  You must keep up with your studies. I receive weekly reports from your tutor to track your achievements. He says you make slow progress.

  Remember your standing amidst my friends and family. It will not do for you to display your ignorance.

  I will be home, mon amour, for the birth in the fall. Please take care of yourself.

  You know there is nothing more important to me than you, my perfect and sweet wife.

  Je t’embrasse,

  Alexandre

  Nothing more important, indeed. The beautiful phrases he wrote meant little. My tutor insisted I use the same flowery, false shows of affection.

  “Demonstrate your prowess at conversation, Rose. Say the phrase again. This time, use your wit. If you have none, be sweet,” Monsieur Ennui scolded.

  I read the letter once more. At least he would be home for the birth. Merci à Dieu. I would not—could not—raise our baby alone, and a child should know his father.

  Désirée and the Marquis thrilled at the prospect of Alexandre’s firstborn. Désirée had two stepsons but no children of her own. She took tremendous pleasure in purchasing rattles and linens.

  I marveled at my changing form, not recognizing the bulges beneath my clothes. I patted my rounded abdomen. The baby kicked at my hand.

  “I felt that, my little darling. Who will you be? Your maman already adores you.”

  Maman—I could not get used to my new title. Another layer of my womanhood.

  Fatigue plagued me and I slept as if in rapture. I dreamt of home often—my sisters and Maman in the garden, my fingers sticky with guava juice, the smell of salty air. I awoke many mornings in a daze.

  My pregnancy came to an end on a grueling September day. My room became a battleground of sweat-drenched sheets, bloodied water, and stained serviettes. I writhed in hot agony for a full day, the pain so intense I surrendered my humanity.

  A scream tore from my lips. “Get it out!” I clutched the midwife’s hand. “Please. I can’t do this.”

  “Mimi, open the window,” the midwife said with a calm I could not fathom.

  Mimi ripped the curtains aside and unfastened the latch. A breeze lifted the matted hair from my forehead.

  Another searing pain ripped through me.

  “Maman!” I cried. Desperate tears tumbled down my cheeks. “I want my mother.”

  Désirée patted my forehead, face, and neck with a cool cloth. “I’m here for you, Rose.”

  “Just a bit more, love,” the midwife said. “The head is crowning. You can do this.”

  I panted as the spasm seized my abdomen.

  “Breathe!” the midwife ordered.

  “Uuaaahhhh!” I pushed with all of my might, then dissolved in a coughing fit.

  “That’s it! One more,” the midwife coaxed, pushing my shoulders forward.

  I heaved from my core, pulling on the bedpost with what little strength remained.

  “That’s it, Rose. Yes!”

  I choked again and felt the warm rush of a tiny body leaving mine. I fell onto my pillows as the blessed sound of a baby’s cry pierced the air.

  “It’s a boy!”

  “A boy,” I whispered. My head rolled on my shoulders in exhaustion.

  The midwife wrapped his slick body in a cloth and rushed him to a basin of clean water.

  “Oh, Rose, he’s beautiful,” Désirée said.

  A small cry sounded from across the room. My limp hand reached for my baby. My son. “Let me hold him.”

  “You need my attention. You’ve suffered some tearing,” the midwife said.

  “I’ll get you a clean chemise.” Désirée left my baby with Mimi.

  The midwife and her nurse assistant tended my wounds and flushed my feverish skin with cool water. When my angelic son finally rested in my arms, I guided his tiny mouth to my breast.

  Désirée protested at once. “I’ve hired a wet nurse, Rose. It isn’t proper to feed him yourself. You forget your title.”

  “I will feed my child, Désirée. I do not care for convention in this matter. I’ve met others who have done the same.”

  She pursed her lips as I nestled into the bedcovers with my darling. I had made him. This perfect creature. I closed my weighted eyelids.

  I named my son Eugène. I gazed on his perfect face and petite fingers and toes for hours. Adoration filled my heart.

  Alexandre returned soon after Eugène’s birth.

  “Let me hold my son.” He caressed his face and coaxed a smile from the infant.

  He hardly let the boy out of his sight at first. I forgave him for everything as he showered our son with affection. We started again as if no woman had come between us, nor harsh words.

  Fatherhood suited my wayward husband. Alexandre waited on us, mother and child. He loved me; he loved our boy. During our days, we were a family. At night, he folded me in his arms.

  But our blissful months together ebbed as Alexandre’s ennui increased. He launched into political orations and ramblings about honor. I became bored with his military diatribes.

  “I am an honorable soldier in search of meaning! In search of justice! I must defend France from her enemies! Why have I not been stationed at war in the West Indies with my comrades? I, who champion the cause of the French?” he shouted, before collapsing onto the sofa in a fit of drunken snoring.

  He refused to escort me into town.

  “I’d like to join you this evening. I’d love to meet more lady friends,” I said, laying a flower guide on the table.

  “Not tonight. I am meeting someone.”

  Jealousy pricked beneath my skin. “Have you taken another lover?”

  “You must not make a fuss, Rose.” He tossed the cookie he had been nibbling into the fire. It burned white hot and turned to a blackened lump. “Mistresses are expected. If you weren’t so ignorant and ill-raised, you would understand that.”

  “How dare you!” I stood and crossed my arms. I understood perfectly, but I had believed in the possibility of love. Not with this man.

  “Rose,” he sighed, “I have loved you as well as any man could.”

  My mouth fell open as he jumped from his chair and stalked through the door.

  I avoided Alexandre for several days, spending much of my time with Eugène out of doors. One afternoon following a long morning walk, I readied Eugène for a nap.

  “Sleep well, my little cherub.” I kissed his chubby cheek and lowered him into a bassinet. As I tiptoed into the corridor, voices drifted from Désirée’s chamber. I paused to eavesdrop.

  “She’s so lonely. She craves his attention,” Désirée said.

  “La pauvre,” the Marquis replied. “She’ll have to find her own way.”

  “I feel guilty, somehow, for arranging the marriage. She’s such an agreeable girl.”

  Désirée’s voice dropped. I moved closer and strained to make out her next words. “Alexandre has too many lovers. He behaves like a rogue. I’ve spoken with him at length about his reputation.”

  I stiffened. Her words stung, though I knew them to be true.

  “And what of Laure de Longpré?” the Marquis asked. “Alexandre seems smitten with her. He supports their bastard child without question. Th
at woman uses him for his youth and money. But he will not listen to me.”

  “And now he plans to take her to Martinique,” Désirée said. “They left for port today.”

  The air left my lungs. I slumped to the floor.

  Abandoned

  Paris, 1782–1784

  “Rose! Are you all right?” Désirée rushed to assist me. She placed her arm behind my head. I had not fainted, but collapsed in shock. “I heard a thump in the corridor—”

  “A child with another woman?” I gasped. “She travels with him! That philandering con!”

  Sympathy filled Désirée’s eyes. She rubbed my shoulder. “Try not to upset yourself.”

  “Upset myself?” I glared. “I am not upsetting myself!” My voice rose to a scream. “Alexandre has a child with another woman! A woman he deserted me for! Now he takes her to my home?”

  A swell of heat crushed my chest. He had insulted me a thousand times! And worse, I would be left behind, unable to visit my family.

  Désirée pulled back in surprise. “How dare you raise your voice to me! He has not deserted you. He is stationed in Martinique.”

  Eugène’s muffled cries drifted through the corridor.

  “Merveilleux!” I shouted. Laure de Longpré had stolen his heart, had borne his child, and would parade my husband in front of my family and friends. I ground my teeth in rage. How dare she!

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway. “What happened?” Mimi asked.

  “Can you watch Eugène? I need some air.”

  Mimi read my expression. “Now, don’t lose your head, Yeyette.”

  “It’s too late for that!” I stormed from the corridor.

  My head boiled. My throat burned. I would love to torch his fancy uniforms, throw flames in his wig and watch it burn! I ripped the front door open and flew into the street, narrowly missing the sludge splashed by a racing coach.

  Merde! I stopped and peered down the narrow street. I could not go out on my own, at least not on foot. I retreated indoors, frustration choking me.

  “Ready the coach! I’m going for a drive. At once!” I shouted at no one in particular.