Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 6

  “You cannot go out unescorted!” Désirée rushed down the staircase.

  “I can and I will!”

  Her mouth clapped shut as the servants scattered. Within moments, my carriage was speeding through the quartier.

  The solitary flame I had held—the hope that Alexandre would forget the others as our love grew with our child—fizzled as if quelled by icy water.

  I rode, unseeing, for an hour until the Seine came into view. The river soothed in its swirling currents, coursing around each bend, never still. I hated myself for every hot tear I wept for him. Alexandre loved no one but himself.

  The tunnel of winter loomed dark and bleak, intensifying my malaise. Yearning throbbed under my skin. What I wouldn’t give to be home, to raise Eugène with my parents, my friends, and cousins. My son grew into his chubby arms and legs and toddled through the house. Soon he would no longer be a baby, and my family had missed it all.

  “The bunny is going to catch you.” I made the animal hippity-hop near Eugène’s face. He giggled in his delicious baby way. “Here he comes.” I crouched on the chilly floor, chasing him with the caramel-colored animal until my knees protested.

  When I left the house, I drowned my loneliness in new hats, shoes with shiny buckles, toys for Eugène, and sugary treats for Désirée. The merchants knew me by name.

  “Bonjour, Madame de Beauharnais. Can I interest you in this gown? It mimics the latest style by Rose Bertin. The Queen owns a dozen,” Monsieur Caulin would say.

  We could not afford gowns from Mademoiselle Bertin herself. A copy would have to do. “Perhaps in blue,” I said.

  The sanctity of a boutique helped me forget the hollow in my chest, if only for measured moments. I spent every penny Alexandre gave and accrued a stack of bills charged to his name. Guilt gnawed but I could not stop spending.

  Exhaustion seeped into my bones. The earthy scent of coffee and the odor of charred meat turned my stomach, and by the second week of nausea I knew—I was with child again.

  “We’ll need to do the birth ritual again,” Mimi said, tucking the sheets on my bed. She had slathered my arms with a soil paste and sacrificed eggs in the fire pit to ensure Eugène’s health.

  “Tonight?” I pulled back the drapes, bathing the room in gold. Once-invisible dust whirled in the shaft of sunlight over Mimi’s head.

  “Oui. Have you told your husband?”

  “No.” I slipped an earring in the shape of a daisy through the tiny hole in my ear. “What does he care? He’s not even here.”

  “He loves Eugène.”

  “I told Maman in my last letter. He can hear the news from her.” To withhold my sentiments, to share nothing with him, was my only card left to play.

  Alexandre’s condescension in his letters strengthened my resolve not to write him.

  “Excuse me, Vicomtesse de Beauharnais. The post has arrived.”

  I nodded to the butler and scooped the missive from his hands. “It’s from your papa,” I said to Eugène, patting his head. He gurgled as I turned the crinkled paper over and sighed. “I suppose we should see what he has to say.”

  February 25, 1783

  Ma chère Rose,

  My commanding officer does not allow me to join our fleets that ward off the attacking British. I am frustrated by my lack of active service, and spend my days in your parents’ home. I had forgotten the sweltering heat and discomforts of Martinique. I don’t know how you tolerated the insects or the indolence! Progress never happens here. Now I understand why you arrived in such a pitiful state when we first met.

  I am discouraged to have had no letters from you. Do you care so little for your husband? I wallow in malaise on this God-forsaken island and long for news from my dear wife, for her comforting words. Can you find no kindness for me in your shriveled heart?

  Yours,

  Alexandre

  I shredded his letter and tossed the pieces into the air. Eugène swatted at the paper as it fluttered like snowflakes to the floor. Maman would be appalled to know he abused the reputation of her home. Thankless, cruel man! I found revenge in my letters to Maman. I knew she would read them aloud.

  Her reply did not surprise me. Maman believed a woman’s duty was to her husband, regardless of his faults.

  March 10, 1783

  Ma chère Rose,

  I am delighted you are expecting your second child! I didn’t realize you had not told Alexandre. He flew into a tantrum when I read your letter aloud. He is vexed by your lack of contact. Darling, he is your husband. You owe him courtesy, despite his shortcomings.

  Alexandre does not enjoy his time here and has moved in with your uncle Tascher. In truth, Papa and I grew tired of his complaints and we’re glad he is gone. Désirée told me what has happened between you two. I hope your tender heart has not suffered too much.

  The slaves ask after you, as does your sister. Manette misses you a great deal, especially since her fever. She is scarred, poor thing, and remains very weak. She will never again be beautiful. I fear she may never marry. Time will tell.

  How is our beloved Eugène? I trust he is well. I am told he has his father’s eyes and your good nature.

  I regret we are able to send you only a little money. We are struggling to pay our debts—your Papa even labors in the fields some days. I hope Alexandre’s sums keep you comfortable.

  We miss you and send our love.

  Maman

  Alexandre’s financial support? Ha! He had sent little, abandoning me and his children in every way—as a lover, as a father, and as a provider. I tied the letter with twine and stashed it in a drawer. Désirée had paid my bills for months and could not afford them much longer. I laid my face on the smooth surface of the desk. What was I to do?

  One spring afternoon, Eugène and I strolled through a park near our house. I watched my son as he wobbled in his unstable way, tripping on tufts of grass. The heavy load around my middle prevented me from playing cache-cache behind the bushes the way he wanted. When he sat in the grass to watch a family of beetles, I slipped my hand into the pocket of my woolen riding coat. My fingers brushed the crumpled edges of a letter. Alexandre persisted in correspondence despite my continued silence. I sighed and tore it open.

  September 10, 1783

  Rose,

  How could you keep your happy news from me lest you had conceived another man’s child? You behave like a whore in my absence, while I am away at war, protecting your family and your beloved home. Have you no conscience? How can you call yourself a dutiful wife? You are without remorse and incapable of repentance. Your comportment is abhorrent. You are a cold and vile creature, caring for only yourself!

  You must quit your affairs at once. Your duty is to Eugène and to my father, to Désirée and above all to me, your husband! I shall return this summer and I expect there to be no signs of another man’s presence in my home.

  Yours,

  Alexandre

  His dramatic sniveling was absurd. The very idea of another man in my bed! I knew few and rarely attended any salons. I shoved the offensive letter back into my pocket.

  “Papa loves you, Eugène,” I said. And despises me, I thought as I tugged the corners of my son’s little hat.

  I gave birth to a baby girl in April, a week earlier than expected. Her violet eyes matched those I had seen in my dreams. Two children in less than two years and it felt a lifetime.

  My little Hortense did not possess an easy temperament, and her thin frame worried both Désirée and me.

  “You must hire a wet nurse,” the doctor recommended, “until the baby gains strength and a little more weight.”

  Her form improved, though she was never an easy child like her brother. Her belly seemed perpetually upset and her cries often kept me from sleeping.

  Spring evolved into summer. One radiant afternoon the
children and I had settled in for repose when the post arrived. I sprang from bed and rushed down the staircase. A letter from Maman.

  June 1, 1784

  My Darling Rose,

  I hope beautiful little Hortense is well, and my dear Eugène. I would love to meet them both before they have grown too much. Promise to visit soon.

  As for your industrious husband, I have difficult news to share. Alexandre has officially taken up with Laure de Longpré, despite his many lovers. He is shameless! Everyone speaks of it here.

  I am sorry to say my news worsens from there. Your uncle Tascher overheard Laure denouncing the legitimacy of baby Hortense. She calls your daughter a bastard. Your uncle was outraged and asked Laure and Alexandre to leave his home.

  Still, Laure continues to sully your name. She seeks proof of your indecency with men when you lived at home to validate your “unsavory history” before you were married. I imagine she hopes Alexandre may separate from you without having to support you financially. I am furious, but relieved to hear that those who know you validate your innocence.

  Against my wishes, Alexandre visited us again, though only briefly. Your father discovered him attempting to bribe the slaves to slander your name. The fool did not realize the slaves loved you and would protect your honor. Your Papa banished Alexandre from our home for good.

  This is the first I have been glad you are far away, taking care of yourself.

  Alexandre will leave for France in two months’ time, or so he said. I pray he treats you respectfully upon his return. Remember you always have a home with your family, who love and cherish you, should you decide to leave him.

  Please give my grandchildren my love.

  Love Always,

  Maman

  Outrageous! My face grew hot with humiliation. How could he diminish me without cause, belittle our family’s name? A bitter laugh escaped my lips. He couldn’t doubt the father of our child. I knew no other men!

  Later that evening, I reread the dreadful letter by firelight as rain pattered on the eaves of the house. A knot of cold resolve formed in my chest. Let him have Laure. In fact, they deserved each other. But what next for me? I reached for my tarot cards and emptied them from their pouch. It had been too long since I had consulted them.

  I shuffled the cards and divided the deck into three. The pile in the middle beckoned. I scooped them up and laid them in a familiar pattern on the floor, then turned them over, one by one.

  The Fool—a spiritual card. The search for meaning, without reservation. Two of Rods—a journey, a new beginning. And the third card—the Chariot, for courage.

  Embers smoldered in the fire pit. Soon, I would be plunged into darkness.

  I would not be Alexandre’s pawn a moment longer.

  Renaissance

  Penthémont, Paris, 1784–1785

  “I must go, Désirée.” I sorted through an array of gowns in a boutique near Les Halles. “I’ve done nothing to warrant Alexandre’s hatred. I’ve grown tired of his abuse.”

  “Oh, Rose!” She forgot her finely pressed lace collar and crushed me against her breast. The scent of orange blossom surrounded me in a cloud. “You must weather Alexandre’s faults. It will be too difficult on your own. And we will miss you and the children.”

  “I’m humiliated! He slanders my name.” I pulled away. “I live in isolation and grief.” I saw no need to tell her that my dreams had been shattered. It would only upset her more.

  “The law does not protect women accused of adultery, whether it is true or false,” she said. “He can apply to the magistrate to withhold your financial support. You must proceed with caution, my dear.”

  “I’m not sure where I will go.” I tried to control my rising panic. The money from my parents would not be enough to support us. I plunked down on a footstool by the dressing partition.

  “You don’t have to leave. Stay with us.” She squeezed my hands in hers.

  “I cannot. We will visit, though I don’t know where—” My voice cracked.

  “Many ladies in your predicament move to a convent. Until their situations improve. The nuns offer apartments at discounted rates.”

  I considered living among other women, all starting over in their lives. Their friendships, the solace of a convent.

  I stood. “Then that’s where I’ll go.”

  Strange I should be so relieved to pack my things. To become the master of my own life elevated my mood. I would never give myself fully again—I could not risk such abuse of my heart, of my loyalty for a man.

  Fanny came to my aid when she heard the news.

  “Take this.” She placed an envelope in my hand and wrapped her fingers around mine. “It’ll help you get on your feet.”

  “What is it?” I opened the envelope. Several hundred livres were tucked inside. “Fanny! You don’t have to do this.”

  “You’ll need it and I have it to give. You forget I make my own money with my letters.” She embraced me. “You’re welcome in my home at any time.”

  “Thank you.” I kissed my only friend. “One day”—I hugged her package to my chest—“I will repay you in multitudes.”

  It was a tearful parting from Désirée and the Marquis; living with their grandchildren had livened their home. I promised to visit often. Within two weeks, the children, Mimi, and I were looking from the third-story window of our new apartment at Penthémont, a convent on the rue de Grenelle.

  A square courtyard housed a frozen garden scattered with stone benches for prayer or conversation. In the corner opposite our wing, a statue of the Blessed Virgin stretched out her hands as if to disperse seed to the pigeons pecking near her pedestal.

  Mimi squeezed my hand in reassurance. “We’ll get on.”

  I nodded. I would see to it.

  The convent teemed with women of every age and state—religious, noble, and bourgeois. I had not anticipated so many seeking solace from failed marriages, estranged families, or lost homes. By the end of my first week, I had grown more at ease and mingled with others. One evening, I left the children in Mimi’s care to join the ladies for supper.

  I selected a place at the table near a cluster of women who spoke in animated tones.

  “It’s obvious he adores you. Won’t you consider spending an evening with him?” a brunette with rounded features asked. Her gray dress and mobcap did little to enhance her beauty, but her demeanor exuded vitality. I liked her instantly.

  A striking woman enrobed in russet silk fluttered her lambskin fan. Its delicate surface exhibited a scene of dancers on a verdant landscape beneath a red montgolfière, a hot air balloon. “He has no fortune,” she said. “He couldn’t support my shoe habit.”

  Everyone laughed.

  A servant rang a bell to announce the first course. More servants filled our bowls with a clear broth that smelled of onion. I watched Marie-Josèphe as she handled her serviette and sipped daintily from her spoon with perfect grace. Other ladies replicated her movements. I adjusted the cutlery in my hands to mimic their style. Must be a proper lady—words echoed from my absent husband. A proper lady I shall be.

  Anne turned to me. “You are new here. Welcome.” She gave me an amicable smile. “I am Anne and this is Marie-Josèphe, Duchesse de Beaune.”

  The following three evenings, Anne invited me to join them. I had made my own friends at last, though they could not be more different from one another.

  One bitter winter day, I drank tea while Anne baked. The scent of sugar and cinnamon hung in the air.

  “Plum or currants? I could eat one whole.”

  “Plum in some, pear in others.” She fished in the oven with a long-handled wooden peel and pulled out several tarts. “Parfait.”

  “Do you have any living relatives, Anne?” I added a dollop of honey to my tea.

  “Just the one cousin.” She slid th
e fragrant pies onto the wood-block countertop to cool.

  Anne’s father had died of consumption the year before, leaving his prized bakery to the only male relative. Her devastation seeped into her voice when she mentioned it.

  “So there is no way you can obtain your own shop?”

  “Do you know any women who own a bakery?” She removed her apron. “Well I shall be the first!” Anne sewed, washed clothes, and sold her fine pastries. She saved every sou and kept careful contact with would-be customers. She had even designed her own seal. Her determination amazed me. “Would you like to come today? I’m distributing bread to the poor.”

  I hesitated. Seeing poverty left me in profound despair. The unwashed faces and sickly children.

  “I’m not sure I am prepared for it, Anne. They detest us in our finery. I—”

  “They’re grateful, not angered with those who help them,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll see.”

  An hour later, I found myself stuffed in a fiacre with Anne and sacks of leftover food. The sky turned silver-violet as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. A scruffy man dressed in black walked from lantern to lantern, opening their small panes of glass to pour oil inside. A flick of his wrist and the orange flame of a match glowed in the fading light. The coach slowed as we approached the Pont Neuf.

  “This is our stop,” Anne said.

  “Under the bridge?”

  We lugged sacks of stale bread to the walkway along the Seine. A horde of beggars dashed in our direction.

  “God bless you, Anne,” a woman cried, wiping her hands on her dirt-smudged overcoat before wrapping her arms around her benefactor.

  I stepped back as the woman’s rotten odor wafted in my direction. She reeked of old garbage. Other beggars followed and soon they surrounded us. They snatched the goods from our hands in haste, as if we might change our minds.

  The number of them! If only we had more to give—shoes and blankets, soap and firewood. An overwhelming helplessness engulfed me.