Becoming Josephine: A Novel Read online

  “That is all we have for now,” Anne shouted. “I will be back at the same time next week.”

  “God bless you. You’re an angel!” a woman shouted back.

  “Shall we go?” When Anne saw my expression she laughed and put her arm around me. “We’re helping as much as we can. That’s all that matters.”

  “There are so many! I had no idea.” Guilt flooded my heart. I had so much to be thankful for; my woes seemed inconsequential. I blushed at my own frivolity. I would join Anne each week to do my part, uncomfortable or not.

  “Can you imagine if we didn’t have Penthémont to go home to?” Anne said. “We would be among them.”

  I shuddered at the thought. Désirée could only help with my expenses for so long. I would need to find other means to support us soon.

  During the ride back to the convent, my head reeled. I must make my own money. I had only one skill worth something in my social circle. I smiled.

  My scheme unfolded at Fanny’s Thursday salon.

  “Tarot cards?” Fanny asked. “You little Creole witch. I love it.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner,” I said.

  I sat in the almost quiet corner behind a gold silk curtain, waiting for the lovesick, the ailing, and those in search of money.

  “Will I ever find love again?” a young woman asked, wistful.

  I hid my surprise. She could not be serious. Her sensuous beauty blossomed from every angle. Her emerald eyes sparkled with mischief, while her silvery blond hair formed an angelic halo. I would be shocked if every man in Paris did not love her.

  “A woman of your beauty must be loved already.” I smiled. “But we’ll consult the cards.”

  I drew the Devil, followed by the Lovers and the Hierophant.

  “You will celebrate love in abundance. But you must take caution, for your lust may result in your ruin.”

  “I knew it!” Claire squealed. “Jean loves me.”

  I laughed. She’d heard only the pieces she wished to hear. “I’m certain he does.”

  She placed the fee on the table. “Merci beaucoup. I’ll be back next week!”

  Later, as I prepared to leave for the evening, our paths crossed again.

  “Rose, are you a Creole? Your accent gives you away.”

  “I am from Martinique.” A servant helped me into my cloak.

  “And I, Guadeloupe.”

  “Your fair skin—I wouldn’t have guessed,” I said.

  “We moved to Paris when I was nine for my schooling and to be near court.”

  “Court? I long to attend!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have enough influence to secure an invitation for you. But I’ll be attending a soiree hosted by a duchess friend of mine next week. Would you care to join me?”

  “I would be honored!”

  I smiled. It was time I ventured among the nobility.

  Claire and I became fast friends, and many nights I accompanied her to popular salons. On more than one occasion I found her in a closed parlor, locked in a passionate embrace with her lover’s hand in her décolletage. I teased her for her caprice in love, though I admired her passion. How I wished I could release my own bitterness. But I was in no hurry to be made a fool again.

  Through Claire and Marie-Josèphe, my circle of friends expanded. My evening schedule filled and my confidence grew. Men began to dote on me as I treated them with the playful disregard I had learned from Claire.

  “Can I get you a drink, madame?” a gentleman asked at a ball.

  “Merci, but Monsieur Tautou is bringing me one now. Perhaps later.” I smiled and sauntered away.

  “I’m going to the opera tomorrow evening,” another monsieur said. “I’d be honored if you would accompany me.”

  “Thank you. I will send word if I am able,” I said coyly, leaving him to guess my response until the last possible moment. I would hold the reins.

  One evening I attended a play with Marie-Josèphe. She had obtained our seats through her current lover, Monsieur Cotillion, a patron of the theater.

  “I wish my gown did not accentuate my shoulders. I look like a square,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “Don’t be silly.” I removed my cloak. “You’re stunning.”

  We wore the newly fashionable English muslin dresses that resembled those I had worn in Martinique—the very style for which Alexandre had mocked me my first years in Paris. Their flowing, unencumbered skirts, cap sleeves, and heightened waists flattered my breasts and willowy arms. Ladies no longer suffered the hoops and restrictive corsets of formal brocades. A painting of Queen Marie Antoinette in an informal, flowing gown and straw hat had changed the fashions completely.

  A wave of guilt washed over me. I’d had to borrow from Désirée to purchase my latest gown. My fortune-telling had not generated as much as I had hoped. My spending habits did not help.

  Marie-Josèphe never questioned my spending. “The company we keep is the key to leaving Penthémont,” she said, “to secure your status, to find a lover’s support outside these walls. We must be beautiful and well dressed. It is a woman’s greatest weapon.”

  A woman’s greatest weapon was expensive. Remorse set in as bill notes filled the top drawer of my desk.

  We settled into our seats, our view of the stage unobstructed.

  “Would you like to use a lorgnette?” Marie-Josèphe extended a set of eyeglasses on a long, thin handle made of silver and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  “Don’t you want to use them?” I turned the glasses over in my hands. “These are beautiful.”

  “I have another pair.” She pulled an equally beautiful set from her beaded bag. “I refuse to attend the theater without them. You can see the expressions on the players’ faces.”

  I peered through them and gasped. “I can make out the flower stems on the ceiling mural. Oh! And the ladies’ jewelry in the first rows. Look at the ruby pins in her hair! Divine.”

  She laughed. “Now you won’t watch a show without them either.”

  I studied the crowd as we waited for the play to begin. Lovers leaned together. Friends gossiped, raven and blond heads bobbing as they gestured. Thankfully, wheat hair powder was no longer à la mode.

  “Very few men are wearing wigs these days. Have you noticed?” I asked.

  “I prefer the wigs, myself.”

  “Not I. I like to see their natural coloring. And I’m perfectly happy to be rid of hair powder.”

  “The Queen still uses it, I hear.” Marie-Josèphe leaned to my ear so our neighbors would not hear her. “She is criticized for her opulence.”

  “But isn’t that the Queen’s duty? To entertain the nobility in finery?” I didn’t understand the hatred directed at such a poised and elegant woman. She had done nothing but fulfill the expectations associated with her position. “She must be lonely.”

  “Why would you think such a thing?” Marie-Josèphe looked surprised. “She is surrounded by ladies and maids.”

  “In a country that is not her own, without family or friends. Without those who know her heart.”

  She laughed. “You are a romantic, dear Rose.”

  Not a romantic, but a woman made to start again after leaving all behind. I felt sympathy for Her Majesty. I heard she escaped the palace as often as possible.

  To be a queen would not be so grand.

  When the comédie concluded Marie-Josèphe and I weaved through the gathered crowd in the vestibule. She introduced me to acquaintances, many of whom invited us for supper. That’s when I saw him, his arm laced through one of a pretty woman. I gripped Marie-Josèphe’s arm.

  “What is it?” she asked. “You’re arresting the blood in my arm.”

  “It’s my husband! I don’t want him to see me.”

  Alexandre turned as if by command. My hea
rt pounded as he scanned the room, looking for someone.

  “Which one?” Marie-Josèphe asked. “The black coat or the blue?”

  “The blue.” I gulped. What would I say to him?

  His eyes locked on my face. Recognition lit his features, followed by embarrassment and finally guilt. Like a naughty schoolboy.

  I turned to a male acquaintance on my right and gave him my hand. The gentleman kissed it lightly and smiled, encouraged by the brief contact. Let Alexandre see how I had changed. No longer did I appear unkempt or unsure of myself, thanks to my lady friends. I had observed and adopted their every mannerism.

  Alexandre’s stare burned into the side of my face.

  I turned again.

  Melancholy reflected in his eyes. He wasn’t happy. Good. He had estranged himself from his family with his wretched behavior. I yearned to yell at him, to scold him for shattering my heart and destroying my trust. How he had belittled me! My fury mounted and I turned a final time.

  He had gone.

  Seeing Alexandre had rattled my nerves. Against my will, I searched for his face at every outing. He owed me an apology and his children a visit. Still, I detested myself for thinking of him at all.

  One cold spring day, I sipped a cup of warmed chocolate while Eugène played with his soldier figurines and Hortense slept. A rapping at the door interrupted our peaceful afternoon.

  The door flew open before Mimi reached it.

  I spilled my chocolate in surprise. “What in the world?” I set down my cup and jumped to my feet.

  My crazed husband rushed toward Eugène. The acrid smell of brandy surrounded him.

  “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, shocked at his intrusion. “You aren’t welcome here. Please leave!”

  “I’m taking my son home where he belongs.” Alexandre scooped Eugène into his arms and bolted for the door.

  “You’re drunk, Alexandre! Put him down at once!”

  “Maman, Maman!” Eugène wailed, extending his arms to me.

  Alexandre pounded down the stairs. “He needs his father!”

  “You’re scaring him! He doesn’t know you!” I stumbled after him, across the courtyard and into the street. “Stop this! You can’t take a boy from his mother!”

  When he reached the hired coach at the edge of the drive, he chucked Eugène inside.

  Panic constricted my chest.

  “What are you doing?” I yanked his arm with all my strength. “He’s only three. Alexandre, please!”

  “I am his father. I have every right to take him to a stable home, better than this”—he waved his free hand—“pathetic place. Let go of me!” He pushed me, sending me backward into a slushy puddle.

  I landed on my rear, soaking my skirts. “I hate you!” Hot tears stung my eyes.

  “Maman!” Eugène’s little voice cried.

  Alexandre slammed the door. The carriage pulled away into the unwieldy flow of traffic.

  I ran after them, thin shoes slipping on patches of ice, until they disappeared from view. “He took my son! I hate you!” I choked through the rushing tears. “He took my son!”

  I stood shivering in the street while pedestrians passed. What in the name of God had made him do such a thing? How would I get Eugène back?

  A nun had witnessed the horrible scene and rushed to my side. I fell into her arms.

  “My dear,” Sister Lucille said, “you will catch your death. Let’s find some dry clothes.” She patted my face with her handkerchief and led me to my apartment.

  When I saw Mimi’s saddened expression, my rage exploded. “That stupid, selfish b—”

  “Clear your head, Yeyette. We have to get our Eugène back.”

  “That man had better bring him back by nightfall or else—” I launched an Italian vase he had gifted me at the floor. It smashed into pieces. Startled, Hortense began to cry.

  Alexandre did not return Eugène. My son’s absence tore at my heart. Where had Alexandre taken him? He loved Eugène; my son would be safe, I assured myself. He must be safe.

  I visited Désirée at once to seek advice.

  She closed the book she held on her lap. “What the devil has gotten into him? You must meet with the provost and get him back.”

  “Do you think I have a chance?”

  She walked to her desk and rummaged through her drawers. “I will write a testimonial on your behalf.”

  I toyed with the buttons on my gloves. “Désirée?”

  “Hmm?” She pulled out a chair and sat down to write.

  “You will not like it. It isn’t conventional, and I understand my chances of success are slim, but . . .”

  She looked up from the letter she had already begun.

  “I’ll be doing more than requesting Eugène’s return. I plan to file for a separation.”

  “You have a good case now that Alexandre has taken Eugène, but you must be convincing. Ask Fanny and anyone else you know to write on your behalf. The court doesn’t rule in a woman’s favor often.”

  “You aren’t disappointed?”

  She put down her quill pen. “Alexandre is my stepson. I love him, but he has behaved like a spoiled child. You have my complete support.”

  I moved to take her hands in mine. “Thank you, Désirée. It means so much to me to have your support.”

  I would beat Alexandre at his own game.

  Claire used her connections to secure a speedy appointment with the provost of Paris. Within the week, I found myself waiting in the court of justice with Claire at my side. I shifted in my seat and fingered my stack of documents. Surely the judge would rule in my favor. I had proof of Alexandre’s negligence. I prayed it would be enough.

  “Madame de Beauharnais?” At last, a clerk called my name.

  “Yes.” I stood.

  “Right this way.”

  “Courage.” Claire blew me a kiss.

  The clerk led me through a series of corridors until we reached the judge’s office. I inhaled a fortifying breath before entering. I must exude fortitude.

  “Bonjour. Have a seat,” the judge greeted me.

  I described every detail of our marriage—my husband’s infidelity, his accusations, his fleeting time at home and lack of financial support. Last of all, I explained Eugène’s kidnapping. The provost read through my letters, taking notes on his elegant stationary.

  “Madame de Beauharnais, it appears you have suffered a great deal, but it’s essential I hear both parties.” His pale eyes were kind. “I’ll request your husband’s presence in two weeks’ time. It would be in your favor to be present as well.” He shuffled his papers into a pile and placed his wrinkled hands on top.

  “Merci, monsieur. I am aggrieved at Alexandre’s conduct.”

  “It is my pleasure to help an innocent young woman.” He smiled beneath his bushy mustache.

  I daresay he liked me. As Claire and I swept into our waiting coach, a spark of hope ignited in my bosom. It was time for my luck to change.

  The days before the trial crept along. Visions of Eugène’s terrified face plagued me. I couldn’t wait to bring him home. The appointed day arrived on a frosty March morning.

  Alexandre arrived just as our names were called. The moment I saw him, my anger flared.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” I said, the hate in my voice controlled but unmistakable.

  “Let’s finish this business once and for all, shall we? I’ll be glad to be rid of you.”

  I clenched my fists inside my green wool muff. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. I had learned to hold my temper, to appear a lady at all times.

  “Right this way.” The clerk motioned us through an open door.

  The provost addressed us without looking up from his papers. “Bonjour, Madame de Beauharnais. Bonjour,
monsieur. Please have a seat.” He waved his hand to indicate the chairs in front of his massive oak desk.

  Alexandre sat as far from me as possible.

  The judge locked Alexandre in his gaze. “I will come to the point. I met with Madame de Beauharnais on a previous occasion. I have reviewed her letters from your family and friends. They all support her innocence despite your claims of her infidelity. I find it difficult to find her guilty with so many contrary witnesses. Do you have proof against her? If so, I will take your documentation at this time.”

  My articulate husband bowed his head before the provost. “Monsieur le Jouron, I assure you my wife has not been devoted to me, as required by law. I heard many rumors while abroad, serving my garrison and my country. As you can imagine, I was vexed by such atrocious news.” Somehow he managed to conjure tears.

  I stared at him, incredulous at his false display of emotion.

  “She sneaked from the house to meet her lovers like a common whore.” He dabbed his eyes with his gloved hand. “It is I who deserve the rights in this separation. She has never been a respectable wife—”

  “Monsieur de Beauharnais,” the provost said, “this is no place for insults and fabricated rumors—only facts. You have spent less than a year with your wife in a five-year period. I find it absurd you allege affairs having spent so little time at home. Who were your sources?”

  “I relied upon the counsel of my aunt Désirée and my father, the Marquis de de Beauharnais. I cannot divulge my other sources. You must understand the sensitivity of my position.”

  “That is complete nonsense,” the judge said. “Your stepmother and father submitted their word in writing in support of Madame de Beauharnais. I suggest you cease your falsehoods, monsieur, or you may find yourself facing contempt. Is this the only case you can make against your wife?”

  Alexandre’s jaw set in a rigid line, but he said nothing.

  He had been silenced. A miraculous feat, indeed. I studied the judge’s face as my heart thrummed in anticipation of the verdict.

  “If you have no documentation, all charges against Madame de Beauharnais are to be deemed false and unfounded. Madame, your name is cleared and your honor restored. I grant you the separation you desire, including proper financial support due a wife.”