Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 9

  “The heavy talk was depressing my mood.” I smiled. “It appears I made the right choice.”

  “May I?” He offered me his arm.

  “Please.” I held his muscled forearm as he led me on a promenade through the garden.

  “Times are changing,” he said. “We all feel the strain. But we need not dwell on serious talk on such a perfect night.”

  “Merci. I’ve had enough for one evening.”

  “And did the riding agree with you this afternoon?”

  “Very much. Such a rush of freedom and danger. It feels like flying,” I breathed.

  He eyed my heaving chest.

  “I enjoy it as well. But I enjoy the company of a beautiful woman more.” His eyes smoldered with longing.

  Heat swelled in hidden depths.

  “Perhaps you would consider riding with me tomorrow afternoon . . . if we have good weather?”

  I could hear Marie-Josèphe’s words of warning: “Don’t appear too eager. Rapid surrender will not win his affections.”

  “I have another engagement tomorrow,” I said.

  “And the following day? We could ride to one of my favorite spots.”

  I paused before answering. I enjoyed riding, and I liked him. I glanced back at the impressive château. A wealthy lover would be divine, even if only for a little while.

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “I’ll send a coach for you. Now, shall we join the festivities? A concert will begin in a few moments.”

  I grinned in the dark.

  Within a fortnight, I fell into bed with the duke—the first man, beyond harmless flirtations, since Alexandre. To be admired again made me feel alive. Charles possessed an adorable perfection, but with so many willing ladies yet unplucked, his attention faded quickly. I followed his lead and applied myself to the next interesting gentleman, and the next. To feel wanted, even for a short time, invigorated me, as did their expensive gifts.

  My financial woes deepened as the prices of flour, sugar, and oil swelled, and I moved in with Désirée and the Marquis to cut expenses. They adored having us live with them again. Both had missed our visits and those from Alexandre.

  One summer afternoon, Alexandre came to see the children, bearing gifts.

  “The gifts are lovely, but do you have my monthly stipend?” I asked.

  Eugène sat on the floor surrounded by soldier figurines. Hortense held her new doll against her chest and gazed up at her father’s face.

  “I will deliver it to you next week via post,” Alexandre said.

  “We won’t eat, should you choose not to.”

  “There is no need to be dramatic. I will send the funds.”

  “As you always do?” My tone brimmed with sarcasm.

  He glared at me and carried Hortense to the garden.

  Alexandre did not send the money he had promised. I considered visiting the judge—perhaps he could force my delinquent husband to pay.

  Hortense pulled on my hand as she skipped up the drive.

  “I wish Eugène were here,” she said. “Why does he have to go to school?”

  “To learn and become a man.”

  “Will I go to school?”

  “Yes. A school for little girls.” Though I couldn’t imagine how I would afford it. “Look! There’s a bunny in the bushes.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Shall we sneak up on him?”

  “I’ll be a bunny, too.” Hortense hopped after the animal, startling it.

  We turned at the crunch of hooves on gravel.

  “Ask Mimi to put on some tea, dear.”

  Hortense hopped inside as a portly man in elegant clothing descended from the coach.

  “Madame de Beauharnais, I presume?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Monsieur Boucher.” The man wheezed as he spoke. “I’m here to collect a sum on account of your husband’s debts. Is he at home?” His foulard acted as a tourniquet around his thick neck.

  “My husband?” I asked, confused. “But he doesn’t live here. We have been separated for some time.” The man coughed into his handkerchief, a horrible gurgling sound.

  Perhaps I should offer him a chair.

  He wobbled closer. “This address is listed as his residence.”

  My eyes widened. “I assure you, monsieur,” I began, controlling my growing anger, “he does not reside here. You may find him in Paris, though I do not know the address of his residence there.”

  The man coughed again. Mucus rattled in his throat. “The next time you see him, please tell him I stopped by. Here is my contact information.” He waved a small card at me.

  “Of course. Good day.”

  The man nodded, then hefted his bulk up the short step and into the coach.

  I could strangle Alexandre. How dare he send creditors to our door! I stalked inside to begin a scathing letter.

  Alexandre’s creditors began arriving in droves. He had gambled away most of his inheritance. After some investigating, I discovered it was actually his folly that had been the reason for Désirée’s and his father’s forced move to Fontainebleau. I fumed at his selfishness. Désirée’s budget grew strained supporting all of our needs. I sold my jewelry and harp to assist with the bills, but knew I had to make a change. A letter arrived one spring afternoon that prompted my decision.

  March 13, 1788

  Chère Rose,

  I have troubling news. Manette and your father are very ill and have shown little improvement in these last days. I fear their end may be nearing.

  I hope you may consider making the trip. I cannot send you money, but perhaps a friend will understand the urgency of your visit and take pity.

  I hope my grandchildren are well.

  Je t’aime.

  Maman

  I had to go to Martinique, no matter the price. I checked the date on the letter. Six weeks had passed. Dieu, I hoped I was not too late. I asked the one person who would help me without question, without expectation: Fanny.

  Three short weeks later, Hortense, Mimi, and I set sail. I would return home at last.

  Return to the Island

  Martinique, 1788–1790

  It had been nine years since I had set foot on my native soil. I’d left a child and returned a mother. Joy bubbled in my veins.

  “Hortense, we’re here!” I slid my arm around her and kissed her.

  Hortense looked confused. “But it’s a big forest, Maman.”

  “Yes.” I laughed. “It is.” I glanced at Mimi. Tears glistened in her eyes. “We’re home,” I said, voice soft.

  She grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Don’t know if I’m happy or sad.”

  Mimi would rejoin her friends and family, but to see the rugged plantation again might shock her. She had grown accustomed to the easier life in France, I knew. I understood her ambivalence.

  Trois-Îlets looked the same, frozen in time like my memories, though I felt a stranger, a woman from another world. Wilderness crowded the island, chewing at signs of civilization. The forest dripped with shades of jade, olive, and lime—and the smell! Earth baked in tropical sunshine, the mingling of wildflower blossoms and lush foliage. I gulped in breaths of fragrant air. Not a single French parfum could match it.

  Nostalgia swelled as dormant memories pushed to the front of my mind: Catherine seeking shelter from an afternoon shower under drooping leaves; me, stealing hunks of sugarcane and chomping them until the sweet juice ran in my mouth; the two of us hiding in secret coves. Lord, I had missed it all.

  The enchantment of my recollections faded with the first sight of my childhood home. How uncivil the sugar mill appeared. Moss covered the stone facade, and underbrush from the forest invaded the garden.

  I had not yet reached the front door when Maman barged through it.

  “Rose!
” She embraced me fiercely. The scent of sugar and wet leaves filled my nostrils. She had not changed.

  “Oh, Maman!” I buried my face in her shoulder. A flood of emotion poured from my chest. The hardship of our years apart crushed me. Heartache, loneliness, struggling to belong. The birth of my children—every moment I spent far from the shield of her arms. A torrent of tears gushed down my cheeks.

  “Shh. I know. I know.” She stroked my hair as I sobbed. “You’re home now.”

  “I’m s-sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m ruining your dress.”

  “Nonsense, doucette.” She eyed the cotton sleeve of her sensible dress.

  Hortense tugged at my skirts, fear marring her delicate features. “Maman, what’s the matter?”

  I sniffled and bent to kiss her head. “I’ve missed Grand-mère. That’s all.”

  Maman crouched down to Hortense’s eye level, holding a doll. “Hello, Hortense. I’m so happy to meet you, darling. Your mother has told me all about you.”

  Hortense smiled shyly. “Hello, Grand-mère.”

  “I have a present for you.”

  Hortense perked up. “A present?”

  Maman flicked the rag doll to and fro as if to make her dance. “Here you are.”

  Hortense snatched it from her hands. “Thank you, Grand-mère!”

  “You’re welcome.” She beamed, eyes ablaze with happiness. “You are five now, no? Big girl! And where is your brother?”

  “He’s at school,” Hortense replied. “Papa wouldn’t let him leave.”

  “Alexandre thought it best not to disrupt his education. I disagreed, but had no say in the matter.” To leave my son behind, with an ocean between us, had been difficult. Eugène’s angelic face had crumpled in grief at our parting. I inhaled a ragged breath to keep from crying again. I missed him already.

  Maman nodded. “Of course. His father decides what is best for him.” Disappointment colored her voice.

  “Someday I hope you visit us in Paris.” My invitations by letter had been ignored. I thought the idea of seeing her grandchildren would have brought her to my door. I swallowed my resentment.

  “And leave all of this glamour?” She laughed.

  “Bonjour, Madame Tascher,” Mimi curtsied.

  “Mimi.” Maman nodded. “We’re glad to have you home again. Janette could use a hand. Especially since we’re back in the plantation house. We’ve finally rebuilt it!” She motioned through the trees to the clearing up the hill. “Now, how about a bath and some coffee? I want to hear everything! From the beginning.”

  She led us to our home.

  As I had assumed, Papa and Manette were bedridden. I read to Manette and filled her head with stories of Paris. When she felt well enough I bathed her.

  My reunion with Papa at his sickbed, however, was not what I had expected.

  “Bonjour, Papa.” I set a tea tray on a table and moved to his bedside. How thin he had become. I smoothed the damp hair on his forehead. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  He stirred and peered at me. “Catherine? My darling girl.” His voice came out as a forced whisper.

  A pang hit me in the gut. I squeezed his hand and leaned closer. “Papa, it’s me, Rose. I’m visiting from France.”

  Confusion lit his blue eyes. “France? We’re not in France. Where’s Catherine? What have you done to her?”

  My eyes filled with tears. He had always preferred her, and now it appeared I had been erased from his mind. As if I had never been. I kissed his cheek as tears streaked my own. “I’ll tell Maman you are ready for a bath.”

  “No.” He tried to push himself into a sitting position. His ashen face twisted into a grimace of pain.

  “Do not get up, Papa.”

  As I slipped my hand under his bony elbow, he jerked his arm away. “Don’t send your mother. Janette will assist me.”

  Janette, his black mistress. He placed his own family below the slaves in importance.

  “If you insist, Papa.” I walked to the door as Janette entered the room.

  “Bonjour, madame.” Her vivid white teeth gleamed against her coffee-colored skin.

  I forced a tight smile and hurried from the room into the garden. I sat on my favorite bench near the edge of the jungle. Papa had had a mistress as long as I could remember. Maman had despised them all, and I had hated to see her in pain.

  This time was different. I put my face in my hands. This time I felt it, too, and relived my own.

  I didn’t adjust to life at the plantation as fast as I had expected. I had forgotten the oppressive summer. Insects the size of saucers buzzed in and out of windows in search of spilled sugar, and the call of birds long before sunrise exasperated me for the first few weeks. What a woman of the city I had become.

  Hortense loved exploring. Moisture rose from the ground and hovered to crawl on our skin and saturate our clothing as we walked the plantation. Thunderheads puffed their ominous warning in the distance. I flicked a black insect with vivid blue legs from my arm. Its rotund shell thumped against my fingernail.

  Hortense followed me through the garden and happened upon a frog as it hopped down the hillside toward the valley.

  “Can I touch him?” she asked.

  “If you can catch him.” I fanned myself lazily.

  She squealed and began the chase, her blond curls dancing down her back. I sauntered behind, but finally plopped down on a fallen log. She flew down the hill just in time to touch the fleeing creature before he would leap away again. I sighed. Eugène would love it here.

  When Hortense had been out of sight awhile, I stretched and went to usher her away from the crops nestled in the valley. She needn’t go near the slave quarters. It would irritate the overseer to have her underfoot.

  As I drew closer to the fields, rich African voices mixed with the thick air. Their beautiful hymns had intrigued me as a child, and still their sorrow vibrated in my chest. The slaves’ scorched ebony backs came into view.

  Where was Hortense? I continued down the hill. Still no sight of her.

  I picked up my pace. As I reached the edge of the slave quarters, the hymns stopped.

  A cry sliced the air.

  My chest constricted. Hortense! I hustled to the open courtyard in the center of the huts. It wasn’t her voice, I told myself. No need to get upset.

  I walked faster; my perspiring feet slipped in my shoes. I ducked between huts.

  Still no sign of my daughter.

  Dieu, Hortense, where are you?

  The overseer emerged from between the huts dragging a slave behind him. He jerked the man’s arms together and bound them with rope.

  “This will teach you to run your mouth,” he sneered. He shoved le noir into the dirt. I knew what came next, but I could not tear my eyes away.

  “We’re human. Not beasts!” The slave’s face twisted in rage. “We have rights like the Americans! Rise up! Rise up, men! They can’t keep us down! Come together and rise up!” He shouted at his fellow slaves as they gathered on the fringes of the scene.

  “Shut up!” With a swift kick, the master pummeled the man in the face with the sole of his leather boot. He pounded on the slave’s ribs and stomach. Blood spurted in a morbid stream from his nose and lips.

  A queasy sensation roiled in my stomach and my breath came in short spasms. Where was Hortense? No one would hurt her, I reassured myself. There were too many whites nearby.

  My heart pounded as I weaved through another row of the shabby huts. A layer of scum covered the rickety siding, many dwellings had no doors, and others had holes in their thatched roofs.

  Another cry sounded from somewhere in the fields.

  Fear spread like poison, evoking horrible thoughts. I broke into a run.

  “We’ll never have salvation unless you rise up!” The slave did not stop his ranting, eve
n with blood streaming down his face. “They can kill me! But they can’t stop us all!”

  “Didn’t you get enough?” The overseer heaved the man to his feet and dragged him to the whipping post. He tied the slave’s arms above his head. Others were corralled to the space surrounding the whipping post.

  “Make an example out of someone,” Papa always said, “if you want to keep slaves in line.” An example would be made today.

  Within seconds of tying the man, the overseer cracked the whip, snapping bands of flesh from the slave’s bare back. Blood oozed. The wounded slave screamed in agony.

  My hand covered my mouth as I suppressed the urge to vomit.

  “Hortense!” I screamed. “Hortense!”

  Several slaves turned to locate the source of the screeching, curiosity and hate on their faces.

  “Hortense!” I shouted again.

  And there, peeking from behind a shanty, she sat, transfixed by the scene. Relief and then alarm flooded my limbs. My little girl was watching a slave being beaten, her sweet innocence shattered.

  An inhuman scream sliced the air as the whip came down again and again upon the slave’s back.

  “Hortense!” I ran to her as fast as I could in my ruined shoes.

  Her head whipped around when she heard her name. At the sight of my face, she began to cry. “Maman!” She leapt into my arms.

  I kissed her face a hundred times. “You scared me!” I crushed her in my arms. “Don’t ever run so far from me again!”

  “I’m s-sorry, Maman. I was trying to get the frog,” she sobbed, “and then I heard singing. I wanted to see. . . . Why is he hurting that man?” She pointed at the bloodied African hanging unconscious from the post.

  “Let’s go.” I tightened my grip on her damp hand. We threaded through rows of huts toward the hill leading home.

  “He was bleeding, Maman. Why are all the people brown?”

  “They’re slaves. They work our fields so we have crops. We wouldn’t have a home without them.”