Becoming Josephine (6 page)

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.

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 for 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.