Becoming Josephine (7 page)

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. That 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.

Paris, 1782–1784

“R
ose! Are you all right?” Désirée rushed to assist me. She pl
aced her a
rm 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.

“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 be
tween 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.