Becoming Josephine (8 page)

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.

Penthémont, Paris, 17
84–1785

“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 the 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.

“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.