Becoming Josephine (9 page)

“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 heart 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 h
is 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.