The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  In spite of his disclosures, there was a sizeable portion left unexplained. “There must be more, Father.”

  He confessed: four years ago he’d had an amourette with a sewing-woman in Rivière Salée. The woman had given birth. He was beholden to look after her.

  I didn’t know what to say. “Did she give you a son?” I asked finally. He’d always wanted a son.

  “Another daughter.”

  I had a half-sister.*

  “She’s almost three, cute.”

  “Does Mother know?”

  Father nodded. “Your mother is a saint,” he said.

  Tuesday, March 17—Fort-Royal.

  Hortense, Mimi and I arrived in Fort-Royal shortly before noon, splattered with mud. Hortense and I changed before joining my aunt and uncle for the midday meal. After, my aunt excused herself, “for my beauty nap,” she said. Then Hortense and her cousins were dispatched with their nannies on an outing to the shore, giving me an opportunity to talk privately with my uncle.

  I took a sheet of paper from my basket. “There are two individuals I would like to consult while I am here. Perhaps you could tell me how they might be reached.”

  Uncle Tascher studied the names, twisting the point of his enormous moustache. “Monsieur de Couvray? It is likely that I will see him this very evening, at the Masonic meeting. If you like, I could set up a meeting.”

  “Excellent.” The palms of my hands were damp. “And the other …?” I asked.

  “Monsieur William Browder?” Uncle Tascher looked up. “An English name—I recall seeing it somewhere. Oh, yes—Captain Browder. He’s enlisted in the navy, I believe, as a translator if I’m not mistaken. I can’t imagine what benefit consulting him would be.”

  “His family used to be our neighbours,” I said, my voice tight. “There’s a field that has always been shared for grazing, a common—until now, that is. The current tenants have claimed it entirely for their own use.”

  “But surely this is a matter for the courts.”

  “A costly procedure, although perhaps a necessary one. In any case, I will require documents, information—”

  A butler with silver hoops in his ears came to the door, nodded to Uncle Tascher, and disappeared.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Uncle Tascher said, rising. “My presence is required at Government House.” He handed the paper back to me. “My secretary, Monsieur Dufriche, will be able to tell you how Captain Browder may be reached.”

  I retired to my room. The chambermaid, a girl with dirty hands and an unpleasant odour, helped me take off my dress. My petticoats were damp from the heat. I asked the girl to return in an hour and stretched out under the canopy of gauze netting. A gold cross hung from the bedcurtains.

  Forgive me, I prayed.

  * Fanny is plagiarizing, something she was known to do with regularity. The statement about the destroying angel was in fact made by the great economist Mirabeau.

  * Marie-Josephine Benaguette, “Fifine,” born March 17, 1786, to Marie-Louise Benaguette. Eventually Rose’s mother took the girl into her own home and in 1806 Rose, as Empress, provided her with a dowry of sixty thousand livres.

  In which I confront the past

  March 18, 1789.

  I was seated at the writing desk in Uncle’s study when Captain Browder was announced, earlier than expected. “Tell him to come in.” I smoothed the lace ruffles over the bodice of my silk chemise. Suddenly it seemed too formal.

  I opened a book, a volume of Greek history, in order to give the appearance of industry. I cannot begin to transcribe the tumult of my thoughts. I feared I would love him; feared he would disappoint me. Neither thought gave my heart ease.

  The leather of my chair creaked as I turned. William stood in the doorway, a shabby black-plumed hat in his hand. His unpowdered black hair was secured at the back with a ribbon. His frock coat, ill-fitting, was patched at one elbow. I remembered my mother’s words: béké-goyave.

  “Captain Browder,” I said. I extended my hand.

  William crossed the room, bowed. “Madame la vicomtesse.” He smelled of horses.

  I withdrew my hand, more for fear he would notice the dampness of my palm than from any sense of propriety. “How good to see you. Please, sit down,” I began, the worn phrases affording comfort. “Would you care for a brandy?” I asked.

  “No, thank you.” He sat down on the stool by the door to the garden. The stool was too short for him. He turned his hat in his hands, studying me.

  I looked away. I had forgotten how unnaturally blue his eyes were. “I was grieved to learn of your mother’s death,” I said. Hanged, it was rumoured, by her own—

  “She got what she wanted,” he said.

  I was disarmed by the bitterness in his voice.

  “To be free of it all.” He flung his hat onto a low table next to him.

  Freedom. William’s God. His was a life of the sea, a life of freedom, no doubt. Freedom from comfort, freedom from love?

  “Did you find happiness, Rose?” he demanded.

  “Yes.…” I paused, shrugged. “No. My husband and I have separated,” I said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  My cheeks burned. It seemed the entire island was aware of Alexandre’s misconduct, Alexandre’s accusations.

  “Did you love him?” he asked boldly. Too boldly, I thought.

  “I was willing to love him,” I answered finally.

  “That’s not the same, is it.”

  “Your dimples are still there, I see,” I said, changing the subject. I felt I had made a mistake.

  “So my daughters tease me.”

  “And your wife?”

  He smiled. For a moment I saw the William I knew. “She puts up with me,” he said.

  “Is that so very difficult?”

  “I have yearnings, she says.”

  “Yes.” I studied his face. He still had that boyish look.

  “Do you ever think of that fortune you were told?” he asked.

  “It comes to me in dreams sometimes.” You will be unhappily married.

  “Good dreams?”

  “Bad dreams.” Terrible dreams.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said, after a moment of hesitation. “I wasn’t going to come today. But then I changed my mind. I decided I wanted to prove something.”

  He was interrupted by the sound of a child’s voice, footsteps approaching. Mimi and Hortense appeared at the door. William stood.

  “Hortense would like … to go down to the pier, to watch the boats,” Mimi stuttered, her face revealing her surprise.

  “That would be fine. Captain Browder, this is my daughter, Hortense. And you remember Mimi? Madame Mimi we call her now.” For Mimi was clearly in a family way.

  “Of course I remember.” He bowed.

  “Grand-maman says that it is not proper to bow to slaves.” Hortense pushed her straw hat back off her forehead.

  “Hortense! It’s not proper for a child to lecture an adult.” At six, Hortense had an overly rigid sense of right and wrong and seemed intent on informing everyone on how they should behave.

  “Perhaps Captain Browder is what we call ‘A New Thinker,’” Mimi explained to my daughter. “Men like that do things differently.”

  “Oooooh.” Hortense regarded William with apprehension.

  William nodded. “I might even stand on my head.”

  Hortense studied him for a long moment and then let out a little laugh.

  “Forgive us for interrupting—I can see you are busy.” Mimi backed toward the door, pulling Hortense along with her.

  “Busy doing what?” I heard Hortense demand in the other room.

  “I must apologize.” I tidied the papers on the desk. “My daughter was rude.” I had seen a quill earlier, but now I could not find it—it was not in its holder. I was surprised to note that my hands were trembling slightly.

  “I should be going. I shouldn’t be here.” William was standing by the window, look
ing out at the garden.

  “I did want to talk to you about that field.”

  William withdrew a document from the pocket of his waistcoat. “This will give you what you need to know.” It was a letter of agreement regarding use of the common.

  “Do you wish me to return it?” I stood.

  “I have no need for it.”

  “You were saying something, before we were interrupted.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  I paused. “That you came here today to prove something.”

  “It wasn’t important.”

  “That wasn’t my impression.”

  He cleared his throat, looked at me. “I came here today with the intention of proving that I no longer loved you.”

  In the silence, I heard a crow call out four times. I thought of all the nights I’d dreamt of him, the conversations I’d had with him in my mind. The questions I’d wanted to ask, the stories I’d wanted to tell. But the man who stood before me was not William. “I think you should go, Captain Browder,” I said.

  Captain Browder took his hat. “I was mistaken,” he said, turning at the door. “I still love you. Good day, Madame.”

  Later.

  Monsieur de Couvray was shown into Uncle’s study shortly after four. When he recovered from the discomfort of having to discuss matters of business with a woman, we set to work going over the La Pagerie accounts, reviewing the assets, the land. The low sugar yield indicates exhaustion of the soil, as I suspected; certain fields must be allowed to go to flower and to be replanted from seed.

  His other suggestions were less palatable, and I suspect will be so to Mother and Father as well. He observed that there were a number of children in our slave population, our “thinking property” was the term he used. “It is more economical to buy slaves than to breed them,” he said.

  “It is not intentionally done.”

  “Perhaps measures should be taken to … to inhibit production.” He wiped his palms on his buckskin breeches. “Overall, looking at these figures, it is clear that the cost of keep is high in proportion to the work accomplished.”

  I knew this to be true. Several of the slaves were now either infirm or elderly, I explained.

  “If a slave has ceased to be productive,” he said, “it is wise to encourage him … to go on.” He puffed on his pipe; the fire had gone out.

  “Go?” I was confused. “Go where?”

  He circled his fingers impatiently. “You know.…”

  “You don’t mean … killed?” Surely I’d misunderstood.

  “No! Goodness. I wouldn’t use that word. After all, the methods are humane, and if they are suffering—”

  “Monsieur, I do believe my mother and father would be loath toemploy such a practice, and I, for one, loathe to suggest it.” We talked a short time longer, for the sake of form. I showed him to the door.

  Saturday, March 21.

  I was packing to return to Trois-Islets when Mimi brought me a letter. “Did this come to the house?” I asked, alarmed. I took a seat by the window.

  Mimi shook her head no, her dangling earrings making a tinkling sound. “In the market. He asked me to give it to you.”

  I broke the wax seal.

  Madame Beauharnais:

  I have discovered information regarding your family’s use of the common. It is urgent that you be apprised of it.

  At your convenience.

  Your servant, Captain Browder

  I put the letter on the side-table.

  “He asked if it would be possible to arrange a meeting,” Mimi whispered.

  I looked down at my lap. My hands looked like the hands of an old woman.

  “Something about a green flash.” She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

  I held my breath. “Tell him no,” I said.

  April 2—Trois-Ilets.

  We’ve been back in Trois-Ilets for over a week. A feeling of disquiet continues to haunt me. As a youth one dreams of love; by the time one wakes, it is too late.

  I’ve been going for walks in the morning, after chores, in search of solace. In the cool of the forest, my spirit is soothed but not healed. Often I head down the river, toward the sea, but this morning I followed the trace toward Morne Croc-Souris. Before long I had come upon it—the clearing by the side of the river, the wattle-and-daub shack collapsed, a frangipani bush flowering where the door had been.

  You will be unhappily married.

  Not far from the rubble I saw a crude wooden cross stuck in a mound of dirt covered over with stones. A grave.

  You will be widowed.

  A wind through the forest shook the leaves, a bird called out warning. I approached the pile of stones. The ground was littered with crumpled pieces of paper, feathers, a chunk of bone.

  You will be Queen.

  I felt a cool wind come through me. I was possessed by a light sensation, a feeling of floating on water.

  You will make a beautiful queen, a boy had once told me.

  In which two warlds claim my heart

  January 4, 1789—Paris

  Chère Maman,

  It has been cold for three weeks. I saw a dead man, frozen. We go walking on the river. When are you coming home?

  A thousand kisses, your son Eugène

  April 3, 1789— Paris

  Dear Rose,

  A quick note—I have been elected to the Estates General, a representative for the Blois nobility. A spirit of optimism has permeated our land. It’s electrifying!

  Your husband, Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais Note—The drawing of Hortense was well executed. Your technique is improving, although the shading would have been more effective in a charcoal, I thought.

  And another—I enclose a pamphlet by Sieyès, What Is the Third Estate? I recommend you study it.

  April 15, 1789—Paris

  Darling!

  I’ve moved back to Paris—it’s so thrilling here now! It’s the “Roman Republic” all over again—the Goddess of Love rules. Everywhere one goesthere is great celebrating, dancing around bonfires. To walk down the street is to become intoxicated by profound sentiment, embraced by everyone one meets, rich and poor, young and old alike.

  My salon will never be the same. Where before we talked of Beauty, we now talk of Equal Representation.

  Your loving Aunt Fanny

  Note—How can you stand being away from the opera for so long?

  August 11.

  I’ve been reading the journals that came over on the last boat. I was saddened to learn that the Dauphin died—yet no one seemed to even notice, much less care. I grieve for the Queen. A boy so like Eugène.

  Eugène. I grow ill with a longing to hold him again.… I have been in Martinico for one year.

  July 20, 1789—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  Both Alexandre and François have been elected to the Estates General. Now whenever the two brother-deputies visit on feast-days, they have a frightful row. The Marquis refuses to even discuss political concerns any more, claiming to find “all that” distasteful. “All that” will go away soon, he says, and everything will be back the way it should. He burned all the books by Rousseau in the house, even the signed copy of Discourse on Inequality. I ha te to think what is going to happen when Alexandre discovers it missing.

  At least we aren’t in Paris—there are twenty thousand troops there now. The strumpets are getting rich, no doubt. As well, every beggar and thief in France has come to the city, swarming at the slightest opportunity. Each district—all sixty of them—has drawn up its own army to keep order. I’ve taken to carrying a pistol in my bag, even here in Fontainebleau.

  Don’t forget your prayers.

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  Note—You’ve heard about the riot at the Bastille? Fanny promised shewould retrieve some of the stones for me. I’ll save one for you, if you like. August 10, 1789—Versailles Dear Rose,

  What were before disconnected jottings have now become a flui
d system of philosophy, an ether that connects the present to the past. I have long understood how the Roman Empire gave way to the feudal system, which in turn gave way to the modern monarchies. Such a study reveals the oppressive nature of our laws. But it is only now that I begin to understand that it is the Roman Republic in all its glory that we seek to rebuild.

  Would that my family could understand the profound nature of the task before us. Unfortunately, they are blinded by history and by the traditional greed of our class. In joining with other enlightened nobles (La Rochefoucauld! Lafayette! The Duc d’Orléans!) to renounce our feudal privileges, I was forced to choose between my family, on the one hand, and my country, on the other. Oh, what a night of profound heroism! What sublime sacrifice! May the night of August 4 burn in my heart for ever.

  The sacrifice of my father’s regard, of my brother’s fraternal embrace is a loss I must bear. The Revolution demands that each citizen make a personal offering for the good of the Nation. I submit with tears of virtue in my eyes, knowing that my pain will be rewarded.

  With a noble heart, your husband, Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais “an honorable and virtuous Republican” Note—I urge you to study the pamphlets I have forwarded, open your heart to the truths you will find therein. One—A Few Thoughts on the Nature of Reason & Revolution—I wrote myself. I have worded it simply so that a woman might understand, for I am not of that group that believes women incapable of abstract reasoning.

  Sunday

  Chère Maman,

  I have my own sword now. My tutor says I might need it. When are youcoming home?

  A thousand kisses, Eugène

  December 9.

  A créole man was found dead in a clearing in the woods near Fort-Royal, together with the head of a butchered pig. Blood had been spilled over his hands. Three days before a slave had died on his plantation, imprisoned in a sweltering hut in the sun without food and water.