Now this is the big news in the village: at last I will be married, and to a rich man in Paris, to a Beauharnais, the son of the former governor of all the Windward Islands. I will be Madame la vicomtesse. I am regarded as an adult now and I feel older, I admit.
May 8.
Mother is having a dress made for me, in the Parisian style, an amaranth brocade with gauze around the sleeves and neck. I’m not to wear it until I reach France. That way at least I’ll have one thing decent to wear, she said. I go for my first fitting today.
Monday, June 7.
Mother insists I learn a proper toilette. I’m to wear a corps de baleine, a corset with stays so stiff it pushes my bosom up and forces me to sit straight. It even hurts to breathe. “When can I take it off?” I asked after one long hour sitting at my vanity, applying pommades.
“You must never take it off,” Mother said, showing Mimi how my hair is to be powdered. “You are a woman now.”
June 23.
I’m sixteen today—how quickly youth passes. Mimi gave me tarot cards of my own as a gift. “Blessed by holy water,” she whispered.
Carefully, I laid them out. In the tenth position was the hanged man, his hair hanging down.
“Life turned upside-down,” she snorted. “That’s you!”
Saturday, July 10.
Father is having difficulty getting enough money to pay for passage. I overheard him having an argument with Uncle Robert. “I’ve loaned you enough already, Joseph!” I heard Uncle Tascher say.
July 16, 3:00 P.M.
Father finally has enough money. Uncle Robert gave in. Now Father has to find a ship that can take us. With the war on, it won’t be easy, he says.
I worry, for his health is poor.
“You won’t survive this voyage, Joseph,” I heard Mother tell him this morning. “And then where will we be?”
“It’s my only hope. Those doctors in Paris know things,” he said, coughing.
What if Mother is right? What if Father dies?
July 28.
We leave in two weeks. Mother has had the two big sea chests hauled up to the parlour and there are stacks of clothing everywhere. There is so much to be done, deciding what to take, what to leave behind.
Mother is intent on sending Da Gertrude with me, but Da Gertrude begs to stay. The journey would kill her, she says.
“It’s Lasyrenn that scares her,” Mimi whispered.
Lasyrenn, the voodoo spirit of the sea, the mermaid with the long black hair. Lasyrenn just below the surface of the water, calling.
July 29.
Mimi’s coming with me!
Sunday, August 8.
We leave for Fort-Royal day after tomorrow, and the day after that we sail. At Saint-Domingue we will change over to the Ile de France, a naval store ship which Father warns might not be too comfortable. The frigate La Pomone will accompany us all the way to France, to defend us in case we’re attacked by the English at sea.
“I don’t like sailing when there’s a war on,” Father told me, “but if we wait for peace, we will never get there.”
It’s scary, but thrilling—what if we were in a battle!
1:00 P.M.
A wind rises, bending the palms. The hot air rushes at my skirts, pulling my plaits loose, my dangling silver earrings. It is midday, but dark as midnight. Inside, in my room, I fasten the wooden shutters with some effort and light a wax taper on my toilette table. I scribble over the pages, seeking a path to my heart, one word, one name: William.
From somewhere a breeze catches the flame and snuffs it out, plunging me into dark.
August 9.
Dawn was breaking when I got up. I slipped on my clothes and went out into the fields. Sucre was hard to catch. I had to use a custard apple to tempt her. Finally I got a bridle on her and headed off toward the river, my petticoats up around my thighs, my pony’s warm body between my legs.
I waited by the stone bridge. Before long William came poking along the trace on his donkey, reading a book. He was surprised when he saw me.
“Come up the mountain with me,” I said.
“You’re betrothed.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow!”
That seemed to startle him.
I took the lead going up the slope. At the top of the path, where it opens onto a clearing, I stopped. “This is a good place.” I slid off Sucre.
“Good as any.” William tied his donkey to a coconut tree.
“You’re not the only one who—”
“Who what? What is it that you feel, Rose?” He turned away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it can’t be helped.”
I pressed my forehead into his back. “Do you think it possible we will always love one another?”
“Do not speak of love, I beg you,” he said, his voice full of tears.
We stayed on the hill until the mosquitoes began to swarm. He kissed me on my cheek. I longed for more, much more, but I no longer had the right.
We rode down the mountain, through the long shadows. At the bottom he turned to me. “We never saw the green flash.”
I’d forgotten.
“Some other day,” he said, shading his eyes against the sun.
August 11—Fort-Royal.
We were eight of us in the covered wagon—myself, Father and Mimi, plus Mother, Manette, Grandmother Sannois, even Da Gertrude. And Sylvester driving. Plus the two big sea trunks. So it was a wonder the horses could pull us at all. More than once we were up to the hub in mud and had to walk.
It was dangerously after dusk by the time we pulled into Uncle Tascher’s courtyard. His wife came running down to greet us, her hair let down and looking wild, Uncle Tascher behind her all red in the face.
We were all of us put in two rooms on the second floor. Uncle Tascher’s waiting woman brought us cassava bread with sugar syrup and a saucepan of hot chocolate, to which Father added brandy from his casebottle. We ate and made ready for bed. As we said our evening prayers together, I could hear sniffling. Da Gertrude had her face in her hands.
I woke before dawn. I lay there for a time, dreaming. What will Monsieur de Beauharnais be like, I wondered. I imagined that he would be handsome and gallant, but perhaps a little shy, so that I would have to coquette a little to put him at his ease. I practised rolling my eyes, which I am told are my best feature, and kissing the back of my hand, but this only made my hand wet, and reminded me of William. I hoped that Monsieur de Beauharnais would be very much like William, only titled and rich, and that he would come to love me very much. As for myself, I know I will come to love him, for Da Gertrude says I could love a flea.
Grandmother stirred, poked Mother to help her up, and the day began. I went to the window and pulled back the heavy brocade. Our sailing ship was still there, beside the little fishing boats. One of the sails had been unfurled. I was anxious to be on deck, for what if a wind came and we were left behind?
For once Mother didn’t have to tell me to get ready. Da Gertrude laced me into my best gown, the yellow one with the fichu I’d embroidered myself.
Mimi, still in her petticoats, joined us from the other room. “I had a bad dream last night.” She wiped her sleepy eyes.
Da Gertrude threw her hands to her ears. “Don’t say that!”
“Hush!” Mother said, crossing herself.
Finally, we were ready, dressed in our church clothes. We’d eaten, had coffee and milk, said our morning prayers, which went on for so long my knees ached.
Uncle Tascher ordered two teams harnessed. His coachman (in new livery—very handsome) and Sylvester loaded the trunks onto an open wagon harnessed to two sleepy mules. Mimi, clutching her wicker basket, and a sniffling Da Gertrude climbed in behind. Sylvester swung himself up onto the driver’s seat. Uncle’s coachman—looking liquorish, in spite of the hour—helped us into Uncle’s new carriage.
“My,” Mother said, touching the blue silk upholstery. “Are you sure we are supposed to sit on it, Robert?”
Gran
dmother knocked on the glass to see if it was real and pulled down one of the shades to see if it worked. “Pity it’s that colour,” she said.
“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, do sit.” Uncle Tascher’s wife arranged her pleated skirt of brown taffeta (from Milan). “I never walk anywhere any more.” She looked in the glass to make sure her frightful red hair was well hidden under her lace cap.
“I feel like a queen in such a carriage,” I said. Then I slapped my hand over my mouth, for there was talk of my fortune still.
The coachman cracked his whip and the horses jumped forward, throwing us into a tumble.
As we approached the docks, Father took my hand. “Nervous?”
“Mon Dieu,” Mother said. “That ship’s not so very big, Joseph.”
“We’ll be changing to a bigger one at Saint-Domingue.” Father jumped down onto the dock as if he were a young man. He let down the metal step.
“A ship and an escort.” Uncle Tascher adjusted his hat, for he was Port Commander now. He took Mother’s hand as she stepped down. “They should be safe from attack.”
Sylvester pulled the wagon carrying Da Gertrude and Mimi up behind us. Our two sea trunks were loaded into a rowboat and suddenly we were all saying goodbye.
“Send me a doll!” Manette demanded, clasping me tightly around the waist.
I kissed her dear, tear-streaked face. “You’ll write?”
She nodded, but I knew she wouldn’t.
Mother took my hands. “You must remember to wash under your nails.”
“Maman!”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be a good girl?”
I embraced her then. I feared she might cry.
Mimi and Father were already seated in the little passenger dingy. Father was yelling for me to get in.
Da Gertrude took me in her arms. “My baby!” I began to weep as well.
I kissed her wet cheeks and pulled away. A sailor with a beard helped me into the boat. Father handed me his kerchief. Mimi looked terrified. And then we were on the water, waving and throwing kisses.
I looked back. Da Gertrude had fallen to her knees and was praying. Mother stood silently, her hands pressed to her chest. It was only Manette and Sylvester, at the last, who stood waving.
II
Vicomtesse
In which I come to the Old World
Tuesday, October 12, 1779—Brest, France.
My knees trembled climbing onto the dock. I held on to Mimi to steady myself. I hadn’t realized how frightened I’d been that we would never make it.
France! So many people, horses, carriages! A porter balancing a load on his head barked out to us to move. A newsmonger yelled from the edge of the crowd. It seemed strange, all these white faces rushing about, crying out words I couldn’t understand.
Captain and the flag-lieutenant helped with Father. He was so sick he could hardly walk. He has been taking a syrup of maidenhair and brandy concoction the ship’s surgeon had made him, but it hadn’t helped.
I asked a painted lady standing by some sea chests where we might hire a hackney coach but she only looked at me. “She can’t understand your dialect,” Captain explained, getting Father seated on a crate. He hailed a hackney cab and helped get us settled in a public house. He even sent word to Aunt Désirée that we have arrived. He said it would take about ten days for her to get here, maybe longer.
At first we tried to take a lodging in the Hôtel du Monarque, an airy and lightsome place with chandeliers, carpets and a buffet on which a few plates were set out. We were led into a parlour where a lady stood by the fire in a dress over a hoop so big I don’t know how she got through the door.
We were all set to settle when Father, whom we had propped up in a chair, doubled over coughing and the innkeeper told us we couldn’t stay. Captain, who doesn’t hold his temper at the best of times, started to speak. I quickly assured him we would prefer to stay somewhere else. So here we are now, at the Hôtel Graves, which is at least clean, although not nearly so grand.
Father and I each have a room on the second floor, facing the street. Mimi was given a room by the stables and privies. I told the innkeeper, Madame Mignon Lodi-Clarion, a cross sort, and thin as a stick, that I wanted Mimi with me, that I needed her help during the night, with Father, but Madame insisted. “We’ll have the boy fetch her when you need her” is what she said, somewhat curtly.
The first thing I did after getting Father settled was ask to have a bath. Madame provided me with a hand-basin of hot water and some Joppa soap, immersion being unsafe, she said. I washed myself as best I could.
When poor Mimi came in she smelled like the barn. I let her use my water for a wash of her own, and then we put our small linens in. We draped them over chairs in front of the coal grate. It’s so cold and damp I fear they will never dry.
That evening.
All the people staying at this inn eat together. I went down without Father. We had cod’s head with shrimps and oysters, and then mutton, eggs and a dish of broiled eels which I did not care for but forced myself to eat, to be polite. After the meal a man across the table rubbed his teeth with a sponge and scraper. I thought perhaps that was the custom here, but he was the only one who did it. Then he asked for the chamber-pot. Hastily, I took my leave.
Thursday, October 14.
Father didn’t sleep last night, suffering feverish dreams. He kept saying he couldn’t die now.
I tried to get him to take some fish broth but he couldn’t keep it down, coughing up blood. “I’ll get Madame.” I didn’t want him to see me crying.
“No.” He fell back against his pillows.
I’m back in my room now, but I cannot sleep, listening for sounds on the other side of the wall. Listening for life—but fearing death.
That evening.
At last, the doctor came, his tall assistant carrying his big bag. He prescribed a tincture which Father’s to take three times a day. That and his visit cost five livres! At least Father’s not to be bled.
October 16.
Yesterday evening, after Father was asleep, I joined several of the guests in the front parlour. I taught them how to play piquet, which I learned on the boat. I was naughty and wagered a bit of money on it and won two sous from Monsieur d’Aelders, a dear old man from Dijon. I tried to give him the money back after, but he insisted I keep it, somewhat proudly. He’s vowed revenge tonight!
Even Madame played. She was sipping wine and humming.
Everyone wanted to know what it was like to live on a sugar plantation. Madame said it was a well-known fact that an owner of a sugar plantation earned more money than a king. Monsieur d’Aelders wanted to know if it was true that the slaves went about naked.
“Not all the time,” I said, an answer that seemed to please him.
I told them that I’ve come to France to meet my fiancé. Madame told a story about how when she was introduced to her husband (who died six years ago), she was wearing false eyebrows, mouse skin ones. She didn’t know it, but one eyebrow had fallen off! Her fiancé kept looking at her strangely.
I like Madame better now. She informed me that I may address her as Madame Mignonette. She told me how to get mildew out of linen: rub soap on it, scrape some chalk and rub that in and put it into the sun, wetting it a little. She says I might have to do it twice, but it should come out.
I told her I liked France, but that I had to confess that sometimes the smells quite overpowered me. She gave me a vial to hang around my neck. Inside there is flower water I can sniff. Also, I can dab little bits on my wrists and behind my ears and even on my bosom. She told me to dab it “everywhere,” wiggling her eyebrows. When she has time, she said, she’ll show me how to dress like a proper French lady.
October 21.
Still no word from Aunt Désirée.
October 22, evening.
Shortly before noon Madame came to inform Father that there was a woman wishing to see him. “Are you receiving, Monsieur?”
I glanced around his room, over his person. He had not been shaved yet and the room had not been freshened.
“Comtesse de la Touche de Longpré.” Madame stuck her nose in the air and wiggled her fingers, pretending to put on airs. “The daughter of Madame de Girardin, she said to tell you.”
I looked at Father, confused. Wasn’t Girardin the name of Mother’s sister-in-law? I had only met her a few times. I remembered her as a haughty woman who treated Mother poorly.
Father groaned. “Mon Dieu, Laure Longpré—Brigitte’s daughter…”
My cousin Laure? I hadn’t seen her since I was a child. She was much older than I was, almost fifteen years as I recalled, married and with children. I remembered that the boys used to ogle and follow her about, which she didn’t discourage.
“Why in God’s name would she be here?” Father snorted.
Shortly after, Madame Longpré was admitted, filling the room with a heavy iris fragrance that made Father cough. Quickly I opened the windows.
“Rose, how you’ve grown,” she said, accepting my offer of a chair. She was wearing a frothy pink dress looped in gauze with tassel decorations.
I curtsied, not knowing what to say. She was quite heavily made-up with jewels on every part of her, particularly over her bosom, which was displayed in such a way as to make one blush.
“How charming to have relatives in France,” she said. Her eyebrows had been plucked into a thin line and blackened with charcoal and the lids of her eyes were painted silver. “I understand there may be a wedding soon.”
Father began to choke.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 5
