The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  “So now it is you who comforts me,” she said.

  We emerged at dawn, squinting against the sun, faint from terror and constant prayer. Four chickens were perched in an uprooted orange tree. Deep cracks had been etched in the earth, like a network of snakes. Everywhere a thick carpet of torn trees and bushes—even the giant kapok tree had fallen, crashing across a river now raging with debris. The devastation was everywhere, pink and pure in the early morning light.

  Hortense began to cry. “My cricket cage!”

  “Hush,” I said. We had survived.

  Later.

  We spent all this day picking through splinters. The slave huts have been destroyed. There has been considerable damage to the stables and the crushing hut as well. The stone kitchen shack only suffered two broken windows and a deluge of water. Two horses, nine cows and a goat are missing. The sow was badly injured and had to be slaughtered, so weak she did not even squeal.

  August 19.

  We’ve received word from Fort-Royal. The roof of Uncle Tascher’s house was blown off and the furniture ruined. But no one hurt, thank God.

  September 14.

  Mail—at last.

  July 16, 1788—Fontainebleau

  Darling!

  Two weeks after you set sail we had a dreadful hailstorm—in July, the hottest month of the year! Imagine. Really, we begin to think France is being visited by a destroying angel.* The ice stones were so big they killed birds and ripped the branches off the oak trees in the Luxembourg gardens. My servants are blaming the priests, for ineffective influence.

  My darling pixie of a granddaughter Émilie, quite tall for seven, continues to thrive. I had Eugène over the other day as well—the two are a charm for the vapours.

  A million kisses, your loving Aunt Fanny

  July 18, 1788—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  We’ve been busy attending to finance and health. It is maddening how much time these two matters consume. Fortunately, with respect to health at least, I am beginning to make progress. A doctor suggested I take purgatives and clysters, followed by Peruvian bark. I am following his program with excellent results. I am enclosing three ounces of this bark at a cost of ten livres, which I will add to your father’s account. I urge you to get Joseph (and your sister?) to take it. As well, restrain him from consuming milk foods and salt meat—not to mention spirits.

  The situation here worsens…there was a dreadful ice storm which destroyed the crops, just when everyone had been praying for grain. No doubt this is God’s punishment for the riots in Paris. My chambermaid’s brother vows he saw King Henry IV’s statue bleeding.

  Do not neglect to say your prayers—morning and night—as well as your hours. Have you talked to your father regarding the accounts? We anxiously await news.

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  July 5, 1788—Paris

  Dear Rose,

  A quick note (I have a meeting to attend)—I have decided to enter the realm of politics. It is a labour I do willingly; my country needs me.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  Note—Eugène is well.

  Sunday

  Chère Maman,

  Ice came out of the sky. Are you coming home yet?

  A thousand kisses, Eugène

  January 29, 1789.

  A talk with Mother, regarding the accounts. She is reluctant to bring in anyone from outside.

  “What can be the harm?” I insisted. Father wasn’t able, Mother was unwilling and I had no experience, much less knowledge.

  “Our only problem is your father’s debts,” she said. “His vice.”

  But at last she relented. She has agreed to allow me to consult with Monsieur de Couvray, an accountant of merit in Fort-Royal.

  Monday, February 16.

  I have been reviewing the accounts in preparation for my trip to Fort-Royal. There are a number of mysteries. Father was blustery at first, refusing to respond to my questions, accusing me of ignorance. Gently, I persisted, pointing out discrepancies. At last he broke down. Much of the money had gone to cover gambling debts—but not all. Some covered mistakes he had made managing the plantation. It was the blunders he was ashamed to admit, not the gambling losses—the “debts of honour” he insists are a result of courage, not weakness. “It takes strength to play deep,” he said, “to risk one’s fortune on the turn of a card.” (I refrained from pointing out that it had not been his fortune he’d put at risk.)

  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.

  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, looking 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 to employ 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 fe
eling 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 worlds 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.