by Zia Wesley
The next morning Da Angelique dressed Aimée’s long, wavy blonde hair, as she had been taught, weaving in green satin ribbons and arranging it atop her head with curtains of curls spilling down the sides onto her shoulders. She affixed three tiny glass vials, each holding three drops of water and one fresh pink rose, just above and in front of Aimée’s left ear. “Don’ you let dat auntie spoil your fun t’day, Doudou,” she said, nervously looking behind herself after using the Creole familiar term for “dear.” Sophie had sharply reprimanded her for the gross impropriety when she’d overheard it. “Oui, m’a’m,” Angelique had said aloud, but under her breath had muttered, “I call dis li’l gull ‘Doudou’ alla her life an no ol’ pitin gone make me stop now.”
“This is going to be the most wonderful day of my life, Angelique. I can feel it.”
“Dat’s right, Doudou. You da tres pretty gull dey ever see. An dos’ yellow culls, mmm, mmm. Dey never see notin’ like dat.”
She applied a very light dusting of white face powder to Aimée’s face, chest and shoulders, and a smidgen of lip rouge, the only enhancements her aunt would allow. The girl’s complexion was the exact ivory shade that many Parisian women literally killed themselves for, by taking arsenic to whiten their skins. “We must emphasize the natural attributes you do possess,” Sophie had said.
At precisely two o’clock Aimée and Sophie stepped into the carriage that would take them to the afternoon tea hosted by Sophie’s old friend, Comtesse Laure Valontin Richard de la Roche. It was only a few blocks away, but ladies were always conveyed to events and social gatherings by carriage, regardless of distance. The nature of one’s conveyance announced the passenger’s worth well before they were ever seen. Sophie’s elegant aubergine and black enameled carriage, with driver and footman in matching livery, proclaimed symbols of status as well as taste. Sophie de Rivery may have lacked any substance of real value, but she was a master of presentation.
The carriage arrived at the de la Roche mansion that occupied a prominent position on a wide avenue off the Bois de Boulogne. It was similar to the de Rivery’s house in that it was also a three-story granite building, only larger and its roof, upper story and entrance were more ornately decorated. Like most Parisian homes of stature, it was flanked closely on both sides by other houses, each with one slender tree gracing the avenue before it. There were no lawns, flowers or other trees anywhere in sight, just hard-packed earth and cobbles. The distinguishing feature of this row of homes was the granite block walkway leading from the street to the bottommost stair of each entrance. The walkways made the access from the street easier for delicate women’s slippers and saved the hems of gowns from ruin in the dirt.
Aimée followed her aunt’s descent from the carriage and looked up at the ornate façade, picturing herself as the mistress of such a house. She imagined descending from her own fine carriage, greeted by her own servants while her handsome husband eagerly awaited within. Her heart beat wildly at the prospect, and she carefully suppressed a grin so as not to displease her aunt. She knew without doubt that her new life was about to begin.
Sophie interrupted her fantasy. “Remain calm,” she instructed firmly through tight lips as they ascended the steps. “Pretend that you have been here many times before.”
Two liveried servants stood on either side of the wide, black-enameled front door. One of them gave a perfunctory bow and opened it wide to admit them. Inside, the vast foyer, with its huge crystal chandelier, marble floor and columns, reminded Aimée of the Governor’s palace in Fort-Royal, only grander. Isn’t it odd, she thought, that there was only one house such as this on Martinique and here they are row upon row. She craned her neck slightly in an attempt to peek into one of the rooms off the foyer, but Sophie shot her a stern look. She had been warned not to show her ignorance of polite society by appearing unfamiliar or impressed with surroundings or customs. “If you are uncertain about anything,” Sophie had instructed, “watch me and do as I do.”
Aimée composed herself, standing as tall as her five-foot height would allow, and stole cautious glances at the décor. Moments later their hostess, Comtesse Laure Valontin Richard de la Roche, swept out of double doors on their left and moved towards them in the most outrageous ensemble Aimée had ever seen. The chartreuse satin gown appeared to have almost no bodice, just enormous breasts sitting atop a tiny satin board. Below the waist, flounce upon flounce of fabric poured down to the floor, the skirt extending out six feet in either direction from her body. Four tiny, white, fluffy dogs with huge satin bows the same color as the Countess’s gown, suddenly appeared from beneath the gown, running in circles and yapping at their mistress’s feet, their sharp nails clicking madly on the marble floor. The Countess’s long, aged face, naked shoulders and bosoms were covered in a thick coating of greasy white paste and crowned by a towering powdered wig, festooned with birds and flowers. Aimée’s jaw dropped and she audibly gasped.
In an attempt to conceal her niece’s faux pas, Sophie snapped open her fan in front of the girl’s face as she took a step towards her old friend and cooed, “Comtesse, ma chérie, how marvelous you look. We are so pleased to join your little tête-à-tête this afternoon. May I present my niece, Marie-Aimée Dubucq de Rivery?”
But Aimée’s reaction had not been lost on her hostess. Her painted vermillion mouth involuntarily pinched into a pucker, as if she had tasted a sour grape.
Aimée curtsied and rose smiling sweetly, her face flushed to a bright red.
The Countess narrowed her eyes and took a step towards her. She was taller than Aimée and literally looked down her hawk’s nose as she extended her folded fan and used the end of it to lift Aimée’s chin slightly.
Aimée thought she meant to slap her with the fan. When this didn’t happen, she realized she was holding her breath, and slowly released it. All the while, her practiced smile was frozen on her face.
A long silence followed, during which the Countess blatantly evaluated every aspect of Aimée’s face, dress and bosom before removing her fan. She cocked her head to one side and relaxed her pursed lips, which simulated the barest trace of a smile. She had seen through the carefully crafted façade, and it was clear she did not like what she saw.
“From whence have you come to visit Paris, Mademoiselle de Rivery?” she asked, and with the question, all of Sophie’s hopes for her niece vanished.
“From Martinique, your grace.” The remains of Aimée’s Creole accent drove the final nails into her coffin.
The entire exchange had taken less than a minute, but had most likely sealed Aimée’s fate. If she did not meet with the Countess’s approval, she would not be introduced to Madame de Polignac. Nor would she be sponsored in any of the city’s fashionable social cliques, and if she were not sponsored, she would not be introduced to any worthwhile sons of Parisian aristocrats. She might as well be dead.
“My niece is in Paris for a short visit from the Couvent de la Visitation in Nantes,” Sophie quickly interjected. “She is here only to visit with her family and to attend the new opera by Monsieur Mozart,” she added to deflect any embarrassment the Countess might feel by not extending further social invitations.
Aimée held her breath, as seconds that seemed like hours passed before the Countess made her reply. “Of course. What a pity she will not have time to attend any other festivities.”
The young girl stared blankly. She understood the meaning of what had been said, but found it difficult to believe that one small faux pas could have had such a disastrous result. Have I truly been shut out? Perhaps I misunderstood? Filled with fear and mortification, she bit her lower lip to keep from crying. Her aunt shot her a look, and Aimée quickly snapped her fan open to cover her face and made a polite curtsy as the Countess flounced away, a wave of little dogs yapping loudly around her skirt.
Sophie almost felt badly for Aimée. Mostly, she regretted having spent so much of her precious time, money and effort for nothing. She should have known that the gir
l’s shortcomings were simply too great to overcome. Well, I have fulfilled my duty to my husband’s family. What more could I have done? “Let us join the other guests in the music room,” she said, then added from behind her fan, “We shall discuss this matter later. Now compose yourself.”
Aimée was in shock. She fluttered her fan in front of her face as she walked behind Sophie, her eyes downcast to avoid meeting the gaze of other guests. Her striking beauty caused a buzz of gossip amongst the women, but Aimée remained quiet, lest she alienate anyone else or embarrass herself further. Along with about twenty other guests, they entered a small, ornate music room, but Aimée was too upset to notice the opulent surroundings. The guests took seats on gilded chairs, as liveried servants passed amongst them, offering crystal glasses of sherry. Aimée took a tiny sip of the sweet amber liqueur, as she has been taught, then finished the entire glass in two large gulps.
A string quartet began to play. She tried to pay attention to the music but could think only of the foolish mistake she made in offending the powerful Countess. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have forgotten everything I tried so hard to learn? It wasn’t fair. The small room was stiflingly hot and she fanned herself rapidly to no avail. Then the close quarters began to yield the unpleasant odors of unwashed bodies drenched in too much perfume, along with the stench of sewage that wafted in through the open windows. Aimée brought her perfumed handkerchief to her nose, but within moments, it no longer had the power to prevent the offensive odors from penetrating her nostrils. The sherry was making her head swim, and her tightly laced corset made it difficult to breathe. She did not want to insult her hostess further by leaving the room during the performance. The distance between chairs, which allowed for the voluminous hoop skirts, prevented her from reaching out to touch the arm of her aunt. She did not feel at all well, and her panicked eyes sought her aunt’s over her fan, but before she could attract her attention, she felt the room begin to spin. She slumped sideways and slid off her chair, hitting the floor with a thud and sprawling inelegantly on her back in a dead faint. The music stopped as her hoop skirt sprang up and propelled her dress back over her face, exposing her pantalets.
The next thing she was conscious of was her aunt’s face close to hers. Smelling salts passed beneath her nose, and she looked up into a sea of white, painted faces gazing down at her disapprovingly. Sophie shook her head sadly from side to side, making a tsk-ing sound with her tongue against her teeth.
Dizzy and disoriented, Aimée whispered to Sophie, “What happened? What have I done?”
“I am afraid you have ruined yourself, child... simply ruined yourself.”
“Couyon pitin!” Aimée screamed, the popular Creole curse she had heard throughout her childhood, idiot bitch. Then she began to wail, loudly, with no concern for who would hear or what they would think. She was finished caring about what anyone might think of her now. All was lost. She had spoiled her only chance for happiness and could no longer control her emotions. “I shall never be married! Never, never.” she sobbed aloud.
“Not in Paris,” Sophie replied.
The news of Aimée’s disastrous presentation at the Comtesse de la Roche’s became a choice piece of gossip that spread through Parisian society like lice. Everyone secretly enjoyed the girl’s unfettered reaction to the site of the dreaded Countess, a reaction they shared but could never express. Furthermore, few instances of public drunkenness ever involved a beautiful young girl, so that made it a real gem. As a result, the only invitations to arrive came from those who were curious to see firsthand the little country girl who had made such a fool of herself in public. No important invitations arrived, and no serious suitors presented themselves. All previously made engagements were cancelled. Sophie did what she could.
After two weeks of informal afternoon teas, evenings at the opera, and uncomfortable formal dinners with pock-faced, unmarriageable sons from the lower echelons of Parisian society, Aimée was more than happy to return to the comfortable and anonymous security of the convent.
Although her aunt politely invited her to return to Paris for visits, Aimée had no hope of finding a husband there. In fact, she had little hope of finding one anywhere. She now believed that God was punishing her for lying to her Aunt Lavinia and Father Christophe, for saying that she wanted to give her life to God. As a consequence, He made sure that He would be the only one who would have her.
Chapter 9
Following her return to the convent, Aimée was afraid that even if she made good on her lie and became a nun, God would not forgive her so easily. If I am going to burn in hell for eternity because of one lie, how much worse might my punishment be if I commit another sin by becoming a nun without a true calling? Are there different levels of hell for those who commit one or two sins and those who sin throughout their lives? She thought about her Aunt Lavinia and wondered how great a sin she must have committed to live such a pious life. Must I now resign myself to live an equally repentant life? Her feelings of guilt and doubt led to a serious bout of insomnia. She considered writing to Rose, but Rose did not think about such things and she still felt too embarrassed by her failure in Paris. She wished she could confide in the Mother Superior, for surely she would have the answers, but how could she ask without revealing her sin?
Questions like these kept her awake at night and one night, following evening prayers, she confided her insomnia—without revealing its cause—to Sister Constance, with whom she had become friendly.
“I know just the thing,” Constance remarked. “A small glass of sherry will help you to sleep. Come with me.” She took Aimée’s hand and led her to a sitting room off the rectory.
Aimée remembered her Parisian debacle. “I do not think that sherry agrees with me.”
“A small glass for medicinal purposes never hurt anyone,” Constance assured her. “Father Sebastian always takes a glass here in the evening when he’s visiting.” She retrieved a partially filled crystal decanter and two small glasses from the sideboard cupboard. “Under the circumstances, I am sure he would be pleased to share a drop with you.” She offered Aimée a filled glass and poured one for herself. “And me.”
They sat on two high-backed chairs next to each other and Aimée took a small sip. The sweet wine burned slightly as it slid down the back of her throat. “My, but that is delicious.”
“It warms one’s innards,” the nun said, taking a sip from her own glass. “Have you been unwell?”
“Oh, no,” Aimée replied, without noticing how easily she now lied. “Only a bit homesick perhaps.” She finished her sherry and patted her lips delicately with her lace handkerchief. The sudden warmth made her giddy and the realization made her laugh. She quickly covered her mouth with her handkerchief and peered sheepishly at Sister Constance, then hiccupped loudly.
Sister Constance clicked her tongue against her upper teeth in mock reprimand, then filled both of their glasses again. “The best way to cure the hiccups,” she proclaimed, raising her glass to Aimée. “But you must drink it all at once.” They drained their glasses empty in one draft.
Enjoying the feeling of relaxation, Aimée asked, “Constance, are you happy here?”
“Yes, very. I sometimes wonder what other kind of life I might have had, but can think of nothing I would rather have. When I think of my mother’s life, with nine children and hardly enough food to go round, and my father... well meaning, I suppose, but drunk most nights and some days. I raised my four younger sisters and, had I remained, would have soon been raising children of my own alongside them. I did not want my Mother’s life.”
Emboldened by the wine, Aimée asked, “But do you never long for... a husband?” She had not intended to reveal any of her true feelings to Constance and here she was saying something that she might have only voiced to Rose.
“For what reason?”
“Why, for marriage and love... and for children.”
“You forget, dear girl, I am married to our Lord,
Jesus Christ,” Constance replied.
“Oh, of course. I am deeply sorry. I did not mean to offend. I only meant marriage to—a man.”
Constance reached for the crystal decanter on the side table and leaned over to refill their glasses for a third time. Her cherubic lips curled up slowly in a teasing smile. “And what could marriage to a man provide that I do not already have?”
“Children, for one. I have always wanted children,” Aimée said wistfully. “If I had children I would never let anything bad happen to them, and I would never leave them.” She took a sip of her sherry and then said the most forthright thing she had ever said aloud to anyone. “It seems that the closer I get to deciding to be a nun, the more I doubt the correctness of that decision. Also...” She paused to take another sip of sherry to fortify herself for what she was about to say. “Also, I have of late begun to yearn for the companionship of a man.” She had admitted the same in her last confession and had been told that impure thoughts were equally sinful to deeds and that acting upon her desires fed the devil’s hunger for her soul. This caused great confusion in her mind, as she had always planned to marry and had never been told that it was bad or wrong. So, why, exactly, was it wrong to desire such a thing?
“Oh,” Constance replied, feigning surprise and moving to sit at Aimée’s feet. Her brown eyes smiled up at Aimée. “It is companionship you desire.”
