by Zia Wesley
Aimée looked down at Constance and became aware of her heart’s rapid beating. She thought the sherry must be affecting her and nodded her head. “Yes, companionship and love.”
Constance placed her glass down on the little table and took one of Aimée’s hands into her own, turning it over to stroke the smooth inside of her palm. “Companionship and love may be achieved in many ways, Aimée,” she said softly, then gently kissed her palm.
Shocked, Aimée retracted her hand and stood up too quickly, dropping her half-filled glass of sherry as she did. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I...”
Without looking back at the nun sitting on the floor, she ran from the room to her quarters, threw herself onto her bed and wept into her pillow. Now she was more confused than ever.
The only good to come as a result of her encounter with Constance was that despite being upset, the sherry brought her a good night’s sleep. The next morning she sent Da Angelique into the village to purchase a bottle of the same from the local vintner.
“Spirits?” Da Angelique asked incredulously. “What you want wid dat? No young gulls got need of spirits, no lady either, mmm, mmmm, you don’ need no spirits, Doudou.”
“I forbid you to treat me like a child,” Aimée said, sharply stamping her foot. “Es ou tandé sa mwen di ou? [Did you hear what I said?] I am a young lady, and you’d do best to remember that. I am sending you to fetch something for me and have no need to explain myself to my maid.” She felt badly speaking to Angelique this way, but had no choice.
“I pa bon [it’s bad],” she replied, sadly shaking her head. “An’ you in dis god’s house too. Mmm, mmmm. What gonna be now dis young gull got no respec’ no more?”
“And you will address me as ‘mademoiselle’ from this day forward, and stop addressing me in any familiar manner,” Aimée scolded. “And say ‘please’ when telling me what must be done.”
Angelique glared at her mistress, took the coin and cursed quietly under her breath as she walked off muttering to herself.
The loss of Constance’s friendship left Aimée no one with whom she could discuss the thoughts that plagued her, and she felt more alone than ever. One thing was certain; she no longer wished to encourage friendship with the young nun, or any others who might have similar notions about “companionship.” Her loneliness led her to write to Rose.
23 January, 1780
My dearest Rose,
I have hesitated too long in writing this letter and do not wish you to misinterpret my silence for lack of interest, because I miss you terribly. It is lovely here at the convent, but there is no one with whom I can speak freely about personal matters, which makes me miss you even more. In truth, I do not miss anything or anyone other than you.
It pains me to tell you that my sojourn in Paris was an unhappy one. I embarked upon the journey with the highest of hopes, some of which were extinguished almost immediately by the city itself, which is the strangest combination of horrid and beautiful. Of course, I have no other city to which I might compare it, as you know, but it stank and everything is made of stone. The only green areas, called parks, with grass, trees and flowers, are in the middle of the city. Unfortunately, the stench from the slums and factories reaches everywhere and in the warm months (when I visited) is almost unbearable. Everyone carries scent and handkerchiefs to hold to their noses at all times.
Upon my arrival, Aunt Sophie pronounced my entire traveling wardrobe to be unsatisfactory (not fashionable enough) and ordered a new one to be fashioned for me, with two of the most exquisite ball gowns, too beautiful to even describe. And Rose, there was a young Italian gentleman, Signore Cavalieri, an artist, ensconced on the upper floor of Aunt’s house in a painting studio, and he painted my portrait. He is the handsomest and most interesting young man I have ever met, and sadly, too far beneath my station to be considered. Which brings me to the terrible news I feel ashamed to tell—even to you my dearest friend.
Parisian society is so very complicated and unlike anything we have ever known. Through Aunt’s tutelage I thought I had mastered everything so well, what was permitted and not permitted. Do you know Parisians frown upon smiling? I believe in saying that I have displayed what they call wit. If only Aunt Sophie had warned me of what to expect in the manner of the appearance of the Comtesse de la Roche I might not have been so shocked. But the woman was nothing short of a specter, her haggard old face and body painted white. Actually painted, Rose! And the huge skirt of the afternoon gown she wore harbored a bevy of tiny yapping dogs beneath it. Can you imagine such a site, Rose? I tell you, you cannot.
In actual fact, as I describe her to you now she becomes quite comical. I am laughing at the memory and only wish I could have done so at the time. I gasped at the sight of her—what a terrible gaff, and all my hopes were dashed. I was so unnerved by my faux pas that moments later, I drank an entire glass of sherry and fainted dead away, falling off my chair as I did so. It was truly terrible, Rose. I quite literally fell from whatever grace I had possessed. When I recovered my senses enough to realize what I had wrought, I shouted Angelique’s favorite curse (which I have never uttered aloud before and cannot even bring myself to write now). Then, I cried publicly and uncontrollably like an injured child. Thus, I was judged unworthy of polite society and will never be introduced to any prospective suitors... ever. My fondest dream of marriage and family will never be fulfilled, and I do not understand how I can find anything funny about the events that led to this debacle.
What chance of happiness is there for me now, Rose? I will be eighteen on my next birthday and am unsure of what course to pursue. It appears the only path open to me is the Church, and the irony of that choice is more than I can presently bear.
Please respond quickly, as I anxiously await your council.
Your devoted cousin,
Aimée
Writing the letter to Rose brought some interesting questions to light. Aunt Lavinia used to tell her that “time and distance heal all wounds.” Was this why she could now laugh at the memory of Comtesse de la Roche? She still pondered how something so miniscule could yield such an enormous result, and asked herself how she might have felt if she had succeeded in securing the approval of the Comtesse and her important guests. Would she have enjoyed their company? They seemed possessed by the goal of succeeding at court, as if that were the only aspect of their lives that mattered. What about other things, she thought, like those Signore Cavalieri loved to discuss and ponder? What if I had to follow those stupid rules and ridiculous protocols for the rest of my life? If I did, where might I find pleasure in such a life?
She quickly scanned through her memories of her month in Paris, and realized that the only times she truly enjoyed were those spent in the company of Signore Cavalieri. I felt happy then, she thought, because I was able to laugh freely, and the world he showed me was so different and interesting. He did not require me to act any way other than as myself. It was an astounding realization to see everything she thought she had wanted crumble in an instant. Her long-held dream of the future life she had cherished was, in fact, nothing more than a dream with no resemblance to the reality of Parisian society. In truth, the only person she had genuinely liked was also an outcast of that society.
Flabbergasted by the realization, she sat at the tiny writing table in her room in a mild state of shock. She remembered every detail of seeing Signore Cavalieri for the first time, the way he had sauntered into Aunt Sophie’s drawing room in his soft black leather boots and calfskin leggings, the open shirt revealing his smooth dark skin. The way he looked at her with those exotic dark eyes had made her heart thump in her throat. She had never felt anything like it before. Despite her nervous palpitations, he made her feel at ease when she posed for her portrait. She watched him, thinking about how it might feel to lay her cheek against his bare chest and breathe in his scent. He may have been beneath my station, but he is the kind of man I want to marry, and that is how I want to feel.
During the
days that followed, Aimée kept to herself, praying earnestly, studying her lessons and taking solitary walks whenever she could. As a child, she had always relied on the beauty of nature to bring her solace, which it still did. The nights were made more bearable by sherry.
Less than a week after posting her letter to Rose, Aimée received her first letter. That could only mean their letters had crossed paths, for it was much too soon to be receiving a response. She tore the letter open and was shocked to read of the sudden, unexpected death of Rose’s younger sister, Catherine, who had contracted a fever and died.
“And dear cousin, you will not believe what I am going to tell you, but the terrible loss of my dearest little sister was followed by a miracle. The Viscount Alexandre de Beauharnais, to whom Catherine had recently been betrothed, has asked for my hand in her stead. The old witch was right. I sail for France in early February to marry the Viscount!”
Aimée put the letter down, unable to read further. This was the first time in almost two years that she remembered the prediction. Now the first part of the old woman’s prediction for Rose had come true, and she suddenly realized that so had the first part of her own. She had indeed been sent abroad to the convent school to “further her education.” A shudder passed down her spine as she sat gazing out at the vineyards that spread down the gently sloping hill away from the convent. Parts of both predictions had come true. How could anyone look at a handful of coffee grounds and bones and see the future? It was not possible.
She read the rest of Rose’s letter that told what little she knew of the Viscount: he was from an aristocratic old family, handsome and dashing and a lieutenant in the army. Her Aunt Désirée Renaudin, her father’s sister in France, had arranged the marriage. Also, a hurricane had destroyed their house and her family was now living in the soucherie.
“Everyone still grieves the loss of sweet Catherine, especially poor mother, but with the end of her life a new one has begun for me. Isn’t life a terrible mystery?”
Aimée read the words almost without recognition, unable to think of anything but the prophecy. She remembered the night in the old obeah woman’s shack and the feel of the crone’s leathery hands holding her own. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall everything the woman had said: two children for Rose, widowhood and a second marriage, while Aimée would have a son. Would he be a king? Then she remembered hearing about the pirates kidnapping her and taking her to a strange land. Instantly she clamped her hands over her ears in an effort to halt any further memories. She did not want to remember. No good would ever come of it, and look what had happened to poor Catherine.
With shaking hands, she folded the letter and put it down. Despite the early hour of the day, she drank two glasses of sherry and laid down for a nap.
Chapter 10
On the following day, Aimée took her morning walk to a stand of beautiful old willow trees that bordered a small pond on the convent grounds. She sat on the soft grass and tried to organize her thoughts. Rose would be coming to France and they would see each other. She was going to marry, to be the Vicomtesse de Beauharnais and live in Paris. Aimée imagined visiting her cousin, who would live in a house just like her aunt’s. How exciting to think of her as the wife of a prominent young man. Then she realized that Rose, her dearest cousin, would soon be in a position to introduce her to eligible young men—men of their choice. Perhaps they might be country gentlemen, perfectly acceptable yet unfettered by the restraints of the higher echelons of society. I might truly find happiness with such a man, she thought and if I marry and remain in France, the rest of the prediction couldn’t possibly come to pass. Yes, she told herself, that is exactly what I must do. Excited by her new plan, she quickly returned to her room to write another letter.
My dearest, dearest Rose,
Our letters crossed paths in transit, as yours arrived just one week after I posted mine. I am deeply saddened to learn of sweet Catherine’s passing, and hope that you and your family will find a way to bear the grief I know you feel. I am relieved to learn she did not suffer long, and know she is with the angels now. Please make an offering of sweets to her on my behalf when next you visit, and know that I include her in my prayers.
I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you to grieve your dear sister’s passing while being grateful for your own good fortune. I hope you take no blame upon yourself for this most unusual outcome, as I am sure Catherine would not wish it.
I am thrilled that we will be in France together! Where will your marriage take place and might it be possible for me to attend? If not, let us plan a visit to follow soon after. Do you know where you will be residing, and have you corresponded directly with your betrothed yet? I have so many questions, as I am sure do you.
Please respond soon as I am excited to learn more.
Your loving cousin,
Aimée
Aimée sealed the letter and felt a surge of hope. If Rose could succeed in finding a suitable husband without having had the benefit of Aunt Sophie’s tutoring, so might she. Her hopes of marriage were suddenly rekindled.
But five months passed before another letter arrived from Rose. It was very short, but quite extraordinary.
Dearest Aimée,
I write to you from aboard the ship that carries me to my destiny. Although this will not post until I arrive in France, I wish to describe an extraordinary event while it is fresh in my mind. And you, my dear cousin, are the only one with whom I may share it. Yesterday, as I boarded the ship in Fort-Royal Harbor a giant arc of blue and yellow light came down from the sky and made the mast and mainsail look as if they were afire! All of the people on the deck and the docks stopped to stare, and women screamed while the deck hands made efforts to calm everyone on board. The illumination lingered for several minutes. When it faded from the sky, the Captain addressed us, saying that the ship would not burn and that the flame was a natural occurrence, a kind of lightning called “Saint Elmo’s Fire.” Can you imagine? Once again, Euphemia David was right.
By the time you read this, I will have already met my betrothed. I promise to write very soon.
Your cousin,
Marie-Josèphe Rose Tascher de la Pagerie (almost Beauharnais).
Aimée stared at Rose’s letter, stunned. If this extraordinary occurrence came to pass, what might actually happen to me? I never made confession to Father Christophe, but it can harm no one now if I confess here.
She ran to the Mother Superior’s quarters to confide the incident with the fortuneteller and its frightening “results.” In her heart, she hoped that confession would absolve her of the sin, and somehow halt the remaining prediction as well.
“Did you confess your sin and do penance immediately following your visit to the devil’s servant?” the Mother Superior asked.
“No, Mother. I did not.”
“Do you wish to burn in hell, child?” she asked sharply.
“No, Mother.” She envisioned burning bodies writhing in pain, and began to cry. “Truly, I do not.”
“You will do penance now, and I will grant you absolution, my child, but you must also repent within your heart. You must purge yourself of fear, as the fear of these things is in itself the work of the devil. This ‘prediction’ of which you speak is nothing more than coincidence. I bid you strike it from your mind.”
That last instruction sounded familiar. Hadn’t Rose said something like that to her? “Thank you, Mother. I will do anything you say, and I will sweep the memory from my mind. I will.” Yes, Rose had said exactly that.
“What a pity we are no longer able to burn witches. Such women should be severely punished for consorting with the Devil as well as frightening young girls.”
Aimée was almost as frightened by the Mother Superior’s words as she had been by the prediction. If fear itself was bad, she wondered, how was fear of the devil different from fear of God? She did not dwell on this because she was desperate to believe the nun’s rebuttal of the power embedded in the old
woman’s prophecies, and thus went immediately to chapel, where she knelt for the next hour in prayer. As she left, she resolved to follow the Mother Superior’s instructions to the letter. She had said to “strike the memory” from her mind. How exactly shall I do that? I simply will not allow myself to think of it, and if I do, I will think of something else instead.
Comforted by the Mother Superior’s absolution and confident that God would now forgive her, she vowed to pray daily, both longer and harder than she ever had before.
The mother superior watched as Aimée walked out of the chapel and thought to herself that despite the young lady’s well-bred demeanor, her walk betrayed a surprisingly sensual nature.
She smiled to herself.
Chapter 11
Rose
Rose had never thought of herself as a child. Perhaps early maturity was innate, or it may have been the result of her unusual childhood experiences. Whatever its source, she willingly took chances, and often chose the unaccepted path. She did not openly disobey—she just did as she pleased whenever she could. Unlike Aimée, who strove to be the good girl, Rose cared nothing for following rules. Neither did she stand as much to lose. Aimée, being an orphan, wished to remain in the good graces of her relatives upon whose mercy and kindness she depended. No one ever thought of Rose as a bad girl so much as one whose high spirits would hopefully mellow with age. If girls might be compared to weather, Rose would be an unpredictable tropical storm while Aimée personified the essence of spring, filled with promise. In their early years, each fervently wished to be more like the other.
When, at the age of seventeen, the death of her youngest sister brought Rose a proposal of marriage, she quickly adapted to the idea. It was an event she had hoped and feared for almost three years, and the circumstances of her betrothal would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Now Rose’s dreams were being shattered, although more slowly and insidiously than Aimée’s. To her great disappointment, she had married Viscount Alexandre de Beauharnais not in the Cathedral in Paris, but in a civil ceremony at her Aunt Désirée’s country home in Noisy-le-grand, half a day’s journey from Paris. The ceremony was attended solely by officers of the Viscount’s regiment, with no family members on either side present. Although Rose’s father had made the long journey with her to France, he had become ill and unable to attend.
