The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “Rags,” she said as she ladled water over my head. “Madame has provided others for you.”

  “But I wish to keep my own clothes, mistress,” I said, huddled in my nakedness. However ragged they might seem to her, my clothes were my only belongings, and I was loathe to part with them.

  “Your wishes mean nothing,” the woman said. “Your only desire must be to obey Madame.”

  “But, mistress—”

  “No more addressing me like that, either,” she said, scrubbing me hard with a rough cloth. “You will call me Orianne, the name that Madame calls me. You will learn to speak French, so you may better serve Madame.”

  “How?” I asked, bewildered. To me French sounded like so much harsh-sounding gibberish, impossible to decipher, let alone speak.

  “If you are clever and listen, you will learn,” Orianne said. “But take care. Although Madame will not speak Hindi or Tamil herself, she knows enough to catch you out if you’re impudent to her in those tongues. Always recall that French is the language of this house, and spare yourself a whipping.”

  “But you are not French.”

  “Listen to me,” she said sharply. “This is the house of Madame and Monsieur Beauharnais. They are French, and we are their property, which makes us French as well. If you wish things to go easily for you here, you will learn to listen and obey, and not to speak unless to reply.”

  Because of my uncle’s temper, I’d long ago learned that there could be considerable safety to be found in silence. Thus I nodded, and kept quiet as I’d been bidden.

  I shivered as Orianne sluiced last night’s rainwater over my shoulders. When she judged me sufficiently clean, she handed me a bundle of clothes. These garments surprised me, and pleased me, too, for everything was of brightly colored silk. I’d never in my life worn silk, and the fabric slipped over my skin in a way that cotton never had. There were loose green trousers, gathered into cuffs at the ankles like salwars, a long blouse with a deep neckline, and a short sleeveless pink jacket with shining golden sequins sewn along the hems. Being a child, I was awed by the splendor of these garments, and thought of how much my cousins would envy me, if only I could show them.

  Orianne frowned as she helped me dress, pulling the drawstrings on the blouse and trousers more tightly around me.

  “These clothes belonged to another, and another before her,” she explained briskly. “But those girls grew, and ceased to please Madame, and then they were sold away. You are small. Pray that you remain so.”

  “I can spin,” I said, hoping that my single skill would make me sufficiently useful. “I can—”

  “Do you believe Madame cares for that?” Orianne said scornfully. “That’s not why she bought you. No, no! You are to be her new poupée.”

  “Her poupée?”

  “A doll, a toy, a poppet.” Orianne drew a comb from her pocket and began to smooth and braid my hair. “All the French ladies keep young slaves—some girls, some boys—to wait upon them. It amuses them. You will accompany Madame wherever she goes about the town, and stand behind her chair at meals, and oblige her in every way she wishes, whether at home or abroad. Do you understand, little one?”

  I didn’t, though I nodded anyway. “My name is Veeya, Orianne.”

  Orianne’s mouth tightened. “Your name is whatever Madame chooses to call you. Now come.”

  She took me firmly by the hand, her skirts brushing against my arm as she led me across the courtyard. In this unfamiliar new world, I drew comfort from her large hand around mine, our palms pressed together and our fingers linked. The linen of her apron smelled of the kitchen, of turmeric and cumin and the other spices she’d been using.

  By daylight the main house where Madame and Monsieur lived was even grander than I’d realized in last night’s rain. Painted pale yellow with delicate white columns circled with carved flowers and vines, the house was still new, having been built with the rest of the new White Town after the British had burned the old one. A row of arched doorways were screened by shutters with woven cane to permit fresh air from the sea to pass into the house, a rare luxury in Pondicherry, especially in the seasons of rain. Even now a male servant stood at the far end of the veranda, tugging the rope that swung a large punkah back and forth to create a sluggish breeze through the house.

  The black-and-white stone of the veranda’s floor was smooth and cool beneath my bare feet, and as we passed inside beneath one arched doorway I tipped my head back and marveled at how high the ceiling was above our heads. There were other wonders, too, paintings in gilded frames, tables and chairs with legs carved like the feet of animals, and gleaming candlesticks of precious silver, and I would have lingered had Orianne not pulled me along beside her.

  “Recall what I have told you,” she whispered fiercely when we finally stopped before the door of one of the rooms. “Obey Madame in all things, else you shall be punished.”

  She entered the room, and I followed. At the far end was the woman from the carriage: Madame Beauharnais herself, sitting before a large dressing table. I could now see how Madame’s skin was painted chalky white, with pink circles on her cheeks and black rings around her watery blue eyes. To me her eyes were those of a demon, lashless and staring, and her thin, sand-colored hair, in untamed disarray about her shoulders, was fit for a demon as well. Beside her a woman much like Orianne was combing and pinning Madame’s hair into place, and against the far wall stood a footman, a darker-skinned African, yet dressed in the same French livery as the footman had worn last night.

  Beside me Orianne bowed low, her skirts fanning around her on the polished stone floor. Not knowing better, I had remained upright. Too late I realized my error, and sank down as well, so low that my forehead pressed against the floor.

  But I wasn’t fast enough to please Madame. She spoke crossly in French, her displeasure clear to me even if her language was not.

  “Non, madame.” Orianne’s voice had become so unexpectedly meek that I would not have recognized it. Although she rose slowly, carefully looking downward, I remained on my knees, uncertain of what was expected. Before me were Madame’s bare ankles and feet, swollen and crossed with blue-patterned veins, and thrust into heeled, backless slippers that were too small for her.

  “‘You are to be called Eugénie,’” Orianne said, repeating Madame’s reply into Tamil. “That is the name Madame has chosen for you. Eugénie.”

  To my dismay, Orianne was then sent back to the kitchen. I’d thought her my ally, and yet here she was as powerless against Madame’s orders as I was myself. I was told to remain, and ordered to stand to one side where Madame pointed. When at last Madame was done dressing, I was taken to her carriage with her, and made to crouch on the floor at her feet as we rode to another house.

  Here we were greeted by a group of chattering French friends, dressed like Madame and equally idle. At first these women exclaimed over me, and patted my cheek and stroked my hair as if I were only another of the small dogs that yipped and yapped around their skirts. Soon enough, however, they forgot my presence, and for the rest of the afternoon Madame bid me stand behind her chair while she and the others gossiped and played and wagered at cards, long and tedious hours for any child. If I dared to sigh or wriggle, Madame would swiftly reach around and slap my arm, my shoulder, my cheek, whichever part of me was most convenient to her: sharp, stinging reminders of my place and purpose.

  Nor was I excused when we returned to the Beauharnais house. Again I was ordered to stand behind Madame while she dined with Monsieur, neither of them speaking during a meal that seemed to stretch without end. My legs ached from standing, and my stomach growled and rumbled pitifully from hunger. I watched as dish after dish of rich, fragrant food was brought for Madame and Monsieur, while I had been given nothing since morning.

  When their meal was finally done, the skies were dark and the cicadas buzzed and sang in the trees around the house. Monsieur’s hookah was brought for him. I was made to follow Madame to her rooms
, and again to stand while her maid undressed her for bed. I was so hungry and tired that I swayed on my feet, and only the dread of punishment kept me awake.

  On Madame’s dressing table sat a silver salver of sweetmeats, little cakes with candied fruits dusted all over with sugar. Although they’d been brought from the kitchen for Madame, she ignored them, and little wonder, too, considering all she’d eaten earlier.

  But I looked at the little cakes with the greatest longing as my empty stomach gnawed at itself. I’d never before seen such cakes, let alone eaten one, and the longer I stared at them, the more alluring they became. Finally, as the maid began to snuff the candles for the night, Madame recalled my presence, and languidly ordered me through one of the other women to take the salver with the unwanted cakes back to the kitchen.

  I bowed low and backed from the room as I’d been instructed. The footman closed the door after me, and there in the shadow-filled hallway I was alone for the first time all day. I looked down at the salver in my hands, and with no other thought beyond my hunger, I swiftly stuffed one of the cakes into my mouth.

  Such supreme sweetness, such tenderness upon my tongue, such unimagined flavors of fruit and cream! In that moment both my hunger and my misery were forgotten, and I stopped chewing, the better to savor the pleasure of the cake upon my tongue.

  I heard the door behind me open, and candlelight spilled into the hall. I gasped and turned quickly about, so quickly that I dropped the salver with a clatter, scattering the cakes that I hadn’t eaten. Before me stood Madame in her nightdress, with the footman beside her.

  There was no hiding my guilt. Madame saw it at once, how my cheeks bulged with half-eaten cake and my fingers glistened with sugar, and I in turn saw the fury that now lit her pale eyes. She barked an order at the footman, who caught me and pinned my arms over my head against the wall. I fought him in fear and panic, dreading what would follow, but he held me fast until Madame returned, a rattan cane clenched in her hand.

  She grabbed a fistful of my silk blouse and yanked it upward, uncovering my bare back. As soon as the rattan snapped across my nakedness, I cried out, and jerked forward. The pain of that first blow only increased with the next, and the next after that. Eight in all: I counted each one, one small way to concentrate on anything other than the searing lines that now crisscrossed my back.

  The footman twisted me around to face Madame, and released my hands. Madame’s breath was coming in harsh, ragged gasps, and the rattan in her hand twitched through the air with a muted hiss like a cobra’s.

  “‘Gather up that rubbish, Eugénie,’” the footman said sharply, translating Madame’s orders. “You have proved yourself to be a thief, and Madame will never forget. Now go. Go.”

  With trembling hands I collected the salver and the broken cakes, and backed from Madame’s presence until the end of the hall. Then I fled from the house and across the courtyard toward the kitchen, where, in the manner of that place, Orianne and the others had already heard of what I’d done, and how I’d been punished.

  Orianne took the salver from me and lifted the back of my blouse, clicking her tongue. Madame’s rattan had not broken the skin as a whip would, but it had left marks that were already rising into welts as hot as burns across my back. I was crying now, too, heavy tears of shame and guilt and pain and despair together that slid freely down my cheeks.

  “You must learn to obey Madame, little one,” Orianne said softly. “She owns you now. You can never forget that. You are her property.”

  With a shuddering sob, I bent over, and vomited up all the pink, sugary cake that had cost me so dearly.

  Eugénie

  CHAPTER 2

  Pondicherry, India

  1768

  I first tried to run away in earnest a week after I was beaten for eating Madame’s cake.

  I watched and waited for the time early in the morning when the kitchen gate opened and goods from the market were brought inside. Being small, I tried to slip through unnoticed amidst the bustle, but one of Monsieur’s men caught me before I’d ducked through the gate, and pulled me back.

  For my trouble I was beaten again, not with Madame’s rattan cane, but with a thicker rod of bamboo, which, being more stiff, battered me severely across my ribs. Afterward I was tied to a post in the yard, with the others forbidden to come succor me. I was kept there for the rest of the day in the sun and through the night that followed as a cure for what Madame called my obstinacy. For the next fortnight my ribs ached so badly that I could only breathe in shallow little pants, and I’d have to pause on the landing whenever I climbed the stairs to Madame’s bedchamber.

  Two months passed before I dared to try again. This time I decided to be bolder, and when I accompanied Madame to a perfume shop that she favored I hung back near the carriage as the footman helped her through the shop’s door. Instead of following, I darted beneath the stopped carriage and between the wheels to the other side, believing I would be safe among the passersby who thronged the narrow street.

  But from his box atop the carriage, Madame’s driver spotted me as I fled in my bright silk clothes, and shouted that I must be stopped. This time it was a stranger who seized me, and claimed the small reward the driver had promised for my capture. Madame was furious, and declared that if I attempted to flee again she would sell me to a brothel for sailors near the water. She ordered me whipped, six lashes across my bare back with a leather strap that left me bloody and faint.

  After that, I did not try again to flee. It wasn’t Madame’s threats or punishments that kept me from attempting another escape. If that had been all, then I would have made another attempt, and another after that, until I succeeded. What kept me as Madame’s poupée was the collar she ordered clapped around my narrow throat.

  It was cunningly wrought, that collar, and fashioned by a jeweler so as to appear an ornament rather than the cruel device that it was. Made of some shining golden metal, the collar was inlaid with bits of glass that sparkled in the sun, and bedecked with tiny, dangling bells that jingled at any movement. Engraved on the band were words that said I was the property of Madame Beauharnais, and that if found I must be returned to her. Both the upper and lower edges of the collar were cut in a pattern of sharp little triangles like a jackal’s pointed teeth, and every bit as biting.

  Two footmen held me still when they fastened the collar around my throat. Although I clawed at every inch of the band, I could find no latch to remove it, nor could I find a way to cushion the sharp edges that nipped into my skin.

  From that night onward, Madame herself slipped a chain through the loop at the back of the collar, and fastened the chain to another loop on the heavy post of her bedstead. With Madame in bed, I’d no choice but to curl up on the thin mat I’d been given on the stone floor, listening to her wheeze and cough in her sleep above me.

  I soon learned to raise my chin and hold my neck straight to keep the little teeth of the collar from my throat, yet at the same time to keep my eyes lowered the way I’d been ordered. It entertained Madame to see me this way, and she claimed I looked as if I were raising my chin to beg for forgiveness from God—her God—as if any truly merciful god would ever be pleased by such cruelty toward a helpless child.

  I learned to answer to Eugénie as if it had always been my name, though before I slept each night I’d softly chant my true name—Veeya, Veeya, Veeya—striving to remember it.

  I learned to be more cunning when I took food from Madame’s tray as I carried it back to the kitchen. I picked apart a hem in my blouse to make a tiny secret pocket, and squirreled away small bites of fruit and other sweetmeats that she’d left uneaten. Only when I was sure she was asleep in the big bed above me would I nibble at my plunder, finding comfort in the stolen sweetness one tiny bite at a time.

  Perhaps most importantly, I learned the French language, as Orianne had advised when I’d first arrived. It was not a conscious act, but a skill acquired through daily use, one word at a time. At first I
knew only the phrases of servitude, Madame’s commands and the responses she expected. But in time other words followed as well, and with French came all the secrets of the Beauharnais household.

  Madame and Monsieur spoke freely before us, as if we were mere deaf ghosts in their service. In this way, I came to understand that Monsieur had inherited the company that employed my family, and that he had little interest in its factories beyond what profits he could wrest from the labor of others. I saw, too, how little regard Monsieur had for Madame, and how unhappy their marriage appeared to be.

  “It’s on account of their sons, the young gentlemen,” Orianne explained to me one morning while I waited for Madame’s tea to be readied. Since I’d been fitted with the collar, I was permitted to visit the courtyard and kitchen on errands for Madame, and I would linger there as long as I could. “Years ago, Monsieur sent them away to Paris for their schooling, and Madame still refuses to forgive him.”

  “Do they ever come here to visit?” I asked. Paris was so often spoken of among the French—a rare and wondrous place that they all longed to visit like some magnificent holy shrine, far away across the seas—that I couldn’t imagine any of them leaving it for Pondicherry.

  “They have never returned,” Orianne said, carefully measuring out the fine white sugar Madame demanded into a porcelain bowl. “They never will. They are grown men now, with affairs of their own, and no reason for coming back to Pondicherry. Haven’t you heard Madame’s laments?”

  “She cries when she prays, but I never knew why,” I said, devouring this rare gossip.

  “You mean she wails and weeps as if her sons had only left yesterday, instead of years and years ago.” Orianne made a grumbling sound of disgust, without a morsel of sympathy to it. “Of course Madame faults Monsieur for sending away her angels. Angels, hah. More demons they were. Now go, take the tray. Madame waits.”