Two Empresses Page 4
“Are you so eager to leave us then?” Papa teased.
“Oh no, Papa, not you,” I protested, rushing to throw my arms around him, “but I belong in Paris! Paris is the most beautiful, wonderful, and exciting place in the world! And I am fifteen! If I don’t get to Paris soon I’ll be too old to enjoy it!”
Papa sputtered with laughter as he put me from him and turned back to his desk. “Your time will come, Rose, and before your hair turns white and you succumb to rheumatism, I promise you. Now I must answer your aunt’s letter. . . .”
But I didn’t give up. “Papa, please . . .” I wheedled, rushing to stand behind his chair and rub his shoulders, “couldn’t you just mention me to Aunt Edmée? Couldn’t you just remind her that I exist and that Manette has her heart set on entering the convent and becoming a nun? Why, it will simply kill her if she can’t give herself to God, she would rather be torn apart by lions than accept any other bridegroom but Christ, but I . . . I am eager to embrace the world, and Alexandre too, if I must; Paris is worth any sacrifice. Couldn’t you just write something like that, Papa? And maybe you could also tell her that I am pleasingly plump, tall without being too tall, not at all sun browned, I have kept my complexion fair as snow despite the sun that beats down on us like a slave driver, and that I have eyes as fascinating as amber that is thousands of years old flecked with emeralds—a soldier I danced with at the Governor’s ball in Fort Royal told me that, though maybe you shouldn’t mention the soldier to Aunt Edmée, she might not understand . . . or, given her reputation, she might understand too well. . . .”
I nibbled indecisively at my bottom lip. “But you could tell her that I have hair as dark as midnight, wavy and long enough to ensnare and enslave a man—well, maybe you should leave that last part out too, though it was a different soldier who told me that at a different ball, a naval officer, actually . . . I think—and I am endowed with all the charms of youth, a nice bosom, hips that promise my future husband a family of his own someday, and I am a graceful and tireless dancer, with a lively disposition and a great zest for living, and I can also read and write and sew, a little, if I have to, but don’t tell her that my spelling is atrocious and that I can’t sew a straight seam to save my life. Alexandre is just the sort of fussy, nitpicky person to care about silly little things like that!”
Papa put down his pen and turned to stare at me. “This is news to me, Rose. I mean about Manette’s vocation, not your spelling, or the Circean effect you have upon military men; your mother has lost more sleep over that than she has about poor Catherine’s illness. Manette has been sent home from the convent three times for putting spiders in the nuns’ veils and lizards in their beds and if it happens again they will not have her back, not even as a day pupil. Are you quite sure she wants to be a nun? Last time I asked her about her future plans, she said she wanted to cut off her hair, put on breeches, and go to sea and fight pirates, or perhaps become one; she wasn’t quite sure which.”
“Well, tell Aunt Edmée that then!” I brightened. “Oh, Papa”—I hugged his neck and kissed the top of his head even though it meant getting musk-scented powder in my mouth—“that’s even better! Alexandre is far too fastidious to want such a tomboy for his bride! Just tell Aunt Edmée something, tell her anything, as long as it reminds her that I exist and makes her choose me! If you do, and Alexandre agrees to have me, I promise I will send you half of whatever allowance he gives me every month for the rest of your life. Your luck is certain to change sometime.... You could get another charm from Euphemia David, maybe one that doesn’t involve your sitting up all night in the graveyard and catching cold,” I added hopefully.
“Hmmm . . .” Papa tapped his chin thoughtfully. “That is an interesting proposition, Rose. Very well, if I promise to put in a good word for you, will you go away and let me write my letter in peace?”
I hugged Papa’s neck tight and kissed his face a dozen times. “I’m already gone!” I said as I danced out onto the veranda, laughing and twirling as the wind blew the rain sideways, beneath the roof, and over the railing, to slap-kiss me lightly like a naughty child. I caught the little green lizard and cupped him in my hands gently and blew him a kiss and danced him up and down the veranda before putting him safely back on the window. “Little lizard, I am so happy!” I cried in pure delight. “I am going to Paris to be married! My life begins today!”
It never occurred to me that Alexandre might say no; Fate had already written yes in the stars and on my palm at the instant of my birth. It was my destiny!
CHAPTER 2
Two months later a second letter arrived. By then Catherine was already in her grave and Manette had wept so much at the mere suggestion of leaving our island paradise that the doctor feared forcibly uprooting her would be the ruination of her health. Mama, in turn, still reeling from the loss of Catherine, put her foot down. She clung desperately to Manette and insisted that at only eleven she was far too young to even be thinking of marriage. “If Alexandre de Beauharnais wants one of my daughters to be his wife,” she said, “it will have to be Rose!”
I had never been so happy in my life. I won by default, but that didn’t matter at all; I won. I was going to Paris, to answer Destiny’s call; that was the important thing.
Despite some rather strong misgivings about my suitability, Alexandre was willing to accept me since he really had no choice. He had heard that I was a featherhead—he actually wrote that!—frivolous and flighty and prone to putting my heart before my head, provincial and uncultured with no education to speak of and no love of books.
If, as I fear, our marriage turns out badly you will have no one to blame but yourself, he wrote to me.
And, he thought that I, at barely sixteen, was too old for him! He was firmly convinced that a wife should be not even a day less than five years her husband’s junior. Since there were only two years between us he suspected this vital discrepancy did not bode well for our union.
But time was pressing. Alexandre could not afford to wait another year in the hope that Manette’s nerves would settle; indeed he would not have a wife of a nervous, and very likely hysterical, disposition, he said. And he wasn’t inclined to prolong the search and look elsewhere for a bride, like a fairy-tale prince trying to find the girl whose foot fit the glass slipper.
It seemed that money, not the prospect of love and domestic bliss, was at the heart of Alexandre’s eagerness to marry. He could not lay hands on the inheritance his mother had left him until he acquired a wife, as the late marquise believed that marriage would have a good, steadying influence on her son and smooth some of his sharp edges.
If I was the readily available key that could unlock the vault to 40,000 livres per annum, Alexandre was willing to overlook at least a few of my shortcomings, like my age, which I could do nothing about. But he sincerely hoped that I would make it my life’s work to better myself and constantly endeavor to be worthy of him in exchange for the honor he was about to bestow upon me by taking me, albeit reluctantly, as his bride and giving me the title of Vicomtesse de Beauharnais. He was already hard at work, his letter informed me, drawing up a rigorous program of self-improvement to give me as a wedding present along with a forty-volume set of the works of Voltaire and Rousseau, plus supplemental volumes on history, science, and etiquette.
Whoever would have thought that an eighteen-year-old boy could be so stodgy? If I didn’t know better I would have asked Papa if he was certain Alexandre wasn’t eighty. I wanted a husband, not a schoolmaster! I doubted he would be any fun at all! But Alexandre de Beauharnais was the golden gate that led to Paris, so I was willing to be generous and overlook all of his shortcomings.
Aunt Edmée wrote that there was not a moment to lose. Never mind about my trousseau; she would outfit me in Paris. I would be her living doll and she would dress me; it would be her wedding gift to me. Do not delay; just get on a ship and come, she wrote, her words as urgent as voodoo drums in the night.
So I packed everythin
g I possessed and bid everyone farewell and drew in one last long whiff of the sugar-scented air. I was certain I would never come back. When my little cousin Aimee, whose destiny, Euphemia David said, was entwined with mine, wept and clung to me, I reminded her that very soon she too would be boarding a ship bound for Paris. Her father, unlike mine, was a shrewd businessman who could afford to send his daughters abroad to be educated at one of the finest convent schools. I promised faithfully that I would visit her in the convent and take her out for days of fun spent shopping and sipping chocolate at sidewalk cafés, and, when she was older, there would be balls and evenings at the theater. I would even seek a rich and handsome husband for her amongst Alexandre’s friends.
As I stood upon the deck of the Ile de France, with my mulatto maid Rosette, one of Papa’s Fort Royal by-blows, at my side, all our slave women and several free women of color, including many of Father’s mistresses I’m sure, assembled on the wharf to wave good-bye.
All of them were wearing their best clothes: their brightest, gaudiest, most colorful dresses, patterned in vivid checks, bold stripes, or floral prints that looked from a distance like splashes of bright paint; tignons—madras handkerchiefs tied around their heads, the points arranged in intricate up-pointing fashion—and foulards, gay handkerchiefs in colors clashing or contrasting with their gowns, knotted around their shoulders, the unmarried girls seeking a husband leaving the ends of theirs untucked to wordlessly convey their desire to find a mate.
I had grown up watching these women walking the dusty island roads in their bare feet with baskets of fruits and vegetables, crabs and fish, fresh-baked bread and sweet pastries, or laundry balanced on their heads, sashaying and swaying their hips, vying with one another to have the gaudiest, most eye-catching attire and sell the most of their wares by the day’s end. La costume est une lutte—the art of dress is a contest, they always said, words I would cherish and never forget. I would carry them across the sea to France with me and think of them every time I put on my clothes.
As the ship drew out to sea they sang to me “Adieu Madras, Adieu Foulards!,” the age-old island song of farewell that Creole women have been singing for all of human memory to loved ones being borne away by the savage sea, most likely never to return again.
“Adieu Madras, adieu Foulards!
My darling is leaving,
Alas, alas it is forever!”
Just for a moment, I thought I glimpsed Euphemia David with her snake around her shoulders, standing in the midst of the swaying, singing crowd, smiling and serenely nodding at me, giving me her regal blessing. In that moment a peculiar light appeared in the sky, like a wreath of flames, or a crown, above the ship. The passengers were awed and frightened, but the sailors were quick to reassure them that it was only St. Elmo’s fire, but I knew better—it was a crown sent from Heaven and it was meant for me!
* * *
The voyage was dreadful! For three relentless months the waves pitched, rolled, tossed, and hurled the ship about like a child’s plaything. We spun in circles and completely lost our bearings. Never before had I felt so helpless and small, so entirely at God’s mercy. More than once everyone on board sank to their knees, praying fervently, certain we were about to plunge down to a watery grave. At least the storms would keep us safe from pirates and the British, I thought, but one of the sailors said no, the storms might instead fatally cripple us so that once they subsided we would be even more vulnerable to capture.
Green algae infested our clean water supply, turning it to vile green slime, but we drank it anyway, until it ran out, and, for that reason alone, we were grateful for the pounding rains; at least we would not die of thirst. Our cabin was so tiny we were hemmed in by my trunks and we had to leave off layering our petticoats in order to move about. The emerald-colored algae bloomed in thick, tenacious patches on the perpetually damp walls of our cabin and mold crusted my trunk and leather shoes. Everything we touched was damp; there was no escaping the clammy feel of wet cloth against our skin, not even in bed, where mold and algae soon blossomed upon the sheets. I was afraid I would never be warm and dry again.
Our food fast became inedible, infested with weevils and worms, the fruits and vegetables rotted and the meat turned rancid, but in our desperation we ate it anyway, praying that we would reach some safe harbor soon, before everything was gone. The idea of having nothing at all was worse than eating fare not fit for dogs. The sailors grudgingly shared their meager rations of salt meat and biscuits so hard I thought they would break my teeth; not even the rain would soften them. Every time I tried to eat one I felt my teeth wobble warningly in my jaw, making me fearful of facing my fiancé with conspicuous gaps in my mouth.
The day after we had exhausted every morsel on board, and I was starting to fear for the ship’s cat, the Ile de France, listing badly, its sails hanging in limp, bedraggled shreds like the hair of a sea hag, lurched into the harbor at Brest. Every soul on board sank to their knees and offered up prayers of thanks.
* * *
In the pouring rain, Rosette and I trudged to the inn where rooms had been reserved for us. As luck would have it, Aunt Edmée and Alexandre were already there, waiting impatiently, impeccably dressed, with not a hair out of place, dry and warm as toast, sipping spiced wine by the fire in the big common room. My bridegroom glared at me as though he held me personally responsible for the tempestuous weather and the ship’s laggardly arrival.
“Well, little savage, you certainly took your time,” he sneered. “You might have at least tried to look worth waiting for. Disappointment at first sight—that hardly bodes well for our impending nuptials; don’t you agree? If I believed in omens, I would be tempted to call the whole thing off and send you right back to Martinique; I don’t think you’re fit for civilized company.”
He yawned right in my face! It felt worse than a slap!
I had been feeling wretched for weeks, and I hadn’t bothered to change my dress, reasoning that I would be drenched as soon as I set foot off the ship, so why bother and ruin a fresh dress. I thought there would be time to prepare myself for this meeting. I wanted to make a good impression; I certainly didn’t want Alexandre to see me like this!
I had lost flesh from lack of nourishment and nausea, so my blue linen dress hung slackly from my shoulders, straight down, almost like a sack with a hole cut out for my head and sleeves sewn on as an afterthought, hiding all trace of my womanly bosom, waist, and hips. My cheeks were gaunt and deathly pale, my eyes deep sunken and dark circled, and my nose runny and red as Papa’s rum nose. I was still green tinged from seasickness and my skin was slightly windburned from all those hours I had spent on deck seeking some respite from the close confines of my algae-and-mold-festooned cabin, and raw and red from the constant damp. My dark hair had lost all of its luster and hung down lank and lifeless, plastered to my shoulders and back by the pelting rain and sprays of salty seawater. I hadn’t had a proper bath since leaving Martinique and I’m sure Alexandre’s fastidious nose was aware of that. I hadn’t even thought to perfume myself prior to leaving the ship, I was so eager to be off it and on solid land and somewhere safe and warm again.
I was admittedly a sorry sight, hardly a morsel to tempt any bridegroom, much less one as exacting as Alexandre de Beauharnais, but he didn’t have to be so mean about it. Surely my ordeal entitled me to at least some consideration? Even one tiny ounce of kindness would have meant so much!
While Alexandre was not at all impressed with me, I was so awestruck by the sight of him I almost drooled and melted in a lust-quivering puddle at his feet. He was like the god of masculine beauty, a marble statue come to life! The rude, imperious little boy I remembered had grown up into a regal prince from the kingdom of frost and ice. Tall and slender, with skin fair as fresh-fallen snow, eyes of icy blue, and hair so blond it could be mistaken for white, worn long in the fashion of the day and tied back with a black velvet ribbon, with two perfect curls arranged at either temple, he stood before me hau
ghty and resplendent in the silver-buttoned and -braided white uniform of the Sarre Regiment with a dashing silver-tasseled cape draped over his shoulder, and tall black leather boots so shiny I could see my hopelessly bedraggled reflection staring up at me whenever I looked down at them. He stood by the fireplace with a goblet of wine in his hand, as perfect as though he were posing for his portrait. He was unnervingly still; only the occasional disdainful flicker of his eyes or mouth betrayed any sign of life. He was a perfect and unfeeling mannequin. I think I must have known from the start that he had no heart.
I had never in all my sixteen years felt so small and unworthy as when Alexandre de Beauharnais’s ice-blue eyes looked at me. In my island paradise men had always admired me, sought my kisses, vied to embrace me; every single one of them told me how beautiful and desirable I was. But here was my husband-to-be staring down at me as though I were a nasty worm that had just crawled out of a perfect apple. His eyes were so cold, so cruel! He hated me! I knew it, but I didn’t know why. What had I done? Was looking wretched and wan after a perilous and overlong ocean voyage and suffering constant seasickness so unforgivable? I knew I was ignorant and had a lot to learn about Parisian ways, but I could, and I would. I wanted to! I had left Martinique far behind me; I was ready to be in the world and of the world!
“We leave for Paris at first light. Do not keep us waiting, little savage. Good night,” Alexandre said, and, with a crisp, militarily precise nod, turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.
Little savage! As though I were some crazed, wild-eyed cannibal wench who had never even heard of table manners! He was so cold! No warmth, no feeling, no kindness at all! He didn’t even say hello or welcome. The good prefacing night was just a formality; it had no meaning at all.
“He is . . . striking!” I breathed to Aunt Edmée in spite of my wounded pride as I watched his haughty white-clad soldier’s physique ascend the stairs without a backward glance.