The Queen owns a dozen,” Monsieur Caulin would say.
We could not afford gowns from Mademoiselle Bertin herself. A copy would have to do. “Perhaps in blue,” I said.
The sanctity of a boutique helped me forget the hollow in my chest, if only for measured moments. I spent every penny Alexandre gave and accrued a stack of bills charged to his name. Guilt gnawed but I could not stop spending.
Exhaustion seeped into my bones. The earthy scent of coffee and the odor of charred meat turned my stomach, and by the second week of nausea I knew—I was with child again.
“We’ll need to do the birth ritual again,” Mimi said, tucking the sheets on my bed. She had slathered my arms with a soil paste and sacrificed eggs in the fire pit to ensure Eugène’s health.
“Tonight?” I pulled back the drapes, bathing the room in gold. Once-invisible dust whirled in the shaft of sunlight over Mimi’s head.
“
Oui.
Have you told your husband?”
“No.” I slipped an earring in the shape of a daisy through the tiny hole in my ear. “What does he care? He’s not even here.”
“He loves Eugène.”
“I told Maman in my last letter. He can hear the news from her.” To withhold my sentiments, to share nothing with him, was my only card left to play.
Alexandre’s condescension in his letters strengthened my resolve not to write him.
“Excuse me, Vicomtesse de Beauharnais. The post has arrived.”
I nodded to the butler and scooped the missive from his hands. “It’s from your papa,” I said to Eugène, patting his head. He gurgled as I turned the crinkled paper over and sighed. “I suppose we should see what he has to say.”
February 25, 1783
Ma chère Rose,
My commanding officer does not allow me to join our fleets that ward off the attacking British. I am frustrated by my lack of active service, and spend my days in your parents’ home. I had forgotten the sweltering heat and discomforts of Martinique. I don’t know how you tolerated the insects or the indolence! Progress never happens here. Now I understand why you arrived in such a pitiful state when we first met.
I am discouraged to have had no letters from you. Do you care so little for your husband? I wallow in malaise on this God-forsaken island and long for news from my dear wife, for her comforting words. Can you find no kindness for me in your shriveled heart?
Yours,
Alexandre
I shredded his letter and tossed the pieces into the air. Eugène swatted at the paper as it fluttered like snowflakes to the floor. Maman would be appalled to know he abused the reputation of her home. Thankless, cruel man! I found revenge in my letters to Maman. I knew she would read them aloud.
Her reply did not surprise me. Maman believed a woman’s duty was to her husband, regardless of his faults.
March 10, 1783
Ma chère Rose,
I am delighted you are expecting your second child! I didn’t realize you had not told Alexandre. He flew into a tantrum when I read your letter aloud. He is vexed by your lack of contact. Darling, he is your husband. You owe him courtesy, despite his shortcomings.
Alexandre does not enjoy his time here and has moved in with your uncle Tascher. In truth, Papa and I grew tired of his complaints and we’re glad he is gone. Désirée told me what has happened between you two. I hope your tender heart has not suffered too much.
The slaves ask after you, as does your sister. Manette misses you a great deal, especially since her fever. She is scarred, poor thing, and remains very weak. She will never again be beautiful. I fear she may never marry. Time will tell.
How is our beloved Eugène? I trust he is well. I am told he has his father’s eyes and your good nature.
I regret we are able to send you only a little money. We are struggling to pay our debts—your Papa even labors in the fields some days. I hope Alexandre’s sums keep you comfortable.
We miss you and send our love.
Maman
Alexandre’s financial support? Ha! He had sent
We could not afford gowns from Mademoiselle Bertin herself. A copy would have to do. “Perhaps in blue,” I said.
The sanctity of a boutique helped me forget the hollow in my chest, if only for measured moments. I spent every penny Alexandre gave and accrued a stack of bills charged to his name. Guilt gnawed but I could not stop spending.
Exhaustion seeped into my bones. The earthy scent of coffee and the odor of charred meat turned my stomach, and by the second week of nausea I knew—I was with child again.
“We’ll need to do the birth ritual again,” Mimi said, tucking the sheets on my bed. She had slathered my arms with a soil paste and sacrificed eggs in the fire pit to ensure Eugène’s health.
“Tonight?” I pulled back the drapes, bathing the room in gold. Once-invisible dust whirled in the shaft of sunlight over Mimi’s head.
“
Oui.
Have you told your husband?”
“No.” I slipped an earring in the shape of a daisy through the tiny hole in my ear. “What does he care? He’s not even here.”
“He loves Eugène.”
“I told Maman in my last letter. He can hear the news from her.” To withhold my sentiments, to share nothing with him, was my only card left to play.
Alexandre’s condescension in his letters strengthened my resolve not to write him.
“Excuse me, Vicomtesse de Beauharnais. The post has arrived.”
I nodded to the butler and scooped the missive from his hands. “It’s from your papa,” I said to Eugène, patting his head. He gurgled as I turned the crinkled paper over and sighed. “I suppose we should see what he has to say.”
February 25, 1783
Ma chère Rose,
My commanding officer does not allow me to join our fleets that ward off the attacking British. I am frustrated by my lack of active service, and spend my days in your parents’ home. I had forgotten the sweltering heat and discomforts of Martinique. I don’t know how you tolerated the insects or the indolence! Progress never happens here. Now I understand why you arrived in such a pitiful state when we first met.
I am discouraged to have had no letters from you. Do you care so little for your husband? I wallow in malaise on this God-forsaken island and long for news from my dear wife, for her comforting words. Can you find no kindness for me in your shriveled heart?
Yours,
Alexandre
I shredded his letter and tossed the pieces into the air. Eugène swatted at the paper as it fluttered like snowflakes to the floor. Maman would be appalled to know he abused the reputation of her home. Thankless, cruel man! I found revenge in my letters to Maman. I knew she would read them aloud.
Her reply did not surprise me. Maman believed a woman’s duty was to her husband, regardless of his faults.
March 10, 1783
Ma chère Rose,
I am delighted you are expecting your second child! I didn’t realize you had not told Alexandre. He flew into a tantrum when I read your letter aloud. He is vexed by your lack of contact. Darling, he is your husband. You owe him courtesy, despite his shortcomings.
Alexandre does not enjoy his time here and has moved in with your uncle Tascher. In truth, Papa and I grew tired of his complaints and we’re glad he is gone. Désirée told me what has happened between you two. I hope your tender heart has not suffered too much.
The slaves ask after you, as does your sister. Manette misses you a great deal, especially since her fever. She is scarred, poor thing, and remains very weak. She will never again be beautiful. I fear she may never marry. Time will tell.
How is our beloved Eugène? I trust he is well. I am told he has his father’s eyes and your good nature.
I regret we are able to send you only a little money. We are struggling to pay our debts—your Papa even labors in the fields some days. I hope Alexandre’s sums keep you comfortable.
We miss you and send our love.
Maman
Alexandre’s financial support? Ha! He had sent
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