Read Online Becoming Josephine by Heather Webb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Webb
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Remember you always have a home with your family, who love and cherish you, should you decide to leave him.
Please give my grandchildren my love.
Love Always,
Maman
Outrageous! My face grew hot with humiliation. How could he diminish me without cause, belittle our family’s name? A bitter laugh escaped my lips. He couldn’t doubt the father of our child. I knew no other men!
Later that evening, I reread the dreadful letter by firelight as rain pattered on the eaves of the house. A knot of cold resolve formed in my chest. Let him have Laure. In fact, they deserved each other. But what next for me? I reached for my tarot cards and emptied them from their pouch. It had been too long since I had consulted them.
I shuffled the cards and divided the deck into three. The pile in the middle beckoned. I scooped them up and laid them in a familiar pattern on the floor, then turned them over, one by one.
The Fool—a spiritual card. The search for meaning, without reservation. Two of Rods—a journey, a new beginning. And the third card—the Chariot, for courage.
Embers smoldered in the fire pit. Soon, I would be plunged into darkness.
I would not be Alexandre’s pawn a moment longer.
Renaissance
Penthémont, Paris, 1784–1785
“I must go, Désirée.” I sorted through an array of gowns in a boutique near Les Halles. “I’ve done nothing to warrant Alexandre’s hatred. I’ve grown tired of his abuse.”
“Oh, Rose!” She forgot her finely pressed lace collar and crushed me against her breast. The scent of orange blossom surrounded me in a cloud. “You must weather Alexandre’s faults. It will be too difficult on your own. And we will miss you and the children.”
“I’m humiliated! He slanders my name.” I pulled away. “I live in isolation and grief.” I saw no need to tell her that my dreams had been shattered. It would only upset her more.
“The law does not protect women accused of adultery, whether it is true or false,” she said. “He can apply to the magistrate to withhold your financial support. You must proceed with caution, my dear.”
“I’m not sure where I will go.” I tried to control my rising panic. The money from my parents would not be enough to support us. I plunked down on a footstool by the dressing partition.
“You don’t have to leave. Stay with us.” She squeezed my hands in hers.
“I cannot. We will visit, though I don’t know where—” My voice cracked.
“Many ladies in your predicament move to a convent. Until their situations improve. The nuns offer apartments at discounted rates.”
I considered living among other women, all starting over in their lives. Their friendships, the solace of a convent.
I stood. “Then that’s where I’ll go.”
Strange I should be so relieved to pack my things. To become the master of my own life elevated my mood. I would never give myself fully again—I could not risk such abuse of my heart, of my loyalty for a man.
Fanny came to my aid when she heard the news.
“Take this.” She placed an envelope in my hand and wrapped her fingers around mine. “It’ll help you get on your feet.”
“What is it?” I opened the envelope. Several hundred livres were tucked inside. “Fanny! You don’t have to do this.”
“You’ll need it and I have it to give. You forget I make my own money with my letters.” She embraced me. “You’re welcome in my home at any time.”
“Thank you.” I kissed my only friend. “One day”—I hugged her package to my chest—“I will repay you in multitudes.”
It was a tearful parting from Désirée and the Marquis; living with their grandchildren had livened their home. I promised to visit often. Within two weeks, the children, Mimi, and I were looking from the third-story window of our new apartment at Penthémont, a convent on the rue de Grenelle.
A square courtyard housed a frozen garden scattered with stone benches for prayer or conversation. In the corner opposite our
Please give my grandchildren my love.
Love Always,
Maman
Outrageous! My face grew hot with humiliation. How could he diminish me without cause, belittle our family’s name? A bitter laugh escaped my lips. He couldn’t doubt the father of our child. I knew no other men!
Later that evening, I reread the dreadful letter by firelight as rain pattered on the eaves of the house. A knot of cold resolve formed in my chest. Let him have Laure. In fact, they deserved each other. But what next for me? I reached for my tarot cards and emptied them from their pouch. It had been too long since I had consulted them.
I shuffled the cards and divided the deck into three. The pile in the middle beckoned. I scooped them up and laid them in a familiar pattern on the floor, then turned them over, one by one.
The Fool—a spiritual card. The search for meaning, without reservation. Two of Rods—a journey, a new beginning. And the third card—the Chariot, for courage.
Embers smoldered in the fire pit. Soon, I would be plunged into darkness.
I would not be Alexandre’s pawn a moment longer.
Renaissance
Penthémont, Paris, 1784–1785
“I must go, Désirée.” I sorted through an array of gowns in a boutique near Les Halles. “I’ve done nothing to warrant Alexandre’s hatred. I’ve grown tired of his abuse.”
“Oh, Rose!” She forgot her finely pressed lace collar and crushed me against her breast. The scent of orange blossom surrounded me in a cloud. “You must weather Alexandre’s faults. It will be too difficult on your own. And we will miss you and the children.”
“I’m humiliated! He slanders my name.” I pulled away. “I live in isolation and grief.” I saw no need to tell her that my dreams had been shattered. It would only upset her more.
“The law does not protect women accused of adultery, whether it is true or false,” she said. “He can apply to the magistrate to withhold your financial support. You must proceed with caution, my dear.”
“I’m not sure where I will go.” I tried to control my rising panic. The money from my parents would not be enough to support us. I plunked down on a footstool by the dressing partition.
“You don’t have to leave. Stay with us.” She squeezed my hands in hers.
“I cannot. We will visit, though I don’t know where—” My voice cracked.
“Many ladies in your predicament move to a convent. Until their situations improve. The nuns offer apartments at discounted rates.”
I considered living among other women, all starting over in their lives. Their friendships, the solace of a convent.
I stood. “Then that’s where I’ll go.”
Strange I should be so relieved to pack my things. To become the master of my own life elevated my mood. I would never give myself fully again—I could not risk such abuse of my heart, of my loyalty for a man.
Fanny came to my aid when she heard the news.
“Take this.” She placed an envelope in my hand and wrapped her fingers around mine. “It’ll help you get on your feet.”
“What is it?” I opened the envelope. Several hundred livres were tucked inside. “Fanny! You don’t have to do this.”
“You’ll need it and I have it to give. You forget I make my own money with my letters.” She embraced me. “You’re welcome in my home at any time.”
“Thank you.” I kissed my only friend. “One day”—I hugged her package to my chest—“I will repay you in multitudes.”
It was a tearful parting from Désirée and the Marquis; living with their grandchildren had livened their home. I promised to visit often. Within two weeks, the children, Mimi, and I were looking from the third-story window of our new apartment at Penthémont, a convent on the rue de Grenelle.
A square courtyard housed a frozen garden scattered with stone benches for prayer or conversation. In the corner opposite our
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