The Josephine B. Trilogy

  The Josephine B. Trilogy

  The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

  Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe

  The Last Great Dance on Earth

  Sandra Gulland

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Book One The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

  Excerpt

  Epigraph

  I Mademoiselle

  In which I am told an extraordinary fortune

  In which I am punished

  In which the mystères have their way

  In which I suffer a bitter disappointment & hope is offered anew

  In which I fall in love

  In which I am betrothed

  II Vicomtesse

  In which I come to the Old World

  In which I am introduced to my fiancé

  In which I come to my city of dreams

  In which I am married & learn the facts of life

  In which I am too much alone

  In which I become a mother & discover a terrible truth

  In which I come to the end of my endurance

  III Madame

  In which I am banished to a convent

  In which ill-fortune plagues us

  In which I return home

  In which storms rage

  In which I confront the past

  In which two worlds claim my heart

  In which we flee under cannon fire

  IV Citoyenne

  In which I am reunited with my son

  In which I discover my husband a changed man

  In which I suffer a great loss

  In which Alexandre is a hero

  In which we are at war

  In which I take desperate measures

  In which I become a good Republican

  In which we grieve for our King

  In which my husband’s star rises and falls

  In which I try to escape Paris

  In which I go to the aid of my husband

  In which my husband and I are reconciled

  In which my worst fear is realized

  In which Death calls, and I listen

  V La Merveilleuse

  In which I walk among the living & the dead

  In which ghosts come to life

  In which I must bid farewell to those I love

  In which friends comfort & distress me

  In which I am witness to a wedding

  In which I learn the true value of friendship

  In which I am warned

  In which a child is born & a child dies

  In which intrigue is the rule of the day

  In which I am introduced to a strange little man

  In which I find a home

  In which we are at war again

  In which my heart is broken

  In which I am courted

  In which I must decide

  In which I have cause to regret

  In which we begin again, & yet again

  Chronology

  Selected Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  Book Two Tales of Passion Tales of Woe

  Excerpt

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Marie Antoinette (spirit)

  I Our Lady of Victories

  In which my new life begins

  In which I break the news to my family & friends

  In which the past continues to haunt me

  In which I learn the Facts of Life

  In which I finally depart

  II La Regina

  In which I join the Liberator of Italy

  In which I learn about war

  In which I am surrounded by Bonapartes

  In which I receive shocking news

  III Profiteer

  In which problems await me at home

  In which I become involved in intrigues

  In which I am accused

  In which I must stay behind

  IV Lobbyist

  In which I very nearly die

  In which victories are followed by defeat

  In which I have enemies everywhere

  In which I retreat

  In which I am forgiven (& forgive)

  V Conspirator

  In which Eugéne is healed

  In which I must make a choice

  In which we have "a day" (or two)

  VI Angel of Mercy

  In which I must live in a haunted palace

  In which I must sleep in Marie Antoinette’s bed

  In which I am called Angel of Mercy

  Chronology

  Characters

  Selected Bibliography

  Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Book Three The Last Great Dance on Earth

  Excerpt

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  I La Bonaparte

  In which peace seems an impossible dream

  In which we have reason to fear

  In which I try (but fail) to accept

  In which we are very nearly killed

  In which my daughter is impossible to please

  In which my daughter finally marries

  In which we are all of us blessed

  In which I have suspicions

  In which Bonaparte is deceived

  In which once again we have reason to fear

  In which a prophecy is fulfilled

  II The Good Empress

  In which we become a “court”

  In which I am offered a crown

  In which I am crowned

  In which Bonaparte honours my son

  In which my son falls truly in love

  In which we are devastated

  In which we must be gay

  In which I am betrayed

  In which we return to the camp of the enemy

  In which we must part

  III The Other One

  In which a king is born

  In which all is for naught

  In which we are defeated

  In which I entertain the enemy

  In which my heart is with my husband

  Postscript

  Epilogue

  Chronology

  Characters

  Selected Bibliography

  Note

  Acknowledgements

  P.S.

  About the author

  Author Biography

  About the book

  Animating History: The Challenges of Writing an Historical Novel about Josephine

  An Interview with Sandra Gulland

  Read on

  Recommended Reading

  Web Detective

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Book One

  The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

  History is fiction.—Robespierre

  The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B. is a work of fiction based on (and inspired by) the extraordinary life of an extraordinary woman.

  For Richard, who insisted

  …the ghosts of our future are unpredictable and out of control.

  —Wendy Rose, from “The Fifties”

  I

  Mademoiselle

  In which I am told an extraordinary fortune

  June 23, 1777—Trois-Ilets, Martinico.

  I am fourteen today and unmarried still. Without a dowry, what hope is there? Mother says the wind takes hope and dashes it into the sky, just as the big wind took our house, picked it up and dashed it, leaving nothing but debts in its place.

  Oh, what a black mood has possessed me. Is not the celebration of one’s birthday supposed to bring one joy? After dinner, after eating too many doughnut
fritters with guava jelly, I took my leave and climbed up to my special place in the kapok tree. It was cool in the shade of the leaves. I could hear Grandmother Sannois and Mother arguing in the front parlor, the slaves chanting as they pushed the cane stalks through the rollers in the crushing hut, a chicken scratching in the honeysuckle bushes. I felt strange up there—peering out at my world, enveloped in gloom on my happy day.

  It’s the voodoo, surely, the bitter-tasting quimbois Mimi got me to drink this morning, a drink of secret spells. “Something manbo Euphémie made for you,” she whispered. She’d knotted a red and yellow scarf tight around her head.

  “Euphémie David—the teller of fortunes?” The obeah woman, the voodoo priestess who lived in the shack up the river.

  Mimi pushed the coconut bowl into my hands. “It will bring you a man.”

  I regarded the liquid cautiously, for it smelled vile.

  “Quick!” She glanced over her shoulder. For Mother doesn’t hold with voodoo. Mother says the Devil speaks through the mouths of the voodoo spirits. Mother says the Devil is hungry for girls like me. Mother says the Devil sent her too many girls and is hungry to get one back.

  So this is confession number one in this, my new diary, sent to me all the way from Paris by my beautiful Aunt Désirée: I drank a magic potion and I’ll not tell Mother. I drank a magic potion and I’m filled with woe.

  A note Aunt Désirée enclosed with her gift read: “A little book in which to record your wishes and dreams, your secret confessions.” I shook the book over the table. Ten livres fell out.

  “Confessions?” my sister Catherine asked. She is twelve now, almost thirteen, but even so, always into mischief. At convent school the nuns make a fuss over Catherine. They don’t know it is Catherine who lets the chicken into the rectory, that it is Catherine who steals the sugar cakes before they are cooled. Catherine has the soul of a trickster, Mimi says.

  “Tell us your wish,” my youngest sister, Manette, said, lisping through the gap in her teeth. I was saddened by the light in her eyes, for she is only ten, young enough to believe that wishes are granted.

  I shrugged. “My wish is the same every year.” I glanced at Father. He had started the day with rum and absinthe and followed it with ti-punches all through the afternoon. “To go to France.” Send Rose to France, my beautiful Aunt Désirée would write every year—send her to me, to Paris.

  Father looked away. His skin was yellow; it is the malaria again, surely. So then I felt bad, for is it Father’s fault he’d inherited only debts? Is it his fault he has been cursed with three daughters and no son, that Mother’s dowry turned to dust in his hands, that his dream of sending me to France had never materialized for want of the price of passage?

  “France!” Grandmother Sannois pushed her two pug dogs off her lap. “I’d keep that girl well away from Madame Désirée.” Grandmother Sannois doesn’t approve of Aunt Désirée, or any of the Taschers for that matter (especially Father). “What’s wrong with that boy over near Laniantin,” she said, downing her laudanum: seven drops in a jigger of brandy. “What’s wrong with that Beal boy?”

  Algernon Beal! The fat boy we all call Algie.

  “Monsieur Beal requires a dowry,” Mother said.

  “Monsieur de Beal, I believe it is now,” Father said, “the manufacturer of shackles and branding irons, the owner of three gilded carriages, twenty-two fighting cocks, an English Thoroughbred stallion and one dim-witted son.” Father coughed and emptied his glass. “Monsieur de Beal and I had occasion to converse at the slave auction in Fort-Royal last month. He told me at length and in great detail how large a girl’s dowry would have to be, how noble her bloodline, how abundant her bosom and intact her maidenhood even to dream of marrying his pimple-faced boy—”

  Manette had her napkin stuffed in her mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Well, there’s always the convent,” Grandmother Sannois said.

  The convent. Always the convent. Is this to be my future? I yearn for so much more! But it’s too late now, I know, for on this, my fourteenth birthday, Aunt Désirée made no offer, and, for the first time since I can remember, Father made no promise…and I liked it better before, to tell the truth, with glittering false hopes to brighten my day.

  June 24.

  This morning I gave my ten livres to the slave-master to divide among the field-hands. I am grown now and more aware of the sufferings of the world.

  But Mother found out and got cross, accusing me of being like Father. “Generous” Father who would let his family starve to feed a friend. “Crazy” Father with his wild stories and dreams of glory. “Dreams from the rum god,” she cursed. “Promises like clouds on a summer day.”

  Father who is never home. Already he’s off to Fort-Royal—“to play games with the Devil,” Grandmother Sannois said.

  “To play games with the she-devils,” Mother said quietly under her breath.

  Sunday, June 29.

  Dear Diary, I have been giving thought to my sins, making repentance.

  I am guilty of wishful thinking, of extravagant imaginings.

  I am guilty of gazing at myself in the pond.

  I am guilty of sleeping with my hands under my bedsheets.

  There, it is written. The ink is drying as I write. I must close this book now—I cannot bear to look at these words.

  Sunday, July 6.

  “Mademoiselle Tascher,” Father Droppet called to me after church this morning. “Your grandmother asked me to talk to you.”

  I fingered the pages of my missal. Outside I heard a horse whinny and a man shouting.

  “You are coming to an age of decision,” he said. His big nose twitched.

  “Yes, Father.” I could see the outline of his vest under his white frock.

  He paused. “I advise you to bend to God’s will, to accept a life of service.”

  I felt my cheeks becoming heated.

  Father Droppet handed me a handkerchief. “The life of a nun might satisfy that hungry heart of yours.”

  Through the high open window I could see the head of the statue of Christ in the cemetery, His eyes looking up at the clouds. The hunger I felt was for fêtes and silk slippers, for the love of a comely beau.

  He bent toward me. “I was young once, too,” he said. I could smell rum on his breath.

  “I would die in a convent!”

  Forgive me, Father. I backed away. At the door I turned and ran.

  July 24.

  This afternoon Mimi and I were playing in the ruins* when Mimi saw a spot on my chemise.

  I twisted and pulled my skirt around. Blood?

  “It’s the flowers,” Mimi said.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  “Tell your mother,” she said.

  “I can’t do that!” Mother is proper.

  So Mimi got me a rag which she instructed me on how to use. She told me she washes hers out in the creek, early, when no one is around to see.

  “Where we bathe?” How disgusting.

  “Farther down the river.”

  I move around the house aware of this great cloth between my legs, thinking that surely everyone notices. This is supposed to be the big change in me, but all I feel is ill.

  Saturday.

  Mimi is teaching me how to tell the future from cards, how to lay them out, how to know the meaning. Today we practised on my sister Catherine. The card in the ninth place was Death.

  Catherine protested.

  “It’s not really death,” Mimi said, taking up the cards. She sniffed the air.

  Later, I questioned her. “Why did you stop?”

  “Didn’t you smell cigar smoke?” she whispered. “The spirit of Death is a trickster. Never believe him.”

  Thursday, July 31.

  Dear Diary, something terrible has happened; it hangs over my heart like a curse.

  It began with a lie. I told my little sister Manette that Mimi and I were going to the upper field to see if Father’s ship was in the
harbour yet. “You stay here,” I told her.

  Mimi and I headed up the trace behind the manioc hut, but at the top of the hill we took the path that led back down to the river, toward Morne Croc-Souris. We hadn’t gone far when Manette caught up with us.

  “I told you to stay,” I told her.

  “You lied. You said you were going up the hill.”

  Mimi glared at her. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I never tell!”

  It was dark by the river; the moss hung thick from the trees. We heard a chicken squawking before we came upon the fortuneteller’s shack.

  “That’s where the werewolf lives,” Manette said, taking my hand.

  I looked at Mimi. “Is this it?”

  In front of the hut was a charcoal brazier. The air was thick with the smell of roasted goat. In the shadows of a verandah roofed over with banana tree leaves, I saw an old Negro woman sitting cross-legged. Euphémie David—the voodoo priestess.

  As we approached she stood up. She was wearing a red satin ball gown fringed with gold, much tattered and stained and too big for her. Her hair was white and woolly, standing out around her head like a halo. A rusty machete was propped up against the wall behind her.

  Mimi called out something I couldn’t understand. The old woman said something in the African tongue.

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “Come,” the old woman said. A puppy came out of the shack and growled at us.

  “I’ll stay back here,” Manette said.

  Mimi pushed me forward.

  “Aren’t you coming too?” I asked.

  The two of us approached. What was there to be afraid of?

  Entering the shade of the verandah, I was surprised how small the old woman was, not much bigger than Manette. Her loose black skin hung from her neck. She held a shell bowl in one hand—pigs’ knuckles and coconut, it looked like—and was eating it with her fingers. She threw a bone to the puppy to finish. The old woman and Mimi began talking in the African tongue. I looked back over my shoulder. Manette was standing by a calabash tree, watching. A crow called out warning sounds.