The Josephine B. Trilogy by Sandra Gulland

slurred a little.
    I made a little laugh.
    “Perhaps you would prefer to wait,” he said.
    “Yes.” Was that what he wanted me to say? I wondered.
    The room suddenly became brighter. The moon had come out from behind a cloud. I could see his eyes. His lips were thin, a little disdaining, his nose prominent, giving him an aristocratic profile. My husband, the man for whom God intended me. I had only met him six weeks before, and now I was his wife.
    “Perhaps if I just kissed you,” he said.
    “Yes.” A pin had come loose in my headdress and was poking into my scalp uncomfortably.
    He moved over to my side of the big bed. His head blocked the light from the window. I could no longer see his features. He put his hand on my shoulder. His breath smelled of brandy and cigars. His lips touched mine, and then he pulled away. Was that it? I wondered. Did I do something wrong?
    “I forgot something,” he said.
    He reached back and opened the cabinet beside the bed. “Aunt Désirée doesn’t want the sheets stained,” he said, handing me a cloth.
    What was I supposed to do with it?
    “Put it under your…you know.”
    Under my bottom?
    He lay down beside me. I felt him fumbling with my bed jacket. “Do you mind?” he asked.
    “Do you want me to take it off?” I didn’t want to take it off.
    He kissed my nose. I wondered, did he miss my mouth? His hand slipped into the bodice of my night-dress. His lips covered my mouth. Then he slipped his hand under my night-dress, found the place between my legs. I cried out, surprised. His fingers were cold. He kissed me hard. He pushed my night-dress up around my waist, got on top of me. His manhood felt warm against my skin. He poked it here and there. I lay still. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Then I felt a sharp pain. I cried out and tried to pull away, but he held me. And then he was inside me.
    He kissed my wet cheeks. He was moaning and moving around. I wondered how long it would go on. I tried not to cry, but it hurt! Then he clasped me to him hard, his feet kicking, and collapsed on top of me, groaning.
    Had he had an attack? Was he dead? “Are you all right?” I whispered. What had happened? He rolled over beside me, grunting.
    Soon he was snoring. The image of William’s face came to me, his smile. You would make a lovely queen, he had told me.
    Tears trickled down the side of my face onto the pillow. Was I a woman now?
    January 1, 1780, New Year’s Day—Paris.
    I have resolved to go to mass every morning. I want to become a good wife. I have asked for divine help in this, for so often a pained expression covers Monsieur de Beauharnais’s brow.
    “What is it I do?” I asked Aunt Désirée. “What is the reason?”
    “ Reason,” she said, correcting my pronunciation. “You continue to drop your r ’s, Rose.”
    Aunt Désirée wrote out a list of words. I am to practise them, recite them to her every evening. I try to accept her correction without temper, for I know that it is in this that I must strive—to obey without question, to become Madame la vicomtesse, a most excellent wife.
    January 13.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais practises dance steps all the day long, watching himself in the big looking glass. He has been invited to the Queen’s ball at Versailles…but I have not.
    “Why?” I asked Father and Aunt Désirée. “Why might I not go?”
    “You haven’t been presented at Court, Rose,” Father said.
    “Neither has Alexandre.” *
    “But Alexandre is the best dancer in all of Paris,” Aunt Désirée said. “This is quite an honour, Rose. You should rejoice on your husband’s behalf.”
    Sunday, January 23.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais has returned from Versailles. He danced with the Queen!
    Aunt Désirée looked like she might faint. “Alexandre, tell us the truth. You didn’t dance with the Queen. ”
    It was true, he had, for one-quarter turn of a polonaise, he said.
    “Did she touch your glove?” Aunt Désirée asked. “This