The Josephine B. Trilogy by Sandra Gulland Page A

one?”
    “Behold, Madame, I give you my blessing.” Monsieur de Beauharnais made an elegant sweep through the air and touched his hand to her shoulder.
    We gathered in the front parlour to listen to his account. Even Father came downstairs to join us, interrupting Monsieur de Beauharnais to fill us in on details of proper royal deportment.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais said the Queen is graceful—although she doesn’t dance too much now, now that she is a mother, allowing herself only a few quadrilles or a colonne anglaise or two in an evening. When the King joins her he has to dance without turning his back to her, which gets him hopelessly mixed up and behind the music.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais said the Queen is an accomplished hostess, keeping the young men from staying in the corners all night talking of horses and duelling.
    Oh, there was so much that he told us, it is hard to remember it all: the Swiss Guards in starched ruffs, their spaniels on leashes; a door of glass so clear people almost walked through it; a room of maids to attend to dresses in need of repair; the firemen standing ready with buckets of water and large sponges…
    All this evening I have been in a reverie. I imagine myself strolling, cooling myself with a fan of mother-of-pearl. Men in black velvet dance around me, their long plumes bobbing. I imagine the music, the women in court hoops twirling, the swish of silk on silk…
    It is dawn. I have danced all night. Around the walls of the gilded room are the slumped bodies of the sleeping pages, the maids, the exhausted dancers. But still, I dance…
    Tuesday, February 29.
    Oh, sorrow beyond measure. One week ago Alexandre’s sister-in-law, Marie, gave birth to a girl. Aunt Désirée and I have been going to mass every morning, praying for the health of this infant, but in spite of our efforts, she died this morning, at seven days. This is the second infant Marie has lost.
    Friday, June 23, Saint John’s Day.
    I am seventeen today. Monsieur de Beauharnais presented me with a ruby. Then he informed me that he must return to his regiment. “How long will you be gone?” I asked.
    “Six months.”
    Six months!
    July 18, 3:00 P.M.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais is gone. He left a list of readings for me to complete: Agesilaus, Brutus, Aristides. I fall asleep reading.
    July 25, 1780—Brest
    Dear Rose,
    I am glad you have been attending to your studies but disheartened that your efforts are not better reflected in your written expression. Are you sitting at the writing desk properly, as I showed you? Are you holding your quill correctly, bending your arm at the right angle?
    As for content, I suggest you ask Aunt Désirée if she has a book of letters you might copy. In this way you might learn correct expression.
    My heart is filled with longing for the one whom I hold most dear. In rapture, I fall asleep each night, pressing your image to my lips. Oh, that it were you! How cruel Time, who keeps us apart.
    Write, Rose. Do not neglect your studies.
    Your husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, vicomte
    August 2.
    I stood in front of the looking glass this morning, examining my belly, turning to the right and the left, trying to see if there has been any change. I should have started the flowers two weeks ago…
    Thursday, August 31.
    This morning when I woke, feeling sick in the way I do so often now, I decided it was time to talk to Aunt Désirée. After the midday meal I asked her if we could talk. She invited me into her apartment. I sat down on the settee with some sense of formality. I told her I’d come to ask her advice.
    She looked at me with a cautious but satisfied look. “Yes?”
    “How would I know if I were with child?”
    I thought for a moment Aunt Désirée had stopped breathing, for the rise and fall of her chest is usually remarkable. She squared her shoulders and said, “Very well,” and proceeded to ask me questions. When I told her I hadn’t had flowers for over two months, she stood up