The Josephine B. Trilogy by Sandra Gulland Page A

in such a state of giddiness she grew alarmed on my behalf. After Fanny left and I was alone again I got out the book, searching for the passages that had previously eluded my understanding. In this naughty way I am pleasantly passing the Lord’s day.
    Sunday, March 25.
    Yesterday, the eve of Lady Day, I felt my child flutter in my belly like a butterfly. I grew still. It did it again, fluttering—oh, so faintly!
    Mimi cast my cards. I will have a boy, she said.
    A boy! I think of all the things a boy must do, all the things a mother must let him do, and I want to cry. Is this what being a mother means, this bewildering sentiment flooding one’s heart?
    Sunday, April 15.
    In church we learned that the Queen is expecting another child. There was much rejoicing. I felt the festivities as if they were for me, for I know what she feels, I know her joy.
    April 18.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais complains I haven’t written, yet when I do my letters are corrected and returned. Now he suggests I send all my letters to him—even those I write to Mother and Manette—so that I might be instructed on correct spelling and construction. I cannot write at all, now, I am so distressed.
    Later.
    Father has suggested that Aunt Désirée help me with my letters to Monsieur de Beauharnais—she will write them out for me, to ensure that no errors are made.
    April 30.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais has accused Aunt Désirée of writing my letters for me. He is furious!
    May 4—Noisy-le-Grand.
    I received a letter from Monsieur de Beauharnais this afternoon, posted from La Roche-Guyon, the country estate of his patron, the Duc de la Rochefoucauld.
    “But Monsieur de Beauharnais is in Verdun,” I told Aunt Désirée. Surely Monsieur de Beauharnais would not have travelled to La Roche-Guyon without coming to see us—to see me. It was but a short detour along the route.
    “No doubt Alexandre was under orders,” Aunt Désirée said, but I saw doubt in her eyes.
    “Under orders to live as he pleases without any regard for his pregnant wife,” I said angrily. Without any love for his wife.
    “You must try harder, Rose,” Aunt Désirée said. “It is a wife’s duty to please.”
    “Monsieur de Beauharnais is impossible to please!” I went to the window. Even the country vista did not soothe me. “Laughing one minute, morose the next, serious and then frivolous, feverish and then cold—one never knows how it will be with him!”
    Aunt Désirée sighed, putting down her lacework. “We need help,” she said.
    Thursday, June 7.
    Aunt Désirée sent Patricol, Alexandre’s childhood tutor, to La Roche-Guyonto talk with him. Now Patricol has written Aunt Désirée suggesting a solution to “our” problem: that others get involved in my schooling. So now Aunt Désirée is hiring tutors for me. Everyone—even Father—is being recruited in this effort to educate me.
    June 23.
    I am eighteen today. It is terribly hot, and in my condition I suffer. Nevertheless, I’ve been trying to get through the first volume of Vertot’s Roman History —but then the baby moves within me, inspiring a reverie.
    My letters to Monsieur de Beauharnais report only my studies. I do not tell him of the changes in my heart.
    Monday, September 3—Paris.
    My baby was born this morning—a boy, on the very day of my dear sister Manette’s birth. A good omen.
    It was a hard labour, more painful than I could have imagined, but the love I feel for this little creature, this little sucking thing, overwhelms me, puts all at peace. I clasp my squalling baby to me and sing sweet songs, baptizing him with tears of wonder. I curl under the covers with him, bringing him to my breast. He grabs at my nipple greedily, pulling the watery liquid out of me, and we are silent then together but for his chirps and sucking sounds. We fall into a sweet-smelling sleep, then, my baby and I, and I think, as we drift into dreams, this is Heaven, isn’t it? Is this not what Heaven