Becoming Josephine Read Online Free Page B

a rush. I am meeting a friend this evening.”
    “Oh? May I accompany you?” A pulse of excitement tingled in my stomach. My first night in Paris with Alexandre!
    He finished chewing, then replied, “I’m afraid not. I have important business to attend to. I won’t have time to introduce you to everyone.” He waved his hand in my direction. “You have nothing suitable to wear, at any rate.”
    “Very well.” I tried to control the disappointment in my voice. “Not tonight. But another?”
    “Of course.” He stood abruptly. “Excuse me, Father, Désirée. I will see you tomorrow morning for breakfast, Rose.”
    “We will expect you,” Désirée said, as if implying a threat.
    We finished our meal in relative silence. After a digestif by the fire, we retired to our rooms. I tossed in bed for hours. A few new gowns, music lessons, perhaps some history, and Alexandre would be proud to call me his. I could not wait to see him in the morning, to tell him I wanted to meet with a tutor immediately.
    But Alexandre did not join me for breakfast. I did not see him again for two days.

    My third day in Paris, I sat impatiently at the breakfast table while Désirée finished eating. I could hardly wait to explore the city.
    “Your tutor will arrive at ten sharp. At two, you will have music or dance on alternating days.” She paused to chew a bite of her bread. “We take tea in the salon at five and supper at nine. Please be prompt. You have had several days to adjust to your surroundings.”
    “Yes, Désirée.” I shifted in my chair for the tenth time. When would she finish?
    “I’m so glad you’re looking forward to our excursion, dear.”
    “I can’t wait to purchase a new gown!” Anything to feel more a Parisian.
    She drained the last of the coffee from her cup. “To the rue Saint-Honoré.”
    We rode through alleyways and along grand boulevards. The river Seine gushed pewter water in torrents as boats pushed upstream. Lively markets flourished in the squares of most quartiers. Cooks inspected lumpy vegetables, silvery fish on trays of ice, and bins of spices in russet, green, and plum. The scent of ripe cheeses permeated the air. Désirée stared unseeing out the window.
    For every fashionable boulevard, a pocket of hovels sprawled. I looked past the women and children moaning for bread. Guilt flooded, intense and unsettling. If only I could help them. But nothing could be done, so I pretended not to see them.
    The rue Saint-Honoré did not disappoint. Paris’s finest boutiques displayed a staggering selection of jewelry, shoes, and fabrics. I fingered silk gloves and delicate lace, and held brooches to the light to examine their dazzling facets.
    “The hats, Désirée! A thousand would not be too many.” Straw hats
à la bergère
with ribbons; bonnets; broad-brimmed felt hats with feathers, jewels, or lace netting in every color—I would have happily died to own one.
    I gaped at ladies browsing in voluptuous gowns that rustled as they moved, their poufs piled high on their heads and powdered pale blue. I could not remove my faded gown fast enough.
    “First your corset and petticoats.” The dressmaker’s assistant jammed me into my undergarments.
    “It’s crushing my ribs,” I cried, as she tugged on the last of the stays. I pulled at the fabric.
    “Don’t touch it!” she barked. “It should be tight to boost your décolletage and shrink your waist.”
    “How on earth am I going to wear this awful thing?”
    The woman made a tsk-tsk with her tongue and helped me step into a pannier. My eyes bulged at its inconceivable girth. One would suffocate in Martinique in such a gown.
    “We need your measurements.” She moved quickly, scribbling numbers on her paper. “There. Now we’re ready for the gowns.” Madame ushered two women forward who paraded an array of fabrics before me—brocades and velvets, silks and lace, cottons and wool in a dozen colors. I tried the few model dresses available.