rarely eats and when she does, she vomits,” Désirée said, her voice concerned.
“And I’m so fatigued,” I added.
“Well, Madame de Beauharnais, I have good news.” The doctor smiled. “You are with child.”
My eyes widened in disbelief. I counted back the days. . . . Weeks had gone since my courses. “
Mon Dieu!
I’m pregnant?” My menses had been the furthest thing from my mind. In my sickened state and ill temperament I had forgotten it entirely.
“Rose is pregnant?” Désirée smiled, her excitement plain.
“Congratulations, madame. You are going to be a mother.”
I collapsed backward onto my pillows. A mother! But I still felt like a child. And now I would be fastened to Alexandre’s side, dependent on him, the child’s father, always. I threw my arm across my eyes and groaned.
A second thought brought a twinge of hope. I detested myself for caring, but I could not hide from my wish. Perhaps the news would bring Alexandre home.
My nausea eased after several weeks, as did my astonishment at being with child. When Alexandre discovered the news, his letters came more frequently.
April 12, 1781
Ma très chère,
I received word you are pregnant. Why should I learn this happy news from Désirée and not my darling wife? I wait for the post each day, but your letters do not come. I want to hear about the baby’s room and the gifts bestowed on him.
I say “him,” for I know him to be a son and I am overjoyed!
You must keep up with your studies. I receive weekly reports from your tutor to track your achievements. He says you make slow progress.
Remember your standing amidst my friends and family. It will not do for you to display your ignorance.
I will be home, mon amour, for the birth in the fall. Please take care of yourself.
You know there is nothing more important to me than you, my perfect and sweet wife.
Je t’embrasse,
Alexandre
Nothing more important, indeed. The beautiful phrases he wrote meant little. My tutor insisted I use the same flowery, false shows of affection.
“Demonstrate your prowess at conversation, Rose. Say the phrase again. This time, use your wit. If you have none, be sweet,” Monsieur Ennui scolded.
I read the letter once more. At least he would be home for the birth.
Merci à Dieu.
I would not—could not—raise our baby alone, and a child should know his father.
Désirée and the Marquis thrilled at the prospect of Alexandre’s firstborn. Désirée had two stepsons but no children of her own. She took tremendous pleasure in purchasing rattles and linens.
I marveled at my changing form, not recognizing the bulges beneath my clothes. I patted my rounded abdomen. The baby kicked at my hand.
“I felt that, my little darling. Who will you be? Your
maman
already adores you.”
Maman—I could not get used to my new title. Another layer of my womanhood.
Fatigue plagued me and I slept as if in rapture. I dreamt of home often—my sisters and Maman in the garden, my fingers sticky with guava juice, the smell of salty air. I awoke many mornings in a daze.
My pregnancy came to an end on a grueling September day. My room became a battleground of sweat-drenched sheets, bloodied water, and stained serviettes. I writhed in hot agony for a full day, the pain so intense I surrendered my humanity.
A scream tore from my lips. “Get it out!” I clutched the midwife’s hand. “
Please.
I can’t do this.”
“Mimi, open the window,” the midwife said with a calm I could not fathom.
Mimi ripped the curtains aside and unfastened the latch. A breeze lifted the matted hair from my forehead.
Another searing pain ripped through me.
“Maman!” I cried. Desperate tears tumbled down my cheeks. “I want my mother.”
Désirée patted my forehead, face, and neck with a cool cloth. “I’m here for you, Rose.”
“Just a bit more, love,” the midwife said. “The head is crowning. You can do this.”
I panted as the spasm seized my abdomen.
“Breathe!”
“And I’m so fatigued,” I added.
“Well, Madame de Beauharnais, I have good news.” The doctor smiled. “You are with child.”
My eyes widened in disbelief. I counted back the days. . . . Weeks had gone since my courses. “
Mon Dieu!
I’m pregnant?” My menses had been the furthest thing from my mind. In my sickened state and ill temperament I had forgotten it entirely.
“Rose is pregnant?” Désirée smiled, her excitement plain.
“Congratulations, madame. You are going to be a mother.”
I collapsed backward onto my pillows. A mother! But I still felt like a child. And now I would be fastened to Alexandre’s side, dependent on him, the child’s father, always. I threw my arm across my eyes and groaned.
A second thought brought a twinge of hope. I detested myself for caring, but I could not hide from my wish. Perhaps the news would bring Alexandre home.
My nausea eased after several weeks, as did my astonishment at being with child. When Alexandre discovered the news, his letters came more frequently.
April 12, 1781
Ma très chère,
I received word you are pregnant. Why should I learn this happy news from Désirée and not my darling wife? I wait for the post each day, but your letters do not come. I want to hear about the baby’s room and the gifts bestowed on him.
I say “him,” for I know him to be a son and I am overjoyed!
You must keep up with your studies. I receive weekly reports from your tutor to track your achievements. He says you make slow progress.
Remember your standing amidst my friends and family. It will not do for you to display your ignorance.
I will be home, mon amour, for the birth in the fall. Please take care of yourself.
You know there is nothing more important to me than you, my perfect and sweet wife.
Je t’embrasse,
Alexandre
Nothing more important, indeed. The beautiful phrases he wrote meant little. My tutor insisted I use the same flowery, false shows of affection.
“Demonstrate your prowess at conversation, Rose. Say the phrase again. This time, use your wit. If you have none, be sweet,” Monsieur Ennui scolded.
I read the letter once more. At least he would be home for the birth.
Merci à Dieu.
I would not—could not—raise our baby alone, and a child should know his father.
Désirée and the Marquis thrilled at the prospect of Alexandre’s firstborn. Désirée had two stepsons but no children of her own. She took tremendous pleasure in purchasing rattles and linens.
I marveled at my changing form, not recognizing the bulges beneath my clothes. I patted my rounded abdomen. The baby kicked at my hand.
“I felt that, my little darling. Who will you be? Your
maman
already adores you.”
Maman—I could not get used to my new title. Another layer of my womanhood.
Fatigue plagued me and I slept as if in rapture. I dreamt of home often—my sisters and Maman in the garden, my fingers sticky with guava juice, the smell of salty air. I awoke many mornings in a daze.
My pregnancy came to an end on a grueling September day. My room became a battleground of sweat-drenched sheets, bloodied water, and stained serviettes. I writhed in hot agony for a full day, the pain so intense I surrendered my humanity.
A scream tore from my lips. “Get it out!” I clutched the midwife’s hand. “
Please.
I can’t do this.”
“Mimi, open the window,” the midwife said with a calm I could not fathom.
Mimi ripped the curtains aside and unfastened the latch. A breeze lifted the matted hair from my forehead.
Another searing pain ripped through me.
“Maman!” I cried. Desperate tears tumbled down my cheeks. “I want my mother.”
Désirée patted my forehead, face, and neck with a cool cloth. “I’m here for you, Rose.”
“Just a bit more, love,” the midwife said. “The head is crowning. You can do this.”
I panted as the spasm seized my abdomen.
“Breathe!”
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