Free Becoming Josephine by Heather Webb

wing, a statue of the Blessed Virgin stretched out her hands as if to disperse seed to the pigeons pecking near her pedestal.
    Mimi squeezed my hand in reassurance. “We’ll get on.”
    I nodded. I would see to it.

    The convent teemed with women of every age and state—religious, noble, and bourgeois. I had not anticipated so many seeking solace from failed marriages, estranged families, or lost homes. By the end of my first week, I had grown more at ease and mingled with others. One evening, I left the children in Mimi’s care to join the ladies for supper.
    I selected a place at the table near a cluster of women who spoke in animated tones.
    “It’s obvious he adores you. Won’t you consider spending an evening with him?” a brunette with rounded features asked. Her gray dress and mobcap did little to enhance her beauty, but her demeanor exuded vitality. I liked her instantly.
    A striking woman enrobed in russet silk fluttered her lambskin fan. Its delicate surface exhibited a scene of dancers on a verdant landscape beneath a red
montgolfière
, a hot air balloon. “He has no fortune,” she said. “He couldn’t support my shoe habit.”
    Everyone laughed.
    A servant rang a bell to announce the first course. More servants filled our bowls with a clear broth that smelled of onion. I watched Marie-Josèphe as she handled her serviette and sipped daintily from her spoon with perfect grace. Other ladies replicated her movements. I adjusted the cutlery in my hands to mimic their style. Must be a proper lady—words echoed from my absent husband. A proper lady I shall be.
    Anne turned to me. “You are new here. Welcome.” She gave me an amicable smile. “I am Anne and this is Marie-Josèphe, Duchesse de Beaune.”
    The following three evenings, Anne invited me to join them. I had made my own friends at last, though they could not be more different from one another.
    One bitter winter day, I drank tea while Anne baked. The scent of sugar and cinnamon hung in the air.
    “Plum or currants? I could eat one whole.”
    “Plum in some, pear in others.” She fished in the oven with a long-handled wooden peel and pulled out several tarts. “
Parfait.
”
    “Do you have any living relatives, Anne?” I added a dollop of honey to my tea.
    “Just the one cousin.” She slid the fragrant pies onto the wood-block countertop to cool.
    Anne’s father had died of consumption the year before, leaving his prized bakery to the only male relative. Her devastation seeped into her voice when she mentioned it.
    “So there is no way you can obtain your own shop?”
    “Do you know any women who own a bakery?” She removed her apron. “Well I shall be the first!” Anne sewed, washed clothes, and sold her fine pastries. She saved every sou and kept careful contact with would-be customers. She had even designed her own seal. Her determination amazed me. “Would you like to come today? I’m distributing bread to the poor.”
    I hesitated. Seeing poverty left me in profound despair. The unwashed faces and sickly children.
    “I’m not sure I am prepared for it, Anne. They detest us in our finery. I—”
    “They’re grateful, not angered with those who help them,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll see.”
    An hour later, I found myself stuffed in a fiacre with Anne and sacks of leftover food. The sky turned silver-violet as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. A scruffy man dressed in black walked from lantern to lantern, opening their small panes of glass to pour oil inside. A flick of his wrist and the orange flame of a match glowed in the fading light. The coach slowed as we approached the Pont Neuf.
    “This is our stop,” Anne said.
    “Under the bridge?”
    We lugged sacks of stale bread to the walkway along the Seine. A horde of beggars dashed in our direction.
    “God bless you, Anne,” a woman cried, wiping her hands on her dirt-smudged overcoat before wrapping her arms around her benefactor.
    I stepped back as the