Free Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland Page A

taking up an embroidery hoop and jabbing a needle into the tautly pulled fabric.
    Not now! But it seemed I had no choice. “I’m going to be making a trip,” I told them reluctantly.
    “Oh?” Hortense looked apprehensive.
    “To Milan,” I said, with an apologetic dip of my head.
    “Where’s Milan?” Hortense asked Eugène.
    “To the war?” Eugène spoke the word with reverence.
    “You’re leaving us, Maman?” Hortense’s straw hat fell to the floor and rolled for several feet before falling over with a soft poof. She backed out the door.
    “Hortense!”
    I was breathless when I got to the park. “Hortense!” I stopped, catching my breath, one hand pressed against the pain in my side. It was growing dark, the shadows disappearing.
    I heard a sob from behind a stone wall. Hortense looked so small sitting in the dirt. I gathered her in my arms. “Sweetheart.” I stroked her hair. She was shaking. “Oh, my big girl,” I whispered, swallowing hard.
    I heard the creaking of wagon wheels, the lazy clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on the cobblestones on the other side of the wall. Hortense took a jagged breath. Then, between sobs, it all came out. I would not see her in the year-end play. All the other parents would come, but who would be there to see her? And, at year end, when all the girls went home, where would she go?
    “But I’ll come back,” I promised her.
    “I don’t believe you!” she sobbed.
    June 20 — back home (exhausted). A balmy summer day.
    Aunt Désirée and the dear old Marquis are married at last. (“Kiss me,” she yelled, making the sign of the cross over him, “I’m your wife!”) Now I must attend to the passports, the financing, a wardrobe. I’ll try to see my doctor today, and the apothecary. I’ll leave instructions with my manservant to look after the beggar families that come to our gate. I should talk to my lawyer to make sure that my will is in order. I must talk to Joseph Bonaparte soon too—today, if possible. He and Junot will be travelling with us. I must find someone to take my horses; they should be exercised daily. I can’t decide what to do about my cow.
    Oh—the post-woman just arrived with the mail. Please, let there not be another awful letter from Bonaparte!
    May 4, 1796, La Pagerie, Martinico
    Madame Bonaparte,
    Your mother has asked me to write on her behalf. She can no longer hold a quill for the Rheumatism has greatly inflamed her joints.
    Your mother wishes you well in your marriage. She prays that your husband is a Christian man and that he is of the King’s party.
    However, she declines your offer to come live in France with you. She has used the money you sent to purchase the slave Mimi’s freedom, as you specified. We will send her to you as soon as we receive money for passage.
    I regret to say that there was no income from the plantation last year.
    Your mother has asked me to pray for you and your children.
    In the service of the Eternal Lord, Father Droppet
    I’ve read Father Droppet’s letter many times over. It has been a very long time since I’ve had news of home, and this small token only makes me miserable. I’ll send word not to send Mimi until I’ve returned from Italy. What a blessing it would be to have her with me once again! I’m so relieved she is willing to come.
    June 21.
    “So is it true, darling?” Madame de Crény asked, playing a card. “Are you really going to Italy?”
    “Over the Alps,” Thérèse informed the Glories, rolling her eyes. (She’d been upset initially—she didn’t think I’d actually do it.)
    “The Alps? Mon Dieu.”
    “It’s faster than going around,” I explained.
    “I didn’t think it was even possible.”
    “Bonaparte opened up the route.”
    “Route de Josephine they’re calling it,” Thérèse said.
    “My husband said he’d move mountains for me, but your husband has actually done it.” Minerva looked pleased with her jest.
    “Just the thought of those towering precipices