The Josephine B. Trilogy Read Online Free PDF Page A

her thus. I didn’t know what to say or do.
    “Is there a God?” she cried out. I could see rage in her eyes.
    I was afraid to answer, afraid that something I said might condemn Catherine to eternal Hell. “We’d better go,” I said quickly, reaching out for her, fearful of what she might do in that holy place.
    Once home I persuaded Mother to have a rum and syrup and got her to lie down. Her cry fills me still: Is there a God?
    My quill trembles and tiny blots of ink like a flurry of tears cover the page.

In which I suffer a bitter disappointment & hope is offered anew
    January 3, 1778.
    Uncle Tascher came from Fort-Royal today with a buggy-load of provisions: coarse cotton fabric for the slaves’ clothing, black crêpe for mourning clothes for us. Then he pulled a letter out of his vest pocket—a letter from Paris! From Aunt Désirée.
    Father read the letter. He looked up at his brother. “It’s about Désirée’s godson—the Marquis’s boy.” He snorted. “ My. ”
    “Are you not going to read it aloud, Father?” I sat down beside Mother on the sofa. Outside a gentle breeze stirred the palms. Our lovesick bull was bellowing in his pen.
    Father began to read. In the letter Aunt Désirée informed Father that the Marquis’s son, Alexandre—“handsome and well educated”—was now seventeen. If he married, he would come into his mother’s inheritance, so Aunt Désirée has suggested he marry one of her nieces—one of us.
    At last! I thought. My prayers had been answered.
    But then Father read out a part about Alexandre preferring Catherine.
    Catherine?
    “But…” I stuttered. It was only two months ago we buried Catherine.
    Mother put down her mending. “Let him have her then,” she said. She is like that still—strange somehow.
    Father paced the room. “The young chevalier will command an annual income of at least forty thousand livres.”
    “Forty thousand?” Grandmother Sannois said, coming into the room. “Did he say forty thousand? Or four?”
    Father stood by the window. “Maybe they would take Manette instead,” he said.
    “My thinking exactly, Joseph,” Uncle Tascher said, rubbing his chin.
    I didn’t understand. Why not me?
    “Manette’s too young,” Mother said.
    “Four thousand would be an acceptable income,” Grandmother Sannois said.
    “Manette’s eleven, ” Father said. “By the time—”
    “Only just,” Mother said.
    “Eleven and a half. You’re not being reasonable!” Father raised his voice.
    Uncle Tascher coughed and poured himself a rum. “Opportunities like this don’t come along every day,” he said.
    “Why not me? ” I said, standing.
    Father looked uneasy. He sighed. “Rose—” He glanced at the letter again. Then he cleared his throat. “The chevalier has expressed a preference for a younger bride. You are too close to him in age—you wouldn’t look up to him the way a wife should.”
    Mother snorted.
    “That’s it exactly,” Father said. He stomped to the door. “God help me!” He slammed the door behind him.
    “I won’t let you take my baby!” Mother cried.
    I ran to my room. I started to throw things into an old haversack. I was going to run, I didn’t care where. Anywhere. Even the empty slave shack down by the shore would be better than this. Even a cave in the mountains, with the runaways.
    That’s when I saw Manette, standing in the door sucking on a stick of sugarcane, her battered wood doll under one arm.
    “I thought you were playing outside,” I said. I didn’t care about Manette, to tell the truth.
    I heard sniffles. “I don’t want to go!”
    “Oh…,” I said. “You heard all that.” I took her in my arms. “Poor little scarecrow,” calling her the name the slaves had given her.
    Sunday night, January 4.
    I woke to the sound of billiard balls knocking against each other, the sound of men laughing. Uncle Tascher and Father were in the game room, I thought. How late was it?
    “Why one of your girls,