The Josephine B. Trilogy Read Online Free PDF Page B

was too sick to go, but how about me? He explained that I wasn’t all that old, and already well developed.
    “You know they may not like the idea, Rose,” he told me, sealing the letter with wax. “After all, you’re already fifteen.”
    “When will you find out?”
    “It will take a few months for my letter to get there and what with the war on—” He stopped to calculate. “Five months?”
    I moaned. Five months! I want to know now!

In which I fall in love
    Sunday, July 19, 1778.
    There is talk of a new family in town, a woman and her son. At church I saw them after mass. The boy—about sixteen, I guessed, and comely—was watching three village boys chase a scorpion that had slipped under a pew. He fiddled with the handle of his cutlass, his long dark bangs hiding his eyes. His linen frock and leather breeches were patched.
    “Béké-goyave,” Mother said under her breath, pushing me outside, “vagabonds!”
    July 25.
    Mother allowed me to go with Mimi and Sylvester to market today. “So long as your chores are done,” she said. We set off for town in the back of the ox-cart.
    It was busy in the village; I confess I was hoping to see the new boy, but there were only sailors who’d come over from Fort-Royal for the cock-fights. I kept my eyes to the ground, the way the nuns had taught.
    At the dock we bought a bonito and three coral fish from a fisherman with light frizzy hair. He stared at me while we went through his catch. Then he said something to Sylvester and laughed in a way that made me blush.
    We walked back up to the village square to buy pawpaws, guavas, avocado pears and tapioca. At a table displaying pictures of the saints, little mirrors and beads, a woman told us about the runaway slave who had turned into a dog and eaten a baby on the Desfieux plantation. Just atthe frightful part the new boy’s mother arrived, followed at some distance by the boy, laden with parcels.
    His mother nodded at me, her eyes deep set. “I saw you at church,” she said. She talked like a nun, proper. Between sentences she pressed her lips together.
    I nodded. She introduced herself as Madame Browder, a British name. The boy’s name is William.
    “We’re at the foot of Morne Croc-Souris,” I told them.
    Mimi spat onto the dirt.
    “On the river?” Madame Browder asked, tucking a wisp of red hair under her plain white téte.
    “Farther on, La Pagerie.” From across the bay, I could see a gommier making its way slowly to the shore. A swarm of gulls hovered above it like mosquitoes in rainy season.
    “We’re closer in toward town,” Madame Browder said.
    “The old Laignelot homestead,” Mimi said. She was scratching the ears of a mangy dog. “Neighbours, if you go by the river.”
    I felt I should invite them for tea and cakes, but I dared not, remembering my mother’s harsh words: béké-goyave. I was saved by Sylvester pulling up in the wagon. Hurriedly I took my leave.
    “Sweet eyes,” Mimi teased on the way home, jabbing me with her elbow. “I saw you making sweet eyes.”
    Sunday, August 9.
    William and his mother sat near the front of church this morning. Mother, Manette (who is better now) and I sat on a bench several rows behind. All through mass I watched him, my heart fluttering like a trapped baby bird.
    August 10.
    I sneaked down to the lower pond this afternoon for a swim. But when I got there I saw the new boy William Browder. He was fishing, his pantaloons rolled up to his knees. He startled when he saw me, as if heshouldn’t be there. He pulled his line out of the water, a long length of white horsehair attached to a bamboo pole.
    “Caught anything?” It was hot and I longed to go in, but I didn’t know if I should, now that he was there. Instead I sat down on the bank. I picked a long blade of razor grass and split it so I could whistle through it.
    “How do you do that?” William Browder asked, rolling down his pantaloons.
    I showed him and we sat whistling.
    “Why did you