Authors: Susanne Dunlap
The Academie (30 page)
I know she speaks of Louis, Napoléon’s ugly, uninteresting brother. Madame Campan couldn’t wait to announce to the school that not one, but two matches were certain to be concluded within the month. “How can she ask it of you?” I say. “You will be married to her brother-in-law! Your stepuncle, if there is such a thing.”
This makes Hortense smile her cheerless smile again.
“In time you will understand. A match of convenience is not so very terrible. One expects so little; one is bound to be pleasantly surprised.”
“I wish I could stay for Caroline’s wedding. I’m certain it will be magnificent.” I sigh.
“Actually, I have heard that it is to be a private affair. Napoléon doesn’t want tongues wagging about extravagance at a time when he is trying to get the finances of a country in order.”
Too bad for Caroline
, I think. “Well, I’m sure she’ll be glad to be married, even if it isn’t a grand event.”
We both stare at the flickering firelight for a moment. I shall miss Hortense especially. It has been a short time, but we have shared so many experiences. “Do you hear anything from Eugène?” I cannot help asking. The last time I saw him was in his bloody uniform, carrying Madeleine to the wagon. Although I have given up all desire of being anything to him, I will never forget his kiss.
“He is working very hard. I had a letter. He said to remember him to you.”
I don’t really believe her. I’m sure Eugène has other things on his mind. An awkward silence falls between us.
“I also had a letter from Armand,” she says.
I try not to act too interested. “Oh? Has he left school now?”
“Next week,” she says. “He’s thinking about emigrating. There is no future for him here, poor fellow.”
“To Africa?” I ask, my mind leaping first to the places where France has a foothold.
“He mentions America, actually.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, pretending not to expect me to be very interested.
And I do my best not to act interested. America is a large country. And perhaps he will decide on Boston or New York instead of somewhere near Virginia. There are more opportunities for artists in the cities. Still... “You said you had a present for me!” I say, then realize perhaps I shouldn’t sound so excited about it, especially as I haven’t yet told her that I have a parting gift for her.
“You’ll probably hate it. But I couldn’t think of anyone else who should have it.” She stands and goes to the door.
I’m confused. “Is it somewhere else?”
“Follow me. It’s downstairs with your trunks, waiting for the final bit of packing.”
I take a candle and walk with Hortense down the wide curve of dark stairs to the vestibule. I think of that first time, when Caroline and I stole out in the night. It was only a few short weeks ago, but I feel as if I am a completely different person now. It was the beginning of everything. The beginning of my life.
I see the pile of trunks. I had to buy two new ones to fit all the gowns I have bought here, some while my mother was here, a few new ones just in the last few days so I can take them with me and lead the fashions back home. To the side is
a partially wrapped panel leaning against the wall. Hortense walks over to it and pulls the cloth away that covers its front.
I bring my candle close, letting the light softly and gradually reveal what is there. “It’s exquisite.” My eyes fill with tears as I see Hortense looking out at me from a beautifully painted canvas. “I shall treasure it always.”
“It was painted last summer, by someone you know. My mother wanted to give it to Louis, but I persuaded her not to.”
The portrait captures Hortense’s sweetness and beauty so perfectly. “Is it... ? Did he really do this?” I ask. I had no idea Armand was so gifted. “I shall think you are in the room with me whenever I look at it.”
And I shall remember the feeling of Armand’s hand in mine, too
, I think. This gift is too generous, and too perfect. “I have only a bauble to give you, I’m afraid,” I say. “It’s in my room.”
We climb the stairs, arm in arm now, and slowly, as if we both know this will be our last time together.
I give Hortense the sapphire pendant my mother bought for me to wear to my first Parisian ball.
“Oh, no, it’s too fine!” she exclaims.
“No, I insist. It’s poor in comparison to your portrait.” And, I think, perhaps if she is ever in difficulty she could sell it and come to America. I don’t tell her that, though.
“When do you leave?” she asks.
“Very early tomorrow. Please don’t feel you must see me off,” I say. “I don’t think I could bear it.”
“It’s late. I must let you sleep, and I see I have interrupted you writing a letter.” She nods to the desk, where I left my quill in the inkpot and the sheet of paper in view.
There is no point in prolonging our good-byes. We embrace.
“I’ll never forget you,” I say.
And I may never see you again
, I think, fearing that it’s true.
The carriage ride to Honfleur was uneventful. An elderly lady, Mrs. Higginbotham, is acting as my companion on the voyage home. She will give me no trouble. She sleeps most of the time. I expect to be left to myself. Thanks to Madame Campan’s instruction, I know how to blend into French society tolerably well, and will enjoy it if there are tea parties or dances on board with the officers.
The journey will be long, and I am looking forward to being home, although I don’t regret a minute of my time in Paris and Saint-Germain. My trunks are already on board the ship I shall take to New York, where I will shed Mrs. Higginbotham and be met by one of our slaves.
Our slaves
. I wonder if Papa would consider freeing them? Surely we could afford to pay them some small wages, or let them work for room and board. I would do it in honor of
Madeleine, and everything I learned from her about the price of real freedom. It didn’t matter that she was half African. She deserved love and the liberty to live her life just as much as Caroline and Hortense did. Just as much as I do.
Perhaps that is the most important thing I have learned here.
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité
. It’s what the French fought their revolution for. Madeleine wasn’t just my equal, she was superior to me in so many ways—in her passion, her talent, and her willingness to do whatever it took for the sake of love. I will try when I am home to be open to seeing such things in people who are different from me, either because their skin is not white, or because they don’t have the advantages that I have been fortunate to come by.
We sail on the tide in a few hours. It is cold, but the day is clear. I do not wish to sit inside a café with my chaperone and sip tea until it is time to leave. I don’t know when—or if—I’ll ever set foot in France again. I’d rather walk by the quay and watch the laborers loading crates onto the ships. I wonder where they are all going?
The breeze is brisk, and I pull my cloak around me.
“Mademoiselle Eliza Monroe?”
I jump. I don’t know anyone here, and I left Mrs. Higginbotham dozing in front of a fire in a quayside café. When I turn toward the voice, I am dumbfounded to see Armand de Valmont.
“Armand!” I want to throw my arms around him, I’m so happy to have this last chance to see him, but I restrain
myself. It would not do to make a spectacle when I have assured Mrs. Higginbotham that I was only going for a brief stroll.
He smiles and removes his hat. He is wearing clothing like a common laborer and carries a portfolio. “I go to America to seek my fortune,” he says, gesturing toward the ships in the harbor.
“On the
Serendipity
?” I ask, suddenly excited that perhaps we will have more time to become acquainted.
“No. I’m on a merchantman. I have no money for a proper passage. I’m working my way across, sketching for the shipping company.”
My heart sinks as quickly as it flew into the clouds. “Where will you land?”
“Boston. There is an established society there, where members may want their portraits painted by the latest sensation from Paris.” His eyes sparkle with mischief.
“New York has wealthy residents as well. And Philadelphia, and—”
He steps closer to me. “I’ll look for you, Eliza.” His eyes are kind and sad at the same time. I wonder why I didn’t really notice them when we first met.
“Hortense gave me the portrait,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward.
“I told her to.” He touches my cheek with his cold fingers. “You have a wonderful future ahead of you. I am very glad to have met you when you were but a sweet girl.”
He speaks as if this is a final parting, and my throat squeezes shut. He nods and strides away.
“Armand!” I call.
He turns, but does not come back. Instead, he makes me a low, courtly bow, sweeping his hat across so that it skims the dirt beneath our feet.
I smile. I should feel sad, I know. But instead, I am elated. Now I know that nothing can stop me. And I know I have not seen the last of Armand.
A novel is not the product of one person’s hard work and dedication. It is the result of work by a whole team of people whose only wish is to bring the best possible book to the public. Therefore, I would like to thank my agent, Adam Chromy, for his tireless support and work on my behalf, as well as all he and his team have taught me about writing novels. Equally as important is my editor, Melanie Cecka, whose painstaking critiques and notes really helped me pull this novel with its different points of view together into a coherent whole. I would also like to thank Stephanie Cowell and Susan O’Doherty for reading and commenting on early versions of the manuscript. It takes time and effort and is an invaluable service. Also to thank is the copyeditor, Nicholas LoVecchio, who keeps me honest and helps me avoid embarrassing gaffes.
In addition to the people who have directly touched this book, I must mention my community of authors. We all know how difficult it is to write a book: the uncertainty, the self-doubt, the triumphs and disappointments. I know I can turn to my writer friends for help and comfort when the going gets tough. I have had moral support and sound advice from many fellow authors at Novelists, Inc. In addition, I would like especially to thank Michelle Cameron, Christy English, Christopher Gortner, Sandra Gulland, Mitchell James Kaplan, Caroline Leavitt, Mary Sharratt, Anne Easter Smith, Libby Sternberg, and Sandra Worth for their enduring friendship and camaraderie.
Finally, thanks to my wonderful family, who are my strongest supporters: Charles, Cassie, Chloe, Kurt, Sofia, Ella (okay, well, Sofia and Ella are a little young to understand yet), Laura, Christopher, Joy, Avery (he’ll understand someday, too), Keith, Jenny, Vivica, Duff, Barbara, Will, Rowan, and Maria. And my dad, Ed Dunlap, who reads everything I write even though he prefers science fiction.
I almost couldn’t believe it was possible when I discovered that Eliza Monroe, Hortense de Beauharnais, and Caroline Bonaparte all went to the same boarding school in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. That this was the school run by Jeanne Louise Henriette Campan, who survived the revolution and the
Terreur
despite having been mistress of the bedchamber to Marie Antoinette, made it all the more wonderful. Yet discovering the details of their relationships, or much more beyond that they were all students of the school at one time or other, proved rather difficult.
Eliza was first enrolled at the age of eight, when her parents came to Paris in the midst of the
Terreur
. She was a student for the three years the family remained in Paris, until they left for home in 1797. She had met Hortense de
Beauharnais and formed a friendship with her, but Caroline Bonaparte was not yet a student during that time.
When the Monroes returned to Paris in 1803 for James Monroe to broker the Louisiana Purchase, Eliza spent another year in the school. By this time, Caroline was already married to Murat, and Hortense had been wed to Louis Bonaparte. Nonetheless, Eliza and Hortense continued to be friends as the Monroes went back and forth between London and Paris. The fact that the family attended Napoléon’s coronation as emperor of France in 1804 is an interesting footnote.
I have taken several liberties with the sketchy details of life in Madame Campan’s school and the timeline of events in Eliza’s life. There was no trip to Paris in 1799; Elizabeth Monroe had just given birth to her first son in May of that year and would not have traveled abroad. But it would have been in keeping with her character to chance a hazardous ocean crossing with her child—which she did on both occasions that her husband was sent to France to represent the U.S. government. This was notable because she suffered from what the family called rheumatism—probably rheumatoid arthritis—and must have gone through a great deal of pain for the sake of keeping her family together. Plus, Elizabeth was a true Francophile, speaking quite good French and celebrated as
la belle Américaine
by the French media. During their first stay in Paris, the Monroes actually purchased a small château, which they turned into a center of
society and diplomacy, a sort of haven during a period when so much of the city was virtually destroyed.
