Queen of Exiles, page 13
Henry nodded, and I leaned back in my chair prepared to see my son praised.
“Prince Victor, most exalted son of our king, go on and pursue the beautiful and glorious career that opens before you. In our august majesty’s example, you see wisdom and power, a heart for the people, and above all, the protection of virtue and modernity.”
He lifted his goblet high. It sparkled in Vastey’s hand.
My boy, sitting a few feet away, peered up at his father. The magnitude of the day should comfort him, that Victor had Henry’s love.
That feeling that I could have lost Henry and my only living son again struck my heart. I wasn’t mad anymore. I couldn’t be, not with gratitude for their lives overflowing in me.
“Unceasingly,” Vastey continued, “before your eyes, the lessons of wisdom stand. The illustrious example of your father and the happiness of the Haytian people are before you. Make the most of these gracious moments of your life.”
Moments.
This was a memorable toast, with everyone standing, cheering for Victor. I etched it into my soul, like the moment was fragile. No, I was fine glass or delicate crystal, thinking again how everything like my François-Ferdinand could be shattered and gone.
“Long live the king!” everyone shouted. “Long live the queen! Long live the prince royal!”
The praises for my birthday boy repeated, becoming the refrain of a melody, like how the musicians played the fast movements of the concerto.
“To my beloved son, Prince Victor.” Henry stood and toasted his son.
I sipped from my cup and glanced at my boy’s apple cheeks blossoming with a grin.
I’d never forget how my son, either of my sons, smiled when they were happy and praised by their father.
The British merchants that Henry had invited stood and clapped their hands. So many of them, and diverse. They looked well pleased, particularly the mixed-race couple on the end. Black-Blanc pairings weren’t unusual. Henry offered such men full citizenship if they married Haytian women.
Vastey began praising the poor sick monarch of England and then his son, the prince regent. The approving looks of the British Blanc men were the same as those of the nobles who’d stood and praised Victor. The Americans in our midst clapped, but they seemed stiff. I’d probably be the same if I attended a dinner praising French rulers. The memory of revolution for everyone was too fresh.
Nonetheless, looking at these foreigners approving our assimilation into the Blanc world, our modeling and revering foreign cultures, it broke something inside.
“What’s wrong, Louise? Your countenance has changed again.”
My husband was observant, too observant.
How did one complain about things being done according to the king’s exact wishes? This was Henry’s dream, his plan of how to be respectable in the world.
“Louise, tell me. I don’t want our guests seeing you frown. And I know you’ll not ask me to discuss state business while we are in the public eye.”
Again, his conditions, his rules, but in this he was right. Saying what I thought would drive more division between me and Henry.
When I saw him fiddling again with his sash and the brooch bearing his kingly crest, I remembered the caravan and the people and the waving torn banner.
“Your Majesty, I saw an old flag of the empire today. Someone carried it during our procession. I think they wanted to show pride, but it saddened me. It had bullet holes. The sight of it weighs on me. It would make one think the Haytian state doesn’t take enough care with its identity.”
His brow lifted. Henry hadn’t expected these words. He looked unsure, with lines marring his forehead. “What do you believe should be done?”
For him to ask my opinion was an opening, but I couldn’t reach for the heavens. I aimed for falling stars. “Ordering our flag to be made in another country doesn’t make sense. I think the royal women should be charged with restoring our pride. You should order that we sew new ones, at our expense and labor. Then it will be a source of pride and accomplishment.”
“So be it. Anything you need will be put at your disposal. Dupuy will be charged—”
“It should be the women. Let us bring honor to you and to the home of every peer in the kingdom. It will reinforce their loyalty.”
“So be it, Louise. Keep me abreast of the progress.”
“I will, Your Majesty.” Henry had given me a victory, but we fought different wars. He wanted to distract me from delving into the attack on the caravan. I wanted a role outside of meal planning. We both won.
“Prince Royal, time will come when you’ll enjoy the fruit of your labors,” Vastey said in a booming voice. “Divinity, preserve this dear prince for us.”
The singing started for Victor, hymns of grace. Henry reached for me and clasped my arm, rolling the loose bracelet about my wrist.
The choice emerald had come to mean so much. Dupuy told me the king had picked it from a table of gems. He liked the fire in the smooth facets. Maybe that was what he loved about me, the passion trapped inside my respectable façade.
But was that me, or was it who I’d become in order to love a man like Henry?
With eyes locked on me, his fingers slipped to my palm. His strength and warmth radiated. I felt that swirling, spiraling connection to him as much as his power. The notion that I could’ve lost him and my son today, maybe that was the push I needed to shake my stubbornness.
“Your way, Henry. I’ll not fight if you keep being safer and smarter than those who oppose you.”
A full smile toyed with his tender lips.
Baron Louis Dessalines and his wife led couples in the minuet. The young couple, he in his long indigo coat with gold braiding and the baroness in her high-waisted gown of pink satin, looked lovely hand in hand, making sweet time to the dance Jacques I had tried so hard to master.
The lump in my throat grew a little as I remembered the impressive dinners Madame Dessalines once gave. I hated that she’d withdrawn from our lives. Was that what my life would be if I were suddenly widowed and our young son were forced to rule?
16
1813 Sans-Souci, Kingdom of Hayti
The ballet dancers finished their performance of La Fille Mal Gardée, The Poorly Guarded Girl. The two acts were performed beneath the main chandelier, the candlelight gleaming on the artists. Their Black faces and the expressive leaps and spins of their bodies, like splashing swans on a river, brought everyone to their feet.
Athénaïre had swayed with the music, her pinkies moving with the steps of the dancers. It wasn’t her moment to shine, I said to myself. There’d be another.
When I glanced to the king, his eyes sparkled.
“This evening for Victor is wonderful. You’re wonderful, Louise.”
I loved this—the sentiment, the gaze.
We were again in the same place, the same sphere.
It didn’t matter that I’d capitulated to be there.
The musicians began again. The harpists, a pianoforte player, and violinist from London joining with local drummers were inspiring. We needed this talent here, with our people. “We need a music teacher, Henry.”
“As you command, it shall be done.”
Blinking at the ease in which he agreed, I didn’t know what to say. I merely offered him a smile and swayed to the sonata.
As much as I loved to dance, Henry did not. It was a shame, for it was a pleasure to be in his shadow, protected and cherished, with a strong hand holding mine.
The music changed.
The new, lulling tones, the sweetness I’d only heard in worship. My king tapped his finger to the seductive rhythm.
The pitch and clarity reached into my soul. This music was meant for movement. “Henry, take my hand and let us attempt a minuet.”
His gaze became wary and he looked away. “Non. This amusement is for the nobles and the young. I’m content here, listening to the tune and sitting next to you.”
Couples pranced along to the beat, adding more rhythm to the joyous three-quarter tempo.
“Oh. Look, Henry. Even Victor and Athénaïre are taking to the floor. I wonder how she convinced him. Perhaps she could offer the advice to me so that I can dance with my sovereign.”
“Athénaïre can convince anyone of anything given the opportunity.” Henry chuckled, then released my bracelet. “Always moving, Louise. Sometimes I’m content sitting still watching you.”
He took up the silver chalice that sat near his crystal water goblet. Henry leaned closer. His lips dampening with the berry-smelling wine seemed like an invitation, a plea to live and love in the moment.
I longed to dance with my husband. My royal purple dress of satin had a creamy grosgrain ribbon sewn at the hem. It would billow like a sail as I turned about the room.
“You cannot sit still, can you, my dear? So like Athénaïre.”
Trying to calm my tapping slipper, I gazed at his mock-shocked gape. “Henry, it’s the fault of the musicians. It must be a sin to waste good music.”
“Get up and dance.”
“By myself? With everyone watching?” Wanting to pull him to the dance floor, I grimaced instead. “I’m sure Limonade or Dupuy would have something to say. Their admonishment would be correct.”
“Not if I’ve ordered it. Besides, everyone’s always watching a queen.”
He sat back in the large chair tufted in blue velvet padding, then brushed at his hair, the dark curls ceding ground to gray ones. “But you are right about not wasting music.”
Stomach knotting in anticipation, I rose but the king remained seated. “Baron de Vastey,” he called. “Come.”
His adviser snapped to attention and marched the short distance to the raised stage. “His Royal Highness, the prince royal, and Her Royal Highness, Madame Athénaïre, dance so well, excellent performance.”
“Oui, Vastey,” Henry said. “Dance with the queen.”
Knowing Henry’s jealous streak, I wasn’t sure if this was some sort of test. I decided to be bold and reached for his star brooch. “I thought we were to dance, my king. We rarely do.”
A panic crossed his face. “Non. The emperor lost the respect of many when he did the wretched twirling of the minuet. I’ll sit and gaze at the experts. Baron de Vastey, dance with the queen.”
Henry’s adviser looked as disturbed as I, but he’d not refuse. He came up the steps of the platform. “It would be my honor.”
All eyes in the ballroom now watched.
“Your Majesty,” Vastey said and held out his palm.
Taking the offering, I let him lead me out onto the floor. The tune changed to something different as the tall lean man spun me.
As with everything Vastey did, he danced with distinction, each step precise, each twirl perfectly timed. The secretary was very light on his feet.
I closed my eyes and pretended this was Henry. Yet the motions felt empty.
“Your frown must mean you recognize the tune.”
“Non. What is it?”
“Your Majesty, ‘The Ruins of Athens,’ Beethoven’s Opus 113. It’s for a play about the goddess Athena awakening after a thousand years to find her city ruined and her country occupied by foreigners.”
I stopped midstep. “Why is the tempo upbeat for such a sad thing?”
“Well, it swells with patriotism. At the end, the goddess and a king swear to rebuild the country.”
Vastey was a special man. Strategic even when he wasn’t trying to be. Or perhaps he was a fortune teller, a mambo warning of what troubles the kingdom could face. But the king and this pretend goddess for our nation had to unite to protect what the Kingdom of Hayti had begun to build.
THE SELECTION ENDED, AND BEFORE THE START OF THE NEXT, Henry was at my side. “Vastey, lead everyone outside. Time for the final cannon salute for the prince royal.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” the man said with a bow. “Divine dancing, my queen.”
With his head still low, he retreated and I felt Henry’s shadow overtake mine.
I turned, brushing against his sash. “You could’ve just danced with me from the beginning and spared the baron a moment of your jealousy.”
“Unlike the theme of tonight’s ballet, I’ll not leave you unguarded.” His head tilted. His gaze fell upon me as if I’d been absent a long time. “You looked too happy dancing with Vastey.”
“I’m happy dancing, and I tried to imagine it was you holding my hand.”
The fury in his eyes disappeared. “I don’t want to be embarrassed, but the sight of another man touching you pains me.”
The ballroom emptied, and I held my breath and expected a lecture.
Instead, Henry hummed, laced his fingers with mine, and held me. Slow and easy, we moved as one to his version of Ries’s Violin Concerto. My cheek flattened against his solid chest, the icy brooch, but I warmed in his protective arms. My ear vibrated with the strong beat of his heart and whispers of his love.
“I fear . . . I wish to never disappoint you. Never draw shame, Louise.”
The openness . . . the hums—
I never wanted this moment to end.
With a swirl, a sigh, a light kiss to my brow, he stopped and stepped away. “Thank you for the dance, ma reine.”
He left me to the parquet crosses. At the threshold, he pivoted. “Our duties are not done, but neither is my love for you. Let’s finish Victor’s celebration on one accord.”
Times like this, I’d follow Henry anywhere. We walked side by side, palm in palm until we reached the balcony where the girls and I greeted everyone, of the northern entry of Sans-Souci.
As the king talked to his ministers, I found my son and kissed his cheek. “Nine years old with the world ahead of you.”
He wiped his face free of my affection. “It’s an awful lot of pomp and circumstance. What happens for a tenth or twelfth birthday?”
Knowing that my firstborn never saw past his eleventh, I bent and put my lips to Victor’s forehead again. “Every birthday will be bigger than the last. These celebrations tell you how much you are loved.”
“Was a good day, Maman. Did you see me? I did the commands right.”
Victor looked over my shoulder to where Henry stood. “Père’s proud of me. He really is!”
Wanting to hug him and protect him from all the unseen dangers and the mountains of responsibilities that awaited him, I resisted and straightened his lapel. “We are proud. Keep learning all you can. Be an aid to your king.”
After a quick hug to my waist, my boy walked to Prince Armande, who stood with younger sons of nobles.
For a moment, I took in the sight of them—happy, bold, growing in their strength. It was beautiful seeing these Black boys, these wonderful young men, coming into their own with no limits being placed upon their futures. They were part of the fabric of a free Hayti. This ideal was worth fighting for, worth protecting.
“Queen Marie-Louise, Prince Victor,” Dupuy said, “it’s time for the display.”
With my son holding on to the balcony rail, Henry and I stood on either side of our birthday boy.
Like a waterfall spilling onto the courtyard, couples fluttered behind us descending either side of the double staircase. Prince Armande and my princesses came close.
Troops marched in both directions, beating drums.
Earlier I’d been so fretful, I hadn’t taken a moment to absorb how vast the grounds looked. Torches were lit all the way to the gates, around the surrounding buildings—the storehouse, stables, and barracks. The round chapel had candles in the window.
It stood proud with its circular walls, its majestic tiled brown dome and white cupola.
Turning to Henry, I leaned into him and adjusted his gold brooch. It had slipped a little from our dance. “Look at what you’ve made. My husband, my king, the builder. These are your people, Henry. Your kingdom.”
“Sans-Souci is for you and my sons and daughters. This is where you should feel safe, always.”
“It was nothing but hills. You made it smooth, filled the ravine, and planted fruit trees.”
“And a pepper cinnamon tree.”
“Oui, you remembered, Henry.”
“Always.”
We stood half in the other’s arms, just existing. No pressure to move or pay attention to the marching below.
Then a cannon sounded. Henry wrenched away from me and clutched the rail.
His golden-brown eyes looked wary, even haunted. I rubbed his back, remembering the paralyzing fear of his nightmare.
“Henry?”
He pulled away and headed down the steps. I had to pretend that I hadn’t seen fear in his countenance. Why were his wartime demons returning? I’d never felt closer to him.
I looked skyward for answers, for one of those less busy angels or soaring hymns. Above my head, anchored to Sans-Souci’s wall, was a black-streaked sun with the motto scored into the wood, “Je vois tout, et tout voit par moi dans l’univers.”
That saying was right. Up high or up close, I saw everything, and everything in the universe could be seen by me. I saw all of Henry. I saw his doubts and watched him flee.
I’d give him my strength. He needn’t ask, just merely stay.
My king stopped near Dupuy and Vastey by the courtyard fountain that pumped water from the underground streams below the palace.
The cannon continued to blast. Troops marched. The crowds sighed and clapped. All the noise drowned the babble of the spigot.
Yet the water still trickled down, even if its sound was never acknowledged.
Shouts came from the left.
Someone ran toward the fountain.
A sword flashed.
“Lanmò wa a!” a woman cried out.
“Mort au roi!” a man shouted.
Dupuy and Vastey and the king’s private guard, the Dahomet soldiers in celestial blue uniforms, surrounded Henry. Others came onto the steps and formed a wall around Victor, Armande, the girls, and me.
The Dahomets held their ground. They’d die before allowing anyone to hurt us.
Our guests scattered as I stood with my children on the balcony watching the soldiers subdue the assailants who’d come to kill Henry, Victor, and countless more.
