Queen of Exiles

by Vanessa Riley

Genres: African American Historical; African American Women's Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

‘You may not know Marie-Louise Christophe but once you have met her, you won’t forget her. Vanessa Riley’s historical novel feels timely and relevant, commemorating a time when Black women were queens.’ Jodi Picoult, #1 New York Times bestselling author

Can a queen without a country still rule people’s hearts?

Hayti 1811

As Queen of Hayti, Marie-Louise Christophe rules alongside her husband, the King, in a court of opulence and beauty. But when King Henry is overthrown, Queen Louise and her daughters are forced to leave their royal palaces and flee to London.

In exile, Louise must redefine her position in society. Journeying from London to Germany, and finally settling in Italy, Louise and her daughters continue to move in royal circles, living a life filled with glittering balls and princely marriage proposals. But when tragedy strikes, and with newspapers and gossip following their every move, Louise must decide what is most important in her new world, and what is worth fighting for.

Based on the life of Hayti’s Queen Marie-Louise Coidavid, this is the tale of a remarkable Black woman of history, forced to rebuild her life on her own terms. Perfect for fans of Queen Charlotte, a Bridgerton Story.

Immerse yourself in a captivating story of:

• Regency romance
• Rich historical detail
• Glamourous ballrooms
• Empowerment
• A historical figure you need to know about

‘A sweeping look at the political, social, and romantic intrigue surrounding Haiti’s first and only queen…richly imagined and wholly original.’
Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author

Release date: July 11, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 488

Sample

11821 London, England

Dumping the contents of my last trunk onto the floor, I wanted to shriek. I checked again and again, ripping at petticoats, throwing gowns into the air in my suite at the Osborne Hotel.

Nothing.

“Madame, it’s not here. Madame—”

Shaking my head, I blocked Zephyrine’s reasonable words. My jewels had to be here.

A bag with emeralds, diamonds, and rubies, along with a cluster of gold coins, items I’d risked my life smuggling out of Hayti, needed to be wrested from its hiding place. The insurance of being able to pay our way in this strange new land couldn’t vanish.

“I’ll . . . I’ll search again,” I said in a voice breaking with tears. Turning to my weathered portmanteau, something I’d gotten from my sister during my captivity, I hunted and hoped.

More tossed silks, flopping to the ground like ghosts.

More bruising of my knuckles, slapping along the bottom of an empty trunk.

More punishing fear, rocking and shredding my insides.

My maid grabbed my wrists and pulled me to the burgundy tapestry, the covering used to warm the cold floor. “It’s stolen, ma reine.”

Wet streaks drizzled down Zephyrine’s brown cheeks to the front of her white bib apron. Prim and pressed and resolute in her service to me, my friend awaited orders from her sovereign.

“I’m not that anymore. I’m no longer queen.” Flat and pulsing, wanting to grab onto something real, I stilled my hands. “I’m just Madame Christophe. Nothing more.”

My fingers sank deeper into the softness of the woven silk, the colorful Indian rug. I could picture the care and labor it had cost to produce this treasure upon a loom, but I had to clutch, to claw at something, something I could fight.

“It’s not here.” Zephyrine sniffled, then gulped a breath. “We’ve checked and checked. The necklaces, the bracelets, and the pins are gone.”

She was right. We had nothing.

Nothing to sell to pay for food or these fancy lodgings.

No rings.

No pearls.

Not even my favorite emerald pieces.

The yellow satin bag with all the valuables that the man I loved, my king, had given me had disappeared.

Turning from her, I wanted to pretend nothing had happened, but I’d lived through so many things I wanted to wish away.

Couldn’t this merely be another nightmare, oui?

Exile to Europe was to be salvation, renewal. I wanted to pray, but God wouldn’t hear an angry woman.

My life, my fairy-tale life of being picked from obscurity to reign over a nation, all had been torn away. The evidence of that other life, my jewels—some thief had stolen.

But we had lived it . . . we’d been wealthy and happy and royal.

“Madame, how will we survive? To be robbed of your treasures means ruin. At Lambert House, fruit grew on trees. A beggar can eat in the jungle.”

“Back to Hayti? Barely existing, surrounded by armed guards, hoping their fickle leader won’t execute what remains of the people I love? Non!”

I covered my mouth, wanting to erase my words from the air.

No one needed to know how helpless I felt in my beloved Hayti. Ever since I left my parents’ care, I’d stood on my own, grown up fast, outlived rebellions, and kept my babies safe in the wilderness. A robbery couldn’t be the thing that destroyed me.

Fury roiled in my gut. The dread, the fear I’d kept to myself, exploded, quaking my insides, flooding my face like a turbulent river. I dug into a pile of clothes, strangling a shift like it was the robber or the man who ended my kingdom.

“Madame,” my maid said. “You’ve shown the pieces to Monsieur Wilberforce. He was to help you sell some to get money. He’ll visit tomorrow. Wouldn’t he know what to do?”

The creamy hem of a discarded dress became a handkerchief. Taking my time, I dabbed at my face, letting the soft lace soothe my skin. “I don’t know.” I mumbled more scared words and swallowed tears. “I just don’t know.”

Zephyrine pulled me to her shoulder. “How could this happen? Have we not been careful?”

I hadn’t been showy, but I’d worn my bracelet over my mourning drape. The gold had surely caught a criminal’s eyes.

Reclaiming my posture, the etiquette Lord Limonade, the Haytian court’s protocol master, had ingrained, I sat up straight and fingered the scuffed lock on my trunk. “It’s been gouged. Someone came into our rooms, pried this open, and stole my valuables.”

This crime was blatant, occurring during the day, perhaps when we’d gone downstairs to sup. Did he think we’d not notice? Or did she assume no one would help the poor exile, the foreigner?

“We’ll not let them win, Zephyrine. Monsieur Wilberforce will help.”

“The hotel maids.” She wiped at her eyes. “Perhaps they saw something.”

Only the Osborne staff had access to enter.

Zephyrine began picking up the clutter I’d created. “At least a Blanc saw the diamonds and emeralds in your possession. He’ll be believed. Otherwise, no one here would think a Black could have such finery.”

Her words kicked me in the gut.

Bang, I sank again to the floor. My stomach pushed flat. Air gushed out of my mouth. I wept, wept as hard as when the kingdom fell.

Unprotected, my girls, my household, and I were in a place of danger where skin color was more important than truth. The safe Black world we’d built was gone.

A WEEK HAD DRAGGED BY SINCE THE THEFT OF MY PROPERTY. THE manager of the Osborne Hotel seemed apologetic, and in his blue eyes, I saw embarrassment. Dignitaries stayed at this place. He begged Wilberforce to give him a chance to make inquiries.

Leaning by a window looking out at the Thames, I noted the fog had lifted. In Milot, that meant sunshine. Here, it held no meaning. The temperature might barely rise. The humidity and heat of my lush home would be another lost memory.

Chastising myself for my complaints, I reached for my wrist, the empty spot where my emerald should be sitting. I was lucky to be here, lucky to be alive, lucky to have brought with me my daughters and my loyal attendants, Zephyrine and Souliman.

How would I lead them when our escape to London had gone so wrong?

Going to their bedroom door, I peeked at the girls sleeping together on a single mattress. Snuggled in warm bedclothes, piled under blankets in a world that for the moment wasn’t moving, wasn’t rocking or shifting like international alliances, I merely watched them breathe. I’d checked on them several times throughout the night, as if goblins might steal them, too.

There should be more beds, holding more of my family. If the kingdom had to end, we all should be exiled from Hayti.

Leaving the suite like a silent mouse, I crept down the stairs. Souliman waited at the bottom—no flintlock rifle but a cane in his hands. His scowl menaced.

The large bags under his eyes declared he hadn’t slept, either. I dared not look in a mirror. The papers once called me Henry’s old Black wife. I’d surely aged thirty years since the kingdom fell.

“Souliman, are you well?”

“Peu importe. Non. Don’t matter. I failed.” He beat at his chest. “I let them thieve you.”

He talked fast, using bits of Kreyòl and French. Again, he pounded his white shirt. “I should’ve been with the trunks. Pa ta dwe janm! Should’ve never taken my eyes off your treasures.”

No one could watch everything forever. Couldn’t even stare at a son wishing for his safety or comfort him when darkness came. I took a handkerchief from my pocket and gave it to Souliman. He was twenty-eight, an age my Victor would never see. “You had to eat. Seeing to maids is not one of your duties.”

“It is now.” He wiped at his nose, which had just made a trumpet noise. “Madame Christophe, forgive me. Pardonne-moi.”

Placing a palm to the shoulder of the jacket a naval officer had given him to wear, I caught his eyes. “Souliman, this is not your fault. I forgot that we cannot let our guard down. Just because we don’t see bayonets doesn’t mean the enemy is at rest.”

“I will find this thief, madame. I’ll hang them upside down. They will be—”

“Non. We don’t rule here and have no authority. We’re barely making our way. Promise me, Souliman. I can’t fret about you and the girls and a hundred other things.”

Leaning on his cane, one he’d carved and notched with lost faces, he bowed to me. “As you wish, ma reine.”

Unlike with Zephyrine, I didn’t have the strength to admonish him. The new president of Hayti wasn’t around to hear and issue new orders to kill my surviving family or me.

“We’re little more than refugees. The archbishop has money that my husband sent for me. When we gain access, we’ll no longer be destitute.”

His hands dropped to his sides, strong rock-hurling arms. “Madame, I believe no Blanc priest here any more than I believed Brelle in Cap-Henry. I’m prepared to fight. I won’t let my queen be in rags.”

My sister, dear Cécile, once said there was honesty in poverty. Non. The truth—poverty made one naked, vulnerable, and dependent. It would leave the royal Christophes easy prey to be shunned.

We had no shield.

I had to become one. “I’ve led us here. I’ll protect you, all of us.”

“I will get strong. My lameness won’t prevent it. I promise.” He grumbled more, mouthing sentiments like my husband, my chivalrous Henry, about keeping women safe, then retook his seat. Souliman’s unsmiling countenance looked frightful, as if he were readying to attack a new band of robbers.

They wouldn’t appear yet.

Hayti’s new president and my jewel thief might be in league, working to torment me, but they’d need time to strike again.

Somehow, I had to prepare. I had to be that woman, that mother in the wilderness protecting my children from war. I’d done it—survived pregnant with Victor in caves and kept the girls alive while their father fought the French.

If I had to outwit, outthink, even deceive, I’d do what I had to in order to protect my girls and keep safe all the ones entrusted to me. I went for a walk under thick afternoon clouds praying the archbishop of Canterbury wasn’t my next villain.

MY RESTLESS SPIRIT HAD ME WALKING TO THE NEIGHBORHOODoutside the Osborne Hotel. I expected Monsieur Wilberforce any minute. As an adviser to Henry, he’d taken the fall of the kingdom hard. During our reign, the man had been faithful sending teachers and doctors and scientists to Hayti. These laborers were all a part of Henry’s vision of making our people the smartest and healthiest in the world.

A church tower somewhere close chimed. Anglican ones more than Catholic, I welcomed the toll and headed back to the Osborne.

The red brick of the hotel was smooth, not like Haytian rubble brick. When the clouds lifted, London revealed towers, taller and closer together than in Le Cap before the wars. Henry had just started his plan to rebuild the capital. I wondered if it would’ve looked like this, stiff and foreboding. Or would it have been more like Sans-Souci, with space and curves?

I stuck my hands in the empty pockets of the coat Madame Clarkson gave me. I had brought with me a few dresses but nothing like this indigo-colored greatcoat. It was thoughtful, but I hated that I’d become a royal beggar.

At least this woman was genuine, giving to me in true Christian love. Wondered if the maids who’d smiled in my face and stole my jewels had any. I was very sure the thief was one of the staff.

A carriage stopped in front of me. It was a gig, the type where the driver is the sole passenger. Monsieur William Wilberforce descended. Tall, lank, with a slightly bent posture, he rushed toward me. “Madame Christophe, walking alone?”

“It clears my head.” I offered the assessing blue eyes the best smile I could. “I’m glad to meet you away from the family.”

He held out his arm to me.

Staring at the smooth ebony wool of his coat sleeve, I hesitated. “Are you sure you want my hand? The scandal mongers will accuse you of being entangled with the Blacks again.”

“They already do when I’m not walking with a queen.” His thin red cheeks glowed. “It’s the cartoonists who do the worst. They reduce everything to tittle-tattle and scandal. With you, the honorable Queen Marie-Louise, in my company, my reputation can only improve.”

A good-humored charmer, this dear man. I claimed his arm and we proceeded down the street. I observed more tall houses, more smooth bricks, more crowding.

“Are you here to tell me to return to Hayti? Should I leave before thieves steal my dresses?”

“No. The manager dismissed the maids assigned to your rooms.”

Justice for us . . . in exile? “Truly? I’m astonished.”

“When I reminded him of the king’s interest in your safety and welfare, the manager promised to redouble his efforts in finding the criminals.”

King George IV, the former regent, during his father’s madness, allowed his Captain Nicholson to bring my family across the sea to safety. The boat, the Missionary, bounced with every wave. I remembered looking out my cabin window at Port-au-Prince harbor disappearing. Fool that I was, I thought I had said goodbye to trouble.

“Madame Christophe, you stopped walking. Are you tired?”

“Non. Just thinking. The work my husband did to normalize relations with Britain seemed to have some impact. Thank His Majesty for me.”

“My prime minister will, and perhaps you can help me think of ways to begin talks with the new government. They seemed very dismissive when I offered to help.”

“Don’t think those men wish to hear from me, monsieur.”

“They should listen for the good of the nation. You’re logical, madame. I wish there were more like you in Hayti. It seems those with level heads have been imprisoned or executed.”

He said the last bit so softly that I might’ve missed it because of the hullabaloo of the city—the passing carriages, the dockworkers heading to the Thames.

A Black face was one in the crowd. Arms swinging, he trudged forward, heading toward the water.

“Ma’am? You’ve stopped walking again.”

“Just looking at the diversity of this city. All types of workers.”

Wilberforce nodded. “I think your nation would’ve become this—”

“If Henry hadn’t died.”

The cold air of the Thames surrounded me, separating us, as if my king stood between me and Wilberforce. This was the first time on this soil I’d said it aloud, said Henry was gone.

“What am I to expect of my circumstances? Without my jewels, I need the archbishop to return the money that my husband gave him. It was for me.”

“I’ve spoken with the manager of the Osborne,” Wilberforce said. “You’ll remain here, comfortable and cared for, until all matters with the archdiocese are settled.”

That wasn’t an answer. “And my funds?”

“It’s not that simple, madame.” The gentleman urged me to walk with him again. When I did, he said, “A record must be established. We have to make sure the dispensing of funds can’t be challenged by others.”

By others, he meant my enemies in Hayti. They didn’t want a woman’s blood on their hands, so they had allowed me to leave, but the upstart government wasn’t done tormenting me. “Must be a great sum for there to be worries?”

“Nine thousand pounds.”

That was a lot of money, but not the amount I thought Henry had set aside.

“You’re frowning, Madame Christophe. You expected more?”

Pacing a little ahead of Wilberforce, I looked out at the busy shipyard. “My king made a great deal of money facilitating trade for the kingdom. There should be more, but perhaps his fortune has been commandeered like the spoils of Sans-Souci.”

“King Henry was very wealthy. Our papers talked often of things he purchased for the kingdom.”

His mouth twitched. I saw the same foul judgment that I initially had for Henry’s dealings, but after what my husband’s vision of setting Hayti above all nations cost him, I knew every gourde was earned. “How long before things are resolved?”

“That I don’t know. And there may be more money in our banks to which you’re entitled.”

Entitled was the devil’s word, meaning different things to different people. To me, my family was entitled to live in freedom without duress or sneers or thieves. I doubted many others saw it the same.

“Well, let’s hope after you and the priests are finished, there is enough for dresses and coats. I hear your winters are horrid.”

He sighed but kept us heading down the street. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

Turning from his soft, sad eyes, I watched barges unload barrels containing either cane or rum. “The world still needs its sweets and its liquor, no matter where it comes from or from whose hands, free or enslaved. But for a moment, it was shipped by a free nation, a powerful Black nation. Monsieur, that shouldn’t be forgotten.”

“It won’t be, but it will be upon you and your children to take up King Henry’s mantle.”

This sweet man was a fool if he thought for one moment I’d risk more Christophe blood. The world was on its own to figure out how to end enslavement. “Non. No more demands upon me or my living children.”

A man shouted, and I trembled.

Wilberforce steadied my hand. “It’s a worker on one of the docks.”

“Yelling can be as disconcerting as silence. There needs to be some sort of noise to let you know life is still happening.” I stood up straight and filled my lungs. “I want silence, slowness, some sense of lasting peace.”

“I’m sorry, Madame Christophe. Give me more time. Things will be better.”

Offering him what smile I could, we headed back to the Osborne. Though I didn’t want to fight, I knew I had to be ready for one. As long as we lived, whether in exile or in power, those who sought to destroy us wouldn’t stop until they succeeded. I vowed in my heart to figure out how to be the dignified widow of a king and protect the loved ones who lived.

21821 London, England

At my breakfast table, I sat across from my younger daughter, Athénaïre, as she sipped her tea. Her oval face bore a drooping Cupid’s bow, a small flattening frown. Her smile had become a memory, something she hadn’t shown since the kingdom ended.

I wished I knew how to help her heal, but I didn’t know how to fix myself. Wasn’t I a shell, hard and fragile on the outside, trying not to crack with the next crashing wave?

How did one learn to become stiff, even unfeeling? It would be a year in a few days since the kingdom fell. I’d begun crying again for Hayti and Henry and all the sons lost. I wasn’t numb, though I wished to be.

My mourning drape, freshly laundered jet bombazine, still felt warm from Zephyrine’s pressing iron. The chill outside had become more prevalent, hindering my morning walks. Soon, the white ice Monsieur and Madame Clarkson told us about would come. In Hayti, I’d heard that snow, a yellowish ash mix, fell in the mountains, but I hadn’t seen it.

The religious fellow, Clarkson, was another of Henry’s advocates in England and in discussions with Russia and France on the kingdom’s behalf. Passionate about abolition, the man, this contemporary of Wilberforce, seemed caring, wanting to help. His quiet wife seemed to study us, my daughters and me, comparing our grace and station with the caricatures churned out by newsmen. She had invited us to stay with them in Suffolk for the winter.

Wasn’t sure whether I wanted to spend the cold season as an exhibition for country farmers or stay in London, in our colorless royal limbo.

“Maman,” Athénaïre said, putting her smooth hand over my ashy wrist. “Something upset you again? Another death? Is that what the Clarksons disclosed as I visited with Miss Thornton?”

The couple had brought a young lady, a neighbor from a nearby farm, to our visit. Polite, pale from hiding from the sun, Marianne Thornton accompanied my daughters downstairs to the galleries in the hotel.

“Non. They talked of ways to help. Nothing grim.”

Her lips wrinkled into a dot. She wanted more. At twenty-one, she deserved the full truth. “There’s been no update on the funds of ours that the archbishop of Canterbury has in his possession. With no jewels to sell, I won’t be able to pay for these rooms. It’s nonsensical to expect King George to keep intervening in our circumstances when his priest and his rules are keeping us from receiving our due.”

“Your brow furrowed. You do that when you’re fretting about something.” Athénaïre looked down at her stationery. “Merci bien for sharing your thoughts.”

My girl. Why did she demur after being bold? “Oui. Now share yours. How did you find Mademoiselle Thornton?”

Golden eyes beaming a little, she raised her countenance. “I like her. She’s very polite. Her gossip is good.”

Normally, I’d chastise my daughter for delighting in such tattle, but this was Athénaïre, my dramatic girl, who’d been too silent since leaving house arrest in Cap-Henry.

“She said she liked meeting a true princess.” Her lashes lowered. “Miss Thornton was afraid I’d be another pretender like the Caraboo woman.”

Caraboo? I’d read about the actress who’d convinced all she was a princess from a foreign land. Made up her own language and took advantage of people’s kindness until she was exposed. People from her Devonshire village came forward and identified her as a cobbler’s daughter.

My girls hadn’t been born yet when I served Blanc women who stayed at my father’s hotel. They never had to bow and smile at them through slights. This Thornton person and Mrs. Clarkson were the first Blanc ladies they’d spent time with who weren’t employed by the king.

Moving closer, I stroked a curl that fell to her forehead. She’d straightened it as the American governess had shown her. “Are you sure Mademoiselle Thornton was being kind? I find that some women can be duplicitous, smiling in your face while they openly scheme.”

“Non. She was kind.”

Kind?

What about deferential or impressed? Were those feelings reserved for other nobles?

“Maman, you are not pleased?”

My hand tightened about the handle of my bone-china teacup. I closed my eyes and counted. The memories I wanted to be numb to, their pain returned. Henry’s court had been filled with men and women plotting for their own interests. Ladies . . . friends I trusted broke my heart. “Bringing up a fake princess to a true one might be the mademoiselle’s way of challenging your station. Never forget who you are.”

“Non, Maman. Marianne is genuine. I like her. She’s funny. She doesn’t act like some we’ve met. I’m glad the snickering maids are gone.”

With no jewels or large sums of money, we were paupers. I hadn’t expected a Blanc woman of means to be any different than the terminated maids, who loathed serving Black royals.

“This is good to hear, Athénaïre.”

She stirred her tea, adding a little more milk. “Marianne mentioned that the Clarksons want us to stay the winter with them. I hope you accept. The Thorntons live nearby. I’d like to see more of her. I want some society if I can ask for such.”

My girls were young ladies. I should treat them as proud women, not hide them away. “Mrs. Clarkson did offer. It would be good for you and Améthyste to meet more people. I’ll consider it.”

She squinted at me, then returned once more to her stationery. “If things don’t change in Hayti, this will be our new home. It could be good if we find our footing.”

With a nod, I agreed. I had to accept Britain as our new world. But what did that mean for us, displaced royals?

I sipped my tea, letting it warm my tongue and throat. And I prayed my daughter would grow bolder and that her golden eyes would never see the hate her sheltered, privileged life had kept away.

THE LOWER LEVEL NEAR THE HOTEL’S MAIN RECEPTION HAD DEEP indigo carpets with woven designs of orange and red. It wasn’t an orchard or a forest, but it was the best I could manage to keep my nervous pacing secret while London’s weather turned cold and bone-chillingly wet.

Sighing, wanting sun, I stopped and gaped at the paintings on the wall.

Big bold images of people surrounded me. I supposed that meant I wasn’t walking alone.

“Miss?”

Startled, my hand flew to the shiny onyx buttons on my gown. With a quick spin that made my long skirt flutter, I found that an older gentleman with sparse white hair had entered the room. “Wait, miss?”

He waved his cane, something drab and smooth, different from Souliman’s. “I said you there.” He glared at me as if I had defied him. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need more hot water.”

“Dommage qu’il y ait pénurie, Monsieur.”

“So you don’t speak English.”

“I do.” I replied with proud tones, the ones I’d mastered for the kingdom’s grand fetes. “But I don’t know where your water is. You might try asking a servant.”

My glance met him dead in his eyes, then I turned and left. I was Madame Christophe, the only representative of Black royalty this man had ever seen. I didn’t fetch water for anyone but my family.

Halfway down the hall, I heard a squeak. Then a cough.

Barging inside the parlor, I found Améthyste sitting on a bench. Her slim figure was trimmed in solemn black, and she had donned a matching turban to cover her thick braids. I hadn’t thought she’d venture from the safety of our rooms.

I guess Athénaïre wasn’t the only one who wanted to explore, but did Améthyste have the physical strength to do so?

“What are you doing here without an attendant? Do you want someone to think you’re a maid, too? Or worse?”

“What’s worse than a maid in London? They have no enslaved, Maman. And if we are unable to secure funding or recover your jewels, we’ll have to seek a profession. To work as a maid is honorable labor.”

Her logic, as always, was flawless, and unlike her brother, she didn’t appear frightened by honest work. Victor. I missed him. I felt my son’s pride when I’d balked at the presumptuous old man. My sweet boy wouldn’t fetch water, either.

“You’re right, Améthyste. I did a good job cleaning for my father at the Hôtel de la Couronne. And your père was once a waiter, a good one. He collected a lot of tips serving wealthy patrons. He was so handsome. When I met him, Henry commanded the room and took abuse from no one. Once he—”

I stopped before I uttered the devilish things my love did to a customer’s soup because the Blanc had insulted me. My daughter needed to remember the stately king, not the willful man who chose revenge when it came to protecting me. “Well, he was passionate at everything he did.”

“He was a bricklayer, too. Père often did shifts at the great Citadel until the fortress was complete.” My daughter pulled her shawl, a white creamy thing with fringes on the ends, closer to her throat. Good Haytian cotton. “I’m not afraid of hard work.”

I clasped the empty spot on my wrist, twisting that invisible bracelet. I wasn’t ready to face what our life would be without means . . . without him.

I’d focused so much on getting us to safety, I forgot to plan how to live, truly live on these shores. Any meaningful experience required taking risks, and letting my girls—my only living children, the only existing pieces of Henry and our life together—be brave and take chances, too.

How did one do that when almost everything had been lost?

How, when I was tired of losing?

With strength I didn’t know she had, Améthyste rose and towed me toward the larger-than-life mural. “Come, Maman. Look at this art.”

Unlike the paintings in the other room, these canvases stretched the length of the wall.

“I’m amazed, Maman. It’s titled Orpheus Instructing a Savage People in Theology and the Arts of Social Life.” She started laughing. “Instructing savages. Don’t you get it?”

The canvas was dark and foreboding. It felt like a nightmare. Stark enough to be one of mine. “Dearest, can’t you enjoy a different style of painting? Fruit, perhaps? A nice still life?”

“You seriously don’t see it?”

I shrugged and felt a little like my Victor when he couldn’t readily grasp a concept. My chest ripped open again. He should be here looking at art with his sister. He should’ve lived. A boy barely sixteen should’ve been spared the alleged sins of his father.

“Maman, a whole painting of alleged savages and not one is African. Not one made to look Black or Brown. The savages are them. The Romans, the Europeans, the French or British.” She smiled more broadly. “Not us.”

Squinting at the creams and grays of the characters, I began to understand.

“Art is what the creator intends it to be,” she said. “I like them being cast in suspicion.”

“Why, Améthyste?”

“Because the papers haven’t been kind to Hayti or Père. The British struggle to abolish enslavement. I’ve seen all kinds of hateful images of free Blacks.” She gestured toward the art again. “This is the first thing I’ve seen where we’re not the joke, nor the subject of cruelty, nor made to look like killers. They are the savages, the Blancs. Not us.”

“The Blancs are savage, Améthyste?”

“Oui. I imagine that some are paying for their thefts. Others for killings.”

Well, that could be true.

Henry had fought a war because of Blanc sins and the quest for freedom, but I knew Black and Brown could be as cruel as the French. I couldn’t enjoy this painting.

“Maman, let me show you my favorite.”

She led me to the other side of the room to another haunting image. ...