The Stolen Girl (The Veil and the Crown) Read online

  The Veil and the Crown

  Book I

  The Stolen Girl

  The Stolen Girl

  Zia Wesley

  Copyright 2014, Zia Wesley

  Digital Edition published by Zia Wesley 2014

  Cover design by Clark Walker

  Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind Book Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized print or electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For more information about the author please visit: www.ZiaWesleyNovelist.com

  This book is dedicated to my daughter, Ariane, who encouraged me to write it for more than thirty years, through many false starts, rough drafts and personal challenges;

  and to all of my friends who read the many iterations:

  Ciji, Mary, Carole, Margaret, Barb, Deb, Rain and Roxanne.

  If I’ve forgotten anyone it is simply due to the fact that so many years have passed.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Historical Characters

  Map of Martinique

  Map of the Mediterranean

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Excerpt: The French Sultana

  Author’s Journey

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  The legend of Aimée Dubucq de Rivery, the young French convent girl stolen by pirates and given to the Sultan of Turkey, has survived on three continents for more than two hundred years. There is no disputing the fact that such a girl was indeed born on the island of Martinique in the year 1763, along with one Marie-Josèphe-Rose Tascher de La Pagerie, who later became the Empress Josephine Bonaparte. The latter claimed Aimée as a cousin and told a bit of her story to Marie Le Normand, a noted French spiritualist of the time.

  All of the other main characters lived during the eighteenth century, interacted together and participated in the events that are described. I took the liberty of creating some minor characters to help fill in parts of the story that had been lost, and chose the words they spoke.

  The prediction of Euphemia David is documented in Mémoires historiques et secrets de l'impératrice Joséphine by Marie A. Le Normand, published in France in 1820 and in America as Historical and Secret Memories of the Empress Josephine by John Potter and Company in 1847.

  When you have finished reading, I hope the story inspires you to do some research and detective work of your own about these two women, and that you let me know what you find.

  I personally choose to believe that Aimée did in fact live the life I have put down on these pages, and that her story, as well as that of Marie-Josèphe-Rose Tascher de La Pagerie, was more extraordinary than fiction.

  Historical Characters

  Aimée Dubucq de Rivery, who becomes Nakshidil

  Marie-Joseph Rose Tascher de la Pagerie, Rose

  Euphemia David, The Irish Pythoness, Obeah woman (seer) of Martinique

  Vicomte Alexander de Beauharnais

  Désirée Renaudin, Rose’s aunt in Paris

  Eugène de Beauharnais, Rose’s son

  Hortense de Beauharnais, Rose’s daughter

  Claire Vergus de Sannois, Rose’s mother

  Joseph Tascher, Rose’s father

  The Circassian Kadine, Mihrisah, mother of the heir, Selim

  The Kizlar Agasi, chief black eunuch in the sultan’s harem

  Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, Dey of Algiers, Captain of all Barbary pirates

  Nuket Seza, the Baskadine (mother of the first born son)

  Mustapha, first born son of Sultan Abdul Hamid

  Sultan Abdul Hamid I, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire from 1774 to 1789

  Roxelana, Ukranian odalisque who was the first to ever legally marry a Sultan in 1541

  Sultan Suleiman I, Suleiman the Magnificent, the first Sultan to ever legally marry. Reigned from 1520 to 1566

  Map of 18th Century Martinique

  Map of Aimée’s Journey

  Chapter 1

  Martinique, July 30, 1777

  Aimée was fairly certain she would burn in hell for the sin she was about to commit. What fatal flaw did she possess, she wondered, that was going to make her do it anyway? How many times had Father Christophe told her that the path to damnation was paved with souls just like hers, born in sin and hoping for redemption? She crossed herself and silently prayed to God to intervene on her behalf; open the heavens, send thunder and rain, something, anything to postpone this evening’s imminent clandestine encounter. Could one beg forgiveness in advance of committing a sin? She fervently hoped so, praying silently, “Forgive me Father, I know not what I do.”

  The sun had just begun to slip beneath the gentle, rolling hills at the western end of the island. As Martinique slid languidly into dusk, Aimée and her cousin Rose snuck cautiously out of Rose’s bedroom in the main house of the family’s sugar plantation, Trois Islets. Bending low to avoid being seen by yard slaves, they ran across the huge expanse of unkempt grass into the dense underbrush of the island’s jungle. The humid heat of the day still hung in the air, making the girls’ thin muslin night shifts cling to their naked bodies. They followed an overgrown path through fruit-laden banana and mango trees, their sandaled feet slipping on the remains of rotting fruit. Each step released a heady aroma, fecund and sweetly pungent, a Caribbean blend of island air, ripe fruit and jungle floor. Mynahs and macaws, whose evening rituals were disrupted by the unexpected passage of humans, screamed indignantly to one another from treetops in the canopy above.

  Aimée, a fourteen-year-old blonde sprite, scrambled along behind her cousin, trying to calm the fear that caused her whole body to tremble. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying, fearing divine retribution, and fighting her sense of dread at every step. She had never been in the jungle at night, and the only thing more frightening was the fear of losing the approval of her closest friend, Rose. Despite a mere six-month difference in their ages, Rose was fearless.

  Unwilling to show the depth of her fear and hoping that her cousin might reverse her resolve to proceed, Aimée asked in a small voice, “Rose, are you sure we should do this? It’s getting darker and the jungle is a bit frightening.”

  Annoyed by the de
lay, Rose stopped abruptly to face her cousin. She jammed her fists hard onto her hips and leaned in close to whisper. “Why did you say you wanted to come? Hmmm?”

  “You know why. I’m just not as brave as you, and Father Christophe says...”

  Rose cut her off. “Oh pooh to Father Christophe. I don’t know why you ever bother listening to him. He’s not your real father. You don’t have a father or a mother to tell you what to do.”

  Stung by her cousin’s insensitive remark, Aimée’s face crumpled and her eyes filled with tears. It’s not my fault that I’m an orphan, she told herself, and I’ll never be as brave as Rose.

  Rose immediately regretted speaking so callously. “Why must you always do as others wish? Don’t you hate it?”

  Aimée sniffled in response. Rose took a deep, slow breath and softened her tone. “Try not to be such a baby, Maymay. Now, hold onto my hand. We are almost there.” Why did I insist Aimée accompany me tonight? Because I was too was frightened to make the trip by myself. Her cousin’s constant whining raised her own fears. As if ridding herself of pesky demons, Rose swept her mane of black, wavy hair away from her face and continued to lead the way through overgrown hanging vines with leaves larger than her head.

  Aimée held her cousin’s hand tightly and stumbled along behind her, bolstered by Rose’s strength but still listening to the mental battle in her head. Another frightening thought popped into her mind, and she asked in a panicky voice, “Rose, what if Grand-mère Sannois finds us gone?”

  Rose rolled her eyes in annoyance and continued to crash through the thick underbrush. “She drinks her laudanum and brandy right after supper and goes straight to bed. Hurricanes do not wake her once she is asleep.”

  Both girls stopped abruptly and gasped as a figure suddenly appeared in front of them.

  “Is me,” the shadow whispered, as a teenaged African girl moved towards them.

  “Mimi, you gave me a terrible fright,” Rose scolded. “No one saw you leave, did they?”

  “No one see me, Yeyette,” she replied, using the family’s pet name for Rose. “My skin same as night.” They all giggled nervously. “But you can’t tell no one I take you to dis place or... i pa bon, it be very bad for me.”

  “I will never tell and neither will Aimée,” Rose promised, glaring pointedly at her cousin.

  Aimée nodded rapidly. She would not wish to put the young slave girl in danger, but why, she asked herself for the tenth time, am I putting myself in danger? Why do I always go along with Rose’s deceits? The battle between her curiosity and her devout Catholicism constantly raged. Why am I doing something that I know to be sinful? If I confess to Father Christophe, will he tell Aunt Lavinia?

  As they stumbled along, Aimée made one final attempt to discourage her cousin. “Rose, please let’s not go. It’s almost too dark to see, and I’m so afraid.”

  Before her impatient cousin could rebuke her again, a small shack appeared in a clearing before them. The three girls stopped, peeked through the heavy foliage and caught their breath as one. In the fading light of dusk, they saw a shabby little house, roughly covered in thatch and surrounded by huge hibiscus trees whose flaming red blossoms had fallen to cover the ground like a burning carpet. The soft, amber light of many candles glowed from within, and they heard the faint sound of a solo voice’s singsong chant. Seeing the witch’s house heightened their fear—as well as their excitement—and they stood frozen for a long moment before Mimi finally spoke.

  “I goin’ in first an’ tell her you comin’.” Before anyone could object, she ran across the clearing and disappeared into the little house.

  Rose held her cousin’s shoulders and looked into the frightened girl’s eyes. “Come now, Aimée. Don’t be such a goose. I am not the only one who is fourteen with no prospect of marriage. We made a pact and now we are going to know.”

  Rose opened a small sack of ground coffee and scooped out a handful. Taking hold of Aimée’s right hand, she deposited the grounds into it and closed Aimée’s fingers. “Hold that for your offering,” she instructed.

  Despite Aimée’s wish to have her fortune told, she was not practiced in duplicity, and the fear of being discovered at something as forbidden as divination scared her more than the prospect of meeting the old witch. She had never lied to her aunt and uncle before, and could not imagine how they might respond or what punishment they might impose. And what might God do to her? The Bible spoke clearly and often of His wrath against sinners. Would he turn her into a pillar of salt or send frogs raining down upon her head? She crossed herself again and silently prayed, Holy Mother, forgive me and protect us.

  “Stop that!” Rose hissed. She gave Aimée’s arm a sturdy tug, pulling her towards the shack and dragging her up the rickety steps. Once on the porch, Rose pulled aside the tattered curtain that covered the door and the singing stopped. An ancient-sounding voice with the gravely quality of an old person who’d smoked a lot of tobacco began speaking softly in the island’s own Créole martiniquais dialect. It was a lilting, musical cadence; poetic and singsong.

  “My mout’ exhales no poisonous vapor; no flame surrounds my dwelling; no volcano vomits out a sulfurous cloud around me. Dare be no devils here.”

  Aimée’s first thought was how odd it was to hear Creole spoken in such a formal manner. Then, she saw the infamous obeah woman: an old mulatto of indeterminate age squatting on her haunches in the center of the small room. This was Euphemia David, “the Irish Pythoness,” a renowned fortune-teller both feared and respected throughout the Caribbean. The daughter of a wild redheaded Irish plantation owner and one of his young slave girls, she was revered because her predictions always came true. Although the white, largely Catholic population made a great show of denigrating her abilities, many of them secretly turned to her in their times of need. She is a devil, Aimée thought, crossing herself and lifting the tiny gold cross that hung around her neck to kiss it. Rose shot her a look of disapproval.

  Without looking up from the pieces of white bone that occupied her attention on the floor, the old woman said. “No, ma petites, doan be afraid, doan be sorry you have come. Me t’inks you honor me wit’ your visit.”

  She was dressed in Creole fashion, a large multicolored headscarf wound around her head several times, and dozens of shiny gold bracelets stacked up her skinny arms almost to her elbows. A tattered red silk skirt, the remainders of an old ball gown, spread around her in a circle and a worn-thin muslin blouse hung limply on her bony frame. Her wrinkled skin was the color of café au lait, her face sprinkled with dark brown freckles. Deeply ingrained laugh lines fanned out from her pale, sea green eyes, and wisps of wooly grey hair escaped the headdress to frame her face. A long, thin white clay pipe protruded from the corner of her toothless mouth, producing puffs of fragrant smoke. Her gnarled hands moved rhythmically as she picked up and scattered small bits of bone on the earthen floor in front of her. In one corner of the small room, wooden shelves were stacked with hollowed gourds of dried herbs, bones and other necessities of her craft. Several small, empty cages made of woven sticks leaned against the walls, and candles of all sizes, colors and shapes burned everywhere.

  “Vini,” she said. “Come here,” and she motioned with one hand for the girls to sit opposite her.

  Curiosity now outweighing their fear, the pair crept forward and knelt on the earthen floor, disturbing a layer of white chicken feathers that lifted into the air and floated around for several moments before resettling on and around them. Aimée wrinkled her nose as the distasteful odor of blood entered her nostrils. It smelled like the yard when the slaves slaughtered fowl for dinner but she was too fascinated to feel frightened.

  Mimi squatted silently by the old woman’s side, her eyes wide and focused on the ancient hands manipulating the bones.

  The seer paused to look up and honor them with a toothless smile, as her right hand removed the pipe from her mouth and her left palm extended towards Rose. Her green eyes fixed Rose with
a steady gaze. “You holden somet’ing for me, Doudou [dear one], and I holden somet’ing for you... maybe be your destiny, hmmm?”

  Rose placed a small sack of coffee into the woman’s palm, and then quickly retracted her own hand to hold it against her heart. The old woman looked from one girl to the other, taking in their striking good looks. Two beauties like night an’ day, she mused. Night an’ day in more dan jus’ looks, me tinks. She smiled broadly again.

  The old woman saw it all. They were opposites in appearance as well as demeanor. One a dark-skinned Creole: dis girl’s nature lives in dose eyes, so passionate for one so young... an old soul too. But de fair one... pure and delicate as a frangipani blossom... silky blonde hair and creamy, white skin... pure French, an’ de deepest blue eyes I ever see. Dis one still innocent. She de good girl. This one ’fraid of life ’cause she know death so young; parents maybe dead before she five. Yes, dey opposites and each want to be more like da other. Isn’t it always dat way? Everybody want what dey doan have. She considered all of this while puffing on her pipe and gently nodding her head.

  Both girls sat perfectly still as the old woman turned her eerie eyes on Rose. She placed the coffee in a gourd to one side, laid the pipe next to it and scooped up the scattered bones with both hands. Muttering softly into her cupped hands, she closed her eyes, then raised her face skyward and exhaled all of the breath in her body at once. It made an unearthly whooshing sound that caused the girls to gasp and rock backwards. She flung the bones onto the floor in front of her, creating a small cloud of dirt, dust and feathers that rose and then settled as the bones came to rest. Her eyes widened as she deftly moved her fingers over the bones without touching them. “Oh, chérie,” she whispered, and then studied the bones for another few seconds before looking up at Rose.

  Her eyes sparkled as she crooked her index finger for the girl to move closer. When their faces were only inches apart, the old woman whispered, “You will marry.”