PROLOGUE: A DEATH

My sister’s black dress rustles in a gust of wind. Some might think it a sign of envy misplaced at this hour, but I want that dress. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been clothed in one of her hand-me-downs. Perhaps our father’s funeral is not the best time for such thoughts – but when else could I have noted how well black becomes her? And must, given our similar complexions, suit me? Enough: I brace myself to address the matter in hand.

I watch them lower his coffin into a small rectangle in the frozen ground. Who could believe his corpse would be so shrunken? He had declined to bone in his last months. A few latecomers are padding across the graveyard towards us, their coats sharp black against the scrunched-down snow. Flakes drift down from the trees to nestle on the grey wigs of the shivering mourners. The sound of one bell slowly tolling lies muffled on the air.

The priest murmurs the service, the words sliding to soft nothings in the background, his breath dissipating into the murk. My mother can hardly bear to lift her tear-streaked countenance to look at his scuffed boots, let alone the faces of the congregation. It seems a dismal turnout for a man who had not been without importance in the town. The local grandees may have soured against him, but he had been the Mayor once, for God’s sake.

My thoughts are interrupted by the closing invocation of the divine, his voice rising in pitch. “By the Grace of Our Lord, and the just protection of our King, Louis the WellBeloved, I call upon those present to watch over the widow and progeny of the departed, Louis Déon de Beaumont, that he may dwell in everlasting peace and they in the light of the nation’s goodwill and bounty.” The answering Amen falls dying on the priest’s last words.

That’s all most unlikely. Somehow, I don’t believe we can expect too many gifts. We leave the churchyard and shuffle along slippery paths towards the long familiar haven. On the canal, snow-flecked mounds beside holes in the ice recall my childhood winters. We reach our château’s boundary, turn away from the water and take the narrow track beneath the ivycovered wall. Now I feel a tug within, realising that I will be seeing all these for the final time.

This sickness swells to a churning in my throat as a gap in the wall appears, revealing the edifice of our old home, solid, forbidding in its sepulchral stone. Our former servants, rehired for the day, are bringing out cases and trunks to stack onto the carts that throng the courtyard. Behind the frosted window panes, I glimpse furious activity; before long we hear the sound of hammering on wooden boards.

The few stragglers from the funeral wander around our yard. My sister, pale and blond and self-possessed, tries to interest them in a libation. She is persuasive. From dusty bottles, we drink a slow toast to the dead in cups unwrapped in haste. One by one, the members of the gentry make vague excuses and depart.

Finally, only four of us remain.

A slothful procession of carts passes us by and creaks off down the road, taking most of our remaining heirlooms. What had he done, or left undone, to strip the house so bare?

With calm indifference, some townsfolk watch the cavalcade recede. They turn and head back up the hill into the cramped quarters of Tonnerre after it’s gone. Dusk is making a cold day colder. It is time for me to go. First, however, I embrace my sister, brushing her dress’s sleeve in longing with my hand.

“Farewell, Victoire.”

“Goodbye, my little brother,” she says, with her bland, superior manner.

“My fondest love to your children. And to Henri, naturally.”

“I pray that you may find the happiness I’ve found.” The sanctimonious prude smirks at her formula. She knows so little.

“We live in hope.”

“And mind you keep your hot young head in check. What’s done about the house is done. There’s no point in bearing grudges.”

I resist a compulsion to box her ears in my wrath. Our home snatched from us by a crew of titled thieves who wish to use its glory in the service of the state, and she cares nothing. She has her own château now.

“Why else do you think I took up the law?”

She raises a plucked eyebrow in reply. It is a glacial farewell.

Next, I hug the round-bodied Madame Benoist as if she were my own. Who knows? She was closer to me than my acknowledged mother. Indeed, she often took me in, and brought me up with her five children. Her bosom glows as warm and sweet as when I was a boy. Apart from her loving, she has no advice to give me. Perhaps I can escape with equal ease from my surviving parent.

“I am bound for Dijon, mother.”

She nods. “God speed you, Charles. And kiss the feet of the Black Virgin for us all.” Like many who were roisterers in their youth, she has become devout with advancing age. The sudden gleam of piety in her eyes gives me a flash of just how bright she used to be. Victoire and I both take our delicate good looks from her.

“You know I shan’t be returning?”

“Remind me why that is so.” Her mind is quite distracted.

“After my case is heard, I must take up my new position with de Savigny in Paris.”

“Of course. My salutations to him – he was so good to your poor father.”

Not good enough when the wolves of the Dijon Parlement pounced somehow on his clear and uncontentious will, but I do not wish to vex her more.

“Are you sure you’ll be looked after when I’m gone?”

“I thank you. I shall be most happy with your godfather on his estate.”

Yet I sense that leaving is even harder for her to bear than it is for me. Unless I have immense good fortune, her independent life is over. She gulps and sniffles, danger signals to the wary.

I grasp my horse’s reins and prepare to mount. Maybe I am harsh on my mother, but she was apt to abandon me when Parisian delights summoned her. Time may mellow me. I swing myself up into the saddle and wave farewell to my three ladies and the township of my birth. My stallion slithers through the gates and down the freezing street. Once out of sight I guide him round the corner away from the Faubourg du Pont onto the straw-covered main road.

For twenty one years, I have been Charles Geneviève Louis Auguste André Timothée Marie Déon de Beaumont, son of a nobleman. Now I’m the near penniless Chevalier d’Éon and must make my way alone.

PART I - CREATION

CHAPTER 1: THE RED DRESS

You could say that I do not know my own mind. This same black dress has hung in my closet for so long, and for almost as long I have contrived to ignore it. But every so often it catches my eye, and I allow myself to feel its folds about my person.

These widow’s weeds are staring at me now.

This is not an everyday compulsion, as you will understand. If not, I must make my position clear. It is a yearning that grows and grows through many seasons until at last it must be satisfied. When I give in to it, I eliminate all the possibilities of discovery. Thus far, I have confined myself to parading in front of the glass in my small chamber behind a bolted door.

I am aware it might be considered wrong. And, of course, I do not wish to offend society in Paris, have no desire to crush my career before it has even begun. So I have remained resolute, ignored all those voices in my head that tell me how pleasant it would be to take the air, and to mingle a little with humanity in this guise.

However, I have known that sometime this day would come. Once it arrived, it would be difficult to stop at a mere promenade. There is always the further lure of going out into the social world, to see how I might react differently to others with my appearance changed, with (so to speak) an altered sex. Not to mention how these participants in my experiment would behave towards me. Would they have an inkling of my true identity? I am convinced that no one will be able to discern my natural state. But I am fearful of the consequences if they do.

Yes, you could say that I do not know my own mind. I wonder whether any man or woman truly does.

For now, I grant, the urge has become constant. It makes me believe that I will never rest until I make my own scientific experiment. Adjusting my face to the feminine, adding rouge and kohl, I strip and clothe myself in female undergarments, acquired on various escapades that still cause me some shame. There was the time when I was almost found by a laundress…but no matter. I put on the black dress and lace up the kidskin boots I’ve had a cobbler make as a gift for a lady friend – fortunately, my feet are small. Now I examine myself in the glass and revel in my appearance. Finally, I check the staircase and the yard are empty, take up my mask and walk out into the evening.

The sun is beginning to set on a fair, windless day, propitious for my exercise. Advancing with quick, nervous steps, I make my way unhindered through the narrow streets of Saint Germain. As I move across the Seine, I join the crowds and carriages, one with an almost royal escutcheon, making their way towards the Opéra.