Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule, by Jennifer Chiaverini
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Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule, by Jennifer Chiaverini
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The New York Times bestselling author of Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker and Mrs. Lincoln's Rival imagines the inner life of Julia Grant, beloved as a Civil War general’s wife and the First Lady, yet who grappled with a profound and complex relationship with the slave who was her namesake—until she forged a proud identity of her own.In 1844, Missouri belle Julia Dent met dazzling horseman Lieutenant Ulysses S Grant. Four years passed before their parents permitted them to wed, and the groom’s abolitionist family refused to attend the ceremony.Since childhood, Julia owned as a slave another Julia, known as Jule. Jule guarded her mistress’s closely held twin secrets: She had perilously poor vision but was gifted with prophetic sight. So it was that Jule became Julia’s eyes to the world.And what a world it was, marked by gathering clouds of war. The Grants vowed never to be separated, but as Ulysses rose through the ranks—becoming general in chief of the Union Army—so did the stakes of their pact. During the war, Julia would travel, often in the company of Jule and the four Grant children, facing unreliable transportation and certain danger to be at her husband’s side.Yet Julia and Jule saw two different wars. While Julia spoke out for women—Union and Confederate—she continued to hold Jule as a slave behind Union lines. Upon the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, Jule claimed her freedom and rose to prominence as a businesswoman in her own right, taking the honorary title Madame. The two women’s paths continued to cross throughout the Grants’ White House years in Washington, DC, and later in New York City, the site of Grant’s Tomb.Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule is the first novel to chronicle this singular relationship, bound by sight and shadow.
Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule, by Jennifer Chiaverini- Amazon Sales Rank: #74668 in Books
- Brand: Chiaverini, Jennifer
- Published on: 2015-03-03
- Released on: 2015-03-03
- Ingredients: Example Ingredients
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.31" h x 1.31" w x 6.31" l, 1.00 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 400 pages
Review Praise for MRS. GRANT AND MADAME JULE“The battles are described in detail, but they do not overwhelm, nor do they overshadow the main topic. Chiaverini is a talented author who clearly did her research.” -- RT Book Reviews“[Chiaverini’s] depiction of the essential decency of some of our nation’s early leaders is a high point.” -- Booklist"“The intense research Chiaverini did to document the relationship between Julia and Ulysses Grant is admirable, and made their love story factual and heartwarming. It certainly gave this reader a different perspective of the famous general… All in all this work of historical fiction was a delightful read.”-- Missourian"But never before has [Chiaverini] told a story of such touching beauty and original perspective as she does now in her latest tome, MRS. GRANT AND MADAME JULE.”-- Bookreporter "Chiaverini's fans will love this light historical romance." --Kirkus “Chiaverini’s eye for detail coupled with an ability to breathe life into her characters ensures an engrossing period piece that does not fail to both entertain and inform.” -- Library Journal Praise for Jennifer Chiaverini and her Novels “History—and its colorful characters—come alive.” –USA Today “Jennifer Chiaverini imagines the First Lady’s most private affairs through the eyes of an unlikely confidante.” –Harper’s Bazaar “Chiaverini has drawn a loving portrait of a complex and gifted woman . . . Mrs. Lincoln’s Dressmaker helps to illuminate the path on which her long and remarkable life led her.” –St. Louis Post-Dispatch Praise for The Spymistress “[A] must read book . . . Author Chiaverini has a knack for finding fascinating, if unheralded, women in history — she favors the Civil War era — and shining a light on them with readable historical novels.” –New York Post “Compelling.” –Historical Novel Society “Jennifer Chiaverini’s latest bestseller will thrill Civil War buffs and anyone who loves reading about American history and the contribution of women to the momentous events that formed this country.” –Bookreporter Praise for Mrs. Lincoln’s Rival “In addition to simply being fascinating stories, [Jennifer Chiaverini’s] novels go a long way in capturing the texture of life for women, rich and poor, black and white, in those perilous years.” –Milwaukee Journal Sentinel "Filled with details of the social intrigue, slights and innuendo that occurred between the two, the book will appeal to anyone who loves a novel filled with the appearance of numerous fictional accounts of and appearances by the figures who shaped America's history during the period of the Civil War." --Bookreporter
About the Author Jennifer Chiaverini is the New York Times bestselling author of Mr.s Lincoln's Dressmaker, The Spymistress, Mrs. Lincoln's Rival, and the Elm Creek Quilts series. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One PrologueJune 1834 The slaves froze when they heard the old master shouting from the big house, conversations cut off in midsentence, hands grasping spoons hovering between bowls and hungry mouths. Even the little ginger-colored maid strained her ears to listen, dreading to hear her own name bellowed in anger. For a long, tense moment she heard only the crackling of the fire from within the kitchen house and birds chirping overhead, but then Tom shook his head and resumed eating. “It ain’t us,” the lanky coachman said through a mouthful of oat porridge. “Something happened in the city, but it ain’t nothing to do with us.” Quickly the slaves finished their breakfasts, scraping their bowls with their carved wooden spoons and licking off every last savory morsel before rising and darting to work. Only the little ginger-colored maid hung back, reluctant to return to the big house and whatever storm brewed within. She busied herself gathering up the dirty bowls and spoons and carrying them to the washbasin, but as she rolled up her sleeves, the cook shook her head. “Poppy can help me with that. You best be running off.” Annie was only twenty or thereabouts, but she was the best cook in the Gravois Settlement and proud of it. “Miss Julia be looking for you. Stay out of the old master’s way and you be all right.” Glumly she nodded and hurried away. She found Miss Julia seated on the front piazza, frowning anxiously at her hands in her lap, a red ribbon bobbing atop her thick, glossy, dark hair in time with the swinging of her feet. She glanced up at the sound of her maid’s bare feet on the well-worn path—her expression sweet, her skin soft and rosy—but she held her head awkwardly, tilting it this way and that, trying to fix her gaze on her maid despite her cross-eye. “There you are,” Julia cried, bounding out of her seat and down the stairs. She seized her maid’s hand and pulled her along, her glossy curls a dark cascade down her back as they ran. The maid’s spirits rose as they left the big house behind. She knew where Julia was leading her—to the stables and the family’s horses. They heard Gabriel, the stableboy, singing before they reached the corral, before they saw him emerge from the stable, a sturdy, russet-colored boy of ten years leading the missus’s favorite bay mare by the reins. The boy with the voice of an angel had been given a name to suit when he had been brought into the Dent household four years before. He had been called Tom then, but the old master had renamed him for the sake of the elder Tom, the ebony-skinned coachman. The maid thought it strange that she had not been given a new name too, since she shared one with her mistress. Instead, ever since the old master had bought her when she was scarcely four years old, the family and slaves had made do by calling her Julia the maid or the little ginger girl or, more often, Black Julia. Side by side, the two Julias stood on the lowest rail and rested their elbows on the corral fence, watching Tom and Gabriel exercise the horses, which Julia adored and rode whenever the old master allowed. When they tired of this, the mistress seized her maid’s hand again and they ran off to the kitchen house, another of Miss Julia’s favorite places on her family’s country estate. Julia could always charm a treat from Annie and never failed to share it. “Ginger and cream,” Annie often remarked when she spied the girls’ clasped hands, the darker skin against the white. Once, years before, Julia had felt a soft, quick, wetness on the back of her wrist and turned her head in surprise to discover her mistress bent over her hand, the pink tip of her tongue still protruding between her red lips. “I wanted to see if you tasted like ginger too,” Julia had said, her expression embarrassed and guilty. “Do I?” “No.” Julia had frowned in disappointment. “Just skin. And brine.” “I was helping Annie pickle cucumbers.” Impulsively, she had lifted Julia’s hand to her mouth, her tongue darting out for a small, swift taste. “Hmm.” “What? What is it?” “Definitely cream.” She had nodded sagely before dissolving into giggles. “The sweetest, freshest cream ever.” Julia had laughed, delighted. Annie shooed them away soon enough, and they ran off deep into the woods encircling White Haven, to their favorite, most secret place, a beautiful, shadowy, moss-covered nook near a burbling stream that fed into the Gravois. Julia’s favorite game was to pretend that this was a fairy bower and that she was queen of the fairies, ruling fairly and benignly over her kingdom, as confident and gracious in make-believe as she was shy in real life. The ginger maid portrayed her favorite lady-in-waiting, a deposed fairy princess from a far-off kingdom, bearing all the grace of royalty despite her more humble status. When the sun shone high overhead, the maid, her stomach rumbling with hunger, reminded her mistress that Julia would be expected home for lunch. Just as they emerged from the woods, they halted at the sight of a pair of horses tied up at the front post and the old master greeting two men on the shaded piazza. “Soldiers,” said Julia, squinting enough to make out their uniforms. “See them for me.” “They’re officers,” her maid replied. Her mistress’s poor vision was a source of endless frustration, and she often called upon her maid to describe people and scenes for her, especially at a distance. But even things close to hand, like picture books and sewing, gave her headaches if she were obliged to study them too long. When Julia was first learning to read, after squinting at the reader for a quarter of an hour, her forehead would throb so painfully that she would plaintively ask her maid to see the letters aloud for her. The missus soon put a stop to that, reminding Miss Julia that slaves weren’t allowed to read and dismissing her maid with a stern rebuke. “I see that much for myself,” said Julia. “What else?” “The tall one is younger,” she continued. “He’s a lieutenant. The short, stout one has gray hair, and I think he’s a captain. I don’t think they ever been here before.” “They must be from Jefferson Barracks,” said Julia, her voice dropping to a murmur. “One of the officers did something terrible.” “What he do?” “I don’t know. Let’s listen.” Julia took her hand once more. They darted to the house, tiptoed up the front stairs and down the piazza, and crouched silently beneath one of the parlor windows. What they heard chilled the maid to the bone. A few days before, Major William Harney, the paymaster at Jefferson Barracks, had become enraged with a slave, Hannah, whom he accused of hiding or losing the keys to his sister-in-law’s household in St. Louis, where he was residing. He had seized a piece of rawhide and had beaten her savagely upon her head, stomach, sides, back, arms and legs, rendering her unconscious, bruised, and bleeding. Hannah died the following day, and the coroner’s jury of inquest noted that her body had been lacerated and mangled in so horrible a manner that they could not determine whether the violence had been committed with whips or hot irons. To avoid arrest—and in advance of a mob of outraged citizens intent on stringing him up—Major Harney had fled the city aboard a steamboat and proceeded to Washington City to request a transfer so he would never have to return to Missouri. The officers had come to warn the old master that anger against slaveholders throughout the county was soaring, and he ought to take care until it subsided. Julia squeezed her hand. “Did you hear? That bad man will never come back. Papa says Washington City is about as far from St. Louis as you can go.” She nodded, her throat constricted too much to allow speech, but her heart pounded, her mind flooded with images of a slave woman screaming in anguish as the rawhide cut into her skin, falling to her knees in a pool of her own blood— She scrambled away from the window and fled to the woods, closing her ears to Julia’s beseeching cries. She fled to the safest place she knew, the fairy bower, where she lay down on the soft moss and hugged her knees to her chest. Before long Julia arrived, breathless and anxious. “I knew you would come here,” she said, sitting down beside her. “You mustn’t be afraid. What happened to that poor Hannah will never happen to you. I swear I’ll never beat you and I won’t let anyone else either.” She felt a small measure of comfort, enough to compel her to sit up and wipe the tears from her face. But she knew Julia was just a little girl, eight years old like herself, and incapable of fighting off anyone who might want to hurt her. “I don’t like it when people call you Black Julia,” the young mistress suddenly declared. “It’s not a proper name, even for a servant. But you can’t be Julia, because I was Julia first.” She didn’t contradict her, although she was the elder by two months and so had been called Julia longer. Her mistress was the first to be called Julia at White Haven, and she was a Dent. It was fair that she kept the name. “I’m going to call you Jule,” she said. “It’s almost Julia, but different enough so no one will need to put anything else before it to tell us apart. Do you like it?” “Yes,” said Jule, after a long moment. “It’s nice.” “Then Jule it is,” Julia proclaimed, beaming. Jule was proud of her new name. It wasn’t quite as well earned as Gabriel’s, or as fancy as Suzanne’s, but it was nice, and it was hers alone. “Miss Julia says we all supposed to call me Jule now,” she told Annie that night as the weary slaves gathered at the kitchen house to eat their supper, deferred while the Dents and the livestock were seen to. “Really.” Scooping stew into bowls, Annie gave her an inscrutable sidelong look. “You proud of that odd name, ginger girl?” “It ain’t odd,” said Jule, lifting her chin. “Some girls called Ruby or Opal or Pearl. Why can’t I be called Jewel?” One of the field hands guffawed into his stew; it might have been Dan, but she couldn’t tell in the darkness, which on that moonless night was lifted only by the light spilling from the kitchen-house doorway and the campfire Tom and Gabriel had built. “It’s pretty,” piped up Suzanne, the housekeeper’s walnut-colored daughter. She would be the maid for Julia’s next-eldest sister someday but as yet was too young to be much more than a playmate. “Pretty, huh?” Still clutching her spoon, Annie planted a fist on her hip and regarded Jule from beneath raised brows. “You ain’t called jewel like no pearl or sparkling ruby. You called Jule to be short for Julia.” “Annie,” chided Tom mildly. “She’s just a girl.” “She’s eight years old, old enough to know how things are. She ain’t got no mamma, so it falls to me to tell her.” Annie’s expression turned solemn as she crouched low beside Jule and held her gaze. “Listen here. Your new name just a piece of her name, just like she think you no more than a little piece of her. There’s us, and there’s them, and you one of us.” “I know that,” said Jule sullenly. “No, I don’t think you do. Listen, ginger girl. You ain’t never gonna be a part of that family, no matter what Miss Julia say now, no matter how she hold your hand and tell you she love you. Soon Miss Nell gonna be old enough to be a real friend and not just a pesky little sister, and as years go by you gonna be less a friend and more a slave. It always happen that way. Unless you want your heart broke, you best get ready and watch for it coming, so it don’t catch you by surprise.” Miss Julia was different, Jule told herself fiercely, interlacing her fingers over her growling stomach as Annie filled bowls with stew and she waited for one to be passed her way. Miss Julia was different, and Jule was different. They were ginger and cream. It was not their fault they were mistress and slave too.
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13 of 16 people found the following review helpful. Jennifer Chiaverini is a master storyteller! By Kris Anderson - The Avid Reader Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule by Jennifer Chiaverini is a novel based on the life of Mrs. Ulysses S. Grant (Julia) and her slave, Jule. The novel starts in 1834 (prologue) and then jumps ahead ten years to the spring of 1844.Julia Dent grew up in Missouri. Her father was a slave owner. When Julia was four years old, she was presented with Julia (they had the same name). Julia was a ginger colored slave. Since they had the same name, Julia changed her maid’s name to Jule. The Dent’s country home was near Jefferson Barracks which housed soldiers. Ulysses, a recent graduate of West Point, was stationed at Jefferson Barracks. Ulysses came from an abolitionist family in Ohio. Despite their differences Julia and Ulys (as Julia called him) fell in love. Despite her father’s reluctance (he did not think that Ulysses could provide for Julia nor did he think that she would like military life) the two married.Jule grew up with Julia and learned how to read, write (despite the laws to the contrary), dress hair, and make special concoctions (for hair and skin). Jule was in love with Gabriel, the groom. However, she would not marry him for fear that she would have to leave him when Julia married Ulysses. After Julia marries Jule is told that she will not be going with her mistress. Ulysses has been stationed at a posting where there is no room for servants. Jule had always hoped that when Julia married Ulysses values would rub off on Julia. Jule’s primary goal was her freedom.The book goes on to describe Ulysses’ career, Julia’s and Ulysses marriage, children, the Civil War, and life in the White House, and their later years. Julia’s views on slaves did not change for a long time. She viewed slaves as necessary to the function of a household and the lifestyle Julia was accustomed to. Julia thought slaves liked having a home provided for them as well as clothes and food despite Jule’s attempts to explain how she felt about slavery.Jule was lucky enough to run away from Julia during a trip and received help escaping to Washington City (Washington D.C.). Jule found success as a hairdresser as well as making and selling her salves, lotions, and tonics. Jule ended up living her life in Brooklyn, New York.I have tried to give you a brief (as brief as I get) overview of the book without giving away any spoilers. I give Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule 4.5 stars out of 5. It is a exceptional book with incredible writing, but I did not find it as satisfying as The Elm Creek Quilt series. I also wished the book had written more about Jule. The main focus of the book is Julia and Ulysses Grant. Jennifer Chiaverini is a master storyteller and Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule will keep your eyes riveted to its pages. This book can easily be read without reading the previous three books: Mrs. Lincoln’s Dressmaker, Mrs. Lincoln’s Rival, and The Spymistress. Ms. Chiaverini’s next book is Christmas Bells: A Novel. It will be released on October 27, 2015 (according to Amazon.com).I received a complimentary copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
19 of 25 people found the following review helpful. MOVE OVER SACCHARINE! By Catherine The WORST.I'm an American history teacher, and my mother is an amateur historian. We challenged each other to read a biography of each of the first ladies, and it's only because of that commitment that I finished this book.This is a historical novel. I couldn't find a biography on Julia Grant that appealed to me, so figured I get enough of the "feel" of her life as I know the historical facts. So let's look at this book both ways: As history and as a novel.As history: The author is obviously a fan of Grant because you could shoot a cannonball through her omissions of negative facts. I realize that she did not present it as a complete historical account. But what she did choose to include only favored the man. And while there are MANY admirable qualities about Grant, one of the most striking events of his presidency is that he accepted railroad stocks as bribes, and also had stocks given to his wife, in exchange for granting those railroads the rights to prime land to lay their tracks. I kept wondering how Ms. Chiaverini would handle that after being banged over the head repeatedly about how honorable Grant was. Her solution? Don't mention it. Again, this was not presented as a complete historical biography. Got it. It really is more of a love story featuring a president and his wife. But to write of his time in the White House and not to mention this huge scandal is rather like writing about Richard Nixon in office and deciding to omit Watergate.I feel that if one is going to write a historical novel, the history should be authentic. So many times this book led the reader to a conclusion that is not historically accurate. We don't need ALL the facts, but we do need it to be generally in sync with history.As a novel: This is a love story. Fine. Love stories can be inspiring. But it was written as if the reader was 13-years-old and had only experienced a crush. Each sentence seemed to begin and end (and sometimes in mid-sentence) with such monikers as "my darling," "my love," "my dearest little wife," "my precious Ulys," ad nauseam. After a while one may find the need for Pepto Bismol. People don't talk like that ALL THE TIME. I adore my husband and always greet him with love and a sweet term -- but not "Pass the mustard love of my life," "Here it is my darling pet." Please. Enough.This book is a failure both historically and as a novel. Too bad. They were an interesting couple who went through an incredible time in our history.
9 of 11 people found the following review helpful. Juvenile biography By Cynthia Glazier While I have liked several other books by this author, this novel felt like it was written for a juvenile audience. It totally glossed over general Grant's problems with alcohol, calming them unsubstantiated rumors made up by disgruntled underlings, as well as barely mentioning his presidency. No explanation was given for any of the many issues that plagued him during these times. Rather it focused on th Cicil War, but gave no indication of how difficult following her husband through out the war would have been for Julia and the children. I felt this to be a naive, simplistic view of Julia Grant. The portrayal of her slave, Jule, was slightly more detailed and humanistic but not very realistic in the difficulties a former slave would have had in starting a successful business.
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