Chapter 24 1865 - France
YOSHI-NO-KATA
Yoshi stared out the window from her room at Chateau de Fontainebleau, searching for meaning in the death of Shōgun Tokugawa Iemochi.
She had a difficult time reconciling what this meant for her future.
Still as o-kiyo, untouched by the Shōgun at the age of twenty, would she be tossed out of the ōoku, or continue her life in service to the shōgunate?
Or would she be relegated to the service of the younger girls?
Her body shuddered at the thought of shaving her head and putting on the black robe of the otogibōzu.
Yoshi had tried the best she could to remain emotionless when the Ambassador told them the news of the Shōgun’s death.
Her lips had quivered, and with a glance at her father she noted his normally steady hand trembled.
Even he was shaken. The Ambassador had told them that a new Shōgun had been named, Prince Tokugawa Yoshinobu.
The prince was twenty-eight years old, and the seventh son of Tokugawa Nariaki, the daimyo, feudal lord, who ruled the Mito.
Yoshi had never met the man. Was he kind?
Would he make a good ruler? Was he handsome?
The Ambassador had also produced a parchment directly from the new Shōgun stating that her father should continue the work of solidifying a relationship with the French.
The Emperor seemed to take this all in stride with the encouragement of the Ambassador, and he promised to have the treaty drawn up in the next few days. Until that time, the Emperor urged her father to enjoy his stay at the summer palace.
A knock on her door caused Yoshi to turn.
Her father opened the door and entered. His downcast eyes and solemn demeanor frightened her.
Typically gregarious and optimistic, this atypical behavior made her fear that much more for her future.
She bowed to her father as he came to stand with her by the window, watching two couples launch rowboats into the lake.
He gazed out the window without speaking. Yoshi followed his gaze, afraid of what was coming. Finally, he said, “What do you think of this country?”
The question surprised her because in the eight months since their arrival, he’d not once asked her opinion. She bowed and said, “The people have been very kind to us.”
He looked at her with a probing gaze.
“I will be ready to be home,” she said.
He smiled at her. “I as well.”
He turned back to the window, and they watched the golden hour illuminate the lake below.
“Would you walk with me by the lake?” her father asked.
* * *
The setting sun cast gilded light on the chateau behind them and across the large carp pond to their left as they walked along the wide path around the lake, Yoshi two steps behind her father as was customary.
A soft July breeze barely rippled the surface of the water.
The trumpeting of a swan echoed off the buildings as they walked closer to a stone pavilion that seemed to float on the far side of the lake.
Her father slowed his step, encouraging Yoshi to walk at his side. This new intimacy with her father worried her. What will become of my future?
“Shibata Yuria, I am sorry about the death of Shōgun Tokugawa Iemochi,” he said and pursed his lips.
A tear instantly formed in the corner of her eye. She had not heard the name her parents had given her at birth since she was five when the ōoku changed it to Yoshi no-kata. She had trained all her life to temper her emotions, and now they burst to the surface.
“Forgive me, Father,” she said and turned toward the lake to wipe the tears.
“I know Tokugawa Yoshinobu. He has been the commander of the imperial palace’s defense and recently defeated an uprising by the Chōshū forces to overthrow the shōgunate.
Yoshinobu is a capable warrior and will make for an excellent Shōgun.
” He looked at her. “I will make sure that your position in the ōoku remains unchanged.”
His voice was kind but not warm. “It will be my honor to serve the new Shōgun, Father.”
“Because you are still o-kiyo, you will become one of Tokugawa Yoshinobu’s second wives.”
“Father, my shame is too much for me,” Yoshi said and fell to her knees. She had failed her duty to the Shōgun.
“Yuria, this was not your fault,” he replied quickly and with some warmth “The Shōgun was not a healthy man. Sometimes life does not give us a second chance, but this is what you are now given.”
Her father squatted beside her. “Please, Yuria. You have brought much honor to our family by serving the shōgunate.”
Yoshi sat up onto her heels and looked at her father. A tear rolled down her cheek.
Her father reached out and wiped the tear, then offered his hand to help her stand.
As they continued their stroll down the path, Yoshi’s mind danced with emotions. Her father had never shown her any tenderness.
“Your mother and I named you Yuria because it means graceful and beautiful lily. You will be of great service to the new Shōgun.”
Yoshi nodded. The gravel under their sandals became the only sound between them.
Songbird melodies and the soft chirp of crickets filled the silence.
Then another sound floated off the water.
A man’s voice was barely audible, and she titled her head to hear.
It sounded like a French lullaby to the floating swans that had tucked their heads under their wings.
“You know, you are just like her,” her father said suddenly.
She looked at him, her expression asking the question.
“Your mother,” he answered.
Sadness creased his face.
“Strong, capable, beautiful, a true samurai princess.”
Now tears welled in both her eyes.
“And, yes, sensitive.” He looked at her and smiled. “You remind me of her every day.”
Yoshi tried absorbing this tenderness from her father, pushing the emotion down deep.
As they neared the far side of the lake, the occupants of the two row boats had disembarked at the pavilion on the lake and looked to be enjoying a glass of wine. On the lawn overlooking the scene, she saw where the evening song emanated from—a man lounging in front of an easel.
Her father nodded toward the lake.
They approached the man. With his back toward them, he was dabbing the finishing touches on a painting of the pavilion and the three swans that floated nearby. He sang a haunting but soothing song.
Yoshi and her father came within two meters of him when her father cleared his throat.
The man startled, almost knocking over the easel. He rescued the painting but dropped his palette of paint into the grass.
“Sacré bleu! You scared me half to death. I thought a bear had come out of the forest of Fontainebleau.” He pushed the easel upright, balanced the new painting once again and laughed.
He picked up the palette, turned it over, and started picking grass from the small mounds of paint.
Then he appeared to make the connection.
His jaw dropped and he stood stock still, frozen in the moment and almost dropping the palette again.
Yoshi translated for her father. “We are terribly sorry, Monsieur. We did not mean to frighten you.” She covered her mouth with her hand, hiding a smile at his clumsiness, but at the same time recognizing him as the young man from the Salon. “Monsieur Monet, it is good to see you again.”
This time, Claude took a step back and sent both the easel and the painting tumbling to the ground. He threw his hands up in defeat. Trying to decide if he should rescue his day’s work or remember his manners, he waved off his mess and bowed to her father.
“Wait…How…What are you doing here?” his words came out jumbled.
He snatched the cap off his head and bowed again.
“Forgive me. I thought I was alone out here. I certainly didn’t imagine…
” He stopped and looked at Yoshi. “You remembered my name.” Even without the white facial makeup of the tea ceremony, he recognized her.
She turned to her father, covered her giggling mouth again, and translated.
“We came by invitation of the Emperor to finish some business between our countries. And you?” she translated her father’s words back.
“Uh…uh…I came to heal my broken heart,” and added quickly, “I mean to paint.” He stole a glance at Yoshi.
“May we see your painting?” her father asked, extending his hand toward the canvas that had, fortunately, landed upright.
Monet bent down to pick up his easel, righted it, and then carefully put the canvas back in place.
“Voilà,” Monet said. “The Pavillon de l'ètang with swans.”
Yoshi and her father stepped closer.
“It’s beautiful,” Yoshi said before her father spoke.
“Well, I hate it,” Claude said. “I will reuse the canvas for something else. I don’t know what has happened to my painting.
” A flash of embarrassment flushed his cheeks.
“I have been here for a few days and my work is dismal. I spent time trying to capture the forest, but decided today that I would paint the pavilion. The light kept changing so fast that I just cannot replicate it well.”
“Maybe it is this broken heart that you have mentioned?” Yoshi asked.
“You may be right…Tu me connais déjà, you already know me.” Claude said.
She adored how he smiled so brightly with his eyes. But then glanced at the disapproving look from her father, bowed, and translated the conversation for him.
Her father studied the painting, then he glanced at the scene over the lake and back to the painting.
“We are here for a few more days,” he said. “Would you be willing to paint my beautiful daughter’s portrait?”