On the Homefront
The war was over, but for Josette the battle was just beginning. Standing in her bedroom of her families Maison de Maître, looking out of the window she could see acre upon acre of the land that her ancestors had cultivated since just after the Revolution. The lime trees that lined the drive to her home had been planted the year Robespierre met his demise. And now, now it was all in her hands. It was entirely up to her to save this land and this home that had been the birthright of generations.
Her mother had died when she as only a girl. She remembered her only as the vague scent of tuberose. Josette’s father, Jules, had been left to raise the two sons and four daughters his wife had blessed him with. All the men in her life were now dead. Her oldest brother Antoine had died at Somme and the younger brother Phillipe at Verdun. Her father had died shortly after the letter notifying him of Phillipe’s death had arrived. It was said he must have died from a broken heart, but Josette found that theory selfish, as he still had four daughters to love and care for.
And now the war was over, and Josette at 23 was left to care for her sisters Paulette who was 18, Genevieve, 16 and Marie 14. At her age most young women would be married and starting families of their own, but Josette knew that there would be too few young men coming home as it was, and those that did return would have healing to do before they would be ready to marry. So, for now, it was up to her to oversee the running of the family farm in Grasse. Grasse sat in a valley and had a microclimate perfect for growing flowers. A long growing season, protected from salt air, and rarely experiencing freezes. Late season freezes could be disastrous for the crops.
For generations her family had grown and supplied the delicate tuberose to the parfumiers for which France was so famous. Josette had walked the fields behind her father and older brothers since she as big enough to keep up, learning all there was to know about the cultivation of the delicate blooms. Each fall the ground was turned, amended, and the bulbs planted. In late winter the tender shoots would begin to emerge. At just the right moment in their growth white stones were added at their base to reflect the suns warmth up onto the plants. Too early and the stones kept the ground too cool for the shoots to thrive; too late and the shoots wouldn’t have the warmth they needed to mature. When the buds matured and bloomed, they had to be harvested at just the right time of day and right moment in their bloom to maximize their fragrance. Once harvested the bulbs had to be lifted, divided, and stored for the next season.
In the past her fathers and brothers had worked to oversee dozens of workers, but now, it was only Josette and her sisters. She knew they couldn’t plant the whole farm, but surely, they could plant and harvest enough to keep them fed and clothed until things had returned to normal.
Over the course of the coming weeks Josette met women from the village at the market, or boulangerie or in the lane. They all asked after the girls and extended their condolences. All of the women had lost someone, but none of them had lost all of the men in their lives as Josette and her sisters. After a few weeks Josette had to start fielding offers from neighboring farmers, pressing her to sell the farm. She was told time and again that she simply wouldn’t be able to maintain the farm. She and her sisters weren’t strong enough or smart enough or well-connected enough to grow and sell the product. Josette rebuffed every offer. She was determined she would not only keep the farm in the family, but she would see it thrive. The farmers wives asked her if she intended to sell and received the same rebuff from Josette. The wives handled the news in a very different way. Slowly at first, and then more regularly, baskets filled with food began to arrive at her home. Then, women arrived and announced they miraculously found themselves with free time and offered to help. So, as the seasons progressed Josette and her sisters meticulously planted and tended the few acres, they were able to cultivate with the sporadic help of village women. They all worked until their backs ached and their fingers bled, but they all felt the strength of doing the work their family had done for over a century.
Winter was coming to an end, and the fresh shoots of the tender tuberoses had just begun to peek through the soil. It was soon to be time to lay the white stones, but Josette felt it was just a bit too soon. But then, the unthinkable happened: a late season freeze came. Josette roused her sisters from their beds with shouts of “the freeze is coming, we have to light the fires!” Down each row of tuberose small firepits were laid. Josette couldn’t remember the last time they’d needed to be lit, but tonight they would. The girls sprang into action, lighting the fires that would hopefully protect the tender shoots with their warmth. But the heat from the fires needed to be gently fanned so that it didn’t scorch the blossoms that were close, nor allow those further away to freeze. To do that, Josette knew they would need dozens of helpers, and they were only four women alone. Josette could see the glow of fires being lit all across the valley, and she knew that the farms with men and money to pay could have all the help they needed. She wanted to collapse in a heap and weep. All of their work, all of their fighting, was about to be nipped in the bud; she would have to sell. She was going to lose the farm. Tears welled in her eyes and clouded her vision. But then, Genevieve cried out “LOOK, Josette, LOOK”. Through her tears Josette had a hard time making sense of the motion she saw making its way toward her through the row of ancient lime trees. And then she realized what she was looking at; the road was filled with women. Women from the village were heading toward her farm, all carrying huge sets of wings that they would wear and walk through the rows fanning the warmth from the fires evenly over the plants. All through the night the women worked, toiling as one to save Josette and her family. When morning came and the sun shone, Josette could see her few acres were safe. Her flowers were safe. Her family and future were safe. But looking at the faces of the women around her, she realized that most importantly, none of them were alone.
The war was over, but for Josette the battle was just beginning. Standing in her bedroom of her families Maison de Maître, looking out of the window she could see acre upon acre of the land that her ancestors had cultivated since just after the Revolution. The lime trees that lined the drive to her home had been planted the year Robespierre met his demise. And now, now it was all in her hands. It was entirely up to her to save this land and this home that had been the birthright of generations.
Her mother had died when she as only a girl. She remembered her only as the vague scent of tuberose. Josette’s father, Jules, had been left to raise the two sons and four daughters his wife had blessed him with. All the men in her life were now dead. Her oldest brother Antoine had died at Somme and the younger brother Phillipe at Verdun. Her father had died shortly after the letter notifying him of Phillipe’s death had arrived. It was said he must have died from a broken heart, but Josette found that theory selfish, as he still had four daughters to love and care for.
And now the war was over, and Josette at 23 was left to care for her sisters Paulette who was 18, Genevieve, 16 and Marie 14. At her age most young women would be married and starting families of their own, but Josette knew that there would be too few young men coming home as it was, and those that did return would have healing to do before they would be ready to marry. So, for now, it was up to her to oversee the running of the family farm in Grasse. Grasse sat in a valley and had a microclimate perfect for growing flowers. A long growing season, protected from salt air, and rarely experiencing freezes. Late season freezes could be disastrous for the crops.
For generations her family had grown and supplied the delicate tuberose to the parfumiers for which France was so famous. Josette had walked the fields behind her father and older brothers since she as big enough to keep up, learning all there was to know about the cultivation of the delicate blooms. Each fall the ground was turned, amended, and the bulbs planted. In late winter the tender shoots would begin to emerge. At just the right moment in their growth white stones were added at their base to reflect the suns warmth up onto the plants. Too early and the stones kept the ground too cool for the shoots to thrive; too late and the shoots wouldn’t have the warmth they needed to mature. When the buds matured and bloomed, they had to be harvested at just the right time of day and right moment in their bloom to maximize their fragrance. Once harvested the bulbs had to be lifted, divided, and stored for the next season.
In the past her fathers and brothers had worked to oversee dozens of workers, but now, it was only Josette and her sisters. She knew they couldn’t plant the whole farm, but surely, they could plant and harvest enough to keep them fed and clothed until things had returned to normal.
Over the course of the coming weeks Josette met women from the village at the market, or boulangerie or in the lane. They all asked after the girls and extended their condolences. All of the women had lost someone, but none of them had lost all of the men in their lives as Josette and her sisters. After a few weeks Josette had to start fielding offers from neighboring farmers, pressing her to sell the farm. She was told time and again that she simply wouldn’t be able to maintain the farm. She and her sisters weren’t strong enough or smart enough or well-connected enough to grow and sell the product. Josette rebuffed every offer. She was determined she would not only keep the farm in the family, but she would see it thrive. The farmers wives asked her if she intended to sell and received the same rebuff from Josette. The wives handled the news in a very different way. Slowly at first, and then more regularly, baskets filled with food began to arrive at her home. Then, women arrived and announced they miraculously found themselves with free time and offered to help. So, as the seasons progressed Josette and her sisters meticulously planted and tended the few acres, they were able to cultivate with the sporadic help of village women. They all worked until their backs ached and their fingers bled, but they all felt the strength of doing the work their family had done for over a century.
Winter was coming to an end, and the fresh shoots of the tender tuberoses had just begun to peek through the soil. It was soon to be time to lay the white stones, but Josette felt it was just a bit too soon. But then, the unthinkable happened: a late season freeze came. Josette roused her sisters from their beds with shouts of “the freeze is coming, we have to light the fires!” Down each row of tuberose small firepits were laid. Josette couldn’t remember the last time they’d needed to be lit, but tonight they would. The girls sprang into action, lighting the fires that would hopefully protect the tender shoots with their warmth. But the heat from the fires needed to be gently fanned so that it didn’t scorch the blossoms that were close, nor allow those further away to freeze. To do that, Josette knew they would need dozens of helpers, and they were only four women alone. Josette could see the glow of fires being lit all across the valley, and she knew that the farms with men and money to pay could have all the help they needed. She wanted to collapse in a heap and weep. All of their work, all of their fighting, was about to be nipped in the bud; she would have to sell. She was going to lose the farm. Tears welled in her eyes and clouded her vision. But then, Genevieve cried out “LOOK, Josette, LOOK”. Through her tears Josette had a hard time making sense of the motion she saw making its way toward her through the row of ancient lime trees. And then she realized what she was looking at; the road was filled with women. Women from the village were heading toward her farm, all carrying huge sets of wings that they would wear and walk through the rows fanning the warmth from the fires evenly over the plants. All through the night the women worked, toiling as one to save Josette and her family. When morning came and the sun shone, Josette could see her few acres were safe. Her flowers were safe. Her family and future were safe. But looking at the faces of the women around her, she realized that most importantly, none of them were alone.
The war was over, but for Josette the battle was just beginning. Standing in her bedroom of her families Maison de Maître, looking out of the window she could see acre upon acre of the land that her ancestors had cultivated since just after the Revolution. The lime trees that lined the drive to her home had been planted the year Robespierre met his demise. And now, now it was all in her hands. It was entirely up to her to save this land and this home that had been the birthright of generations.
Her mother had died when she as only a girl. She remembered her only as the vague scent of tuberose. Josette’s father, Jules, had been left to raise the two sons and four daughters his wife had blessed him with. All the men in her life were now dead. Her oldest brother Antoine had died at Somme and the younger brother Phillipe at Verdun. Her father had died shortly after the letter notifying him of Phillipe’s death had arrived. It was said he must have died from a broken heart, but Josette found that theory selfish, as he still had four daughters to love and care for.
And now the war was over, and Josette at 23 was left to care for her sisters Paulette who was 18, Genevieve, 16 and Marie 14. At her age most young women would be married and starting families of their own, but Josette knew that there would be too few young men coming home as it was, and those that did return would have healing to do before they would be ready to marry. So, for now, it was up to her to oversee the running of the family farm in Grasse. Grasse sat in a valley and had a microclimate perfect for growing flowers. A long growing season, protected from salt air, and rarely experiencing freezes. Late season freezes could be disastrous for the crops.
For generations her family had grown and supplied the delicate tuberose to the parfumiers for which France was so famous. Josette had walked the fields behind her father and older brothers since she as big enough to keep up, learning all there was to know about the cultivation of the delicate blooms. Each fall the ground was turned, amended, and the bulbs planted. In late winter the tender shoots would begin to emerge. At just the right moment in their growth white stones were added at their base to reflect the suns warmth up onto the plants. Too early and the stones kept the ground too cool for the shoots to thrive; too late and the shoots wouldn’t have the warmth they needed to mature. When the buds matured and bloomed, they had to be harvested at just the right time of day and right moment in their bloom to maximize their fragrance. Once harvested the bulbs had to be lifted, divided, and stored for the next season.
In the past her fathers and brothers had worked to oversee dozens of workers, but now, it was only Josette and her sisters. She knew they couldn’t plant the whole farm, but surely, they could plant and harvest enough to keep them fed and clothed until things had returned to normal.
Over the course of the coming weeks Josette met women from the village at the market, or boulangerie or in the lane. They all asked after the girls and extended their condolences. All of the women had lost someone, but none of them had lost all of the men in their lives as Josette and her sisters. After a few weeks Josette had to start fielding offers from neighboring farmers, pressing her to sell the farm. She was told time and again that she simply wouldn’t be able to maintain the farm. She and her sisters weren’t strong enough or smart enough or well-connected enough to grow and sell the product. Josette rebuffed every offer. She was determined she would not only keep the farm in the family, but she would see it thrive. The farmers wives asked her if she intended to sell and received the same rebuff from Josette. The wives handled the news in a very different way. Slowly at first, and then more regularly, baskets filled with food began to arrive at her home. Then, women arrived and announced they miraculously found themselves with free time and offered to help. So, as the seasons progressed Josette and her sisters meticulously planted and tended the few acres, they were able to cultivate with the sporadic help of village women. They all worked until their backs ached and their fingers bled, but they all felt the strength of doing the work their family had done for over a century.
Winter was coming to an end, and the fresh shoots of the tender tuberoses had just begun to peek through the soil. It was soon to be time to lay the white stones, but Josette felt it was just a bit too soon. But then, the unthinkable happened: a late season freeze came. Josette roused her sisters from their beds with shouts of “the freeze is coming, we have to light the fires!” Down each row of tuberose small firepits were laid. Josette couldn’t remember the last time they’d needed to be lit, but tonight they would. The girls sprang into action, lighting the fires that would hopefully protect the tender shoots with their warmth. But the heat from the fires needed to be gently fanned so that it didn’t scorch the blossoms that were close, nor allow those further away to freeze. To do that, Josette knew they would need dozens of helpers, and they were only four women alone. Josette could see the glow of fires being lit all across the valley, and she knew that the farms with men and money to pay could have all the help they needed. She wanted to collapse in a heap and weep. All of their work, all of their fighting, was about to be nipped in the bud; she would have to sell. She was going to lose the farm. Tears welled in her eyes and clouded her vision. But then, Genevieve cried out “LOOK, Josette, LOOK”. Through her tears Josette had a hard time making sense of the motion she saw making its way toward her through the row of ancient lime trees. And then she realized what she was looking at; the road was filled with women. Women from the village were heading toward her farm, all carrying huge sets of wings that they would wear and walk through the rows fanning the warmth from the fires evenly over the plants. All through the night the women worked, toiling as one to save Josette and her family. When morning came and the sun shone, Josette could see her few acres were safe. Her flowers were safe. Her family and future were safe. But looking at the faces of the women around her, she realized that most importantly, none of them were alone.
This charming pull over is fashioned from a raw linen art nouveau embroidered table runner with bright silk flowers and bobbin lace. Sleeves are from 19th century French Chintz. 100% handmade by the artist. Materials sourced from France
Measurement: Bust up to 48” Waist up to 48” Garment has on or off shoulder styling options
Care Instructions and General Information: This one of a kind blouse is fashioned from a materials that are approximately 100+ years old. It should be hand washed and laid flat to dry. Ironing on high with starch will preserve crispness. Due to the age there may be minor discolorations or areas of wear commiserate with age. This is normal and to be considered as part of the beauty of the garment
No returns or exchanges due of the one of a kind nature of the items