“She lied to the emperor?” Paul asks.
“He isn’t God,” de Canouville sneers.
“That’s treason,” Paul warns darkly.
“And what? Her Highness is going to turn me in?”
Both men look to me, and I wish I had never brought the subject up. “Yes, my sister lied. Yes, it’s all treason.” I lean back against the pillows, and the cramping in my stomach is suddenly intense. “Why don’t we take a walk?”
Immediately de Canouville sits up.
But Paul hesitates. “Your Highness, we’ve been here for three weeks, and you haven’t made it farther than these baths. Do you think—”
“I’m fine,” I say shortly.
“You’re wasting away,” he persists. He thinks these spas aren’t good for my health. “How many more days can we sit here like this?”
“As many as it takes to recover,” I answer.
We don’t leave Aix-la-Chapelle for another two months.
“I KNOW YOUR brother is angry, but this?” De Canouville paces my suite, back and forth, until it makes me sick to look at him. “He can’t be serious.”
Napoleon has removed our brother Louis from the throne of Holland for disobedience, and if I don’t return to Fontainebleau at once, he has promised to see to it that I will lose my title as the Princess Borghese.
“He won’t do it,” de Canouville swears. “He’s back from his honeymoon and bored with life. It’s a bluff.”
“And how do you know?” I stand at my window and look out over the gold and turquoise baths. I know he misses me and needs me, and now he’s proven it. “Was it a bluff when only seventeen of the thirty cardinals appeared for his wedding and he swore to humiliate them in front of Rome?”
De Canouville loses some of his color. It was a slight no ruler could bear. Thirteen empty seats at the most important wedding in Europe. So the next week Napoleon summoned them all to the Tuileries, where he kept them waiting for more than two hours. When he finally arrived, it was to tell them that he didn’t have time to speak and that their carriages could be found outside. But as the cardinals reached the open courtyard, their horses were gone. An innocent accident, of course. A foolish groomsman’s mistake. By the time the cardinals were able to leave, it was seven at night.
He’s grown tired of disobedience.
“This time my brother isn’t bluffing,” I say.
CHAPTER 15
PAUL MOREAU
Aix-la-Chapelle
“Just make a hole in the ceiling above my bath and have your servants pour the milk through when I am ready. It’s a slight inconvenience to you, I know, but think of the consequences to my health.”
—PAULINE TO HER BROTHER-IN-LAW JEAN-LOUIS LECLERC
THE SERVANTS ARE IN A MAD FRENZY OF PACKING, GATHERING silk dressing gowns by the handful and shoving them into any available trunk. Embroidered shawls, muslin gowns, gauze dresses—all must be ready by this afternoon.
“The shoes,” de Canouville announces, as he watches the commotion from the door of Pauline’s chamber. “I count at least four pairs of slippers by the chaise.”
Pauline comes from behind and wraps her arms around his chest. “They couldn’t be any lazier, could they?”
“They’ve been working since six this morning,” I say shortly.
“And what exactly are you doing?” de Canouville demands. He turns to face Pauline. “I will never understand why your chamberlain must be here every morning. Let alone why he’s allowed a room next to your suite. We ought to be more judicious in who we allow into our circle, Pauline.”
All the servants stop packing. They look from me to de Canouville.
“Paul is a friend,” she warns. “And you will treat him as such.”
I meet Pauline’s gaze, and de Canouville catches her wink at me. That’s right. I am more than a replaceable bedroom amusement. “Paul, would you see to it that all of this is taken care of?” she asks.
“Certainly, Your Highness.”
I lift a trunk of books and step around de Canouville, who is blocking the door. His face is comically distraught, and I press my lips together to keep myself from laughing.
I carry the trunk outside, where the sun is beating down on the whitewashed courtyard and a dozen men are tying boxes onto coaches. If I were Pauline’s lover, I wouldn’t be so interested in who she’s associating with. I’d be much more curious about the twelve carriages she needs for a trip to Aix-la-Chapelle, and where the money will continue to come from for such things. Someday Camillo Borghese will find a woman who loves him, and he’ll look to petition the pope for a divorce. He won’t care that Pauline is the emperor’s sister, and if the pope still feels the same way as he does now about Napoleon, she will lose everything. The Borghese jewels, the Italian villas, her apartments in the Palazzo Borghese, and the title of Principessa will no longer be hers.
As I secure the trunk of books to the back of the carriage, a shadow looms behind me. I turn, and the captain is standing too close to me, his thumb resting casually on the butt of his pistol. Two women stop to look in our direction, and the head groomsman watches us from the steps of the villa. He’ll vouch for me if anything happens. I turn back to the carriage, and de Canouville asks, “What do you think you are to her, mulâtre?”
I clench my fists into a ball.
“Why did she take you from Saint-Domingue?” de Canouville hisses. His mustache is slick with sweat, and the heat of Aix-la-Chapelle does not agree with his coloring. He waits for me to answer, and the longer I’m silent, the redder he gets.
“No one took me from anywhere, captain.”
“I know what you are! Your father was a Frenchman who liked to bed African whores, and you—”
Before he can draw his pistol, I have pinned his arms behind his back and pressed his face against the carriage. “I am Her Highness’s chamberlain, and that is all. But if something should happen to me, if I should have an unfortunate accident on my horse or be shot while walking down the road, I can promise you this. The princess will not rest. She will find who did it, and there will be no mercy, not even if that man is you. If you’d like to take that chance—” I stand back. “Then go ahead and do it.”
Immediately, de Canouville reaches for his pistol. The women in the courtyard gasp, and I see the head groomsmen hurry inside. De Canouville looks around, first at the faces of the horrified servants, then finally at Pauline, who’s arrived on the shady steps of the villa. He lowers his gun, and his body is shaking. “I want you out of France.”
“I want many things, captain, but they don’t all come to pass.”
“What’s happening?” Pauline cries, running toward us. “What is this?” She looks at the two of us, and I realize I have never seen real fear on her face until now.
“A little misunderstanding.” De Canouville replaces the gun in its holster. “I thought he was stealing.”
“Paul?” She covers her chest with her hand and looks to me. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine, Your Highness.”
“It was an innocent mistake,” de Canouville says, uneasily. “Anyone might have made it. Right?” He looks around him, but the faces of the servants are purposefully blank.
Pauline studies him for a moment. “Paul, I’d like to speak with you inside.”
As I pass de Canouville, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a look. Let him believe what he wants about this conversation. I follow Pauline through the painted halls to her chamber. No room in the town of Aix-la-Chapelle can possibly be more lavish than this, with its soft Persian carpets and great curtained bed. I stand before her as she takes a seat on the divan. When I don’t say anything, she buries her head in her trembling hands.
“Your Highness—”
“Don’t try to comfort me! You know how sick I’ve been these last three months.”
It’s true. She has made herself sick with worry and jealousy.
“I saw you fighting.”
�
�He’s … de Canouville is not an honorable man. He is a man possessed. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else being with you.”
She lowers her hands. “What?”
“I was almost killed today,” I say slowly, “by a man who is willing to murder for your love. Your exclusive love. You may find that flattering, but I find it dangerous. And if you aren’t careful, someone will end up dead.”
THE RIDE BACK to Fontainebleau is tense. I’m sharing the coach with de Canouville and Pauline, but she is punishing him with silence, and I have little to say. I watch her in the carriage, her black hair swept off her pale, thin face by a pearl and gemstone band, and I try to remember the girl in Saint-Domingue, who wore flowers instead of diamonds.
“Will someone please cover that?” she complains, indicating the window near de Canouville, which is letting in the full afternoon light.
He hurries to draw the curtain, then looks in her direction for approval. “Are you thirsty?” he asks, but she doesn’t answer. “Would you like something to drink?”
“You know what I would like? A man who can protect me,” she says heatedly. “Not someone who threatens the people I love.”
De Canouville looks at me in panic, and for the briefest of moments, I feel pity. He will never hold on to her. She will slip from his grasp, just as she slipped from the countless others who have gone before him. Talma, and Gréoux, and Blangini, and Forbin. She’ll grow restless and start spending time away. It’s true, she has been with de Canouville longer than some, but eventually she’ll grow tired of him.
And someday, if I am honest with myself, she’ll grow tired of me, too.
But loving this woman is my weakness. When she goes to sleep in her small pink bed, drawing up the lace covers and calling for Aubree, she’s impossible to resist. I’ve listened to her cry out against nameless phantoms in the middle of the night, those that come to her when she’s dreaming: the men who robbed her of her innocence in Corsica, masters who abused their positions in Marseilles. I’ve watched her weep into her pillow until the silk is damp with tears, then suddenly wake and ask me why her pillows are all wet. She is damaged and beautiful, vulnerable and fearsome, and I can understand de Canouville’s desperation to save her. But what he doesn’t know is that only one man has ever held her attention.
“I am deeply sorry, Your Highness. I apologize not only to you,” he says cleverly, “but to your chamberlain, Monsieur Moreau, as well.” He does an admirable job of looking earnest, yet when he raises his brows in supplication, Pauline looks away.
For the next two hours, the only sounds in the carriage are the horses’ hooves striking against the road. When we stop for lunch, de Canouville looks weary enough to cry. He leans against the wall of the roadside inn, and even the tempting smell of roasted lamb isn’t enough to lure him inside. As I approach the door, he reaches out his hand to hold me back. Only this time there is no menace in his eyes.
“What does she want?” he asks me.
I look through the open door at the slight figure of Pauline, and before it swings shut, I think to myself, Something she’ll never have. “Napoleon. So never speak against him. They are very … close.”
“What are you saying?” He narrows his eyes. “You want me to believe she’s infatuated with her brother? That may be what they do in Saint-Domingue—”
“It’s your life, captain. Gamble it away however you see fit.” I open the door, and the scents of roasted meat and wine make me ravenous.
The princess is sitting at a long mahogany table surrounded by ladies. When she sees that I am alone, she frowns. “Where’s de Canouville? He isn’t going to eat?”
The well-dressed courtiers look up at me. I tell them the truth. “He is pouting.”
Several women giggle, but Pauline looks toward the door. “It’s three hours to Fontainebleau!” She rises, and the women stare openmouthed as she goes to find him.
“She’s never done that,” I hear one of them whisper. Then another announces, “She likes this one.”
CHAPTER 16
MARIE-LOUISE
Fontainebleau Palace July 1810
NO WOMAN IN FRANCE HAS EVER BEEN HAPPIER TO PUT her honeymoon behind her. I look up at the pale summer’s sky and want to weep with gratitude. The birds, the flowers, the freshly trimmed hedges around Fontainebleau’s lake … I link arms with Hortense, and the two of us breathe deeply of the lilacs and geraniums. Two months—two—traveling through an unending parade of forts and mills.
“You must be excited to see you-know-who,” she says.
It’s all I’ve thought about since returning. I’ve picked out which paths we’ll walk, and the milliner has fashioned him a collar that says Le Chien de l’Impératrice in gold.
“Not Sigi.” Hortense laughs. “The general.”
“Who?”
Hortense lowers her brows. In the bright afternoon light, her dark hair looks auburn, and though she isn’t a great beauty, she is fetching in her white muslin gown and lace parasol. “Your Majesty,” she begins, “don’t tell me you haven’t heard? Your father is sending Adam von Neipperg to Fontainebleau to deliver Sigi. You will have a visitor from home!”
I stop walking immediately and glance around us. The Grand Parterre is filled with courtiers, strolling near the river or lounging on its banks. “How do you know this?”
“Everyone knows. Caroline told me this morning.” Hortense watches me carefully. Then a sudden understanding begins to dawn. “Was he—”
“A good friend,” I say swiftly. “That is all.”
We continue walking, and the men tip their hats to us as we pass. Did Maria arrange for him to come? Or my father? Suddenly I feel hot, though I’m dressed in the lightest possible gown with nothing at all covering my arms. Adam is coming with Sigi. My Adam is coming with Sigi!
“Your Majesty, are you feeling well? Your color is—” She studies me intently, then her voice grows serious. “If he is something more to you than a friend, Your Majesty, do not go to meet him. The emperor will know.”
“Let’s walk over there,” I suggest. Hortense follows me into a thicket of overgrown trees, away from prying eyes, and we sit together on the grass. “How would he know?” I ask quietly.
She leans forward. “They say he can anticipate his opponent’s move on the battlefield from hundreds of miles away. There are people at this court who believe he can read minds.”
“Do you believe that?” She has lived with him for fifteen years. Only his siblings know him better.
“No. I believe my husband when he says that Napoleon is a military genius. But Louis also says educated guesses brought his brother to the throne of France. He has educated luck. He deduces things by watching very carefully.”
“So if he saw me with Adam—”
“He will know. By the flush of your cheeks, or the motions of your hands—by any number of things you will not be able to control.”
“Then he must not see us.”
Hortense covers her mouth in horror. “Your Majesty, you don’t understand what he can do. My mother—he divorced her without warning. For fourteen years she’d supported him faithfully, then one day …” She turns up her palms. “He had her painted out of Jacques-Louis David’s Distribution des Aigles, and her monogram was erased throughout the Tuileries Palace. He gifted her with Malmaison, her château twelve kilometers away from Paris. Then, as soon as you arrived, he sent her farther away.” Hortense shakes her head. “When he makes up his mind against someone …”
“Where has she gone?”
Hortense’s eyes fill with tears. “Did you know that Prince Frederick Louis of Mecklenburg-Strelitz asked for her hand in marriage, and she turned him down for fear of having to leave France? She has been writing Napoleon letters, begging to return, but they’re all sent back, unanswered.”
“I had no idea,” I whisper.
“When he first sent her away,” she admits, “he told her it was on your request.”
“Neve
r!”
“I know. But he swore that you were jealous, that you had heard of her beauty, and that you were afraid your new husband would be seduced by her charms.”
First punishing her for not having a child, now punishing her for the thing she prizes most: her beauty. I think on the strangeness of our friendship: the daughter of France’s first empress and the emperor’s second wife. “Thank you for telling me this,” I say quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
She dries her eyes with the edge of her shawl. “If it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else, and she would have been exiled all the same.”
I look at her in the heat of the afternoon, with her thick curls hanging in perfect clusters on either side of her face, and I think that if she is ever painted, it should be like this. In a garden, surrounded by white roses and bright myrtle. It doesn’t seem fair that she’s known so little happiness in her life. I cover her hand with mine and promise, “It will get better.”
“That’s what the Comte de Flahaut tells me,” she whispers.
I meet Hortense’s eyes and realize what she’s saying. Only four months ago this would have been unthinkable. But at this court, nothing is shocking to me anymore. “What about your husband?”
“As long as we’re discreet …”
“And the courtiers keep their silence?”
“Everyone has secrets here,” she says gravely. “It’s in no one’s interest to tell tales.”
I think of Adam coming all the way from Vienna, and though my heart is filled to bursting, I know he is lost to me. I will never be able to carry on an affair. I am the empress of France. And whether or not I love my husband has no bearing on my conduct. A queen must be her country’s moral compass, always pointing north, always steady.
But as I look at Hortense, for the first time in my life, I know what it is to be deeply, truly envious. “It never troubles you,” I ask earnestly, “that you are married to Bonaparte and in bed with Flahaut?”
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