“. . . that pirate nation, bent on ruling the waves, defrauding us of rightful colonies, blockading trade to assure our destruction, cannot be left to militate against us. Nor can we give in to the peacemongers who want us to surrender our due compensation, our reward for blood and glory.”
Bonaparte was clearly in a foul humor.
“You chide me for offering the Austrians Venice so that France may keep Belgium. Are the rumors true that you were paid to protect the Venetian Republic’s interests? Did you betray France to line your own pockets?”
Daniel fought hard to keep his expression neutral.
“Finally, you blame me for the complaints of rape and pillage coming from Verona. I would have you know I paid my soldiers a bonus of twenty-four livres to prevent just such looting. Surely you trust me more than those officials who encouraged the massacre of our citizens?” Bonaparte finished his dictation and, waving Bourrienne away, turned to Daniel. “What is it, Sergeant?”
Daniel straightened and saluted. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I bring urgent tidings from Ancona.”
“From Ancona . . . Wait! Weren’t you with me at the bridge at Lodi?” Bonaparte’s face changed instantly from impatience to pleasure.
“I had that honor, sir,” Daniel stammered. “You were—that was—” “Hortense! Josephine! Pauline!” Bonaparte interrupted. “This soldier worked the artillery with me during that glorious battle! Josephine, I wrote you! I recognized my destiny that day. From that moment”—he rose and paced the sunroom, hands gripped behind him—“I saw what I might be. Already I felt the earth flee from beneath me, as if I were being carried into the sky.”
Hortense, Josephine’s daughter, giggled, then hid her face behind a fan. Josephine’s eyes, however, seemed to glow brighter as she clapped her hands together.
“You were honored, indeed, Sergeant,” she said, smiling upon Daniel.
Daniel felt light-headed. He didn’t want to break the mood, but he knew he had to. Before he could speak, however, a captain burst into the room.
“News from Venice,” he cried.
Bonaparte took the man by the arm. “Come tell me,” he said, leading him away.
Josephine smiled sweetly at Daniel, who realized he was gaping. He closed his mouth. “I’m so sorry, Sergeant. I’m sure he’ll see you later,” she said, waving him out.
Daniel backed hastily from the room, but not before he heard Bonaparte in an inner room growl and say, “Their delegation is coming to see me tomorrow. We’ll see what they say then!”
Daniel wasn’t allowed back into Bonaparte’s presence until the next afternoon. As the morning progressed, he sat in the antechamber and watched as the great general received supplicants.
Bourrienne joined him for a quick word before disappearing into the drawing room. “It’s like a royal court,” he whispered. “And here I thought we’d disposed of the king.”
Daniel didn’t respond. After all, what could he say?
Daniel watched as the Austrian delegation was ushered inside, then representatives from the pope. A courier from General Moreau, bringing news about his advance into Austria, was ejected bodily from the room by a furious Bonaparte.
“I proposed this to Moreau and the Directory months ago!” Bonaparte raged, following the frightened man into the hallway. “They’re jealous! Frightened of my ambition! So this is how they treat me—denying my counsel and advancing behind my back, long after it does me any good!”
The antechamber door was left open when a delegation from Venice was admitted. They, too, endured rough treatment. Daniel winced as Bonaparte’s shouts echoed through the hallway. “Your government is nothing less than treacherous! And those rascals shall pay for it. Your republic has had its day, and it’s done. You hear me? Done!”
By the time Daniel was brought in, he felt sick to his stomach. Bonaparte sat at a small table with a midday meal before him. Josephine had entered through a back door and sat with him, though she wasn’t eating.
“Sergeant,” Bonaparte said brusquely, not looking up from the plate of roast chicken and beans he was wolfing down. “I’m sorry we were interrupted yesterday. The affairs of state . . .” He shook his head. “What news from Ancona?”
“I’m sorry to report, sir, that the portrait of the Madonna has been stolen,” Daniel said, his words tumbling over one another in a rush.
Bonaparte’s fork stopped midway to his mouth. “It has—what?”
As quickly and clearly as he could, glad he’d had three days’ ride to practice his speech, Daniel recounted Marotti’s capture and death after almost inciting a riot—followed by the plot to burn the portrait if the French refused to leave Ancona.
The fork clattered to the table; chicken splattered the tablecloth. Bonaparte threw back his chair and rose, pacing the room, footsteps echoing on the marble.
“The portrait . . . has been stolen?” he bellowed.
Daniel could only nod dumbly.
“What portrait is this?” Josephine asked.
The general waved an impatient hand and kept striding up and down the room.
“What portrait?” Josephine asked again, turning to Daniel.
“It’s a portrait of the Madonna, Citizeness Bonaparte—the—the miracle portrait. The one reported to have moved her eyes and wept.”
“A miracle portrait . . .” Josephine breathed. She glanced at her husband.
Cold sweat ran down Daniel’s back. Bonaparte was beet red, his eyes stormy.
“You will recover that portrait, Sergeant—you hear me?” Bonaparte barked.
Daniel straightened to attention. “Yes, sir! Of course, sir!” He turned to leave.
Josephine grasped his forearm, stopping him. “But Napoleon,” she asked, not seeming a whit disturbed by her husband’s rage, “what’s one more portrait of Mary? Let them burn it!”
“Not this portrait,” Bonaparte hissed.
“But why?” she persisted. “Because it is—what did the boy say? A miracle? Surely you don’t . . .”
Daniel admired her courage. He quailed before Bonaparte’s fury, as men of superior rank had done before him. But the general’s wife remained cool, as though they were discussing books or roses or dinner.
“Why? You ask why?” Bonaparte waved a finger at her. “You, with your fortune-tellers and your tarot cards? This portrait . . .” His voice hushed. “It spoke to something within me. Do you understand?”
Josephine stood there calmly, playing with the ends of her shawl, waiting.
“She glared at me,” Bonaparte said. “Until that moment, my destiny was clear—liberate Italy from the Austrians, make France’s borders safe forever. But the Virgin saw me. She turned to me, turned her eyes . . . God’s own mother . . .” The general shivered. “I do not question myself lightly, madame.”
Josephine put a hand up, as if in surrender.
“I swore to protect the portrait,” Bonaparte continued. “I gave orders to hold it safe, until I could understand the truth behind its portents. Now this soldier tells me it is in the hands of thugs, miscreants who would use it as a weapon, a Damocles sword suspended over my head. I will not permit it! It is an omen, I tell you, Josephine. When I consider the bad luck in Italy lately—the riots, the massacre of our soldiers . . .” His lips twisted. “I will have that portrait safe and the men involved executed!”
The general turned to Daniel, who had been standing motionless, wishing he were invisible. “What are you still doing here? Get back to Ancona and find it!”
49
JUNE 10 ANCONA
Christophe and Daniel were walking through the marketplace one morning when they ran into Dolce, a servant trailing behind her with an armful of packages. She told the servant to go home, then greeted Daniel with a melting smile and turned to Christophe. “I’m so glad to see you. Can you spare me a few moments? Daniel, do you mind?”
“Of course not—”
“Why, exactly?” Christophe asked. “I don’t mean
to be ungracious, but . . .”
Dolce surveyed him coolly. “We haven’t talked since Mirelle and her mother came to visit. Trust me, this won’t be a waste of your time.”
Daniel bowed. “I’ll take my leave.”
Dolce watched him go. “He’s not in favor of your suit, is he?” Her mouth twitched in amusement.
“No one is,” Christophe said, eyes on the pavement. “Not even Mirelle.”
“Don’t say that,” Dolce said. “Come, let’s walk to the harbor.”
As they made their way through the market stalls, Dolce mentioned that Mirelle was paying an early-morning visit to Abrianna Narducci.
“She’s been banned from the workshop itself,” she said, “so she visits Signora Narducci daily instead.” Briefly, Dolce explained the situation with Turko, how much the men were suffering under his iron rule, and how Mirelle’s aunt had already left Ancona for Rome, putting the sale of the family home into the hands of a local agent.
“Mira and her mother weren’t even allowed to take furniture from the house,” Dolce concluded. “It’s breaking their hearts.”
“Couldn’t they buy the house back?”
“With what money?”
For a moment, Christophe wished he’d been less heedless with his pay. He pictured himself buying the property, being lauded as a hero when he presented the deed to Mirelle’s mother, who would instantly approve their wedding as a result. But even had he been as frugal as Daniel—who sent most of his meager salary home to his parents—it would never have been enough.
“Your father could do it,” he said.
“He could if he chose to,” Dolce agreed.
Christophe breathed in the fresh salt smell of the harbor. The troops drilled alongside the bay. Seagulls flew above them, scavenging for food, arguing with wild cries. On the docks, men unloaded cargo from one ship and prepared another to sail. People sat drinking coffee at the cafés on the side of the water.
“It’s so peaceful,” Christophe said. “I can hardly believe that my company is probably fighting somewhere right now.”
“It must be hard for you, stationed here.” Dolce put a hand on his arm.
“I thought it would be wonderful. Time to be with Mirelle. But now she refuses to see me. Listen, signorina, I enjoy your company, but is there a point to this walk? When I told you your father had won, you said to trust you. Was that a mistake?”
Dolce squeezed his arm. “Not at all. My father remains on his best behavior—I’ve heard no talk of marriage since Mirelle came to stay.” She looked around. “Let’s sit in that café. You can buy me a coffee.”
They settled in seats overlooking the harbor. A waiter took their order: coffee and pastry for them both.
“Signora d’Ancona has been helping me manage the household,” Dolce said. “She’s both very willing and very good at it. Better than I am.”
“Oh, I doubt that, signorina.”
Dolce waved a hand at his polite rejoinder. “I know my strengths and weaknesses. I’m an accomplished hostess, brought up in a political household.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps what first attracted Papa to Mirelle was how artless she is. We’re very different, she and I. She means what she says. I don’t always.” Dolce looked at him under lowered eyelashes. “I shouldn’t admit that, should I?”
“Say what you wish.” Christophe was taken aback by her directness. “It’s not my place to judge you.”
Dolce shrugged. “Anyway, I’m not a good housekeeper. Since Pinina took over many of my duties, the house runs like clockwork. And believe me, Papa notices.”
“What are you saying?” Christophe asked, watching the waiter return with their coffee and almond pastries. “That he’s falling in love with Mirelle’s mother because she’s a good housekeeper? That’s ridiculous. If he marries Mirelle, he’ll get the best of both worlds: a lovely young wife to bed and a fond mother-in-law to manage his household.”
Dolce nodded. “Perhaps. But if Mirelle agreed to marry you, her mother wouldn’t be left bereft. My father might not marry Pinina—but I’d convince him to keep her as housekeeper. After all, I’ll probably wed myself within the year.”
“Will you?” Christophe grinned at her. Daniel was a lucky bastard—if he could be brought to understand his luck. “Who’s the fortunate man?”
Dolce’s deep blue eyes seemed to laugh back at him. “Time will tell.”
50
JUNE 12
Mirelle dragged herself into the Morpurgo mansion with slow footsteps. The news from the manufactory was bad, had been bad for days. Yet whenever she tried to confide in her mother, Pinina merely shrugged and turned away.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Mama said. “Don’t upset yourself.”
Mirelle was pleased her mother was managing her grief. But she didn’t understand how she could ignore the terrible plight of the workers, men who had put food on their table and clothes on their backs for so many years. She tried to think of a way to free Papa’s workers from the nightmare of Turko. He made them work inhuman hours, flayed the skin from their backs when they disobeyed, and took bread out of their families’ mouths with fines. When the men protested at the city council or appealed to Rabbi Fano, they were stymied by one irrefutable fact: Their articles of employment tied them to the manufactory for five, ten, fifteen years to come. Not one of them could afford the sum it would take to set them free.
“I can’t bear to look at Sabato when he comes home at night,” Abrianna Narducci had moaned to Mirelle just that morning. “He’s a broken man.”
Mirelle felt the pinch of her own poverty acutely. She was imposing on her best friend’s hospitality because she had no place else to go. And now her birthday was just a week away. What am I waiting for? she thought, untying her bonnet strings. Why do I pretend I’ve any sort of choice?
“Mirelle.” David stood in the hallway. “You look tired, child.”
“Just a headache.” She touched her forehead. “I’m going to lie down.”
“Before you do, if you’re well enough, would you come with me into my library?” David asked. “I want to ask you something.”
Could he possibly want her answer now? As a guest in the man’s home, she couldn’t say no. “Certainly,” she said dully.
David took her arm and ushered her down the hall to the library, a room lined with bookshelves that reached the ceiling. He led her to a corner where red velvet chairs were arranged around a low ivory-inlaid table. She sat, hands lying in her lap, waiting.
He seated himself across from her. “It’s a week until your birthday,” he said. “I’ve been patient, respectful of your wish and your mourning. But I want to have a suitable betrothal present ready for the day you say yes.”
“A betrothal present?” Mirelle was surprised. “Surely—”
“Just listen,” he said, leaning forward. She smelled tobacco and coffee rising off his coat. “I can’t afford both gifts I’m considering. So you’ll need to choose between them.”
Mirelle’s heart began to pound. What could be so expensive?
“My first thought,” he said, “was to buy your old home for you and your mother. I’m informed that Prudenzia’s agent still hasn’t found a buyer. Of course, your mother would be the only one living there, since you would soon grace my home. But I know how much it would mean to you both, for your mother to live in her own house again.”
“My God.” Mirelle found it hard to breathe.
David put up a hand. “The second gift is even more expensive. In truth, there’d be some financial maneuvering necessary. It would take several years to pay off—and you would have to help me do so.”
Mirelle stared at him. She had no idea what he was talking about. The house she could understand. But what could he offer her that she could help pay for? How in the world did he expect her to do that? If they wed—when they wed—she would be nothing more than a penniless bride. Before he died, her father would have dowered her generously. But becau
se everything had been tied up in the entail, she had been left without a scudo.
He smiled at her. “I know how much you care about your father’s legacy, of the welfare of the men at the ketubah workshop. How you spend every day inquiring after their well-being and despairing at their current condition.”
Mirelle hung her head. “I only wish I could help. The men—it’s terrible what they’re going through. If only . . .”
David patted her hand. Mirelle looked up, tears in her eyes. She hadn’t expected sympathy, not when no one else understood or cared. She let the tears drop down her cheeks, not bothering to hide them. She hunted in her reticule for a handkerchief.
“My second idea—which I suspect you’ll accept—is to buy out the workers’ articles. All of them.”
Mirelle felt herself turned to stone. She stared at him, unbelieving.
“I’ll create a new manufactory,” he continued. “One we’ll entail upon our firstborn son. We’ll put Narducci in charge as manager and head scribe. I’ve consulted with the rabbi, and so long as you are owner in name only, you won’t contravene Jewish law. I only wish your father had taken this step rather than blindly trusting that a woman could not inherit . . . but it’s worthless to repine. You’ll pay me back from the profits over the next several years. In the end, we could both end up richer as a result.”
He smiled and leaned back in his seat, watching her.
“You can’t mean it,” she finally whispered, light-headed. “I do mean it,” he replied. “Am I right? Is this the gift you want?” She forced air into her lungs, felt her breath expand beneath her heart. She exhaled slowly. “This will beggar you,” she said. “Even you can’t be that rich.”
“It will stretch me”—he nodded—“but I am that rich, sweetling. And I want to give you everything your heart desires.”
She took a deep breath, but he put up a hand to stop her from speaking. “But there is one condition, Mirelle. You will no longer work in the shop. As I explained to you once before: my betrothed wife will hold a certain position in society. She must turn all her attention to being a hostess to my guests, my wife—and, hopefully soon, the mother of my children.” He studied her with a level gaze. “You must agree to this stipulation before you agree to marry me. And certainly before I expend my money in this way.”
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