To work. She would sow the carrots first, she thought, remembering the first time she saw her mother bend to pull handfuls of the sweet, orange treasures from the soil, all the children gathered around to see what she had found. They had dunked the carrots in a pail of water and rubbed them free of dirt until they gleamed. Anne heard the crunching of all the children sticking them in the sides of their mouths and biting down. She remembered being amazed at the surprising taste of sweetness from something that came out of dirt.
Anne had prepared the garden bed in the way her mother showed her, by digging a small V-trench and filling it with soil mixed with sand so that the carrots grew straight and true. Anne gathered a handful of fine carrot seed in her hand. Such tiny wonders that would grow leafy and magnificent while hiding their delicious roots. She mixed the seed with sand and prepared to shake them over the soil. Anne paused, hand raised. This was the moment she would sow her first crop, make her own mark here in Versailles. It felt important, as if the success of this crop would be an omen for their future. She wished Félix were beside her.
But with the sun warming her back she felt her mother with her. She loosened her fingers and let the seeds fall to the earth, whispering the prayer that her mother would have said to help them grow. Anne blew the last of the seeds from her palm like a kiss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Summer 1800
It had been a charmed summer at Malmaison, where the days were impossibly long and warm and the nights sparkling and clear. Josephine’s gardeners had worked wonders and her roses had flowered triumphantly. Soft pink blooms now surrounded her château like a moat. She touched their silky petals and bent forward to breathe their intoxicating perfume.
Across her lawn, the musicians had set up their instruments and a harpist was playing gentle notes that reminded her of a tinkling stream. Cushions and rugs were scattered on the grass. Hortense was back from Madame Campan’s for the summer with a friend and it was a delight to see the girls with their heads close together, breaking into fits of giggles over the slightest thing.
Josephine looked up to the wide ocean of sky. No cloud, no threat of rain. Everything was as perfect as it could possibly be.
Tonight, as the garden grew golden and the stars winked into view, they were to host a theatrical amusement for their guests. A celestial theatre. This was exactly the sort of gathering she had dreamed they would have here at Malmaison. All the family together. A place Eugene and Hortense would always call their home.
Bonaparte crossed the lawn to her, face flushed and his coat removed. Earlier, he had been running like a hare, chasing the girls in a game of blind man’s buff. She smiled to see him with shirt untucked, collar loosened. She saw no trace in him now of the gauche young man with greasy hair and bad skin that she had married. His jaw was lifted, his air confident and assured. As he smiled for her, Josephine was surprised to find that she was no longer pretending to adore her husband.
Bonaparte had returned from the Battle of Marengo victorious—the Austrians defeated, the country jubilant. For the rest of the summer he was hers alone and they spent long, joyous weeks together. It was a summer of love and of lovemaking. They slept late in their shared bed, letting the morning sun warm their naked skin. Sex was unhurried and tender. Afterwards, Bonaparte would kiss her stomach and wish for a child and Josephine would raise her legs and wriggle, praying for a miracle.
How strange, Josephine thought, to find herself falling in love with her husband after so many years of marriage. This sensation was novel for her. She had thought love and passion were the same thing, but this was not the all-consuming lust she had once felt for Hoche and then Hippolyte Charles. This was something different. She felt its strength, like resting her back against the trunk of a tree. Was this what love truly was? she wondered. This gentle reliance on one another no matter what?
Bonaparte spun about, his arms wide. ‘I find these boundless skies a tonic for my mind,’ he said. ‘My ideas, my thoughts, my ambitions are all improved by the absence of a ceiling.’
Josephine pressed her hands to his chest and tilted her face up to receive his kiss. ‘Let’s move our bed into the garden among the hyacinths and salvias. No walls and ceilings to contain us!’ She was only half joking. It seemed a fabulous idea. ‘Let’s sleep with wildflowers all around us!’
‘Do you mean to hide from my family?’ he asked teasingly, circling his arms behind her to slap her bottom.
‘Of course. Wouldn’t you?’
Bonaparte barked a laugh.
She kept her tone light, but a dread had slipped into her heart. The Bonaparte family were coming to Malmaison. Madame Mère, Bonaparte’s mother, had announced she would grace them with her presence. Josephine tried to keep the worry from her mind, determined that their imminent arrival should not cloud the brightness of her day.
They had hated her from the start. His mother called her a whore to her face while the sisters tittered behind their hands. She felt like a puppet around the women of his family, a wooden toy whose limbs could be bent and twisted without care for the pain inflicted. Their sly words burrowed into her. From the first days of her marriage, Letizia Bonaparte had despised Josephine for taking away her son without permission.
The whole of Bonaparte’s family were to join in the evening’s entertainment. Performing a play, Bonaparte insisted, would bring them all together. But Josephine knew she would never be forgiven. Since the scandal over Hippolyte Charles, Letizia had refused to be in the same room as Josephine. Why should they visit now? What new scheme did they have to ruin her perfect summer?
‘I’m serious, Bonaparte, let us move out here into the garden. The weather is fine. Why not sleep under the stars?’ Josephine imagined a simple iron bedhead and white lace coverlet among the pink heads of cosmos and nodding poppies. She felt the breeze cross her skin, heard the crickets singing to one another, the bees humming and the trill of birdsong. Yes, she would tell her gardeners to make her a garden bed. It was a wonderful idea. If it rained, then she and Bonaparte could sprint across the lawn naked to find shelter in her folly, Le Temple de l’Amour. She imagined the drops of cool water striking their skin, letting them know they were alive. All of a sudden, she couldn’t bear the thought of being contained under the same roof as Bonaparte’s family.
Horses’ hooves struck the gravel of the drive. The carriages were arriving.
Bonaparte kissed the frown between her eyes. Before she could resist, he looped his arm through hers and spun her towards the house. ‘Come, let us prepare ourselves for battle!’
‘It is rather small, isn’t it, Napoleon? For a man of your greatness.’ Madame Mère screwed up her nose as she entered Malmaison’s light-filled vestibule. ‘Shouldn’t you have received us in one of the palaces?’
Josephine choked back a retort. Bonaparte’s family home in Corsica was far smaller than Malmaison. Bonaparte had told her so himself.
‘The decorations seem ill considered.’ Madam Mère threw a glance at the mix of Egyptian, Roman and Greek antiquities that Josephine had chosen to honour her husband. Her words felt like a slap.
Letizia was even more solid and squat than Josephine remembered, a bulldog in fine clothes. The image amused her briefly and a smile twitched her lips. Unsurprisingly, Bonaparte’s mother had not yet acknowledged her presence at her son’s side.
Letizia was followed by two of her sons, Joseph and Louis. Joseph flicked his gaze about the furnishings of her home, no doubt calculating the debts. Louis found more of interest in his shoes. Behind them was Letizia’s youngest daughter, Caroline, and her flamboyant battle-dressed husband Joachim Murat. Caroline clung to her husband’s arm and placed her hand delicately on her stomach in an unmistakeable gesture of protection. The family had entered her beloved home like a battering ram.
Bonaparte greeted them each with kisses. Then, in turn, Josephine endured the cold whisper of his mother’s breath, the scratch of Joseph’s stubble, the indifference of Louis’s sco
wl and the laughing embrace of his sister. Caroline was enjoying her discomfort. Josephine straightened her back and cast her brightest smile. ‘Then let us go out into the garden,’ she suggested, ‘if the house is not to your liking.’
Outside, she led the way across the lawn at a brisk walk, leaving Bonaparte with his family. The harpist played and Hortense and her friend sang. Hortense had a sweet voice and it rose clear and joyful above the harp. Josephine hoped this evening’s performance would go well, for all their sakes. Bonaparte had cast Hortense in the lead role of Rosine in Beaumarchais’s The Barber of Seville. Josephine expected Caroline would throw a tantrum and demand the role for herself. Bonaparte would have to be firm. Her voice was frequently compared to a whining hound.
Josephine reached the edge of the circular stage that she had defined by planting a border of Dianella grasses with sword-like leaves and blossoms of tiny purple stars. She had purchased the seeds from Lee and Kennedy in London; they had come from the Endeavour’s voyage to New Holland. She was thoroughly charmed by them. She remembered the excitement she felt when ordering from their catalogue. They would be the first of her collection from the antipodes, she had thought.
‘Must we walk so far away?’ Madame Mère complained.
Josephine clenched her jaw and distracted herself by remembering Baudin and his mission. Such a kind and gentle soul. She had liked him from the moment he rescued a bee from a spider’s web. That naturalist, Labillardière, berated him for it, declaring that nature should take its course, that the spider had a right to eat. But Josephine had been pleased to see the bee lift itself from Baudin’s open palm and fly out among her blooms. She saw no harm in taking sides. That, too, was part of life; some were favoured and others were not.
Soon Baudin would sail around the world and bring her back seeds from all the lands to which he travelled. Her own eyes would see what these men of exploration would see. The thought thrilled her. How fabulous, how marvellous these times they lived in, the far-flung places now within reach.
Madame Mère’s needling voice climbed steep-pitched behind her. ‘You mean we are to sit on the grass, like common cattle?’
Josephine turned her face to the sky. How she wished she could hoist a sail this instant, raise her arms and let the wind take her away.
Hortense and her friend Adele were singing their duet in the middle of the grassy stage. Hortense was beautiful, she was a young woman now, grown tall and slender like a foxglove, but still with that endearing plumpness to her cheeks that gave her face a teardrop beauty. Josephine was proud that she was much admired.
‘It will be easy to find a match for her when the time comes,’ Bonaparte had said earlier that afternoon.
‘Too soon to think of that!’ Josephine had said, horrified, unwilling to imagine her daughter married and living far away from her. She wanted to stop time now, in this glorious afternoon, with her daughter’s voice raising the hairs of her neck and lifting her heart.
Bonaparte and his family interrupted the duet with their arrival at the stage. They jostled past Josephine, Caroline clipping her elbow. Hortense and Adele let their voices fall away. Josephine felt an ill sense of foreboding wash through her.
Bonaparte settled Madame Mère in a sedan chair and Letizia punched open her parasol against the sun. She accepted a glass of champagne and sipped it as if it were vinegar.
‘We should begin. Have you all learned your lines?’ Bonaparte asked, already giving out the scripts to each of his siblings. He allowed them no rest from their travels and Josephine expected complaints, yet his family obeyed.
‘Louis, you are to be the Count, Rosine’s suitor,’ Bonaparte directed, pushing him towards Hortense. Louis rolled his eyes and sneered at Hortense but did not resist. Josephine recognised some of the same traits in Louis as she had once seen in Bonaparte. His awkwardness around women, his scowl, the hunch-shouldered stance. So young, just twenty-two, Josephine thought as she watched him stalk over to the girls and flick his greasy fringe from over his eye, and already filled with malevolence for her family.
‘Louis, you fall in love with Rosine at first sight. But, doubting that she will love you for more than your money and title, you disguise yourself as a poor college student.’
‘How fitting, Napoleon—a play about a gold-digger,’ Letizia sneered. ‘How we wish you were so careful in your own marriage.’
Josephine wished she could turn on her heel and flee into her garden. Thérésa wouldn’t put up with them. Thérésa would leave their sour faces behind without a second thought. Instead, Josephine dreamed of her bed among the flowers. How wonderful it would be to lie back and disappear from Letizia’s view behind spikes of red-hot salvias, like a flaming circle of fire to protect herself from wolves.
A figure emerged from the house. Eugene! Josephine waved to him. At long last. She held out her arms and when he kissed her she clung to him, feeling his strength. ‘All will be well, Maman,’ he assured her. She squeezed his forearms.
Bonaparte called him away to join the cast. ‘Finally, our music teacher, Don Bazile, has arrived. I hope you have learned your lines this time?’
‘As well as always, Papa.’
‘Heaven help us!’ Bonaparte rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, Joseph, you are to be Figaro, friend to the Count. I will take the part of the doctor, Rosine’s guardian, who means to marry her himself.’
All the players were gathered on the stage, the two families brought together as Bonaparte had wished. Josephine was surprised to see the siblings meekly accepting their parts and taking his direction without question. Even Joseph, the eldest. Even Louis, the scowling youth. She saw their pecking order playing out before her. Ever since his father’s death, Bonaparte had assumed the role of family protector and they were used to following his orders. She felt her shoulders loosen. Perhaps this evening would go as planned. Perhaps they would truly be able to put the past behind them.
‘Make sure you give our Caroline a decent role, Napoleon!’ called Letizia. ‘She has a wonderful singing voice.’
Bonaparte ignored his mother.
Josephine faced Madame Mère across the lawn. Between them the circle of players rehearsed their parts, the children of both families orbiting around Bonaparte in the centre. Only Josephine and Letizia remained outside, each woman steadfastly avoiding the other’s gaze.
Caroline produced a black lace fan to beat rapidly beside her face and propped one hand on her hip. Before anyone could stop her, she lifted her bosom and sang. Her voice, like chickens sensing slaughter, made Josephine squint.
Mercifully, Bonaparte cut her performance short. ‘There is no singing part for you, Caroline. You are to play an elderly maid.’
Josephine smirked behind a delicate cough.
‘If I cannot sing then I don’t want to be in your play,’ Caroline said, pouting.
‘Only Hortense and Louis will sing.’ Bonaparte was firm.
‘I do not sing,’ Louis declared.
‘You do today.’
‘Someone else can have this part. I hate it.’
‘You are the right age for the young Count.’
‘So is Eugene—let him marry his sister,’ Louis sneered.
‘Eugene cannot sing. He can barely act. You can sing, I have heard you many times. Must you ruin everything for me? After all I have given you?’ Bonaparte had flushed red. ‘Where is your sense of loyalty?’
Louis fell silent. Josephine watched him scratch at his wrists just like Bonaparte used to do. His face wore the same dark glower. Louis would be a problem for Bonaparte, she predicted; he of all his brothers would not obey him easily.
Joachim Murat, Caroline’s husband, chose this moment to interrupt. ‘I could play the Count.’ He reached an arm around Hortense’s barely clothed shoulders. Josephine saw her daughter stiffen.
Bonaparte slapped Murat’s hand away from her. ‘You are already cast. Your role is the lazy manservant.’
The players reluctantly returned
to the stage and the afternoon continued with the drone of dialogue stiffly spoken and songs badly attempted. Josephine hoped her guests tonight would be forgiving. Malmaison entertainments were well known for much hilarity, missed entrances and forgotten lines. Yet everyone always enjoyed themselves. The open-air theatre would be made beautiful with coloured glass lanterns strung on poles and candles in globes dotted in the grasses around the stage. At the end of the performance, the guests would be surprised by fireworks while the orchestra played. That, at least, was sure to impress. Perhaps even Madame Mère might soften. Josephine closed her eyes and pressed her hands together, praying for tonight to go well. She would endure this visit. She would show them all that she was worthy of their Napoleon.
A squeal. A shout. Voices raised in anger. Her eyes sprang open. The petulant Louis Bonaparte was flapping his arms and throwing a tantrum like a boy of two, not twenty-two. Hortense was being comforted by her friend. Louis had clearly said something to hurt her. Josephine hurried over.
Bonaparte threw up his hands and turned his back to them.
‘Maman, he accused me of laughing at his singing, but it wasn’t true!’ Hortense was distraught. ‘He pinched me!’ Hortense displayed her pale arm. The mark was red, not yet a bruise, but Josephine knew well enough how some bruises were slow to form.
Louis swept his forelock of hair from his eyes. She could imagine it, the boy striking out like a biting horse.
‘Bonaparte, Louis is a brute!’ she snapped without thinking, holding Hortense to her. ‘He should apologise.’
The two families had separated into clusters, aggrieved and glaring at one another.
Josephine waited for Bonaparte to intervene, to take her side against his brother, but Bonaparte was silent.
‘Napoleon!’ Letizia snapped from her chair. ‘Louis will not apologise to that girl!’
The two mothers met each other’s gaze.
Josephine wrapped Hortense tighter in her embrace while Louis kicked holes in her lawn with his heels.
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