‘Bonaparte,’ she implored, ‘Louis must apologise for hurting Hortense.’
‘She should apologise to me!’ Louis crossed his arms.
‘Maman, I did not laugh at him!’
‘The silly girl is making a fuss over nothing,’ Letizia called.
Josephine sucked in her breath.
‘I won’t apologise and I won’t be in this stupid play.’ Louis glared at Bonaparte.
‘Napoleon, this ridiculous play is a waste of time,’ Letizia declared. ‘I am bored beyond measure and I do not wish to spend my evening being feasted upon by insects. We should go inside.’
‘Enough! The play is cancelled,’ Bonaparte announced. He went to his mother’s side.
Josephine reeled.
‘I feel a chill,’ Letizia sniffed, lifting her face to her son.
The servants were summoned, the sedan chair raised and Letizia turned her pointed chin to Josephine with a clear look of triumph.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Summer 1800
The tomatoes were a surprise. Up they popped of their own accord without Anne even thinking to plant them, let alone knowing they were waiting in the soil. She had wondered what the jagged-leaved seedlings would turn into, curious enough not to take her hoe to their slender stems. When Félix told her they were tomatoes she had been shocked. Love apples, she thought, blushing. Exotic fruits for inflaming passions. Her mother would never be seen with tomatoes growing in her garden; no one would. Besides, weren’t they poisonous? Félix had laughed at her, but gently, seeing her worried frown. She trusted him enough to let the seedlings grow and the green globes slowly bulge and brighten with the summer sun. Tomatoes were the food of royalty, Félix told her, because only they could afford them. Maybe it was fitting then, she thought, to return them to the potager du roi. ‘I’ll let them grow,’ she’d promised Félix, ‘but I won’t be eating them.’
Now the tomato vines rambled out to twist around her struggling cauliflower and the bolted endives. New shoots grew upwards from the fallen stems. They reached out to the pumpkin vines and touched the hard, grey skin. All summer long, while the heat turned the herbs to seed and wilted the lettuce leaves, the tomato fruits multiplied, those promiscuous bright red baubles. Félix would pluck them and sink his teeth into the flesh, sucking the juice, but she turned away from him, nose raised, smile twitching. ‘Not even tempted,’ she would say, as he groaned with delight.
She chased the white butterflies, clapping her hands and missing each and every one, feeling the told-you-so eyes of her house servants from the windows above. The brassicas were slowly devoured by fleshy green caterpillars.
At least her carrots had been a success. She had watered lovingly and thinned ruthlessly and finally she judged the time was right for harvest. She took Abraham with her that morning and he gleefully wrapped his hands around the feathery green stems and pulled. The carrot came out good and true and mouth-crunching sweet. Abraham was delighted. So delighted that he snuck back out later that day and pulled out every single one.
The tomatoes grew and spread out and over and through everything in her once neat bed. They ran with the pumpkins, like children let loose. The planted lines were lost beneath the tangle of leaves. Anne placed her hands on her hips, a pose she found herself in a lot as she surveyed the remains of her garden. She still had so much to learn.
Only the stern rosemary could contain the spreading pumpkins and tomatoes. The herb bushes grew tall and thick along the borders, old bushes that had weathered many changes in this garden at Versailles. No doubt they will still be standing guard long after we have left here, Anne thought. This was not her home, Anne knew it, no matter how fond she was growing of her garden and even parts of the house and grounds. She felt like a visitor here. She hoped one day they would have a place of their own, a place their children would think of as their home, a place always to come back to. Anne clipped a stem of rosemary and smelled its pungent memories.
Above the hedge of rosemary, Anne glimpsed a tall black hat. She heard voices and wondered briefly if she should duck down and hide. Félix and his friend Labillardière. What would Labillardière think of her rambling mess of a garden? She knew how much he admired order. Then she caught herself and laughed. What did she care what he thought?
She greeted them with a cheery wave. Today, Félix had been showing the botanist all the germinations he had achieved this summer. It had been a wonderful growing season. Seeds that had lain dormant and dry in his collection had burst into life. Félix had been jubilant. He couldn’t wait to show the naturalist and had written to him of all his successes. It had taken until near the end of summer before Labillardière came to visit.
Anne met them on the path. Félix reached for her, eyes twinkling, those rich brown eyes she loved, red-tinged like fertile soil. He kissed her cheeks and held her fingers in his hand.
Labillardière murmured a greeting while glancing past her ear. Anne was used to his ways by now and did not take offence. Instead, knowing how uncomfortable it made him, she reached up and brushed her cheek against his, both sides, making him recoil. She smiled perversely. He brought out the imp in her.
‘So long since you came and visited us!’ she admonished him. ‘We thought you had forgotten us.’
‘No, that would be extremely unlikely. My memory is as sound as ever.’ He stared at her, a frown darkening his eyebrows deeper.
Anne sighed. ‘You have been too busy to visit us?’ she suggested.
‘Yes, my work keeps me at the Jardin des Plantes for long hours. I have an office there now. The Institut has finally appreciated the importance of my work.’ He puffed out his chest and grew an inch taller, she was sure of it.
‘And how is your wife, how is Marthe?’
‘She has no complaints.’
Anne flicked an eyebrow in doubt.
‘Does she still crochet?’ Anne asked.
Labillardière squinted, thinking. ‘No, I don’t believe she does.’
Ah, Anne thought, saddened. She is losing hope.
‘Next time you must bring her with you.’
‘Why?’ He truly looked confused. ‘She has no interest in botany.’
‘Don’t you think she would like to see Versailles? To have a change of scenery? Don’t you think she might like to have some female company?’ Anne tried to be gentle. Many times she had worried for Marthe, wondering what life would be like for her with Labillardière as her companion. She hoped life together in their apartment was not as lonely for her as it looked.
‘I do not know what she would like.’
Anne bit her tongue, tempted to respond, ‘She is your wife, what do you think!’ But Anne saw the struggle in his face, the difficulty he had putting himself inside another’s head to wonder at what his wife might like.
Poor Marthe. Many men could be single-minded. And what man did not have a higher opinion of himself and his needs than his wife? But this was something different. What must it be like to be married to a man who could not conceive of your thoughts at all?
Her questions had unsettled him, Anne saw, and she saved him from distress. ‘Next time, you must ask her. Just ask her what she would like. That is all you need to do.’
When he nodded, she smiled. That was something at least.
He craned over her rosemary hedge like a wading bird above a pond. ‘Solanum lycopersicum, of the deadly nightshade family, yet perfectly edible. I am pleased to see you pay no attention to the rampant old wives’ tales in these parts. So many are foolishly afraid of this beneficent plant.’
Anne nodded wisely, colouring to match the berry of the tomato plant. Félix jabbed her rib with a playful finger.
‘Cultivated by the Aztecs and brought to us in Europe by the Spanish explorers.’ He sounded wistful. Anne saw him look back towards Paris and wondered if he was thinking of his own collections and the important discoveries waiting in his squashed and dried-out plants. Labillardière muttered about his coach, turned about, and left. Alre
ady, his mind was on other matters in his usual, singular focus, and he forgot to wish them farewell.
Félix shook his head, bemused. ‘He will never change.’
Anne wondered if that was true. It came so naturally to her to understand what other people were thinking and feeling, she wondered if it was a sense the same as smell and taste or if it was possible to learn like the ability to read and write. ‘Maybe,’ she said, undecided.
The botanist abruptly stopped and called back, ‘You won’t forget the Eucalyptus globulus?’
Félix raised a hand as if in agreement, but Anne thought she saw a hint of defiance in his face.
Labillardière walked away, satisfied, and Anne raised an eyebrow to Félix.
‘He wants me to grow the Van Diemen’s Land blue gum.’
‘And you do not wish to?’
Félix stared at the distant figure, ‘It’s not that I do not wish to,’ he said, then paused. ‘But I am my own man now. Labillardière will have to learn to wait.’
Anne almost cheered. She squeezed his hand.
Félix drew her to him, his arm warm across her back. She studied his face, the freckles along his brow, the mole high on his right cheekbone. Félix’s eyes were always smiling; she loved that natural crease at the corners of his eyes that flicked up, like the tail of a looping a. And she remembered him teaching her to write: long strands of letters all joined together with her clumsy copies beneath.
‘I have something for you.’ He pulled out a small velvet box. The soft luxury of it looked out of place on his roughened palm.
‘It is not my birthday, you should not be buying me gifts.’ But she was pleased.
‘It is our anniversary.’
‘It is not.’
‘The anniversary of when I first saw you and my life changed forever.’
She smiled despite herself.
‘Open it.’
And she did, prising back the lid and seeing two silver lovebirds nestled on a branch. Faces turned to one another, their beaks touching, glorious topaz eyes shining blue then green as she took the brooch from its nest.
She rubbed her thumb over their crystal-sparkled wings. ‘It is beautiful.’ Her eyes blurred. A gift for her. A gift of beauty.
He pinned it to her linen blouse.
‘You mean to make a lady of me yet?’ But she admired the way it caught the light. She couldn’t help smiling.
‘I have a gift for you too.’
His face flicked in surprise. He pursed his lips, suspicious at her cheeky grin.
She pulled a tomato from the pocket of her skirt, rubbed it free of its musty scent, and boldly took a bite.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Winter 1800
Winter came upon them hard and sudden, trapping Josephine in Paris and its draughty Tuileries Palace. Snow drifts gathered at the palace gates and crystallised the iron. Across the city, snow banked along the roads and slipped down the roofs. After the freedom of summer, and glorious autumn weekends at Malmaison, Josephine hated this confinement. Bonaparte had kept her in Paris for weeks.
Her husband had decided they should have a more palatial home fit for the First Consul of France. Letizia had been delighted and Bonaparte’s family came so often, Josephine wondered if they had taken up residence as well. At least there were so many rooms she could always find a place to hide.
‘Must we spend Christmas at the Tuileries?’ Josephine asked. She sat in front of a mirror in her robe, not yet dressed for the evening.
Bonaparte tweaked her ear. ‘You know we must.’ He was smiling, bobbing on his toes, and humming one of those awful Italian tunes that he adored of late. Josephine dabbed rouge on her cheeks.
‘Must we go to the opera tonight?’ She was whining, but she could not help it. She suspected the early snow was not the only reason he insisted they stay in Paris for all these weeks instead of returning to Malmaison. But why did he keep her here with him? Why not let her take Hortense and return home?
She hated sleeping in this room, in this bed that Louis and Marie-Antoinette had shared. She hated this awful palace with its ornate furniture and heavy tapestries. It was always cold and huge fires had to be lit to warm the corners of the rooms. She drew her shawl tighter around her neck. Why spend Christmas here, in this monstrous place?
She knew the answer of course. To be close to Mademoiselle Grassini.
Bonaparte was whistling.
She turned away, swallowing her jealousy, knowing that to voice her suspicions would only rouse his anger. The warmth of their summer now seemed a distant memory. How cruel that her love for Bonaparte had increased just as he was beginning to turn his face from her. It seemed her once-devoted puppy had become a rutting mutt intent on any bitch in heat.
‘It is not too late.’ Josephine tried again to convince her husband. ‘We could leave now and wake up on Christmas morning at Malmaison, in our own bed.’
‘Don’t you like sleeping in the bed of our betters?’ He laughed, bouncing up and down on the blood-red coverlet.
Her stomach churned. Had Marie-Antoinette sat at this same mirror, staring at her reflection and knowing there was no escape? Of course she had. The Queen had been held under arrest in this very room. It amused Bonaparte to sleep in her bed, but Josephine could only think of what it felt like to await your fate helplessly. A fate so intricately tied to your husband’s.
‘Make sure you are beautiful, tonight. They will all be watching us, those Parisian snobs, Barras’s Jacobin supporters. They will use anything they can against us.’
Josephine’s hand stalled above the rouge pot. Since Bonaparte’s coup, Barras had made no secret of his hatred for her. He said vile things about both of them and even his banishment from Paris did not ease her worries.
‘I have Fouché watching everyone. Barras plots against us, I know it.’ Bonaparte rubbed his temples. Josephine looked at his reflection in the mirror. At times like these he seemed a small boy, disappointed and truculent. His head was in his hands, his elbows on his knees. She rose and went to him, massaging his head in slow, gentle circles.
He moaned. ‘Josephine, my Josephine, what would I do without you? Don’t ever leave me. I could not bear it.’
‘You speak nonsense. How could I leave the man I love more than my own life?’
He took her hand and smothered it in kisses.
A knock at the door made her turn.
Her guest, Claire de Rémusat, a young woman Josephine admired and hoped to further in society, discreetly entered the room with two maids. Seeing the First Consul, Claire coloured and dropped into a curtsy. ‘I am sorry, we have come to help Madame dress. Should we return later?’
Josephine smiled to put her guest at ease. ‘It is time for Bonaparte to leave if he expects his wife to be ready on time for this evening’s performance.’
‘I almost forgot,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I have a gift.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her about. Josephine lifted her eyebrows at Claire. She felt the cool weight of jewels circle across her breastbone, and Bonaparte’s fingers connecting the clasp at her nape. She looked down. A chain of enormous emeralds graced her décolletage, each one surrounded in diamonds that winked and sparkled. Gazing at the gems she felt a burst of childlike glee. A comforting thought warmed her: I am his wife—he would not give jewels such as these to a lover.
‘This is too much,’ she said, stroking them tenderly.
‘Nonsense.’ He spun her around, surveying her with satisfaction. ‘They are to match your dress.’
She smiled at his peculiarities. He loved to dress her, loved to watch her apply her make-up and choose her jewellery. But as he twirled her around, she had a disconcerting moment of déjà vu remembering how she had once turned about for Barras’s appreciation.
Bonaparte kissed her lightly on her nose.
Claire de Rémusat coughed, apologetic. ‘Caroline … Mme Murat … is asking when you will be ready. She is most impatient …’
> Josephine felt her smile fade. Yet another evening spent in the company of Bonaparte’s vile sister. When would she leave Paris and return to her husband?
‘Is Hortense dressed?’ Josephine asked.
Claire nodded. ‘She is waiting.’
‘Please tell my daughter I will soon be with her.’
Bonaparte released her. ‘You have reminded me. We must speak about Hortense, about her marriage prospects. It is time we settled an arrangement for her.’
Josephine felt a rush of panic. No, it was too soon, too soon for her daughter to leave. ‘She is still so young,’ Josephine protested.
‘Not for long,’ he said lightly and kissed her neck in farewell.
Josephine was shaking as she turned to the dress that Bonaparte had laid out for her. Bonaparte would take her daughter from her. He would use her to further some alliance with the Jacobins or royalists, she was sure of it. Or these Parisian snobs he so wanted her to impress.
Josephine let her maids remove her robe and felt the dress slide over her. For a moment, she was trapped in the folds of the silken fabric. Bonaparte could use her to win him favours, but she vowed she would not let that happen to her daughter.
When Josephine descended the stairwell of the palace she found the entire party waiting for her. Hortense smiled up and waved, and the innocence of her caught in Josephine’s chest. Caroline, Bonaparte’s sister, was among the group, pregnant and protuberant. Bonaparte was pacing. Outside, a chain of carriages was waiting in the courtyard. Josephine paused for a moment looking down at the entrance gallery blazing with candlelight and remembering an earlier time when all the eyes in the room would follow her every move.
She had dressed carefully as Bonaparte had asked. The silk of her dress glowed and her new jewels sparkled, drawing all their eyes up to her. She felt like she once had with Thérésa by her side: radiant and invincible. Bonaparte needed her to impress. She relaxed her shoulders, letting her shawl slip from her neck, and descended the stairs like a lynx.
‘What is that you are wearing?’ Bonaparte cried up to her.
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