‘They say Bonaparte has enjoyed the pleasures of someone very close to you, Josephine,’ Pauline said slyly.
Josephine blinked, but did not look up. Be as fearless as the goddess Diana, she urged herself, gazing at the figure on her lap.
‘Who?’ Caroline asked her sister innocently.
Disingenuous bitch. Josephine narrowed her eyes.
‘They say he has already fathered a son with her.’
This hurt. This crumpled her. Could it be true?
‘It is someone we all know.’
‘Do not make us guess,’ demanded Caroline of her sister.
‘They say that Napoleon has cuckolded our own brother, Louis!’
Josephine leaped to her feet. She wanted to plunge her needle into Pauline’s eye. Hortense! They were speaking of Hortense. How dare they repeat such vile slander about her daughter? Bonaparte was a father to her. What they implied was incest.
Rage burned in her core and prickled all over her skin. The sisters burst into gleeful smiles. They thought they had won.
‘He will divorce you,’ Elisa said smugly. ‘Your time is at an end.’ The harpist finished her solo as Elisa’s final word echoed, until a man’s voice roared.
Josephine turned. Bonaparte stood in the doorway. His face boiled with the same emotion she had seen years before on their wedding night when the notary had tried to dissuade her from marrying him. She had chosen him then, when he had nothing, when everyone thought her foolish. Would he remember that?
His bloodshot eyes met hers.
Whatever her husband’s faults, she knew then he would not abandon her.
Bonaparte banished his sisters from the house.
He promised he would not let them back to Malmaison, that none of his family would ever hurt her again, and Josephine wanted to believe him. He gathered her in his arms and it was the two of them, together again, alone in all the world.
But on the day her shipment of animals was due to arrive, a carriage she did not recognise drew up in her courtyard. It was mustard yellow with a maroon trim. A large amount of luggage was stored on the top. The horses had been driven hard in the heat and her grooms rushed out to attend them. The footman stepped down to open the carriage door and Josephine found she was holding her breath. If this was Madame Mère, Josephine would refuse to greet her, she would remain here in her bedroom and plead a migraine. Already she could feel her head begin to throb. She would not let that woman stay in this house.
The embroidered figure of the goddess Diana now hung on her wall. It gave her strength to see it. Once Thérésa had given her a protective amulet of the goddess and Josephine wondered where it was, how she could have misplaced something that had been so precious to her. The huntress had been a favourite icon of the Merveilleuses because Thérésa loved that Diana was mistress of the forests and needed no man to defend her. Josephine pushed away from the window and searched through her jewellery box. The amulet was still there. Josephine untangled the chain and slipped it over her neck. The amulet slid between her breasts and over her heart. Secretly, many women prayed to Diana to help them become pregnant when their prayers to God proved ineffective.
Josephine returned to the window just as a golden-haired woman stepped down from the carriage carrying her child.
Josephine screamed and flew down the stairs to burst out into the courtyard and wrap herself around her daughter. She was sobbing, afraid of squashing her grandson, but unable to stop herself from hugging them both. Hortense said nothing to her mother, but let herself be held.
Josephine’s grandson was gazing at her with a shining face. She covered him in kisses and he bubbled with giggles. He was just like Eugene at that age, loving of everyone and utterly unafraid.
Bonaparte came out of his study, stretching one fist above his head and then the other, exclaiming at what all the noise was about, but winking at Josephine. He had done this for her. He had brought her daughter back. She felt a rush of love for him that was stronger than ever before. Bonaparte kissed Hortense on the forehead and then took little Napoleon Charles in his arms, holding him high in the air and pretending to drop him. The boy squealed in delight.
‘Come, Hortense,’ Josephine urged, looping her arm through her daughter’s. They walked together through the house and out into the garden. Hortense was unusually quiet and Josephine filled the silence with chatter. She heard herself burbling and gushing but could not stop. She was still afraid of what Hortense would say to her.
They reached the lake and Josephine fell silent as they gazed across the water to her magnificent Grand Serre.
Hortense drew breath. ‘It is beautiful, Maman.’
It was, Josephine agreed. Elegant and resplendent in the sunlight, the glass shimmering pale rainbows of colour. An imposing size and yet its emptiness made it insubstantial, still delicate enough to be easily destroyed.
‘It is not finished yet,’ Josephine said. ‘I must fill it with all the plants that remind me of home. Of Martinique.’ And her mother, she almost said.
She remembered running into the rainforest, the tall mahogany and rosewoods, the cacao with its big, shady leaves and yellow pods growing out of the trunk, the vibrant red flowers of the wild gingers and the scent of frangipani enticing her to escape. She remembered her mother’s voice calling her back, but she didn’t want to return to the house, she knew these hills around the plantation better than anyone. She was not lost, only hiding in the thickets of bamboo. Her mother was frightened for her out in the jungle among the fer-delance vipers and tarantulas, but her mother did not know the beauty of it, the joy of luminous green arcades, of sunlight glowing through banana palms, of a forest jewelled with orchids.
Now Josephine flushed with shame to think she had wanted to run from her mother. But how could she have known then that in a few short years she would leave Martinique and her mother and never go back?
‘I am so glad you are here,’ she whispered to Hortense, pulling her close.
‘So am I, Maman.’
They did not speak of Louis.
‘You can stay for the rest of the summer?’ Josephine asked, remembering the luggage.
Hortense nodded.
Josephine squeezed her daughter’s arm. She hoped this sadness in Hortense would ease and she would forgive her mother. For now, Hortense remained distant, her eyes focused on the fragile glass walls across the lake. Everything had changed between them. Hortense was a wife, a mother, now; she was no longer Josephine’s child.
Josephine clung to Hortense’s arm, still not ready to let her go.
A voice called to them from the house. Josephine turned. Bonaparte waved his arms above his head. He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Your animals are here!’
‘My animals are here!’ She spun about to face Hortense. Ecstatic. Giddy. She jumped up and down on the spot.
‘Oh, Maman.’ Hortense laughed softly. ‘You are like a child.’
‘Baudin’s creatures from the other side of the world!’ She tugged at Hortense’s hand, her face bright with joy. ‘Let’s run!’
Hand in hand, shawls flying, they ran together to the house.
The wagons had pulled up in front of the château and Josephine circled them in wonder. Then she clasped a handkerchief to her nose. The stench was almost overwhelming. The three crates looked and smelled like they had been on a journey around the world.
‘Take them down to the lake,’ Josephine instructed, then clapped her hands in pleasure. She turned and beamed at Bonaparte.
‘My sweet Josephine,’ he said, tapping her nose. ‘It does me good to see you so delighted.’
She held out her hands to her husband and daughter and felt them link together again. If only Eugene were here it would be perfect. Josephine felt light, buoyant, like she could skip across the lawn in her slippers. It had all worked out for the best. Hortense need not be sent to some cold foreign palace and neither would she stay with the awful Louis. Perhaps Bonaparte could speak with Louis, convin
ce him that it would be best for Hortense to live with them again. For once Josephine felt like she had almost all she could desire.
‘Let’s see what Baudin has sent us!’
At the lake, the men were already lowering the crates down from the wagons when Josephine and her household gathered to watch. Josephine’s companion, Claire de Rémusat, carried Napoleon Charles. Hortense and Bonaparte walked beside her.
The men hesitated, waiting for her order to open them. They looked between her and her husband.
‘Go on,’ she said, waving at them.
‘We don’t know whether the beasts survived the journey,’ warned one of the men, his face apprehensive, as if fearing to be blamed for any misadventure.
She nodded. ‘I am prepared for disappointment.’
A crowbar was produced and the lid of the largest crate was prised open with the slow screech of stubborn nails. ‘Stand back, these are wild animals.’
Josephine threw her arms around Bonaparte, thrilled beyond measure to see these creatures from the new continent. The party of onlookers drew back.
The lid was cast aside and the men leaped away.
Josephine crossed her hands over her heart. Nothing happened. No sound was made, only the waft of stale straw and sour excrement rose from the box. Josephine stepped forward. She looked to the men. Neither one was keen to look inside.
‘Tell me,’ she breathed, ‘what is in there?’
Suddenly a head protruded from the box. Josephine squawked. Every person around her screamed and fell back. Hortense reached for her son, pulling him back into her arms.
The head swivelled on a long wiry neck. Large eyes blinked. It had a pointed beak that turned down at the corners of its mouth, giving an expression of distaste as it surveyed the gathered party. The men moved forward to release the walls of the crate.
‘This one’s the emu,’ the man said, avoiding the snapping beak.
As the walls fell open, the emu staggered to its feet and shook its feathers. Josephine gasped. The creature wobbled on long legs, its body the shape of a bagpipe, but huge and bloated and covered in shaggy feathers. It lifted a foot with three clawed toes and hesitantly took its first step. Josephine watched it bob and weave its head before taking another step. She had the feeling of seeing something impossible, something from the dawn of time. Why would God create such a creature?
It bent and plucked at the grass, pulling up the green blades. Will you be happy here? she wondered. Will I be able to keep you alive?
The men were breaking open the other crates. Josephine heard thumping and scrabbling and she squeezed Bonaparte’s hand. Hortense frowned and Josephine felt fearful for her grandson. Had she made a terrible mistake opening these boxes here, unguarded and uncaged? Two furred creatures bounded from the half-opened box before the men had a chance to jump back. Claire de Rémusat screamed. The creatures bounced and darted and hopped in panic and then huddled together. Josephine and her party drew close together. Both groups stared at one another. The creatures’ small hands—if that’s what they were—hung from tiny arms. Their tails and hind legs seemed disproportionately large. Josephine dropped to her haunches. The two animals watched her warily, pointed noses twitching.
‘They are adorable.’
‘Wallabies, I think you’ll find.’ The man consulted his list. ‘They eat grass.’
Josephine wanted to reach out and stroke their thick fur. The wallabies didn’t seem to know what to do. They kept together, not wanting to stray far from their box, the home that had contained them for so many months at sea.
‘Go on,’ she whispered to them. ‘My home is your home.’
The emu had already strolled away towards the lake, plucking and pulling the grass as fast as it could.
‘I don’t like this,’ Bonaparte said. ‘All these animals free to roam wherever they like, and we know nothing about them.’
‘They eat grass, not one another. This is a place of peace and harmony. A sanctuary.’ She turned her face up to Bonaparte, pleading. ‘I don’t want them to be locked up.’
He shrugged.
As the final box was prised apart, Josephine heard a strange whistling sound. Her companions had retreated, leaving her and Bonaparte facing the box. The eerie whistle grew louder. Perhaps Bonaparte was right. She twisted her hands. Perhaps these creatures were not meant to mix together. Grunts and coughs now sounded from the box. What on earth had she done? What had Baudin sent her?
As the sides of the box fell away, a great black bird reared out. A swan. A black swan! Its wings were pulled back and its head dropped low and menacing. Josephine felt her heart leap as its stare skewered her to the spot. The bright red of its beak was like a flaming brand against its black breast. It beat its wings, hard.
‘It’s magnificent!’ Josephine cried.
The swan flapped again and stretched its neck. She felt its fear and confusion, the joy of release, its reluctance to move. The swan toppled sideways from its nest.
Three fluffy grey balls squealed. Cygnets! Josephine covered her mouth with her hand. The cygnets hopped and flapped and cried for their mother. She looked to Bonaparte, wide-eyed. ‘This is a sign,’ she said. ‘Surely, this is a sign.’
He pulled her back in to him, holding her protectively, folding his arms across her stomach. Warmth flushed through her. The tips of her toes tingled.
The swan tottered towards the lake with the cygnets scrambling to follow. They tripped and tumbled over themselves. Josephine laughed, but her eyes were wet. Her heart, her lungs, her stomach, all squeezed inside her. A mother. At long last, a symbol of good fortune.
‘Our own child,’ Bonaparte breathed in her ear.
She touched the amulet at her breast and prayed.
‘First the animals from Baudin and then the seeds,’ she said to Bonaparte. ‘I am determined.’
‘Those men of the Jardin des Plantes do not know what a force of nature you can be.’
Josephine stood at her chamber window watching her exotic menagerie grazing on the lawns. The light was passing quickly, the clouds changing colours every time she lifted her eyes. Somewhere at the dark lake edge her black swan now cared for her young. She worried whether they would be safe, whether the other waterbirds would accept them, afraid their jealous squabbling could be fatal for the young birds. Perhaps she should have kept them separated, perhaps it was naive of her to expect all these creatures to live in harmony. But darkness had fallen now and she could do nothing until the morning. She drew the drapes.
Thouin’s letter lay open on the floor. It had arrived with the late post and it had soured her evening. She wanted to stamp on it. These savants brought out the child in her. Thouin was refusing to send her the seeds that Baudin had promised her.
‘You charm all the sea captains of the world, but not our own savants,’ Bonaparte said from a chair at her bureau.
Josephine frowned. It stung, this contempt that Thouin and his savants held for her, even if it was not unexpected. She threw herself on Bonaparte’s lap and let him plant tiny kisses all over her face. He tweaked her nipple.
She saw Thouin’s letter at her feet and kicked it away. The words still burned. We regret that duplicate specimens are not available for domestic purposes.
Domestic purposes, she fumed. If a man had my ambitions to propagate the rare and wondrous plants of the world, would they call his endeavours pleasant diversions, an idle hobby, something to pursue in my leisure hours?
In her nurseries, she now grew plants from the continents of America, Asia and Africa. She planned to produce a grand book of all her favourite plants and already the celebrated botanical artist Redouté was hard at work on the illustrations. Jardin de la Malmaison. She wanted to have plants from all corners of the world showcased in its pages. Baudin meant for her to grow the plants of this strange new continent in her garden.
‘They forget it was you who commissioned Baudin’s voyage of exploration,’ she grumbled. ‘They have no right to kee
p them from us.’
‘You shall have the finest garden in all of France,’ Bonaparte assured her. ‘They underestimate you.’ He pressed his lips to her neck.
How dare those savants of the Jardin des Plantes ruin her perfect day. They dismissed her as a collector of curiosities, obsessed with flowers, imagined her to be a competitor. Worse, a hindrance to their true studies. They are afraid of me, she thought suddenly, and it gave her a small jolt of pleasure. Afraid I will be better at growing their exotic plants than they are.
She sat up straight, twisted in Bonaparte’s lap. ‘Can you get me Félix Lahaie from the Trianon?’ she asked. ‘They say he is the best. They say he is the only gardener in France to have seen these plants of New Holland growing in the wild.’
Bonaparte murmured into the nape of her neck.
‘I shall have those seeds, and I shall be the first to grow them in European soil, you mark my words.’ There, she had declared it; she had declared her ambition. It felt dangerous to be so bold, to be audacious enough to want some recognition for herself.
‘They would not dare to defy you,’ he breathed against her ear, ‘if I were emperor.’
Chills flew down the side of her neck. She shrugged away from his whispering breath. Emperor. Not this again. Was Fouché or Talleyrand putting these ideas in his head? It was bad enough that Bonaparte had made them conduct a royal tour earlier that summer. She had been made to parade about the country wearing Marie-Antoinette’s crown jewels. It would’ve stirred hatred, she was certain, but her husband would not listen to her fears.
Bonaparte turned her about and nuzzled her breast. ‘All this talk of seeds reminds me: it is time to plant my own.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Autumn 1803
Labillardière strode along the avenues of the Jardins des Plantes. He had made great progress of late and was close to completing his botanical descriptions for his volume on the flora of Van Diemen’s Land. When it was published it would cement his place here at the museum. He knew that the other savants did not warm to him, but it did not concern him unduly. All the truly great minds were at some stage forced to work in isolation, unrecognised and underappreciated. When he published the first of his papers they would have to take his work seriously, perhaps give him a better office on a floor with serious-minded colleagues. It was too easy to be overlooked when he was banished to this attic.
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