Félix had been called to Paris to collect a duplicate set of seeds from the first Baudin ship. He was made to report to the Jardin des Plantes, where Thouin lectured him to ensure that Félix understood his obligations. He would share his knowledge and all progeny of successful germination with the Jardin des Plantes in Paris. He would not, under any circumstances, release these seeds to the consul’s wife. He must make propagation of the Eucalyptus globulus seeds his priority.
Of course Félix had tried to grow the eucalyptus at the Trianon—first with his own collection of gumnuts and then those the Jardin des Plantes had given him. He could not bring himself to admit to them that he had failed. It was humiliating. He could not even get close; the gumnuts held their seeds as tight as a clenched fist.
Félix had not broken any promises to the Jardin des Plantes even with his appointment to Malmaison. The Empress had secured her own share of the second shipment of seeds for him to grow, and so far Félix had had no success with the Van Diemen’s Land blue gum to share with anyone.
Perhaps he should do as Anne suggested and take a hammer to them. It would make him feel better. He hated that he had made her anxious, but he feared she was right to worry: gardeners were dismissed easily when fashions changed or they could not achieve what they had promised. He would lose his position here if he could not get these trees to grow.
Félix laid the button-shaped nuts out on a tray, giving each one glum consideration. His wife had changed since the loss of their child and he didn’t know how to bring her back. She shrugged away from his touch when once she had been warm and inviting. They had no intimacy. She was hurting and he had no way of helping her, no words that were right. She would not speak of it. He wanted to hold her close, to tell her that she was safe, that everything would be alright. If he could get these seeds to grow that would be something. But where to start? How could he get these capsules to open?
Félix closed his eyes. He remembered the excitement of finding the gumnuts on the forest floor. Van Diemen’s Land. Such a foreign landscape. That hard, dry ground. The hot blast of that summer wind. The failure of the vegetable garden he had planted came back to him in a vivid recollection of shame. The devastation of cracked earth, crunchy leaves. The garden would have been parched that summer with no one there to water it. Those seeds of potato, chervil, parsley and radish had sprouted but barely grown. The humiliation he felt when Labillardière gave him his look of disdain. ‘You must be an imbecile to plant seed so far from moisture.’
In the hothouses, sweat formed along his brow and stuck his shirt to his back. It was humid and hard to breathe in this moist air. He snatched up the nuts and ground them against one another in his palm. He needed them to open.
And then he had it. He had uttered the solution himself. He had to mimic nature.
This place was nothing like the dry heat of Van Diemen’s Land that summer; this greenhouse was too hot and wet. The nuts required the right conditions to release their seeds. He needed somewhere hot and dry. He cast about in his mind. Something Labillardière had complained about triggered his thoughts: his office in the attic was unbearable in the heat. An attic space. An attic would be warm and dry.
Félix swept all the gumnuts from the bench into his hand and half skipped as he rushed out of the nursery and made for the village.
In the cobbled square, his boys were playing, tossing stones into the well with the other village children. He did not call to them. At the end of the lane, he saw their home, a faux-Swiss terrace house with a steep shingle roof and wide eaves above a tiny attic window with shutters that were always closed, like a cuckoo clock that no longer told the time.
Félix climbed the ladder and opened the hatch into the attic. It was dark and he had not thought to bring a candle. It didn’t matter. He crawled into the space, not going further than the stretch of the light from the door, and unrolled a length of canvas. He gently placed the gumnuts on top of it. He talked to them as if they were his children. He hoped they would be comfortable. Giddy with hope, he even blew them a little kiss.
Anne held her breath in the dark corner, praying that her husband would not find her like this. That his eyes would not grow accustomed to the dark and he would not look around and find her sitting here, arms wrapped around her shins, helpless as a worm-addled sheep. She hated this woman she had become, this weakling. What would her sisters think of her? Her mother? She would have no patience for this silliness. All the women of her family were strong and competent. Practical women. To be relied upon in a crisis. It was the helplessness that she hated most about her state, this awful, dreadful terror that something bad would happen to them all and she was powerless to stop it.
She pressed the sockets of her eyes to her bent knees, holding her breath as Félix slammed the hatch closed behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Summer 1805
‘Are you here to buy or just lick the windows?’ a shopkeeper yelled. Marthe jolted back to the Paris street. She had been standing in a daze, staring vacantly into the window of an épicerie. She shook herself, stepping back. The merchant was glaring at her. She mumbled her apologies and moved on, feeling a sudden thirst, something to put the fire into her belly. But it was impossible for a respectable woman to enter the sort of place that might give her that fire.
Marthe now spent her days wandering the streets. At the start of the year, Jacques had moved them to a fine house on Boulevard Montmartre, on the outskirts of Paris. His intent, no doubt, was to keep her far away from the Jardin des Plantes, but Marthe didn’t mind; it gave her new territory to explore. She found a little park, uncared for and made dark by the thickness of the trees around the perimeter. Its paths were unswept and there was refuse piled up in the forgotten corners. Marthe liked to visit on the sunniest of days, when the shadows of the trees were at their blackest.
She came so often to her park that she felt she knew the regulars by now. Those men and women who came here every day to sit and drink and share the hours of the day. How long those days must seem. Today the lizards have come out, she thought, observing the old drunks lying on park benches and basking in the sun. An old man she recognised, with a full grey beard and bedraggled mane, lay stretched out. He had taken off his shirt and his ribs were protruding upwards to the sky, his stomach caving away.
The old man coughed, like a gargle of thunder, and Marthe jumped. He shook his finger at the sky, chest bared, speaking to God. And then his hand fell back, palm upwards, fingers twitching. She wondered what he was thinking as he lay there. His friends were in their usual place, arguing and singing, holding court beneath the trees. Wisely, they left the sleeping drunks where they lay.
Marthe had taken a seat on the bench opposite them. She wasn’t afraid to come to this park alone, even though there were few other respectable women who would venture in. Here the children were unkempt and ungoverned, holding sticks like spears and poking under the lily pads to gaze into the thick, green water of the pond. As if any life there had not already been harried and chased from existence.
She fed the pigeons morsels of bread from the baguette on her lap until she saw the sour-faced glare of a veteran. He still wore part of his uniform to cover his broken body. She wrapped up the bread in her napkin and passed it to him as he wheeled himself past on a trolley.
Marthe listened to the songs from the hoarse voices beneath the trees and watched the group pass liquor between them. She could almost smell it. Brandy or rum? she wondered. Or something else, distilled in secret and not yet given a name. She shifted in her seat, temptation pulling her towards the merry flock.
A man, a soldier, walked stiffly through the park. He did not approach the group of drunks. They jeered and squawked at him, but he walked slowly, deliberately, like each step needed careful thought. Perhaps he was in pain, though Marthe saw no outward sign of injury. He was not young, but not yet old. He seemed strong and fit. He carried a canvas bag and the way he clutched the handles tight gave the
impression that it bore all his worldly goods. A world now shrunk enough to fit into a small canvas roll bag.
The soldier took a seat not far from her. She watched him pull out bread and take a bite. He ate in the same slow way that he walked, chewing deliberately. He stared directly ahead, his eyes hidden by his low cap. What was wrong with him, she wondered, a soldier surely still fit enough to fall and die in one of Napoleon’s wars? It was said the Emperor needed eighty thousand new conscripts for his wars against Austria and Britain. Why was this soldier here, in a park on the edge of Paris?
A flicker of movement drew her eye. A woman left the dark trees and shook the old bearded man lying prone on his bench. He startled away at her touch, clutching his shirt defensively in case she had come to steal it. She put her hands on her hips and stared down at him. He rolled away from her gaze.
Marthe thought of standing then. She licked her lips. She thought of approaching this woman with her long grey hair and tattered dress. The woman might open her arms and invite her in. She might go back with her to the group in the trees. They would call out and sing to her, like nightingales. And pass her the nectar.
The old man vomited. From the group, a big, bearded man rose unsteadily to his feet and brought a folded napkin to wipe the old man’s face. He was surprisingly gentle in his movements. When he finished wiping the vomit from the man’s chin and neck, he stood, swaying a little and stroking his beard. Then the woman stood before him and the big gentle man leaned his forehead against her and they swayed together, holding one another up.
Marthe blinked away tears. She almost stood, longing to join this group beneath the trees. But fear held her back. She was afraid she would not be welcomed. Better to be lonely than face the possibility that even these ruined drudges would not want her among them. She licked her lips again and saw the soldier watching her. He did not bother to look away. They stared at one another and all she could think of was her young husband Michel and the life that could have been.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Summer 1805
‘It is so good to see you,’ Félix lied, ushering Labillardière and his wife into their home. Anne came out of the kitchen, removing an apron, flicking grey feathers from her clothes. She looked bewildered. Félix gave her an apologetic smile. Once the arrival of unexpected visitors would not have concerned her. But now? He could not say. Félix studied Anne’s face. She was astonished but not alarmed by the arrival. He felt himself breathe more evenly.
‘The Eucalyptus globulus,’ said Labillardière, coming straight to the point.
Félix felt a spray of sweat burst along his upper lip.
‘Coffee?’ Anne asked.
Félix smiled his thanks, grateful for the distraction.
‘The Eucalyptus globulus that I discovered in Van Diemen’s Land,’ Labillardière began again.
‘That we both found,’ Félix stressed.
‘That I described in my publications,’ Labillardière countered. ‘How have you progressed with the cultivation?’
Félix had been afraid of this. Automatically his eyes shot upwards towards the ceiling. In his mind’s eye he climbed three flights of stairs and crawled into the attic space, where his capsules of the blue gum tree were drying in the heat. Two weeks had passed and the capsules had begun to crack. With the gentle encouragement of a pocket knife he had prised one apart and simply shaken the small brown seeds onto his open palm.
It was a miracle. He cried out for Anne, closing his hand over the precious seeds. He ran down to her, finding her sitting among the cygnets on the scullery floor, and all their faces turned up to him. He thrust out his fist, unfurled his fingers, amazed to see the proof still caught in the hollow of his palm. ‘Anne,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve done it.’
‘We have had no success at germinating the seeds so far,’ Félix said cautiously. It was not a lie, but it was not the whole truth either. He had the seeds, he just had not planted them. ‘And you?’ Although he knew the answer. His friend would not be here if he did not need some information. Unless, Félix wondered, he had come to gloat.
‘Thouin sent me to see how you fared. The gardeners at the Jardin des Plantes have had no luck in releasing the seed from the nuts.’ The botanist picked at some dry skin on the heel of his hand. ‘We hoped you might be further advanced.’
Félix felt the wetness beneath his armpits. Now was his opportunity to speak of his success. He opened his mouth but the words would not come. Why wouldn’t he share his information with his friend, or with André Thouin, his mentor, a man to whom he owed his entire career? Félix wrestled with his conscience. He belonged to Malmaison now, he was the chief gardener, tasked with developing Empress Josephine’s collection. His loyalty should be to the Empress first and foremost, and she would not like it if he divulged the information before he had shared it with her. Empress Josephine was still away at Plombières and there had been no word of her return. But if he was truthful with himself, it was not only that. A kernel of competitive spirit must have taken root inside him. Perhaps it was the moment he shook those seeds free of their capsule and felt the euphoria of success. He had done this thing, he had found the solution, not the Jardin des Plantes. This success was his to own.
He looked to Anne as she brought in a tray, his precious, shining Anne, and he was relieved to see that today she had found a way to smile.
Labillardière and his wife were distracted with taking coffee, a slice of seedcake, and Félix composed himself. He would keep his knowledge secret. Labillardière did not suspect. How could he?
‘This summer has been infernal.’ Labillardière was showing Anne his hands, complaining about the dry heat in his attic offices. ‘I bake in the summer months. The dryness of the air makes my skin split open.’
Again Félix thought of the gumnuts, bursting in his attic space. He should speak up, he should tell his old friend what he had discovered, yet his voice was obstinate. He felt a selfish need to remain silent.
Anne was offering Labillardière a remedy, some rosehip oil. ‘I have a vial to spare if you would like it.’
Labillardière looked charmed, occupied with massaging the oil into the cracks of his palms. Félix racked his brain for a more wet and humid topic to distract his thoughts from the dry attic.
He glanced at Marthe for the first time. She was staring out of the window at his boys taking the cygnets down to the lake. The boys had cared for them like children but now it was time for them to be released. The cygnets were tall, beginning to sprout their adult plumage, and they followed his boys in a waddling line as they passed by in the street.
‘Shall we go down to the lake,’ Félix suggested, ‘to see the swans?’
Marthe gasped and sat bolt upright, knocking her coffee cup from her knee. Félix started. The cup snapped with a crack like a dried wishbone.
Marthe had been dreaming when she dropped the cup, the conversation boring her. She was annoyed that Jacques had insisted she come with him. Did he think her presence here would make this visit seem like a social occasion rather than an interrogation? She was tired of this obsession with growing plants in places they were not supposed to be and frightened that he had brought her to see Anne’s new baby.
Where was the child? Marthe had wondered on first entering their home. Anne had been pregnant last time they met and now she was not. Marthe saw no evidence of a toddler, heard no sound, but perhaps here in this fake Swiss village there were fake Swiss nannies to care for it.
Marthe looked out through the distorted whorls of blown glass to the village street. Anne’s two boys walked past with a troop of swans waddling behind. The birds were ugly with their gangly long necks and patches of shedding fluff. She could see some of the birds would be white and others black when they came into their plumage. The older boy led the way, sun-freckled and chalky-haired, swinging his arms. The younger boy followed, round-faced and pink-cheeked like his mother. His pale hair poked out like errant straw from a nest, as if he could no
t sit still for his mother’s shears. She watched the procession pass by the window until the last cygnet moved out of her line of sight.
Marthe imagined them gathering at the edge of the lake. The birds would be nervous at first. Perhaps this was their first swim. At the lake edge they would pause, step over each other’s webbed feet. Two of the cygnets would rear back, taking issue with one another, honking and barking with necks raised high. Until one of them, the bravest one, pushed its chest into the water and kicked. She imagined it like a white sailing boat, gliding across the water. What would that moment feel like, she wondered, to realise that the ground beneath your feet was not after all your true home? That the awkward way you walked on the earth was not how you had to be and this wet and foreign surface was instead where you belonged?
Marthe saw herself in a billowing white dress, walking through the reeds and out into the lake. She looked down at her wavering reflection. Anne’s boys were standing beside her; she saw their small round faces. Looking into the water was like looking through the panes of blown glass in the window, distorted, indistinct. She saw herself raise her arms around the two boys and curl her hands around their necks. And then she was drowning them. Pushing the boys under the water, holding them down while they thrashed and kicked.
She gasped and dropped her cup in horror, sickened by her own imaginings. Who dreamed such things? Only a madwoman.
Her fingers fluttered to her mouth.
What terrors am I capable of?
As the cup shattered like a gunshot, Anne jumped to her feet. Marthe had gone sheet white.
Josephine's Garden Page 27