Marthe looked around for Dominic but caught the eye of the old man behind his stall, watching her.
‘For your grandson?’ he asked.
That stung. Her sharp intake of breath pinched her nostrils. How old she must now look with her thin, caving chest and her greying hair pulled back beneath her hat. But she nodded, hunting in her purse for coins, and paid him for the soldier doll, laying him gently in her basket.
Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a face she recognised. She noticed the woman’s hands in their dirty white gloves. Were they all here? she wondered, looking around for the one-eyed man. Had all the Clandestine come to watch her? Fingers would not meet her eye, scurrying past with her gloved hands gripped in front of her. Why didn’t Dominic tell her they were here? The trade was faster and louder now, people sensing the need to be quick, not knowing how much the visiting mouths of Malmaison might take from them. Her heart was fluttering too, this urgency affecting her. She couldn’t see Dominic in the shifting crowd.
And then she heard the chef’s booming voice. ‘The Empress’s favourite!’ He clapped his hands to draw his sous chefs to him. ‘Tonight we will have a rhubarb parfait to toast her return.’
‘How much?’ squeaked the boy in his dirty striped apron.
‘Four boxes should be sufficient. The Emperor himself despises rhubarb. For him, we will take the apples.’
Marthe heard no more. She felt the blood drain from her face. Her mouth had fallen open. She found Dominic, his gaze reaching out to her from behind crates of white-plumed ducks. His eyes were shadowed by his brow, but she could feel the force of them, and the question that sparked the air between them.
They climbed the stairs two at a time and burst into their room. Dominic locked the door behind them and Marthe whirled away, almost falling over the iron bed. The blood had returned to her features. It felt like her cheeks were flaming. She pulled the curtains open a crack, and pushed up the sash window, letting the cool air reach her face. The sun was rising higher and it would not be long before the day would become insufferably warm.
‘I’m not ready,’ she said.
Dominic was silent. She heard the bed groan and knew that he had sat on it. When she turned her head a fraction she could see him bending forward, resting his forehead in his hand.
‘This could be the only chance we have of getting close to him.’ Dominic’s voice was soft and sad. ‘But it must be your decision.’
She opened her mouth to say she could not do it. But then she faltered. She had a vision of the Emperor standing in the forest. She had dreamed this. The leaves were falling away. She could see through the trees as they were shivering and shaking themselves naked. There was nothing between her and him. She was lifting her bow, pulling the string, feeling the arrow shaft against her cheek.
Dominic was waiting for her to speak. She was swaying, she needed to sit. She staggered backwards and sank onto the bed. Their backs pressed to one another.
Her breath was coming in gulps now, there was no way to stop it. If she did this it would be certain suicide. And if she were taken alive, then torture. Dominic was in danger too. How could he know that she would not release his name to stop the pain?
‘Think of all the men you will save. All the families. All the children,’ he said.
Hot tears were falling down her cheeks. Was she brave enough? Did she have so little to lose?
Dominic reached out with his hand and she felt his rough fingers close around hers.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Spring 1809
Anne busied herself with laundry, tossing sage leaves into the hot water to perfume the sheets and keep the insects and vermin away. Félix had reminded her they had servants to do their chores and urged her to rest, but there was something satisfying about stirring the linens in the boiling coppers. She liked hauling the hot, steaming mounds of sheets to the line, didn’t even mind how it flushed her face and turned her hands like boiled lobster. Her hands looked like her mother’s hands now. Capable.
‘You shouldn’t work so hard,’ Félix had scolded. ‘Not now.’
It was hard to bear his worried eyes following her about.
‘Putting my feet up didn’t save the last one, did it.’ The words were spoken in haste and the moment they left her tongue she regretted them. Félix had retreated behind the steam of the boiling copper.
Anne had lost another baby the year before. Lost before it began. Like a seed rotting in its pot. That’s how Anne thought of it now that she had become hardened to their loss. A graft that didn’t take. That made three of her babies lost somewhere, and two not even large enough to bury. God must be punishing me for my selfishness, she thought, by giving me babies then taking each one away. Only a selfish woman who thought too much of herself was afraid of giving birth.
Anne shook out the sheet with a slap. She took pegs from her apron and fastened it tight to the line. She firmed her lips. There was little hope for this one. She would not have told Félix except he had guessed to see her off her food and turn ill at the smell of frying fish.
Félix had been thrilled at the thought of life growing in her belly. ‘We will have a girl,’ he said proudly. ‘Won’t you like that?’
‘Do not say anything to the Empress,’ Anne warned.
‘She would be happy for us.’
‘All the same.’ Anne knew her husband did not understand the hurt this news might bring. ‘Not yet, not until we are sure.’
The boys ran in and out of the sheets hiding from one another. They were still young enough to enjoy being around her feet, but that would not last long. Another few years and they would be old enough to take on an apprenticeship. She watched them wrestling one another in the mud, dogs barking and wanting to join in, chickens scattering. What would they grow up to be? she wondered. Félix wanted them to go away to school. Be lawyers or savants. But her boys were not made for books. Both their parents worked with their hands and secretly she hoped they would find a position here on the estate and learn to be farmers. The world always needed food.
Washing basket empty, she closed her eyes, folded her hands over the tiny child in her belly, and prayed. She prayed for it to live.
When she opened her eyes, Marthe was standing in her yard.
‘Marthe!’ Anne stepped back, taking in the familiar thin frame, high forehead and intense stare. It had been so long since Anne had seen her. There had been no correspondence in over a year, not even a card at Christmas. Her arm was stretched out with a doll clasped in her fist.
‘I found this at the market,’ she said, offering the toy soldier. ‘For the boys.’
For the boys to fight over, Anne thought. And it stirred another dormant fear. The thought that her sons might end up in one of Napoleon’s armies.
Anne saw the boys were standing quietly, bodies close to one another, watching. There was something in Marthe that inspired caution.
‘What are you doing here? I mean what a lovely surprise. Is Jacques here?’
Marthe shook her head. ‘I came alone. I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to stay for a few days. Would it be an awful imposition?’
Anne was lost for words. She turned to her boys and encouraged them to thank Mme Labillardière for her gift. Marthe’s face was grim as they took the doll from her hands. Anne frowned.
‘Come inside,’ she said, recovering herself.
Marthe had come through the back door of the walled yard and Anne could not say whether she had crossed the fields or come up along the village street. Her appearance had seemed so miraculous.
Inside, Anne showed Marthe to the spare room.
‘Settle yourself in and I will go find Félix. He is not normally so late for his lunch. He will be as pleased and surprised as I with your visit.’
Marthe caught Anne’s hand in thanks. ‘I hope to be of service to you while I stay,’ Marthe said. ‘Do let me help you with the boys.’
‘Of course, they would like that,’ Anne lied.
She wrenched her hand free of Marthe’s grip then turned back, feeling guilty at her reaction. ‘We eat informally here,’ Anne said at the door. ‘I will go and see where my husband has got to.’
Anne covered the distance between her home and the hothouses at a pace so far unmatched. Her skirts caught around her feet and she hitched them up as she ran. She saw the carts returning from the market in Rueil. The Empress must be coming for the weekend, Anne realised, and tonight there would be a feast. No doubt Félix was readying the nursery for her inspection. A zebra took fright and bolted down the slope as Anne ran past.
She could barely speak when she reached the nursery. The workers all looked up, startled, as Anne bent over and caught her breath. Félix rushed to her, putting his hand on her belly.
‘It’s not the baby,’ Anne said, still panting. ‘It’s Marthe.’
‘Marthe?’
‘She is in our house.’
‘With Labillardière?’ Félix looked stunned. Anne knew their friendship had been strained by her husband’s success with the eucalyptus; they had not seen one another since that day Labillardière came to see the blue gums. Satisfied, he now seemed in no further need of her husband.
Anne shook her head. ‘Alone. Perhaps she has left him?’
‘No, surely nothing as drastic as that.’
‘He would not be an easy man to live with.’
‘But she has managed it so long.’
Anne struggled to imagine what their marriage was like. No marriage was easy, but at least she had known warmth and companionship, and love. Her marriage felt as comforting as hand-thrown pottery beneath the palm, even with the cracks and chips that had formed of late. You can’t expect a thing, after almost a decade of use, to be as good as new. But these people were all sharp edges and cut glass—the slightest knock and one was bound to shatter. ‘Every woman has her breaking point.’
He shook his head. ‘They are happy in their way. Besides, where would she go?’
They looked at one another, eyes opening wide. ‘Here?’
United, they gripped one another’s hands and hurried back towards the village.
Lunch was a simple affair around the kitchen table. The cook had prepared ragoût. They had bread and cheese and the last of the winter beets and cabbages from the market.
‘Wasn’t much left,’ Bernice explained, tossing her head towards the château.
Félix cleared his throat. ‘Will you be visiting long, Mme Labillardière?’
‘As long as I’m needed.’
Anne threw a panicked glance at Félix.
‘Kind of you. Very kind of you to visit. Is he well, your husband?’
‘Quite well, thank you. Busy as ever with his researches.’
Félix bobbed his head foolishly.
Marthe turned to the boys. ‘Perhaps this afternoon we might play a game of hide-and-seek? Give your mother space for a couple of hours?’
The boys nodded vigorously, still unsure of their visitor, but eager for any sort of game.
Marthe’s face lit up. ‘You can show me all the best places to hide.’
Marthe was a patient woman. She was used to waiting and watching and was pleased this dense foliage of palm fronds, ferns and broadleaved hostas screened her from view. Tickling her bare neck was a soft maidenhair fern. She was thankful she had worn her favourite green dress for the occasion.
The conservatory was humid and a spray of sweat moistened Marthe’s upper lip. Above her head, orchids curled down from hanging baskets. There was something animalistic about their creeping form. The pink flowers, advancing on long stems as though tasting the air with their red tongues hanging out. Alone in the hothouse, she risked movement. She reached out to touch one of the fleshy mouths. The petals were surprisingly thick and rough, like a cat’s tongue, not velvety as she had imagined.
By night this place would take on a supernatural air, Marthe thought. Perhaps the creeping orchids would become animated. Perhaps the dangling pots would swing across the ceiling like dancing partners and the orchids kiss and twirl around one another.
Then she saw the lily of the valley, with its tiny white bells on long stems. The white teardrop bells looked so sweet and innocent. She remembered the tradition of giving a sprig of lily of the valley to a friend on the first of May. She must have been a child when she last did that. Who would she give the flowers to now?
A heavy door swung open and Marthe almost squealed in shock. She held her breath as the group entered at the far end. The Empress. Marthe scanned their faces, knowing she would recognise the Emperor if he was among them. The Prussian visitors walked slowly, tall backs bent, inspecting the flowers and chatting in their hard tongue. The Emperor was not with them. Marthe watched the door, steeling herself for the Emperor to follow. At the far end of the glasshouse, she saw the Lahaie children run in through another door. They stopped and giggled at a statue of a monkey peeing into a pond before dashing out again.
Marthe stood motionless. She waited while the Empress singled out her favourite plants to her visitors, recited the Latin names of each one, and made them smell her Martinique jasmine. The azaleas were in flower, bright bursts of pink and purple. Marthe frowned. It was too early. This forcing of plants to bloom all year round was unnatural. These people must control and dominate everyone and everything, she thought, with heat rising in her chest. It felt good to remind herself of that.
The knife was in a pocket of her sleeve. If the chance presented itself she would be ready, no matter who was there to witness it. She had watched Dominic sharpen its blade against the whetstone. ‘You will have to be quick and precise,’ he said, pointing to the place on his own neck where she should strike. Marthe had reached out and gently touched her finger to his pulse.
Later, she had brought the tip of the knife to her own skin, imagining plunging it in, quick and hard. It was the only way. They would kill her anyway, afterwards. After torture. After she had revealed the names of her friends. Of Dominic.
In the glasshouse, the air was fusty and becoming hard to breathe. Marthe watched the door, her breathing short, expecting the Emperor to appear any moment and join the Empress. Sweat trickled from her temples. Fires must’ve been stoked to keep this unnatural heat. Through the foliage, Marthe glimpsed the Empress and her visitors pass through the Grand Serre and out into the garden. She waited, watching the door, her heart bruising against her breastbone. Minutes passed. The Emperor did not come. Her breath gushed out, her feelings in turmoil. Had she wanted the Emperor to come into this hothouse or not?
She started as the doors swung open once again. Two men now entered the conservatory, their voices lowered, heads bent together. One was dressed in a fine satin waistcoat and the other in a military jacket. As they drew closer, she saw the insignia of the chief of police. Fouché. She had heard tales of him. Of his ruthlessness. Instinctively, she backed further into the foliage, hoping they could not see the whiteness of her eyes. I am playing a game with children, she practised saying in her head. Would they believe her if they found the paring knife secreted in her sleeve?
The men paused not far from where Marthe was hiding. She held her breath, biting her lip. The chief of police was speaking. ‘It is infuriating. He will not make up his mind, Talleyrand! We both know he must divorce her.’
The man in the satin waistcoat nodded solemnly. ‘He would be free to marry his Polish mistress. She is young.’
Fouché laughed. ‘All of Europe throws itself at his feet. He could pick and choose among them. I dread to think what the Queen of Prussia has offered to get half her kingdom back.’
Marthe heard their quiet snickering. Her nose twitched. The musty fungus smell of the hothouse threatened to make her sneeze. She dared not move her hand to pinch her nostrils.
‘Young Catherine of Russia, perhaps? They say she is a rare beauty.’
‘I care not for her beauty. All she needs to have is a functioning womb.’
A snort from Talleyrand. ‘But he i
s not free,’ he said meaningfully.
‘Not yet,’ the chief of police replied. ‘If the Empress were to die, well, it would remove many difficulties.’
Marthe felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for the Empress. Cast out for her childlessness. Her life in danger because she was barren. But the feeling did not last long. This woman had long enjoyed the fruits of her association with the beast. By tomorrow she would know what it felt like to be twice widowed.
‘Of course, this Polish tart must become pregnant first. He needs to prove he can sire a son.’
Fouché nodded his agreement. ‘His chance should come again soon enough. She is meeting him in Vienna. He has left Paris for the campaign in Austria.’
‘For Austria!’ Talleyrand sounded shocked. ‘He is not joining the Empress here?’
Marthe reeled back. Her foot scraped against a heavy pot. She dared not move again. The men had not heard her; they continued to whisper to one another as they walked through the Grand Serre and disappeared from sight. The door closed with a metal clang. The Emperor was not at Malmaison. Her chance was lost.
Marthe bent double, her breath as deep and loud as a bellows. She could have avenged Michel. She could have made her existence mean something. She should feel disappointment and despair. And yet she felt relief. Then shame. Was she truly brave enough for this task?
At the far end of the glasshouse, a figure shifted on a sofa. Marthe had not noticed the girl before, lying motionless in her white dress. But now, as she stared down the length of the hall, she realised the creature was not a girl. She recognised the ape that her husband had once visited in the menagerie of the Jardin des Plantes. How many apes wore frills and ribbons? Despite her shattered nerves, despite all she had intended to do here today, that memory surged forward, piercing her with its clarity and sharpness. It was a revelation to find it still pained her to think of the softness in her husband’s voice. The ape stretched up her chestnut arm and scratched beneath her armpit. Marthe watched transfixed as the ape turned her head to her and lowered her arm to point directly at Marthe’s heart. I see you.
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