The Queen's Fortune

by Allison Pataki

  “Where do you think, madame?” he asked, his eyes lit with a rakish twinkle. “To our bedroom, of course. That drive was far too long.”

  I couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh, you need a rest?”

  “I did not say anything about resting,” he answered, picking up his pace. At the end of the hallway the master suite loomed, and Bernadotte kicked the double doors open. In the center of the room was a massive mahogany bed with a silk canopy and heavy damask bedcovers. Upholstered armchairs and a sofa formed a small seating area. There was a tall mirror and a silk dressing screen. From the mantel came the soft click of an ormolu boudoir clock. My husband turned us toward the bed. “Time to christen our marital chamber, ma chérie.”

  Bernadotte lay me down, the plush pillows absorbing our bodies as we laughed and struggled with my husband’s boots and heavy uniform. “I might need your help, Madame Bernadotte, in shedding all of these trappings. Unless you want me to call my valet in.”

  “I am here to serve you, monsieur.”

  We spent a delicious afternoon together, oblivious of all else that happened in the house or the outside world. Afterward, I lay in his arms, Bernadotte’s thick, rough finger tracing a gentle line up and down my bare, goose-pimpled back. “The servants must think we are mad,” I said, chuckling. “We arrive and yet they barely catch a glimpse of us.”

  “We are mad,” he said, rolling me toward him. “At least, I am. I am mad for you, Desiree.”

  I was overcome for a moment. By the fact that he said it, and more so by the fact that I knew I could believe him. But then, collecting myself, I voiced the question that had been weighing on my mind in recent days: “Why me?”

  He looked at me askance. I could tell that the question had surprised him.

  “Why are you so kind to me?” I asked, clarifying. “Why have you chosen me for such a love?” My hair tumbled around my bare shoulders and pale, exposed breasts, and I noticed how distracted he was. But then he looked back to my face, answering: “I could just as easily ask you the same thing.”

  He reached for me but I swatted his hand away. “That night at the ball, there were so many women. You could have had any of them. Why choose a naïve younger sister with no friends in Paris?”

  He lay back, resting his head against a plush pillow. Eventually, looking up at the silk canopy of the bed, he asked: “If I tell you something, will you promise not to get angry?”

  I felt my body stiffen. Such questions rarely boded well. “Will you?” he repeated.

  I nodded. “All right.”

  “Well…” His exhale was audible.

  “Yes?” I asked. “What is it?”

  “He…told me that he wanted to see you married. I don’t take my orders from him, but I told him I would at least consider it. Allow the introduction. That was, of course, before I met you.”

  The words hit me like a blow, and had I not already been lying flat, I’m certain my legs would have given out. He wanted to see me married? There could be little question as to the identity of this he. My stomach clenched harder than stone. Could this really be true? Napoleon had arranged this match? Just as he’d attempted to arrange the match with Duphot? My body instinctively slid away from Bernadotte’s. I pulled the bedcovers over my breasts as I felt my veins swell with rapid and furious blood. So Bernadotte had not pursued me on his own interest, but rather as a favor—or in obedience—to Napoleon? I was going to be sick.

  “Now, there, there. You promised.” He pulled for me, but I resisted his embrace.

  “Must that man control absolutely everything?” I snapped, shifting away from him. “From our governmental affairs down to the father of his ex-fiancée’s children?”

  “I regret telling you because I think it gives you the wrong idea,” Bernadotte said, his tone conciliatory, even as I felt myself grow more enraged. My face burned hot with shame. He continued: “Desiree, I fear that now you might believe that perhaps I wasn’t interested in you of my own accord. I can assure you, I was.”

  “Only because he had told you of me. What else did he say? Did he share the private moments of our intimate encounters, too?” My voice was a sharp hiss. I was mortified. Was that all Bernadotte wanted from me? He knew Napoleon had had me and had given his approval?

  “Hardly, Desiree.” Bernadotte’s face blanched. “It mattered little what he said to me. I made up my own mind. I introduced myself because of his suggestion, I’ll admit that. But the conversation never would have continued past that if the interest on my part had not been genuine. Believe me, it was.”

  I felt tears sting my eyes, but I refused to let him see them. I would let neither him nor Napoleon make me cry. Fool! I had allowed myself to trust. To love. To believe that this man could be different and to believe that I could finally be free of Napoleon Bonaparte and his autocracy. What was next—for the two of them to compare boudoir notes?

  Bernadotte tugged on my shoulder. “Please, Desiree.”

  “Do not touch me.” I jerked away, trying to writhe from his grasp and out of bed, but he was stronger, and he did not let me go. Instead, with a strong but gentle grip, Bernadotte turned me toward him. “Hear this,” he said. I protested, shouting, “Let me go!”

  “Hear this and then I will let you go. Napoleon did love you once, and you loved him in return. And he did tell me of your charms and that I’d be fortunate to court you.” He paused, his dark eyes suddenly full of feeling, pleading with me. My breath quivered. Bernadotte continued, “We can’t change that, Desiree. But we can allow ourselves to be happy together. Desiree, my wife, please, allow me to make you happy, because I do love you. More than I had imagined possible. And that has nothing to do with Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  Chapter 17

  Paris

  Fall 1798

  AND SO I DID JUST that: I trusted, and I allowed my Bernadotte, my husband, to love me. His actions more than his words coaxed me back into faith once more. As with the courtship, he proved dependable and consistent, and I came to relish the small, inconsequential moments of our marriage, the moments both unplanned and routine, made possible only through intimacy and comfort with another individual—my cold foot finding the warm, bare crook of his leg under the bedcovers in the dark of night; the first kiss of the morning, both of us still hazy with slumber; breakfast together at the table, his hand reaching across to pour cream into my coffee. I came to know his smile and what would prompt it; I learned to delight in the gentle squeeze he would place on my waist as he passed me in the corridor of our home—our little secret, an exchange in which the servants buzzing around us were not included.

  The overpowering presence of Napoleon and Josephine—their violent tempests that had loomed so large over nearly every aspect of my life before Bernadotte—had receded, allowing me to settle happily into this new family of mine. We were a good match, Bernadotte and I, and we were relishing our joy, the simple pleasures of our small domestic sphere.

  Though I was a married woman and therefore entitled to savor my breakfast and coffee on a tray in bed, in the languid comfort of my dressing gown, I often rose early to join my husband at the table. I savored that time with him preceding his morning departure for his offices. My husband was busy, and his days away from me were long, for Bernadotte had just recently been named Minister of War. He was good at his job; within months he had rooted out much of the corruption and incompetence in the army bureaucracy. The people read the journal reports of how Bernadotte worked diligently to make sure our troops across the Continent were well-supplied and well-fed. That salaries were paid in full and on time. How Bernadotte was an honest man, a patriotic man, a capable man, a good man.

  All of this served to give my husband a satisfying sense of purpose, and I could tell that the people’s approval warmed his soldier’s blood; when Parisians called out to our passing coach such praises as “Vive Bernadotte!” he smiled like
a giddy young man—and I beamed at his side.

  Not only did the War Ministry appointment come with a reliable, generous salary, but the position was more likely to keep my husband at home in the capital, rather than on some assignment abroad to the Rhine or the Alps. And as the summer heat gave way to the cooler, shorter days of autumn, I certainly wanted my husband home with me, more than ever—for I found out that we were expecting a baby.

  Our marriage was only several months old, but we’d grown close as man and wife, and we’d conceived quickly. Only Julie knew my news; I’d dreaded telling her, given the many years through which she’d struggled, so far unsuccessfully, to have a baby of her own. But, as she was my darling sister, she’d reacted in the only way she knew how—with kindness, with joy for my joy, masking whatever pain or envy she might have so naturally felt.

  I had chosen that morning to tell my husband. I waited until the servants left us alone in the small, sunny breakfast room. Bernadotte was making his way through a stack of newspapers, both French and British, but here was my opening. “My darling, I realize that you must read each morning, to keep abreast of events within France and abroad.”

  “Indeed.” He offered his distracted agreement and kept reading, sipping his coffee as he did so.

  “It might become a bit harder for you to read in the mornings,” I ventured.

  He still did not look my way. I continued: “It will be louder at the table. You’ll soon have new distractions.”

  Finally he glanced up from the journal, eyeing me, unsure of my meaning. An arch of his eyebrow indicated his confusion. “When the baby arrives, that is,” I said.

  He blinked a moment, lowering the paper. And then understanding broke across his features, giving way to a wide, hopeful smile. “Is that so?”

  I nodded, donning my own bashful grin. “A baby?” he asked, his tone tenuous.

  Again I nodded.

  At that, my Bernadotte let out a whoop, a buoyant exclamation, and he leapt from his chair. “What excellent news! A baby!” He looked down at my body, where beneath layers of silk brocade and petticoats my stomach betrayed very little change. Perhaps I was a bit thicker, but anyone might presume that to be merely the result of a happy marriage and an indulgent husband who paid for a good cook.

  “How do you know?” he asked, his features alight. “I can’t see anything.”

  I smiled sheepishly. “A woman knows these things. When for several months her body does not do what it ordinarily ought to do.”

  “But…have you felt sick?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been fortunate, I feel no sickness.” In fact, I felt even stronger than before. Tired, yes, but possessed by some mysterious new vigor as my body performed its work to create and nourish a life within.

  Bernadotte allowed himself to celebrate more, and he clapped his hands before landing a strong kiss on my lips. Just then a servant entered the room, carrying a refill of fresh coffee, and we separated, sitting back down in our chairs, a pair of chastened cut-ups caught in their indiscretion. But we giggled as we did so.

  “I’m so happy,” he said, taking my hand under the table.

  “As am I.”

  “But you must take care of yourself. You must rest. And eat. And you must let me know what I can do—anything—to bring you comfort.”

  I nodded, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

  “Oh, it’s…it’s wonderful!” He beamed, his dark eyes brimming with delight.

  “It is,” I agreed and turned back to my breakfast, suddenly hungrier than before.

  We ate opposite each other in contented silence, relishing the tender glow of our happiness. My husband picked up the newspapers, putting the top one aside to turn to a British journal. I leaned forward to serve myself another slice of baguette, but I paused when Bernadotte gasped. I looked at him in alarm, noting how his ruddy cheeks had gone white, how the smile from a moment earlier had faded. “Impossible!” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “She’s really done it.”

  “What is it?” I felt my heart flip, and I looked down, scanning the newspaper that lay spread before him.

  “How could she have been such a fool?” he asked, and I realized to what he referred. There, on the front page of the London newspaper The Morning Chronicle, was an article featuring the names of Napoleon and Josephine. Though I couldn’t read much English, I could tell that much. “What does it say?” I asked, desperate to know.

  Bernadotte translated for me as he read the column. “A British warship has intercepted a French mail ship traveling from Egypt back toward France. On board were Napoleon’s personal letters, which have been seized and printed in this British newspaper.”

  I sighed aloud. “What a horror for him. He’ll be mortified.”

  Bernadotte read on: “This letter, one from Napoleon to his brother Joseph, discusses the most, well, the most personal situation imaginable.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Josephine has…” Bernadotte stammered, shifting in his seat. “Well, it appears as though her husband has discovered ongoing infidelity on her part.”

  I propped my elbows on the table, my mind suddenly burdened by a rush of thoughts and questions. Of course the Bonaparte women had whispered rumors such as these among themselves for years; I was not deaf to their accusations. But I’d never actually imagined them to be true; I’d never believed that Josephine would, in fact, be devious—or foolish—enough to do such a thing. At least, not after they had been married.

  “In his own words,” Bernadotte continued reading, “Napoleon wrote to Joseph of his heartbreak and anger: That she should have deceived me like this!…Woe to her and to them!—I will exterminate them all, fops and puppies. I have no wish to be the laughingstock. I will divorce her. Divorce—I want a public and sensational divorce. The veil is torn, the illusion is shattered, and there is no way to repair it.”

  Knowing him as I did, I could feel the rage gushing from his quill, all the way from Egypt. And how dreadful, perhaps worst of all, that these most intimate of wounds and words were now laid bare before the entire world, made public by his most hated enemies, the British, who openly laughed at his heartache. How would he respond?

  But then, Bernadotte continued: “It goes on. Here’s a letter from Napoleon just a day later: I would give anything for it to be untrue. Or even for it to be true, but for my ears to unhear it. I love her so much. I can’t live without her. I may conquer nations, but Josephine, she has conquered my heart.”

  “What a frightful turn of events,” I said, pushing away my breakfast plate. “It’s certain to become a scandal.”

  Bernadotte’s frown deepened. “And it grows worse.”

  “How can it possibly?”

  “Here, he’s explaining more of what he’s learned from his generals. Not only was Josephine engaging in amorous liaisons with these other men, she was also profiting financially from them.”

  “How?”

  “She was asking for money, outrageous sums of money, in exchange for access to Napoleon or his generals.”

  The Bonaparte women had accused her of as much.

  Bernadotte continued: “And she’s been dabbling in some seedy business deals, it appears. Well, this is worst of all. Black-market trading in army supplies.” Bernadotte’s frown deepened as he scanned the news and distilled it for me. “In effect, she’s been acting as a profiteer on arms sales and weapons contracts, compromising the well-being of our troops in the process. Even if Napoleon could forgive her for sacrificing the sanctity of their marriage, how could he possibly forgive her for compromising the safety of his men?”

  * * *

  I dressed quickly and left for Julie’s home as soon as my husband departed for the office. I found Julie still in her dressing gown, her household in utter disarray. Letizia was there, covered in black crepe as if attendin
g a funeral. Pauline stood over her mother as Joseph paced the room; there was much screaming and swatting of hands. “La puttana! Che serpente!” Letizia railed in her native Italian.

  “How could she do this to him?” Pauline added, plopping herself beside Julie on the sofa. “And while he’s so far away, fighting for his life in the desert!”

  “I always knew he should have married you,” Letizia said, reaching for my hand. I accepted the grip of her strong, bony fingers, and lowered my eyes. I would never say it, but I was blissfully happy with my Bernadotte and so grateful that I had been spared the fate that Josephine had grabbed from me.

  Joseph, who had been quiet until now, paused in his pacing to rest his elbow on the mantel. The rest of us turned to him. He spoke after a pause, his tone decisive: “She shall be cut off. Not another cent of his money.”

  “Our money!” Letizia moaned. “Think of all that he gave her!”

  “And she shall not set foot in my home again,” Joseph added, ignoring his mother. “Not until he’s returned. He can decide for himself how to handle her, but I shall not receive her.” Joseph looked to Julie, who nodded her agreement. “Our first priority,” Joseph said, “our only priority now, is to protect him. However we can. That is the primary task of every Bonaparte.”

  As the news of the scandal broke across Paris, a crowd began to build around Josephine’s mansion—and Joseph’s as well. I could see the mob gathering through the windows from my sister’s bedchamber, and I could hear the angry shouts. Guessing that she would indeed be cut off from the Bonaparte wealth, bankers and merchants approached the front gates to demand the payments Josephine owed. “Draw the drapes,” Julie ordered. “I’ve seen enough of angry crowds for several lifetimes.”

  A day later we received word that Josephine had fled in the middle of the night to her country estate at Malmaison, barricading herself behind the château walls with her daughter, Hortense, and her large fleet of servants. How she was paying their salaries, I did not know.