The Queen's Fortune

by Allison Pataki

  * * *

  The figure who greeted me on the Aachen train platform was no little boy, but a man. Oscar stood tall and lean, with the dark eyes and thick hair of his father. He was handsome, even if a bit reserved as he submitted to my enthusiastic kisses and hugs. I knew he was considered standoffish by some at court, but that was simply because he did not have the animated flourishes of his Gascon father; he was shy like me.

  And yet, in spite of his shyness, I knew instantly that Josephine would be thrilled to marry Oscar. Just as I had been thrilled as a young woman to marry his father. Even beside the dashing figure he cut in his Swedish military uniform, Oscar was kind and he was earnest—and, he was destined to be a king. Any girl would be a fool to reject his suit.

  Oscar and I rested for a few days in Aachen before traveling on together to Eichstätt, arriving in the late afternoon on a mild summer day. It was a charming village, built around an ancient stone church and nestled in wooded hills that hugged the Altmühl River. We pulled up to a gracious château, an iron gate giving way to a large forecourt. Our carriage halted before the door, and a small assembly of people stood ready to welcome us.

  I knew Eugene de Beauharnais instantly. I’d known him as a young man, and his face had not changed much. He had his mother’s long-lashed, amber eyes. Beside Eugene stood a woman; I presumed her to be his wife, the Princess Augusta. To her side stood another lady—fine-featured with chestnut hair—whom I recognized immediately. “Hortense, what a delight!” Josephine’s daughter. I blinked, seeing a flash of her as a girl, the quiet, well-mannered daughter who had often appeared more stoic than the mother at whose side she always stood.

  And beside them, Princess Josephine Napoleone de Beauharnais. She glided forward, offering me a cheerful curtsy before launching into her greeting, the excitement coloring her cheeks a lovely pink: “Oh, Your Highness, I am so delighted to meet you at last!” Then she leaned close and whispered in my ear, as if we were the oldest of friends and familiar co-conspirators; I found the gesture, forward as it was, to be surprisingly endearing. “I’ve been hearing about all of you for my entire life. Papa has such stories! I cannot wait to get to know you for myself. Oh, I’m sorry, I have yet to even introduce myself. I’m Josephine.”

  I smiled at this girl, trying to stealthily study her as she and Eugene greeted Oscar. At sixteen years old, she was fresh and bursting with a youthful vivacity. Beside my shy Oscar she appeared self-assured, even at ease. Goodness, but she was alike to Josephine: tall, slender, disarmingly warm in her temperament. The only difference came in her golden blond hair, where Josephine’s had been famously dark.

  “Thank you ever so much for coming,” Josephine said to me, looping her thin arm through mine. It was a gesture so alike to those of her grandmother that I laughed aloud. “What is so funny?” she asked, her head tilting sideways as her amber eyes held my own.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, falling in step beside her. I was back on the wintry street in Paris, a perfect stranger—the woman who had just stolen my fiancé—looping her arm through mine as if we were the oldest of friends. “Just memories.”

  “Ah, yes,” Josephine said, nodding meaningfully, as if to say she understood perfectly. “I bet you have many of those.”

  * * *

  We kept a pleasantly busy schedule for our two weeks in Eichstätt, filling the days with carriage rides and picnics and walks through the low mountains. The evenings were filled with family dinners and outings to the theater, a few nights of dancing and music. My son was attentive to Josephine, and I could tell by the constant tilt of her face toward his, the way her eyes sought him out in any room, that she welcomed his courtship. She was admirably poised, like her grandmother, but she was still a young girl, and thus it was not too difficult to guess at the hopeful longings of her unguarded heart.

  Oscar was smitten. At the end of the two weeks, he knocked tentatively on my bedchamber door. “Come in, dear,” I called. I sat before the mirror in my nightgown, rubbing a thick ointment into my sore, aching hands. My rheumatism only seemed to worsen with each passing year.

  Oscar entered and plopped down on my bed, resting his head on my pillows as he had not done since his boyhood. I dismissed my last few remaining servants with a quick “good night” before turning to ask my son: “What is it, dear?”

  Oscar sighed, trying to speak but then pausing a moment. Eventually, he managed to say: “Maman, I do love her so.”

  I placed the ointment down on the table, turning to my son. Smiling, I said, “Of course you do.”

  His face flushed as he stared at me. “Do you think…she loves me?”

  “Yes,” I said, certain of it.

  Oscar chewed on his lower lip, his thoughts so apparent on his face. “How can you know?”

  “Because,” I said, “she is like her grandmother. And like her grandmother, she is no fool.”

  Chapter 44

  Munich, Bavaria

  June 1823

  “IS IT TRULY SO VERY…cold?” My son’s new bride looked across the carriage at me, and even though she tried to mask it, I saw how her brow creased with worry. I bit my lip, stifling the urge to laugh at the question, at the way she appeared to shiver, even though it was a sunny day in June; it had been my preoccupation as a younger woman and a first-time visitor to Sweden as well.

  I reached across the coach and patted her hand. “Not in June, dear. In fact, in June, it’s really quite lovely. Plenty of sunshine.”

  Josephine nodded, somewhat reassured, and then remembered to smile. “Thank you, madame.” She turned away to glance out the window, watching as the fields surrounding Hamburg unfurled in a rolling tapestry of bright green.

  I studied her profile, guessing that she was thinking of the home she had left behind. How could she not miss it? I myself was more than twice her age, traveling to a reunion with my husband and son, and even I still missed my homeland. I felt a pang in my heart for her; she was gaining a kind and handsome groom, yes, and the throne of a vast kingdom, and yet, our lot as women in this world was never an easy one. Even for those of us who, in the eyes of the world, were the fortunate ones.

  “Oscar shall be so happy to welcome you,” I said, hoping that my buoyant tone would give her joy. Josephine turned to me and smiled. “Yes.” She nodded. “And I will be delighted to see him.” She really was making a valiant effort to be agreeable.

  It would be Josephine’s first time in Sweden, and my first time back in years. My son had returned ahead of us to prepare for the arrival of his princess. He had left the important role of Josephine’s companion and escort to me. I had fetched her in Munich, at the palace in which she’d grown up. There, we had spent a few final days with Eugene, Augusta, Hortense, and Josephine’s many siblings and cousins. Hers had been a happy upbringing, that much was evident. Eugene had raised his large family in the royal household of his father-in-law—winters in Munich, carefree summers at the countryside villa in Eichstätt. Though they were royals, there was something comfortably domestic, even bourgeois, about the way they shared their meals and read stories together in the evenings. Upon her farewell, Josephine had been tearful but resolute, gracious even in her sadness, just as I imagined her grandmother would have carried herself.

  I was now bringing her by carriage through northern Germany before our boat ride across the Baltic Sea. My son was fortunate in his bride; the many long hours in such cramped quarters revealed a person’s true nature, and my own journey might have been significantly less enjoyable but for the fact that the girl was an entirely pleasant traveling companion. She was lovely—smart and well-mannered, self-assured while also appropriately deferential as both my junior and my daughter-in-law. She spoke fluent French, with just the subtlest trace of a charming German lilt, as well as Italian and German; she also knew some English and a bit of Russian. In addition to the basic tenets of a young noblewoman’s education�
�dancing, needlepoint, music, and etiquette—she’d also studied literature, geography, history, mathematics, botany, and astronomy. She made easy conversation, asking me about Paris and Stockholm. But there was one topic to which she returned often. “Did you really know my grandmother and grandfather well?”

  It was an early summer morning and I fanned myself in the coach, the air already close and a bit sticky; I could tell it would be a hot day. I considered Josephine’s question. I saw how, as she’d asked it, she’d been careful not to appear overeager—it was risky, even years later, to raise the topic of Napoleon in much of Europe, and she did not know how I felt about him. My husband had, after all, fought the final battles against him. Still, I could see the flame of interest hiding in her amber eyes.

  “I did,” I answered.

  She folded her hands in her lap, looking down at her narrow fingers. After a pause, she asked: “What were they like?”

  “What have you heard of them?”

  She pursed her lips, thinking a moment before answering my question: “Papa loved his maman so much…though, of course, in front of Grandfather, he did not speak of her.”

  I nodded. That made sense; her grandfather was King of Bavaria, after all, and many of the German principalities had been the sworn enemies of Napoleon for decades.

  “But I’ve read…” Josephine said, a coy smile tugging on her lips, and her expression reminded me so much of another Josephine in that moment that I felt my pulse gallop. Had her hair been dark like her grandmother’s, I could have been looking at the face of the woman I’d known so many years ago. “I’ve read so much,” Josephine said after a moment, her voice a conspiratorial whisper even though we sat alone in the coach.

  I nodded, leaning my head back against the seat. Eventually, I said: “Everything you could ever read about Napoleon and Josephine is true, because they were all of that, and then even more.”

  Josephine breathed a slow inhale. “I do know that he…Napoleon…called her a witch.”

  I grimaced. “Well, that, that was not true.”

  “Then why did he say it?”

  I considered the question. “For two reasons, I believe. The first was that he could not understand, even he who understood everything and everyone, how it was that he could love her as deeply and fiercely as he did. She held some power over him that was undeniable; she did enchant him. But I can assure you that she was no witch.”

  Josephine nodded, accepting this. “And the second?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You told me he accused her of being a witch for two reasons. What was the second?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, he did it for the same reason that so many other men have accused their wives of witchcraft—he wanted a divorce, and he needed a reason to put the blame on her. If she had used witchcraft to ensnare him into marriage, then the union was invalid, and he was nothing more than a hapless victim.”

  Josephine’s brow assumed a becoming furrow as she considered all of this. After a moment, she spoke again: “I know that his final words, on St. Helena, were about her. About how he would be with her again.”

  “Indeed,” I said. I had read that as well. “He loved her until the very end.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed, her features thoughtful, her face hungry for more. “What was she like, then?”

  “Your namesake,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  I fanned myself, searching my jumbled thoughts for the right words. “He once described her as ‘a lady to the very tips of her fingers.’ And in that, he spoke the truth.”

  Josephine’s hands rested in her lap, and now she twisted the fabric of her skirts. Her face was heavy with thought. And then, after a while, she said: “I hope to be such a lady.”

  I smiled, nodding at her, lowering my fan. “You shall be, my dear.”

  We sat in silence a few moments, both of us looking out the windows toward the expanse of gentle green. The grasses were changing, growing thicker, an indication that we were approaching the sea. When I inhaled, I caught just the faintest hint of salt in the air, and my heartbeat quickened, my body’s instinctive response to the familiar scents of my seaside childhood.

  Josephine broke into my solitary thoughts. “I heard that…that he loved you. Before Josephine. That you and Napoleon were once engaged to be married.”

  I met her eyes, and nodded after a moment.

  She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. “So then…it’s true?”

  “It is.”

  Her face flushed with the excitement of the news. She leaned toward me, asking: “Then why didn’t you marry him?”

  “Because he met her.”

  She flopped back against the coach seat, accepting my answer, but then her brow creased again, a guileless expression of curiosity. “But…” She prepared to ask another question, then thought better of it. “Never mind.” She shook her head, sending her tight curls into a small flutter.

  “Go on, dear,” I said. “What is it?”

  “I…I don’t wish to be…forward.”

  I grinned. “It is all right. I give you my permission to ask your question.”

  “I suppose I’m just confused. If you…if you loved him, and you were engaged, but then she became his bride…how was it that you and she were so close? How could you be close if you both loved the same man?”

  I sighed, looking out the window, resuming my rapid fanning. Now it was my turn to blush.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been too bold.”

  I shook my head. “No, no. It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. I’ve offended you,” she replied.

  “Not at all, my dear. It is a fair question, the reasonable one to ask. Only, I am not even certain how to answer it. All I can say is that ours were not ordinary times in which to live. Nor were they ordinary times in which to love, being the young and beautiful girls that we were, living in a world gone mad.”

  Josephine’s face softened, her lovely features creasing with genuine feeling. Did she understand all that I said, all that I meant? I doubted it. How could she? But she leaned forward as she asked: “Were you very heartbroken?”

  I lowered my eyes, stunned at the fact that questions such as these elicited such a powerful response in me, even after all that I had lived through, even after all these years. And yet, in that moment, I realized that she was the first person ever to ask me about my feelings with such a frank and earnest curiosity. To reach so deeply into my heart in order to pull out these long-buried memories, moments both beautiful and painful in their potency. Why, not even Julie had ever asked me this many questions.

  “Heartbroken?” I repeated the phrase she had used. “I suppose I was, yes. At the time.”

  Josephine’s posture wilted in an expression of empathy; I could tell that she longed to lean forward and place her hand on mine, but was unsure of the appropriateness of such a gesture. I didn’t encourage it; I didn’t invite any further intimacy. Already this was more than I’d ever said on the topic, and I felt a bit exposed.

  I inhaled, pulling my shoulders back, rearranging my features into an expression of cool composure. When I spoke, my tone was upbeat: “But then I went on to meet Bernadotte, er, King Carl Johan. And I’m so very happy I did.”

  Josephine considered this a moment before nodding, mirroring my determination to be cheerful. “I’m so glad you did as well.”

  “Indeed,” I said, folding my hands in my lap.

  “Otherwise,” she added, “Oscar would not be here. And you and I both love him so very much.” It was the perfect response—flattering, after perhaps a bit too much prying. I liked this girl quite a bit. I made to smile at her, but just then it happened—my vision swam as a ripple of thought skittered across my mind, causing my skin to prick with shivers in spite of the warm air. What we French call un éclair—a bolt of lightnin
g. It was only a fleeting feeling, call it a woman’s intuition, but I knew it with certainty: she was as lovely as the grandmother for whom she was named, and, just like that grandmother, tragedy would befall her.

  “What is it, madame?” she asked, her face going pale, reflecting my own unease back to me. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Nothing, dear,” I said.

  But perhaps I had.

  * * *

  The sea voyage made me ill, even sicker than previous boat crossings, so I kept to my cabins below deck. I had no idea if Josephine felt similarly unwell, but the captain told me she did not appear to suffer, for she roamed the decks freely, smiling at the crew and chatting with the servants.

  I emerged above deck only when the captain informed me that we had reached the bay of Saltsjön, where the waters were expected to calm. It was a glorious June day—unclouded sunshine in a vast blue sky. We sailed along the craggy coast, the banks covered in thick, sappy pine and shimmering spruce. I breathed in, a deep inhale that carried the earthy aromas of the northern woods, a mix of scents so different from those of the southern seaside ports of my youth.

  We made landfall just a few miles outside Stockholm in mid-June, when the days were at their longest. I wobbled off the gangplank, assisted by several servants and happy to be on terra firma once more. As the attendants buzzed about us, hauling our trunks and coordinating with porters and coachmen, Josephine trotted up beside me, her own eyes clear and bright, her complexion a vibrant hue of perfect health.

  “Is that for us?” she asked, staring at the coach and eight that waited. Clearly my husband—or perhaps my son—had hoped to make a good impression for Josephine, because it was one of our grandest coaches, burnished gold with purple ornamentation. A crowd surrounded it, cheering our arrival onto Swedish soil.