The Queen's Fortune

by Allison Pataki

  That crowd did not thin as we made our journey overland, but rather the people lined our entire route, growing in number as we approached the summer palace in Haga Park, just north of the capital. We finally pulled into the courtyard, where even more people were gathered, waving the Swedish flag and crying out for a glimpse of their new Crown Princess Josephine.

  I hardly looked at the crowds, for there, ahead, was my husband, on whom I had not laid eyes since my departure for France. Bernadotte stood in his full uniform, a man of entirely gray hair but a tall, imposing figure still. Beside him, Oscar, my dear boy, looked a bit bashful, but happy. They were surrounded on both sides by soldiers and officers, and a military band played our Swedish national anthem, though we could barely hear it over the roar of the crowds gathered outside the palace gates.

  Our carriage halted, and the footmen helped us down. Bernadotte kissed my cheek with checked affection, a public gesture befitting his royal status. It was a joyous reunion for the young pair: Oscar took Josephine’s gloved hand in his and placed a kiss atop it, his cheeks flushing to a boyish tint. Then, eyes still fixed on her with evident adoration, he guided her toward the large front doors, outside of which they paused together to look out over the crowds once more, waving.

  Though no formal ceremony had been planned, Josephine held her hand out toward the people. I was confused for a moment until I realized that she was asking for quiet. The crowd obeyed. But what does she mean by this? I wondered. To my great surprise, she began to speak. I could not understand what she said; Josephine was speaking in Swedish.

  Oscar looked on at his bride, beaming with pride. Bernadotte’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at me, startled. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say that I was as baffled as he was—Josephine and I had only ever conversed in French.

  After her brief remarks were over, the crowd erupted in fresh cheers, even louder than before. They were elated, for not only was their new princess beautiful and young, but she was happy to be there, and she had told them so in their native tongue. In a capital that I still found to be cold and unwelcoming, even after years of being queen, Josephine was an instant success.

  I sidled over to my daughter-in-law, my tone a bit wry as I walked beside her up the final steps toward the palace. “Josephine, that was well done.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled, turning to me, her demure eyes lilting downward—a look her grandmother had given me so many times.

  I still studied her as I said, “I had no idea you spoke Swedish.”

  And then she shrugged, gliding through the grand double doors and into the cool front hall of the palace as if she’d lived there her entire life. “I didn’t. I practiced on the boat.”

  Chapter 45

  Stockholm

  Summer 1823

  THEY HAD BEEN MARRIED BY proxy—each in their respective realm, as was the tradition among European royalty—but we celebrated the official Swedish wedding a fortnight after Josephine’s arrival.

  The day of the service dawned clear and mild, and I dressed in my own suite before going to hers. The servants stepped aside for me, and I found her seated in her bedchamber before a grand mirror, attendants crisscrossing the room on last-minute preparations for her gown and jewelry.

  “Good morning, Maman,” she said, smiling at me in the mirror’s reflection as she rose to greet me. “You look splendid,” she cooed, admiring my appearance. I didn’t feel splendid—not beside her willowy frame, her youthful smiles—but I had done my best, squeezing my ample curves into a gown of taupe silk and topaz jewels. Oh well, no one would be looking at me today, after all.

  I stepped forward and allowed her to place a kiss on my cheek. She smelled fresh—rosewater on her neck, some floral cream on her soft skin. “Good morning, dear. How did you sleep?”

  She took my hands in her own and gave them an excited squeeze, her eyes brightening. “Barely at all; I was too excited. And of course tonight I doubt I shall get a moment’s…” But she raised her hand to her lips, a blush darkening her cheeks as she giggled.

  I looked away, flustered. Hanging near her bed was the wedding gown, a sumptuous confection of pale blue and cream-colored silk embellished with diamonds and pearls. “That’s it, then?”

  “Isn’t it lovely?” She glided toward her dress, just barely grazing the silk with her fingertips, fearful of dirtying the pristine fabric. “And of course you know these pieces,” she said, reaching toward the bed. There, she picked up a stunning cluster of grape-sized diamonds, each jewel staggering in its brilliance. It was a necklace, and beside it, matching earrings and bracelets.

  I swallowed. “Yes,” I said, my voice quiet, “I…I believe I do.”

  “They were hers. In Paris. He had them made for her.” Josephine crossed toward the mirror, holding up her grandmother’s necklace so that it gleamed against the ivory of her neck. “I’ve had them cleaned so they will sparkle as they once did. When she wore them.”

  I studied her reflection, blinking, seeing for just a moment a dark-haired beauty gliding across a Parisian dance floor. Quick laughter, a smitten Emperor staring on, transfixed by the siren who had captivated him and the entire capital. “They will be exquisite on you,” I said. Josephine didn’t look to me, but rather kept her eyes focused on her own reflection. She cocked her head to the side as she asked: “Do I really look so much like her?”

  “Indeed, I believe that you do. Your hair is lighter, of course.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of her chestnut curls.” Now she turned and faced me. “But how can I look so much like her, if our coloring is so different?”

  I considered the question. “It’s something intangible…the manner of your bearing. Your gestures. They are so like hers.”

  She considered this a moment before nodding, satisfied. “I am proud of that.”

  “As you should be.”

  “Do you think…?” she asked, but then she paused. Outside, the bells began to toll. The city would be rising, the eager crowds flocking to the cathedral for the day’s ceremony.

  She glanced sideways at the gown. “Do you think Oscar will like it?”

  “He will love it, my dear. You are a lady to the very tips of your fingers.”

  * * *

  I looked on, slightly stunned, at how effortlessly Josephine glided through the Lutheran ceremony, more at ease, it seemed, than even my son, who had been schooled under the guidance and care of our stern Archbishop since his boyhood. In the moment they were pronounced married before God, when the cannons fired off their salvo and the city erupted in euphoric cheers, Josephine summoned the perfect blush to her cheeks. A happy bride, a lovely bride, yet a savvy girl who knew just how to perform as thousands of eyes watched in keen appraisal.

  Bernadotte stood beside me at the feast afterward, content to watch the younger couples of the court as they swirled around the dance floor. My gaze remained fixed on my son and his wife. I watched, impressed, as they whispered and laughed, carving out a private sphere for themselves amid the music and the crowds and the prying eyes; a true warmth and intimacy were evident between them even in these first hours of their union.

  “It was well done, to be sure,” my husband said, his tone one of fatherly approval. “Now, let’s hope for sons. And quickly.”

  “Come now, Bernadotte. You can’t be in too great a rush? You’re still young and strong.”

  “Neither young nor strong, I fear,” he said.

  “Well, if you long to be a grandfather, I don’t expect a problem on that score,” I said, chuckling at the obvious language of their tilted bodies, the clear attraction between my son and his new wife. Even as I laughed, my corset felt tight against my abdomen; I’d eaten too much at the feast. And my knuckles nagged me with their familiar ache. I sighed; perhaps my husband was right. Perhaps we were getting old. I turned back to the newlyweds, who were laughing now at something that
Josephine had just whispered to my son. “They shall be happy,” I said.

  We exchanged a smile, a satisfied smile, the sort of look that can only come from knowing one’s child is content.

  “Bravo, my dear,” my husband said to me, handing off his champagne to a nearby footman and taking my hand.

  “I didn’t do it,” I said, shrugging off his praise. “Oscar did it for himself.”

  “You were there for the courtship. And you brought her to us. You’ve given her a proper and warm introduction into our family. I’m glad she has you here.”

  I grinned, accepting his approving words, basking in the attention of my king and husband. And then, ignoring protocol, ignoring the stares that I knew fell on me from across the crowded hall, I leaned toward Bernadotte and planted a kiss on his lips.

  He looked at me with wide eyes, a bit stunned, but then he erupted in laughter, happy to shrug off the rules alongside me, his bourgeois-born wife. “What do you say, Madame Bernadotte? Shall we join the young bucks in a dance?”

  I squeezed his hand and allowed him to guide me to the floor, the crowds parting as we passed. He was older and somewhat diminished by age, with a persistent cough that often bothered him, but his frame was still tall and broad, and I felt light in his arms, yielding to his steps, to the languid swell of the music, and the comforting familiarity of a dance opposite my longtime partner.

  My husband still had a power over me, I noted—the ability to make me feel like the girl at the dance whose heart beat a bit faster under his dark-eyed gaze. And I knew that, for him, he still loved to turn that dark-eyed gaze on me. We had never lost that, even after all of these years and the other losses we had known.

  * * *

  We enjoyed a lovely and relatively peaceful summer as a family at Haga Palace, just a short ride from the center of the capital, but a world of difference from the court. Josephine adored flowers and loved gardening, and rather than turn up my nose at such a quaint interest—as the previous queens might have done—I encouraged her to study with the gardeners in the hothouses and the herb gardens. I could not help but think of her grandmother spending so many happy hours outdoors amid the sprawling grounds of Malmaison, and I encouraged her to dirty her hands and skirts with digging in the soil.

  My husband, who was overjoyed to have a daughter-in-law, made a national holiday honoring the name day of Josephine, and so we had fireworks and feasting to commemorate both the anniversary of his election to the crown and the feast of Josephine Day. Crowds cheered, demanding not their king but his beautiful new daughter-in-law, and she happily greeted them from our royal balcony, smiling and waving.

  The gossips at court loved to harp on Josephine’s popularity and my resultant jealousy, painting a tableau of our royal family with a brush of discord and rivalry, claiming that I resented the attention that my husband and son lavished on our newcomer. Journalists wrote that I had been upstaged and replaced, once more, by a charismatic beauty named Josephine, and that I saw her as a loathed adversary, both at court and within our small family circle.

  I didn’t care about all that; the reality was that we were not at knives, nor did I view her as a rival. In truth, I was so very happy to see my son infatuated with his young bride, and to see the affection reciprocated by her. They were warm and kind to each other, and they shared so many interests and hobbies: they loved to paint in the garden; she would sing while Oscar played the piano; he would listen attentively as she spoke to him of her plants and flowers. My son was a good husband. He was courteous and solicitous with Josephine, offering the steady sort of care that her namesake had never enjoyed at the hands of her own husband. At least, not that I had ever seen.

  How long, I wondered, could their happiness—her happiness—last?

  I missed Paris, and I missed the French summer, but indeed I was also so happy to be with my husband once more. He still suffered from fits of coughing, occasionally even spitting blood into his handkerchief. I took great care in doting on him and insisting he take his rest in the afternoons. The days were long and the sun remained high in the northern sky well past supper, and so we enjoyed leisurely walks through the gardens together at dusk, once the rest of the court had retired to the salons for cards and music and gossip.

  Quite wickedly, I was also relieved beyond measure to be rid of Queen Hedwig Charlotte and her dominant presence at the court. That formidable woman had passed away while I was in Paris, and I noticed a shift among the ladies at court toward Josephine as their new leader.

  I made my peace with my Swedish life. My son was, after all, more Swedish now than French; he spoke the language fluently, and he hardly remembered a time when he had not practiced in the Lutheran Church. Bernadotte and I never became Swedish in the same way Oscar did—we never lost the French in us. Nor did we conduct ourselves in the way that previous Swedish monarchs had. We insisted on French wine at our dinners, and my husband drank his Gascon brandy rather than the Swedish brännvin, the potato liquor that I found intolerably thick.

  As the summer heat receded and the chill of autumn set in, we ordered our rooms to be kept warm, stoves blazing at all times, a heat that made the servants sweat, but we were southerners, the pair of us, and I loathed the cold.

  We still shared a bed, however unusual the nobles of our court found that to be. As far as I knew, my husband’s days of taking mistresses were behind him. We had grown old, the pair of us. I had gone from round to outright plump, and my husband’s thick, once-dark hair now shone more silver than black. But ours was a warm and agreeable companionship, perhaps warmer in our advanced age than it had been even in our youth.

  My husband still conducted his affairs of state entirely in French, partly because he’d never managed to become fluent in Swedish, and partly so I could participate as a trusted adviser and confidante. He was efficient as a monarch, even if a bit untraditional; we didn’t rise from bed most mornings for the levée, the ceremonial dressing and breakfast, but instead my husband preferred to execute the matters of his government from under the bedcovers, particularly on cold winter mornings. There, knees propped up like a table, sipping good, strong French coffee, he would dictate letters or answer queries in bed with me beside him. I would doze or read my French novels or write to Julie or my nieces, chiming in when my husband sought my opinion on some matter. Often, we wouldn’t dress until midday luncheon, which we always took together, with Oscar and Josephine, too, when they were available.

  Sweden was at peace, and my husband was a popular king, particularly now that his heir was married. Though we knew that his ministers and servants occasionally raised their eyebrows at our peculiar style of conducting our business, Bernadotte never neglected his duty; he would answer and draft thousands of letters and state documents each month. He was a good king, even if he never stopped referring to himself as a “crowned republican.”

  As the months passed and the long Swedish winter showed the first promising signs of the coming thaw, we hoped only for one piece of news: an announcement that Josephine was with child. So I was delighted when my husband told me that a blushing Oscar had whispered the news to his father over a night of port and cigars.

  I decided that perhaps now was my chance to make a trip across the Baltic to see Julie, before the arrival of my first grandchild. I longed to see my sister, who was living a quiet life in Florence, removed from public life with her ailing husband. I’d invited her to join me in Stockholm on numerous occasions, but Joseph would not allow even a brief visit, so terrified was he at the thought of something happening to her on the journey—or worse, of his own death occurring without my sister at his side.

  I proposed the idea of a journey to Florence one morning in bed, before the servants had come to deliver our trays of coffee and warm, fresh bread. I was hopeful that Bernadotte would quickly approve it, as he had so many other trips I’d undertaken, until I saw my husband’s frown.
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  “Absolutely not,” Bernadotte said, barely considering it for a moment.

  “Why not?” I asked, bristling at the quick decisiveness of his answer.

  “We are far too busy here,” was all he offered in reply.

  I sat up straighter in the bed, still convinced that I’d find a way to have my wish. “You need not come with me. I would go alone. I’m hardly too busy.”

  “We are coming into spring—there will be the move to the summer palace, and the anniversary celebrations, and Josephine’s name day feast, and the preparations for the birth of the prince.”

  “Precisely why I feel that I should go now, so that I can return in time for the birth.”

  But my husband was unmoved. “No more of your solitary wandering, Desiree. You don’t understand how difficult those years were for me.” He shook his head one more time, silver waves of hair falling around his face, his expression one of decided finality. “No.”

  These words struck me with a surprising weight. Never before had my husband confessed to me how trying my absences had been for him.

  He continued, saying: “There are too many reports and gossips as it is. We must be perceived as a unified family living happily together, joined in our common service to our kingdom.” He pursed his lips as if to say that is that. “And besides,” he added, “God forbid something should happen to you on the journey—can you imagine what that would do to Oscar and Josephine in their time of need? And to me? Can you imagine not knowing your grandson?”

  I frowned, crossing my arms over the bedcovers, frustrated to have had my plans thwarted, and yet, touched by my husband’s concern—by his very evident desire to keep me at his side.