“Yes.”
“I didn’t think she would look like that.” Agnese was staring, rapt. She gave a tiny sigh that told Sophie Pauline now had another worshipper at her altar.
“Would you like to see something very special about her?” Sophie looked meaningfully at Matteo.
He frowned. “Today?” He glanced significantly at the black rosette pinned to Sophie’s bodice.
“She always loved it,” Sophie reminded him.
Matteo bowed slightly and moved around behind the daybed.
“What is the special thing? Is it that fruit?” Agnese peered doubtfully at the apple in Pauline’s hand.
“No, not the fruit. Stand here.” Sophie took her little cousin’s shoulder and pulled her back a few feet. “Now watch.” She nodded to Matteo, who pressed a lever with his foot.
The bed began to move.
First it shuddered, and Pauline’s arm, perched on the backrest, shuddered with it. Then she and the mattress and the coverlet and cushions and ornamental base all swung sideways. The entire ensemble was rotating slowly, circling in the candlelight. A low hum beneath the floor was the only sound in the room. Agnese was delighted; she clasped Sophie’s hand and squeezed it in her excitement.
Pleased with the effect of her surprise, Sophie waited until the piece had completed three full circuits and then nodded once again. The servant stooped; the daybed grumbled and jerked and finally came to rest in precisely the position it had occupied at first. On her marble pillows, in her marble draperies, Canova’s statue of Pauline Borghese smiled her marble smile and settled back into immobility.
Agnese’s awed silence lasted only a few seconds after the piece stopped moving. Then the questions poured out. Where was the motor? How did Matteo make it start and stop? Did any of the other statues in the collection move like this one?
Matteo showed her the concealed lever, which Agnese insisted on trying out for herself. Her little foot could not shift the mechanism, however, and Sophie had to help her. After two more tries, she finally stamped hard enough to set the motor in gear without help. Sophie had to drag her away, reminding her that the carriage was waiting to take them to the church.
“Bettina!” Agnese shouted as soon as the carriage door opened. “I made the statue turn! Without Sophie’s help!”
Matteo’s sister muttered something about works of the devil and crossed herself. She had never seen the statue. Before it had even been completed, she had announced that she would not cross the threshold of any room that housed it, and she had advised her brother to resign his position at the villa when it was brought back to Rome. When Matteo climbed in, she moved as far away from him as possible and gave him a pointed glare.
Sophie ignored her. “Did you like it?” she asked Agnese.
The girl nodded emphatically.
“It’s very famous,” Matteo said.
“Infamous,” snapped his sister. “A Borghese princess posing nude!”
This reminded Agnese of another question, which had been temporarily banished during her fascination with mechanics. “Why didn’t Aunt Paolina have any clothes on?” she demanded.
The carriage was moving now, and Sophie pulled the little girl close to her, thankful that the rumbling wheels would prevent Bettina from hearing this exchange. “She is meant to be an ancient goddess, the goddess Venus. Like the painting on the ceiling of the small dining room at the palace. Venus lived long ago, and she doesn’t wear clothing as we do.”
Agnese digested this for a moment. “Didn’t Uncle Camillo mind that his wife had no clothes on?”
The answer to this question was very complicated, and Sophie chose evasion over explanation. “Well, your great-uncle is the one who asked the artist to make the statue. It was a present for Paolina. He commissioned it right after they were married, as a special surprise.”
The girl frowned. “Bettina says he hated her. She says Paolina ruined his life.”
“That is not true!” Sophie said fiercely. She pulled her arm out from the little girl’s back and swung around to face her. “He loved her. He took care of her when she was ill. He buried her in the family chapel. If he were still alive, he would be going with us right now, to say prayers for her.” Sophie touched her chest lightly, where the paper rested, folded in her bosom. She always carried it with her on the anniversary of Pauline’s death. “He wrote her a letter about how much he loved her. I read it every year on this day before I go to see her statue.”
“Bettina says—”
“Bettina was not there. I was.”
Agnese stared up at her, a little frightened at her tone. “Where? Where were you?”
“Everywhere.” Sophie leaned back against the velvet pillows. “From the beginning. I was with Paolina when she met your great-uncle. I was at their wedding. I traveled with them from Paris to Rome. I was with them in Turin. I went to Elba with your great-aunt when her brother Napoleon was exiled, and came back to Italy with her after he was defeated at Waterloo. I was with her when she died. Your great-uncle was holding her hand and crying.”
“But—” Agnese looked uncertainly at her nurse, then back at Sophie. “Why are there all those terrible stories, then?”
Sophie’s voice softened. “They were not happy, Agnese. It was not a fairy tale. The prince married the princess, and everything went wrong, until the very end. But that does not mean they did not love each other.”
“Did you love Aunt Paolina?”
Sophie smiled. “Yes. At least, most of the time. I was just about your age when I went to live with her, you know. I was ten years old.”
“And your mother died, like mine.”
“Yes.”
Agnese wriggled back under her arm. “And Aunt Paolina offered to be your new mother.”
“Well—not precisely,” Sophie said dryly. “Paolina’s brother decided that she should have me come and live with her. She was a young widow, with a little boy five years younger than I was. I suppose he thought I would be some help to her. He told her to invite me, and he told my father to accept, and that was that. When Napoleon gave orders, everyone listened.”
PART I
The Red Rose
Beauty, Romance, Courage
Ventôse 12, Year 11
[March 3, 1803]
Lucien, dearest of brothers, you must help me! Joseph and Napoleon and of course our mother are all in it together, but you will be my ally—won’t you? I am a widow and a mother and surely it is right for me to have my own place, and the property is not so very expensive considering that it belonged to a duke and has such elegant receiving rooms, which of course as Napoleon’s sister I shall need. In any case I certainly cannot stay with Joseph and Julie much longer; no matter what I do or say Julie always finds fault and Dermide, poor boy, has barely seen me these past few weeks because I am constantly shut up in my room crying.
Please, please come to me right now; I will take you to see it and you will help me persuade the family to let me buy it.
Your loving sister Pauline
Ventôse 14, Year 11
Lucien, it is settled; I am ecstatic. The Hôtel de Charost is mine! Didn’t you think the house was beautiful? And the gardens? It is very close to Joseph and Julie, so Mother need not fret about me being on my own. Please send me the name of the young man who did that lovely painting on the ceiling of your friend’s dining room, I cannot remember his name (your friend, that is) but we were there for supper just before I left for the West Indies last year and the painting is in gold and blue on a cream background. Julie now very kindly says that she wants to give me some furniture to help me get started, but of course I will buy everything new.
P.
Ventôse 15, Year 11
Lucien, you won’t believe this. It is all a trick; Napoleon is only letting me have my house on the condition that I take in some little cousin of Emmanuel’s to live with me. She is nine or ten, a horrible age, far too old to be a playmate for Dermide, and I am sure she is a tatt
letale and that Mother and Napoleon will use her to spy on me. And truly I don’t think I can bear it if she looks like Emmanuel—as they say she does. It is bad enough to have lost my husband without having to see his face on some prissy little girl every day. I need your advice; please tell me what I can do.
In haste,
Your Pauline
Ventôse 16, Year 11
Dear Lucien,
Yes, I received your reply. I suppose you were too busy to come in person but of course I would never accuse you of being selfish. Everyone in the family always thinks the worst of me and I should not be surprised when it happens. I would take in a dozen little orphan girls to get away from all of you.
Your sister,
Pauline Leclerc
ONE
Paris, March 1803
There were forty-eight steps from the ground floor, where they had been waiting in an anteroom, up to the first floor, where they would finally be received. So far, they had climbed thirty-six. Sophie was counting, because she was helping her grandfather. Papa Adolphe refused to use a cane; he claimed it was undignified. He had one hand on Sophie’s shoulder and the other on the banister, and he would shift his weight from one side to the other as he brought each leg carefully up to the next step. Now they had reached the last landing below the first floor. Twelve more steps.
“You are just the right height, Sophie,” her grandfather said, pausing for a moment. “Don’t grow any taller.” Sophie already topped her grandmother by several centimeters. She was clearly going to be one of the Long Leclercs, like her father.
They climbed six more steps, and now Sophie could see a footman standing by a set of double doors. Her grandfather paused again. “Don’t forget,” he said, panting slightly. “Curtsey when you are introduced. Speak to Madame Leclerc only when she addresses you directly. And—” He broke off when he saw the footman hurrying over to assist him and hastily levered himself up the remaining stairs.
Sophie finished the list of warnings under her breath. Confine herself when possible to the phrases “Yes, madame” and “No, madame.” Look up when speaking. When the adults were speaking with each other, look down at her hands, which should be clasped neatly on her lap. Do not fidget. Do not look out the window. And, the final one, whispered at the last minute by her father: make sure that Papa Adolphe did not drink more than one glass of wine. How this was to be managed when she was looking at her hands and not speaking, Sophie could not imagine.
Her grandfather, waving off the footman, released her shoulder and tucked her arm into his. Sophie walked slowly across the upper hall, giving him time to recover a bit more, while the footman returned to his station and swung both doors wide open.
Sophie’s first sight of Pauline Bonaparte Leclerc, therefore, was neatly framed by the doorway. She was sitting at a gatelegged writing table, looking down at a large sheet of drafting paper half-unrolled in front of her. One delicate hand pinned the paper to the table; the other tapped impatiently on the arm of her chair. Her dark hair curled around her face. Her profile was set off by the deep red curtain panels behind her, and her pale skin gleamed above her black dress. Sophie thought Pauline was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.
“Monsieur Leclerc. Mademoiselle Leclerc,” announced the servant, stepping back.
The beautiful creature looked up, exclaimed in surprise, sprang to her feet and hurried over. Sophie remembered her instructions and curtseyed. She kept her eyes rigidly fixed on the floor, but she could smell perfume—something flowery.
“Monsieur Adolphe! How charming of you to come see me,” the woman said. Her voice was slightly hoarse, as though she had a touch of catarrh. “And this must be your granddaughter.”
“Yes, madame.” He bowed over her hand. “May I have the honor of presenting Mademoiselle Sophie Leclerc, your cousin by marriage.” Sophie felt herself pushed slightly forward. She looked up, saw a vivid pair of brown eyes regarding her with amusement, then hastily looked down again and made another curtsey.
“Come sit by me, my dear.” She felt a warm hand slip around her gloved one; she was being led away from her grandfather and seated on a sofa. To her dismay, the beautiful woman sat down beside her. She could hear her grandfather settling himself in an adjacent chair and orders for refreshment in that strange, husky voice being passed on to a maidservant. Sophie did not see the maidservant; her gaze was now locked on her hands, which, as instructed, were folded in her lap.
“I have not seen you since the funeral,” the woman was saying to her grandfather. Her voice had laughter in it. That seemed strange to Sophie, to be laughing when they were talking of funerals. It was Cousin Emmanuel’s funeral they meant, she supposed. She had not attended, but her father and grandparents had. Her father and grandfather had come back talking of how lovely Emmanuel’s widow was, and her grandmother had come back talking of how dreadful it must have been to sail all the way across the ocean with his coffin.
“A sad business,” said her grandfather. “But of course there is my little great-nephew. I am sure he is a consolation to you. How does he go on?”
“You shall see for yourself! Let us have him down to pay his respects.” She rang a little bell. “And he must meet his cousin; Dermide likes other children.” The door opened, and more orders were given to another unseen maid. Sophie’s neck was beginning to hurt from keeping her head bent, and she heard her grandfather shifting in his chair the way he always did when he was nervous.
Suddenly her chin was tilted up and the brown eyes were looking straight into hers. “Are you shy, Sophie?” the woman said, laughing.
How to answer that? “Yes, madame.” She could not look down, because the woman was still holding her chin.
“Well, stand up. Let us have a look at you.”
Clumsily, Sophie scrambled to her feet. Should she curtsey again?
The woman put her head to one side and studied her. “How tall you are! And only ten years old!”
“Yes, madame.”
She jumped up and came over to stand right by Sophie. “Look, Monsieur Leclerc,” she said, laughing again. “She is as tall as I am! But so thin! Like a bird!” She laid her plump arm under Sophie’s. “We must feed her better!”
Mortified, Sophie looked back down and twisted her skirt in her hands.
“Very pretty hair,” the woman said, touching it lightly. “Even fairer than Emmanuel’s, and not quite so curly. And a nice complexion.” She turned to Sophie and frowned. “What color are your eyes? Are they blue? Green? I cannot tell in this dreadful, dim room.”
Sophie’s eyes were gray, but they tended to take on the color of her surroundings. She murmured something incoherent.
There was a commotion at the door, and a small blond boy ran in, followed by two maidservants.
“Here he is! Come to Mama, Dermide.” She scooped him up and carried him back to the sofa. Now Sophie did not know what to do. Should she sit back down? The little boy was taking up most of her former place. Should she stay where she was? But then she would be in the way. She retreated behind her grandfather’s chair, and the boy stared at her solemnly from his mother’s lap. “That is your cousin, caro,” the woman said. She put him down. “Go and greet her. Her name is Sophie. And that is your great-uncle Adolphe.”
The little boy took a few steps toward the chair, bowed, and said clearly, “Bonjour, Cousin Sophie. Bonjour, Uncle.”
She was not going to be outdone by a boy who was not even old enough to wear breeches. “Bonjour, Cousin Dermide,” she answered, stepping out from behind the chair and curtseying.
He took her hand. “Come and meet my Carlotta,” he said, pulling her toward the older of the two nursemaids, a woman about her grandmother’s age. But Sophie’s grandmother was blond and gentle-looking; this woman had black hair and snapping black eyes and thick, fierce black eyebrows. “Carlotta,” he said, “Carlotta, guarda chi si vede; è la mia cugina, Sophia!” He turned to Sophie and whispered in French: “I told her y
ou were my cousin.”
Sophie nodded stiffly and received a grudging bob in response.
The beautiful woman said something in the same language to the maid. Sophie thought she could make out a few words here and there that sounded like oddly pronounced French—“not pretty,” and “thin,” and “orphan.” Both women glanced at her sadly, shaking their heads. When the beautiful woman shook her head, her curls bounced like little springs. Then she turned back to Sophie. “Do you miss your mother, my dear? How long has it been—three years?”
“Yes, madame,” she said.
“And shall you like coming to live with me? Here in Paris?”
Sophie thought of the narrow old streets of Pontoise, of the tunnels under the castle where she had played with her brothers, of her quiet, scholarly father, of the apple tree outside her bedroom window, which would be blossoming in a few weeks. She thought of those quizzical dark eyes, which had judged her and had apparently found her lacking. “Yes, madame.”
The woman laughed again. “Is that all you can say? ‘Yes, madame’?”
“No, madame.”
“You must call me Cousin Pauline. I feel like a schoolmistress when you curtsey and call me madame.” She smiled at Sophie. Her smile was very different from her laugh. It was a warm smile, not the smile of an adult to a child but the smile of someone who shares a secret with a friend. It lit her eyes.
In Sophie’s chest, her heart gave a little jump sideways; she felt suddenly breathless and dizzy and bewildered.
“Can you remember?”
She swallowed. “Yes, Cousin Pauline.”
“Carlotta and Dermide will show you the nursery, then, while your grandfather and I have a glass of wine and make the arrangements. No, no”—this to her son, who was trying to climb onto the sofa again—“you must go upstairs with Carlotta. Sophie will come with you, and you may both have meringues. Remember to speak in French so that Sophie will understand. And you must be very kind because she has no papa and no mama.”
The Princess of Nowhere Page 2