The man I . . . the man I loved.
I threw myself into his embrace. “I was so afraid! I couldn’t leave without getting word from you. I . . .”
“Shh.” He wiped my face and rocked me like a child. “You’re safe. You did the right thing trusting your husband. I’ll always protect you.”
“Why didn’t you come?” My anger flared suddenly.
“I couldn’t, amore mio. This is our stronghold. If I had left, chaos would have ensued. It would have been impossible to ensure your safety. I sent my best men.” He kissed my face a dozen times. “They’ll pay for the fear they’ve caused you.”
Junot, who had stood quietly during our reunion, cleared his throat. “General Bonaparte, we lost three men and a horse. I don’t believe the Austrians will advance, but you should take note of their proximity.”
“Thank you, officer.” Bonaparte carried me inside.
In the following months we traveled from one town to the next, through an Italian winter and spring. I saw little of my husband. He would come and go, staying a few days and then joining his men in battle. He left me largely alone—amid the Italian nobles, wealthy merchants, and courtiers, but utterly alone. I distracted myself with military supply contracts. My credit became endless, a great perk for the wife of a famous general.
I developed the gardens of my ever-changing homes and promenaded through the grounds. In each town I purchased gifts for the children and Maman, pottery or paintings for Barras and Fanny, and fabrics for Theresia. So many beautiful things, such lovely vistas, and no one to share them with.
I yearned for Paris.
I invited friends from France, though the one I most longed to see never came; Theresia would not leave her place of power. Nor would she spend time in my husband’s house. She had never liked him.
“He’s an arrogant imbecile,” she said.
She filled her letters with excuses. I tried not to begrudge her choice. In her place, I wasn’t certain I would travel to Italy in the midst of war. But others less dear visited and I could not help but question her loyalty.
Bonaparte proved himself a good husband; he protected me, provided tuition for Hortense and Eugène, and indulged me with every luxury. When he was not in the fields, we lay tangled in the sheets. He whispered his ambitions and promised me the world. I valued his friendship more than I had ever expected.
One morning we sat on a balcony eating a breakfast of bread, cured ham, and coffee. The breezy spring day refreshed my mood and helped clear the fog of fatigue. Sleep had evaded me for days. Rumors of another invasion, of Barras’s retreating power, and of unrest in Paris weighed on my mind.
“You look fatigued.” Bonaparte took a bite of bread. Crispy flakes of crust rained on his cravat.
“You say the sweetest things.” I frowned. “I didn’t sleep well again. I have a terrible feeling.” The blood drained from my face as the sentiment washed over me again. “I think we should leave Milan—today. I had another dream. The Austrians will invade.”
He stopped chewing. “Tell me exactly what happened in your dream.” He took my premonitions earnestly. “Every detail.”
I relayed my nightmare and my recurring malaise.
“Call the maids. I’ll see the convoy readied.” He kissed my forehead and pushed back from the table.
I sighed with relief. How fortunate I was to have a husband who listened. Within the hour we galloped away from Milan.
Two hours after we settled at Brescia, Bonaparte received a dispatch.
“Milan has been surrounded by Austrian troops,” he read. My husband’s face paled. “My incomparable Josephine.” He kissed me fiercely. “You are my lucky star! My perfect wife.”
A vision of Hippolyte came to mind. Guilt sloshed like an oily pool in my stomach.
Perfect, indeed.
The Bonapartes
Mombello, Italy, 1797
On the second day in the month of Messidor, my husband’s family arrived at sunset. Tangerine and pink, butter yellow and lavender streaked the sky. The palace marble glittered and the gardens burst with violets and roses. Orange blossoms effused their delicious scent into the air and olive groves dotted the hillside. Paradise, to be sure.
Surely the Bonapartes would be pleased with such splendor.
When their carriages pulled into the drive, my husband pulled me from my card game. “They’re here!”
I held my breath as the train of carriages stopped. I had tarried over my new family’s apartments, insisting on silk sheets and verbena flowers. The cooks would prepare the freshest frutti di mare, pour wines ripe with peaches and sunshine, and serve almond tarts and anise treats. Nothing was too fine, too extravagant for my in-laws. I hoped they would approve. I folded my hands to hide their shaking.
“Mamma,” Bonaparte called to his mother as she descended. He rushed to her side and kissed her on each cheek.
“Nabulione.” She used his Italian name. She kissed him and straightened her black lace gown. She had the posture of a nun and looked as if she might strike anyone who disobeyed her. Odd she should look so severe and still so beautiful.
“It is Napoléon now,” he said in a sheepish tone.
“You aren’t French and you never will be,” she replied curtly. “This pretense is foolish.”
Bonaparte bowed his head.
I looked on in disbelief. His mother had toppled his confidence in an instant, as if he were a child.
Bonaparte straightened and offered her his arm. “Mamma, may I present my lovely wife, Josephine. Mon amour,” he said to me, “Letizia Bonaparte.”
Her piercing eyes roved over my frame. I had taken no chances and looked more conservative than usual in rose-colored silk with shortened sleeves and long gloves. I met her gaze evenly. I had been scrutinized a hundred times at the Luxembourg and elsewhere.
“Madame Bonaparte”—I kissed her cheeks—“I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“I should have been invited to the wedding,” she answered, her tone clipped and disapproving. She motioned to the house. “Look at this monstrosity. I see you have indulged our Napoléon.” She stressed his name, voice thick with spite.
Now I knew where Bonaparte had learned his pitiful manners.
I forced a smile. “My husband chose the house himself. He thought it might please you to walk through the orchards in the morning. To be surrounded by the luxury you deserve, madame.”
“I could not have said it better, darling.” Bonaparte gave me an appreciative smile as the others fanned around us.
“Hello, dear brother.” One of his sisters embraced him. “What a gorgeous place!” she gushed, blue eyes sparkling. She was the most beautiful of the Bonapartes—save her handsome mother.
“Josephine, this is Pauline.”
She studied me with narrowed eyes. “They say I’m the prettiest. I see that is still true. Nice dress.” She smirked.
My smile froze on my face. What had I done to deserve this instant hatred? She need not be so cruel. I would smother them with kindness.
“You are quite lovely, aren’t you? Bonaparte did not do your beauty justice.” My retort left her speechless.
Bonaparte introduced Caroline, Elise, and his second brother, Louis. Lucien would not be joining us, and Jérôme, the youngest, attended school with Eugène. Both would arrive within the week. A rush of warmth filled my body as I thought of my son. Time could not move swiftly enough.
The other Bonapartes were not as ungracious, though Caroline eyed me with contempt. Through it all, I smiled.
“I am sure you would like to refresh yourselves after the journey,” I said. “We’ll show you to your rooms. If there is anything I may do to make your visit pleasurable, do not hesitate to ask.”
Not a single Bonaparte said a word of thanks.
The Bonapartes’ insults only increas
ed.
“Ladies do not show their skin,” Letizia said, or “Modesty is becoming in a virtuous woman.”
I tried to ignore her; she followed Old World rules, not those of our progressive Revolution.
Despite their ingratitude, I remained a doting daughter-in-law, devoted sister, and amorous wife. My generosity was considered an illustration of my spoiled, superfluous nature, or so I overheard Caroline tell Bonaparte.
One evening after supper, his sisters made certain I understood their sentiments. They stood within hearing distance.
“He spoils her. It’s disgusting.” Pauline scanned the crowded ballroom as if looking for someone. The room buzzed with activity. An orchestra sat in the farthest corner and Italians mingled among themselves, ignoring the French visitors. “La vieille is wearing another diamond necklace. It’s ugly on her.”
I stiffened. La vieille, indeed. Thirty-four was hardly an old maid. Indignation rose in my throat, but I did not move away. Part of me wanted to hear the rest. I studied one of my favorite paintings of the Italian countryside.
Caroline giggled. “La vieille. What a perfect name. Or better yet, la puta. I’ve heard she takes new lovers to bed every night.”
I flushed in anger. I had taken a single lover since my marriage to their brother, and I had not seen him in months.
“Nabulione always had poor taste in women. It doesn’t shock me that he chose the biggest tramp in Paris.” Pauline gulped the rest of her wine.
My vision tinted red. As if that little tramp didn’t fall for every man she met! Bonaparte had reprimanded Pauline for loose behavior at least four times since their arrival. I set my water glass down and left to find Eugène, who had arrived two nights before. Bonaparte’s desperate yearning for love made sense—he came from a family of hateful, poor-mannered leeches.
Let them drown in their poison. I would not invest an inkling of feeling in them.
A fortnight later I hosted an elegant dinner for Eugène, a few friends visiting from Paris, and the others. We dined on the terrace under a string of blue and white lanterns. Children chased winking fireflies on the lawn, trapping them in a jar. The luminous insects did not exist in France, and we all delighted in their flashing bodies.
After a lengthy meal, our party chipped away at lemon ices. A delirious happiness settled over the militiamen. Bonaparte’s army had finally vanquished the Austrians, driving them to surrender. A treaty would soon follow. All seemed possible for the Republic. We would return to France as victors, as leaders.
Though thrilled to be returning to Paris, I didn’t join the merriment. Fortuné, my happy pug, had been chased and killed by the cook’s dog the day before. By morning I had another puppy, but could not erase the image of Fortuné’s broken body from my mind.
Caroline’s callous comments worsened my mood.
“Really, Josephine. I can’t understand why you’re so upset. It was just a dog. You already have a new one.” She sucked on a mouthful of sugared ice with a disgusting slurping noise.
“Fortuné did not deserve such cruel treatment.” Neither did I.
Caroline glared at me. I gave her my back and turned to Eugène.
“Little bugger,” he said. A firefly had landed in his ice. He flicked it and laughed at one of Bonaparte’s comments.
I reminded myself that these were the people I loved and I was here for them.
At the end of the evening I fell into bed, weeping for my murdered dog, the pain of missing my daughter and friends, and the hate emanating from my in-laws. Minutes later, Bonaparte slammed the bedroom door behind him.
I sat up, startled.
His scowl faded when he noticed my tears. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He dashed to my side and took me in his arms. “I hate to see you cry.”
I sobbed into the warm skin of his neck. “Your sisters and mother hate me. My dog is d-dead. I miss Hortense.” Saying her name brought a fresh wave of pain.
“Amore mio.” He cradled me in his embrace. “My family doesn’t hate you. They disapprove of me marrying without their knowledge. They take it out on you.” He stroked my face. “They can be unkind.”
Unkind? I would call them vicious. I pulled from his embrace, suddenly angry. “Why do you not defend me?”
“I can’t change their opinions, no matter what I say.”
I threw back the covers and jumped to my feet. “You haven’t even tried. The least you could do is silence them!” I stalked to the other side of the room, my fury mounting.
His expression grew stormy. “Don’t raise your voice to me. I am your husband!”
“I will raise my voice when I please!” I shouted. My blood boiled. I detested his horrible family.
He cornered me and gripped my arms. “Not to me, you won’t. If you ever—”
I wrenched free of his grasp. “You say you love me, yet you do nothing to protect my honor.”
“I would sail to the stars for you!” he thundered. He took a calming breath and closed the distance between us. “I would reject them all. Give up everything for you.” His voice softened. “Please, my love. Don’t be angry. I know my family well. Be your adorable self. They will come around in time.”
I had heard that before from Désirée. It had not worked out so well.
“Je t’aime.” He kissed my eyelids, my cheeks.
My anger dissolved. I would try to ignore them. For him. I allowed him to lead me to the bed.
As I slid under the covers, I remembered his slamming the door. “Why were you angry?”
“Pauline.” Irritation clouded his eyes. “I caught her having sexual relations in the corridor with Jean LeClerc.” His jaw clenched. “She behaves like a puta. I insisted LeClerc marry her at once to salvage what’s left of her reputation.”
I didn’t tell him his sister’s reputation was beyond repair. She did not deny the rumors of her many partners. When Caroline had confronted her, she laughed and mocked her sister as a prude.
“You did the right thing,” I said. “She would be in far more trouble to find herself with child and no husband.”
“That won’t happen. They will marry next week. Here in Mombello. Can you assist with the preparations?”
“Of course, chéri.”
He leaned over me. “You are an angel. My lucky star. I don’t know where I would be without you.” He kissed me again.
In the end, I arranged marriages for not one, but two Bonaparte sisters.
I granted their every desire, yet neither said a word of thanks. My patience wore thin. I grew weary of the pretension with the Bonapartes and with the Italians at court. I loathed the plastered smiles and judgmental leering.
At the end of the month, when Letizia, Elise, and Caroline announced their departure, I nearly wept with relief. My leaving would soon follow, once Bonaparte solidified the peace treaty. I would take a tour in Venice—far from the remaining Bonaparte clan—and make my way home to France.
That evening, I lay in bed in the dark. Headaches had plagued me all afternoon.
“Josephine?” Bonaparte entered the room and set his lamp on a bedside table. “You’ve been in bed all day.” He kicked off his shiny boots.
“I have a blinding headache.” I turned down the covers next to me.
“It must be your guilty conscience.” He thumped down into a chair and crossed his arms.
“What are you talking about?” I propped myself up on my pillow.
“You know very well what I’m talking about. That bastard lieutenant”—he gritted his teeth—“put his hands on you. On my wife!” He kicked the footstool.
I swallowed hard. He had heard about Hippolyte.
“What lieutenant?” I feigned innocence. “Bonaparte, really, what are you talking about? No one has had their hands on me but you.”
Despair and uncertainty warred on his
features. He dashed across the room and sat beside me on the bed. He gathered my hair in his hands with too much force.
“I will execute any man who so much as looks in your direction. Is that clear?”
I tensed against his grip. “Who told you such nonsense, darling?” I rubbed his cheek with my thumb. “You know I love only you.”
“Joseph and Pauline.”
“I’ve barely laid eyes on the lieutenant this whole year in Italy. You’ve seen him with his mistress many times. The beautiful Carlotta? Your siblings create falsehoods to ruin my reputation.”
He released my hair behind my shoulders. It swished against my silk nightdress.
“Pauline has been known to lie. But why would Joseph fabricate a story to hurt his own brother?”
“My love”—I pressed his hand against my heart—“you saw how your siblings treated me. Don’t you think others would have seen me with the lieutenant?”
His hand closed around my breast. He kissed me in a desperate way, as if searching for the truth.
When we parted, I said, “He means to turn you against me.”
“Nothing and no one can turn me against you, my beloved.”
Fallen Angel
Rue de la Victoire, Paris, 1797–1799
Bonaparte insisted on signing the peace treaty before we left for Paris, but his temper did not endear him to the Austrian negotiators.
I took to smoothing over his tantrums.
“Please forgive my husband’s ill humor,” I told the chief Austrian diplomat. “He awaits word from the Directoire and is anxious to proceed with the treaty. He detests wasting your time.”
Bonaparte cared nothing about wasting his time. His tantrums were about having his way or none at all.
I motioned to a servant to pour more brandy.
“I only wish to reach a peaceful agreement,” the Austrian said.
“I have full confidence in your abilities to negotiate.” I laid my hand on his arm. “It will be grand to end the animosity between our countries! To be allies, and friends, monsieur.” He blushed and fussed with his cravat.
Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 24