“How lovely it is to see a proper cravat,” I said. “The Italians don’t seem to grasp the style of the day.”
His blush deepened. “You flatter me, madame, but how right you are. The Italians are a rather archaic society, though the food is divine.” He heaped his fork with braised fish. “You’ve done wonders with the grounds. I hear you are quite the horticulturalist.”
He motioned to the vases of verbena and freesia.
“It’s satisfying to nurture them and watch them grow into something beautiful.” I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. “Quite like a friendship. Wouldn’t you agree?”
We spoke for some time. All the while, Bonaparte made a show of his displeasure with the other officials. Had I not enjoyed a dance with the Austrian or shared his interest in flowers, the Republic’s hopes of a truce would have collapsed.
Despite my obvious assistance, Bonaparte sulked before bed. “Women have no place in politics. You saw what happened. You reduced that man to a sniveling idiot.”
“Don’t be daft, my darling.” I frowned. “That’s precisely why I belonged there. Now you have your treaty.” I slid under the covers.
He bounced onto the bed beside me. “You did manage him.”
“I have my ways.” I kissed him lightly on the brow.
He sat for several moments in silence, lost in thought. As I extinguished the lamp beside the bed, he said, “Perhaps I should bring you to more of my official dinners. You might be an asset.”
“Indeed I would be.”
He took me in his arms.
The Directoire’s approval of the treaty came weeks into the autumn season, though Bonaparte took liberties with their demands. He left for Paris immediately, leaving me behind to conclude official appearances. I sighed with relief once safely on French soil.
But I had not been prepared for the greeting I received.
I stared out the coach window in utter amazement. Hundreds gathered in every village to hail the wife of their hero. Torches lit our passage and cannons boomed to announce our convoy.
I laughed aloud. Bonaparte’s popularity had spread. How had this happened?
“Vive Bonaparte!” citizens cried. “Our Lady of Victories!”
I returned their waves. “Have you seen anything like it, Junot?”
“Not since Marie Antoinette made her royal progress.” The captain gawked at the townspeople in the dark.
An uneasy sensation tingled in my limbs. “I am no queen.”
He started at the tense tone of my voice. “Madame Bonaparte, do not fear. You are certainly not a queen.”
We reached Paris two weeks later than expected. As we pulled into the drive of my lovely home, emotion surged through me. Home again. I jumped from the coach and skipped up the walk to find sentries guarding the door. Since when did we need guards?
“Yeyette!” Mimi greeted me.
I squeezed her with all my might. “How do you always smell of sunshine, Mimi?”
“Best not waste time. General Bonaparte is mighty anxious to see you. He’s at the Palais du Luxembourg.”
“It’s Bonaparte’s fault I am late. I had to stop in every town because of his supporters. The National Guard escorted us all the way to Paris.” I removed my cloak. “I’ve missed you! Italy was lovely, but lonely. I’ve missed the children!”
Mimi tugged me toward the stairs. “Hortense will be here in the morning. Now, let’s go. You’re going to enrage that husband of yours.”
“His temper doesn’t frighten me.” I dismissed her concerns with a wave. “I’ll just take a quick tour. I’ve been dying to see the renovations.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m glad I won’t be there. He’s going to—”
“Never mind, Mimi.” I breezed into the salon. Mahogany furniture filled the room, gold curtains draped the windows, and mosaics tiled the floors. The airy classical style had become passé. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and pushed open the door.
I gasped. “I love it!”
A cascade of blue-and-white-striped fabrics fastened at a point in the ceiling, mimicking a soldier’s tent. Several drum-shaped footstools circled the bed and a vanity and armoire sat on opposing walls.
A maid rushed in holding three gowns. “Madame, you must hurry. Which will you choose?”
I bathed, dressed in a white gown and gold hat in record time, and rushed to the soiree.
“Where have you been?” Bonaparte demanded when he first laid eyes on me. “Talleyrand spent a fortune to welcome you home. He has rescheduled it twice!” A vein in his neck began to pulse.
I caressed his chin with my finger and laced my arm through his. “Careful, mon amour. Everyone is watching. And we both know this fete is really to honor you.” I smiled to make it appear as if we were sharing endearing words. “I arrived as soon as I could. Your admirers made the journey much longer than necessary. The French adore you.”
The storm in his eyes cleared. “I’m glad you’re home.” He sighed and kissed my palms. “Can you believe this?” He nodded toward the grand ballroom crowded with guests.
Talleyrand had ordered evergreen garland, bells, red ribbon, and exquisite ice sculptures chiseled in the likeness of forest animals. In the adjacent room, several long tables were set with lacy cloths and dishes for a formal dinner.
“He did a wonderful job. I will tell him so when I see him.” Bonaparte escorted me to a refreshment table. I accepted a crystal goblet of pink punch. “You do realize he is courting you? He plans to see you appointed as a deputy in the Directoire.”
“Has Barras told you this?” He examined my expression.
“No, but he wrote to you every week while we were in Italy.”
“You pay attention.”
“Always.” I sipped the sweet punch. “The farmers want a man with simple Republican values. The people grow restless for change.”
Bonaparte surveyed the room for eavesdroppers. He leaned closer. “Change is what they will have. This will be our last banquet for a while. It’s best to demonstrate that we don’t confer with corrupted deputies. That we aren’t greedy for power.”
“Whatever you say, Bonaparte.” I smiled.
My husband was proving to be more ambitious than I had expected.
I received Theresia and Barras at the rue de la Victoire or visited them at their homes, but made sure to stay out of the public eye. I worried about Bonaparte’s neurosis, which increased with his popularity.
“The Directoire plans to assassinate me. They fear my power,” he said one evening.
“Barras is a dear friend. Sending you to England is hardly a death sentence.” I rubbed his shoulders while he hunched over his desk. He would depart in a week’s time to assess the English ports for a possible invasion. It was a plan to protect our Republic.
“It removes me from Paris and takes me from my people.” He motioned toward the window. A throng gathered each morning to chant his name or call for me, his “lady luck.”
In truth, I looked forward to his absence. I might have a bit of peace. He wouldn’t be gone long, at any rate—not enough time to miss him.
“Their adoration has not gone unnoticed,” he said. “The ministers squirm in their beds at night.”
I nodded. The near worship Parisians displayed for my husband threatened our unstable government. I could not help but worry, at least a little, about his welfare.
“Then perhaps it is best you are gone awhile,” I said. “Let the Directoire regain their confidence. Meanwhile, secure as many victories as you can. The people will only love you more.”
He turned from his stack of papers and whisked me into his lap. “Je t’aime.”
Before Bonaparte departed, I insisted we tour properties outside the city. The constant mass of well-wishers crowded me. A country home not far from Paris would be the perfect escape.
“Our haven,” I told him. “Away from everyone. We could create our own amusements, bring the children. Invite our friends.”
“I’ll look with you, but I am in no position to spend a large sum.”
We had toured several properties, but I knew the house I wanted on first sight: the lovely Malmaison. Its land extended across hectares of rolling hills and streams, several gardens, and a well-maintained vineyard. Farmers tended the land and lived off the meat, dairy, and grains. The château needed remodeling; the roof was in disrepair, the glass windows clouded, and the interior filthy from pigeons nesting in its rafters.
“It needs a bit of work,” I said, “but it’s perfect. Oh, Bonaparte, this is the one!”
“It’s three hundred thousand francs!” He threw his arms in the air, sending the pigeons into a flurry of squawking feathers.
I ducked to avoid one that dived toward my head.
“I have yet to pay the one hundred thirty thousand for your remodeling,” he continued. “Maybe one day, but certainly not now.”
I stuck out my bottom lip. “Very well.”
On our ride back to Paris, my mind whirred. I could use the sums from my contracts and borrow from Barras. I needed my own land, a real home. Malmaison would be mine.
While Bonaparte traveled, I settled into my routine. I visited Hortense and Eugène, met Fanny and Désirée. My military contracts boomed from my husband’s war. His success had given me limitless credit, despite his ignorance of my dealings. I managed to save most of my earnings, with the vision of Malmaison fresh in my mind.
One evening I dined at Barras’s country estate. After a meal of roasted duck, Barras and I played cards while Theresia entertained us at the pianoforte.
“Any news on the British?” I asked.
“Not yet.” Paul threw down his hand of cards. “Bonaparte insists the best way to attack the British is in Egypt. Head off their route to India. But the Russians are there as well, and we’d risk war if we blockade their passage routes. The best way to get at the bastards is directly on English soil. But it’s already been decided.”
“What has been decided?” I collected his cards, shuffled the deck, and distributed two piles.
“Egypt.” He snagged his cards from the table. “When Bonaparte returns from England, preparations will be made for a spring departure. Eugène will be his aide-de-camp and his brother Lucien will accompany them.”
I went cold.
“Eugène? He’s seventeen! He can’t go to war!” The thought of someone pointing a gun at him made my heart stop. I groaned as another thought occurred to me. “Lucien will turn Bonaparte against me.”
He patted my hand. “Maman, it is time to let your son be a man. Bonaparte will look after him. And Lucien is a snake, but he can’t sway your husband’s feelings. Napoléon loves you beyond reason. Near madness, I’d say.”
A husband and son at war. Dread settled into my bones. Something would change. I could feel it.
When Bonaparte returned home from his travels, he pored over maps and history books as before, but traded English coastline for Egyptian desert. I had to tempt him from his study in the late hours each night.
I sat on the edge of his desk in a lacy nightdress.
“When are we leaving for Egypt? I need to make arrangements.” I could not remain behind with so much at stake.
“You aren’t going.” He looked up from a blueprint. “At least not right away. It isn’t safe.”
I changed my tactic. “But how will I get on without you?”
“Wives don’t come to battle, dear one.” He stroked my thigh. “I will not put your life in jeopardy.”
“But you will put my son in harm’s way?” My bottom lip quivered for effect. “And you sent for me in Italy.”
“This is different. Egypt will be an arduous journey over sea and land with few comforts, if any. No place for a woman.” He pulled me onto his lap. “I will protect Eugène. But he has been well trained.”
“He’s thrilled to go.” I brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “Don’t you need your good luck charm?”
“I’ll bring your portrait. It will have to do for now. I’ll send for you soon. If it’s safe.” He smoothed the lines on my forehead. “We’ll be fine, amore mio. I swear it.”
And in the clutches of your horrible brothers. Apprehension rose in my throat.
I could not bear to lose either of my men.
Within the month, we traveled south to Toulon. The morning of departure, I joined Bonaparte and Eugène on the dock. The southern sun glittered on the shifting cobalt waves. A crowd of onlookers massed in the streets to watch the horde of frigates bob in the bay. The warships expanded as far and wide as the horizon.
I stared at the fleet. How many would return with tattered sails, or not at all? I inhaled a gust of briny air to calm my nerves.
A horn blared. Soldiers scurried to their ships.
“It’s time.” Eugène kissed my cheeks. “You must let me go.” He laughed his boyish laugh. I had clutched his arm all morning. “I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry.”
“Je t’aime.” I smiled bravely to mask the pain. He skipped up the gangway. A last wave and my son’s dark head disappeared amid the other soldiers. “Good-bye, son,” I whispered, turning my face into Bonaparte’s neck.
“I’ll take good care of him.” He rubbed my back. I pulled away to study his face. His usually pallid skin glowed and determination stamped his features. I straightened a button on his gray coat.
“My sweet Josephine.” He caught my hands. “I long for the day I return to your arms. I love you. A thousand times I love you.” He kissed me passionately in front of everyone. The crowd exploded in a chorus of cheers and applause. He smiled and waved at the onlookers.
“I must defend the honor of France,” he added, projecting his voice.
Another cheer erupted.
Sorrow welled inside me at the thought of him being in danger. “Please be careful! I couldn’t bear it if . . . if . . .” I touched his lips with my fingertips.
“Do not be anxious. Write to me.” He kissed me again.
My fearless husband slipped from my arms and climbed aboard.
I remained in Toulon for a few days to enjoy the salty air and to delay the detestable journey home. Yet despite the respite, my insides churned and prayers tumbled from my lips. I could not shake my dread.
Yes, keep Bonaparte, but my son—Lord, save my son.
By week’s end, I had traveled north toward Plombières-les-Bains, a small town in the Vosges Mountains famous for its healing springs.
“The springs promote fertility,” Bonaparte had said.
He didn’t hide his desire for children. He caressed my abdomen each time we made love, willing it to bear him a baby. I, too, longed for a child. A baby would ward off the doubts of his rigid mother and secure an heir, should there need to be one.
Doctor Martinet, a famed physician, devised a routine of salts and herbal elixirs, scheduled bathing regimes, and exercises to stimulate my menses. I followed his orders as if they were my religion.
“My courses have been disrupted since prison,” I complained to Madame de Krény. “It may be six months before I see it again.”
She had joined me from Paris to soothe a pain in her ankles. She dangled her feet in a pool of scalding water. It bubbled and hissed as she splashed.
“I was hoping to be with child already,” I said.
“Try not to despair. You are still of childbearing age.”
I dispelled the rising steam around my face with my hand. “There’s no sense in dwelling on it, I suppose. With my husband away.”
Bonaparte wrote to me as promised. He depicted the ancient land as I had imagined it: blazing heat that made the horizon shimmer like copper, ancient structures weathered by time, merciless s
and flies, and warring men in mismatched robes and headcloths. Thirst that made him ache. He detailed Eugène’s impressive comportment on the battlefield and with his officers. Such a noble young man I had raised.
After several victories, Bonaparte asked me to join him. Relieved, I prepared my travel arrangements with haste. The afternoon before my leaving, I enjoyed refreshments with Madame de Krény and Madame Garer, a friend from the bathhouse.
“Why don’t we sit outdoors?” I carried a tray of pretty cakes iced with pink and green sugar. “It’s so lovely today.”
They followed me onto the balcony overlooking the street. A mountain breeze cooled the stifling summer air. We settled into our chairs as ferocious barking drifted up from the street.
“What in God’s name . . . ?” I peered over the iron railing. A red-haired poodle crouched in attack position, prepared to pounce on a spaniel puppy. The dogs’ owners jerked their leashes in an attempt to separate them.
“Goodness! That’s a lot of racket.” Madame de Krény joined me at the railing.
The sudden splintering of wood crackled. We looked at each other in confusion.
“What in the world?” Madame de Krény said.
I turned just as the dishes slid from the table and shattered. When the last fork and spoon clamored to the ground, the floor gave way beneath my feet.
Our shrill screams pierced the air. My stomach dropped with the sensation of falling.
I felt a thud, heard a horrible cracking, then blackness.
A beam of light blinded me.
I moaned and closed my eyes. After a moment, I peeled back one lid, then the second, and tried to focus my gaze. A brown square blurred across the room. An armoire? Where was I?
I turned my spinning head. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like parchment. I swallowed and lifted my head. Someone had stuffed my body under layers of covers.
Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 25