Memory burst through my hazy mind like a torrent of water. I had fallen two stories and crashed to the street. Our balcony had given way!
I groaned and moved my arms, one at a time. Painful, but nothing broken. I attempted to sit up, but could not push my torso into an upward position. A tingling tickled my toes and I tried to move my legs.
No heavy weight of limbs.
I tried again. Nothing.
“I can’t feel my legs!” I screeched in a gurgled voice—as if I had not spoken for days. “I can’t feel my legs! Someone help me!”
Doctor Martinet rushed into the room. “Madame! Calm yourself!”
“I can’t feel my legs!” I screamed, my panic mounting. “What’s wrong with me?”
He adjusted the round spectacles teetering on the tip of his nose. “You had quite a fall. You broke your pelvic bone and it seems you’re suffering from temporary paralysis.”
An alarm pounded against my temples like a hammer. “Paralysis? Broken bones? No.” I shook my head. “I must go. Bonaparte! My husband! He’ll think I’ve abandoned him. His vile brother will tell him lies about me.”
I tried to roll to my side. A gasp escaped from my lips. Pain throbbed in my torso. Sweat beaded on my forehead and upper lip. I gave up and burrowed my face into the pillow. This could not be happening.
“Don’t try to move. You may make it worse. I’ve sent word to your husband already.” My eyes fluttered open. “With the extensive treatments I’ve prepared, I believe you’ll have a full recovery, but you’ll not be able to travel for six weeks. I’ve sent for your daughter and maid. They’re on their way from Paris this very minute.”
“Hortense and Mimi?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Yes.”
“My other friends! How—”
“They’re a bit battered, but are well. You’re the only one who broke a bone.”
I recovered slowly. The prescribed laudanum and tonics twisted my reasoning, and nightmares tormented my already fitful sleep. I saw Eugène captured, my husband executed in the grainy dunes of the desert. The Bonapartes banishing me from my home. My screams woke me night after night.
Bonaparte refused my request to join him when I could finally walk again.
“It’s too dangerous in your condition,” his letter said. “Be well, mon amour, for my return.”
Summer faded. Fall blew in with lumpy clouds and the constant threat of rain. Gusts of air grappled our hats and skirts with cold fingers, and tore at leaves clutching their branches. I had no desire to spend winter in the mountains. I longed for Paris. At last, the doctor cleared me to ride home.
Unsettling news awaited me in Paris. The entire brood of Bonapartes had relocated to the city to influence assembly members on Napoléon’s behalf, or so they claimed. Their obvious greed appalled all who met them.
“What a nasty lot they are! The cretin spoke to me as if I were beneath him.” Theresia spoke of Joseph. “A stepping stool he might tread upon. Ugly misogynist.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Shh. He’s seated just there.”
He sat three places away at our table.
“Did you hear what Pauline Bonaparte said to our dressmaker?” Julie Récamier asked from behind her pyramid-painted fan.
“Oh, do tell.” Theresia loved gossip as much as I.
“While being fitted she said she was always the most beautiful at any event, but”—Julie leaned in and lowered her voice—“she said she wanted to ‘make Josephine and her friends look like the whores they are.’ Imagine saying such a thing aloud! To our dressmaker! Little wretch. Of course monsieur told me immediately.”
I gasped. Did Pauline not know she was creating powerful enemies? Foolish woman.
“The Bonapartes share a special hatred for me,” I said. “I hope my husband appoints them posts in Italy and rids us of them all.”
Joseph and Louis Bonaparte formed alliances with those who wished to slander my name. Yet I never spoke an ill word against them, and even invited them to my home. My in-laws ignored my invitations, save Letizia, who believed in keeping up appearances.
Joseph in particular relished cruelty; he lorded his limited power over me.
I met him at his office one afternoon to collect my stipend as designated by my husband. When I entered, Joseph appeared on edge, as if he might spring from behind his desk and strike me.
“Good afternoon, dear brother.” I pretended not to notice his hostility—he would not intimidate me.
He grunted and closed his book. “What can I do for you? As you can see, I’m very busy.”
“I’m here to discuss my living expenses.”
He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and trumpeted into it, then said, “I will distribute an allotted sum once per month. Nothing more.”
I hid my dissatisfaction. “Bonaparte said I would be well provided for, that I may ask for what I need. I’m sure you’ll fulfill his wishes.”
“You are frivolous with your money, madame. You will not receive advances for lavish parties and extravagant clothing. There’s simply not enough for such trifles.”
My face grew hot until the roots of my hair tingled. Joseph knew full well Bonaparte would give me the moon. The wretched man had purchased his own colossal country estate only two weeks before. My entire house could fit in one of his bedchambers.
“Extra sums won’t be necessary, Joseph. And if I may say so, I’m happy my husband has a brother in whom he places such trust.” A scarlet blush moved up his neck to his ears. “You may tell him I am content with what he has allotted.”
“Good. Then we understand each other. You may go.” He dismissed me as if I were a servant.
“I hope you’re enjoying your new estate. I heard its splendor is awe-inspiring,” I said sweetly.
He gripped his pen and gave me a steely gaze. So glad we understand each other, thieving greed-monger. “Good day, Joseph.”
The Bonapartes left me longing to escape Paris. The idea of Malmaison shone like a new coin. I didn’t need to revisit the property—I knew what I wanted.
I met with Barras to put my plan in motion.
“I’ve managed to save one hundred and fifty thousand,” I said.
A look of shock crossed Paul’s face. He laughed a jolly sound. “How did my spendthrift friend manage that?”
I set my empty wineglass on a servant’s tray. “I sold jewelry and vases from Italy and saved the many months of trading profits. Monsieur Récamier lent me a sum as well.”
“Good work, ma chère!” He clapped me on the back. “I’ll give you whatever you need.”
I became the proud owner of Malmaison, the house and all of its animals, orchards, and vineyards. I retreated from the city the moment I held the keys, eager to begin renovations. The first morning I stood in the gravel drive and stared up at the house’s charming facade. Much of the property needed work, but this would be my home. I skipped merrily through the door.
I had the rooms painted, windows replaced, and the slate roof mended. My gardener planted three dozen varieties of flowers in the first week, and I kept my designer busy. By month’s end, my bedroom was remodeled and the study was furnished with shelves for Bonaparte’s endless books. I could not wait for him to see it. He would be thrilled to find his leather bindings dusted and placed in alphabetical order. In a matter of weeks, I invited friends and deputy members to enjoy the country air, the swans and horses, and wine from my vineyards.
One summer morning, I awoke to the lonely cooing of a mourning dove. I spread my arm out over the empty space in the bed. If only Bonaparte were here. He hadn’t responded to my last few letters—neither had Eugène. A familiar fear gripped me. My son. I swallowed hard. And without Bonaparte, I would face an uncertain future, again.
“My darlings, where are you?” I whispered to the empty room.
Even Barras had heard nothing. I inhaled a steadying breath. Perhaps their convoy had been diverted. I could not . . . would not consider the alternative. Not yet. I squeezed my eyes closed against the sudden rush of tears and rolled from bed. I had to keep myself occupied.
After breakfast on the terrace, I wiggled my hands into a new pair of gardening gloves and traipsed through the hedges with pruning shears. I was pounding my muddy heel against a brick when an unexpected guest arrived. A gentleman—a soldier—in an azure coat. He bobbed atop his horse down the gravel drive.
I would recognize his impish grin anywhere.
“Hippolyte!” I darted across the lawn. He dismounted and ran toward me. “My dear Hippolyte. How have you been?” I leapt into his arms, inhaling his spicy scent. A flash of our last encounter rushed my senses, of his smooth hands. And those lips. I shoved away the image, and the unsavory prick of guilt.
“I’ve missed you!” He held my face in his hands. “I heard you were badly injured. Have you recovered?” His elegant cravat impressed as always and his merry eyes danced. I had missed him.
“Mostly, though my hips ache when it rains. But let’s not talk about such a dreary subject. Are you well? What brings you to Malmaison?”
Sunlight filtered through the oak leaves, illuminating an errant lock of brown hair that had escaped from under his hussar cap.
“What brings me? You, of course!” He laughed and took my hand. “May I see your new home?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Hippolyte visited me often at Malmaison, entertaining me with his wit and gossip from the city, though business stocks dominated our conversations. He had accrued military contacts as a soldier but was looking to expand his contacts. He joined me in working with the Bodin Company, my most profitable contractor. I avoided intimate settings with the lieutenant. Shame overcame me each time I considered betraying Bonaparte—until one balmy summer evening as we walked in the garden.
A full moon spilled pearly incandescence over the hedges and lit the path. The scent of wet grass and roses enveloped us, and the crickets chirped their melodies. My limbs buzzed with the happy warmth of wine and a delicious meal.
I smiled. Quite an intoxicating evening, and an intoxicating man.
Hippolyte pulled me into his arms under a trellis of tea roses. “My darling, I still have feelings for you. I’ve had other mistresses, but—”
“Shh.” I placed my finger over his lips. I stared into his shadowed face as he traced the outline of my nose, my eyebrows. My stomach flipped in excitement and desire.
No one need know of our tryst. Bonaparte might not return and where would I be? Alone, devastated again. The thought made my insides ache. Yet Hippolyte was here—warm, tempting, a skilled lover. My cheeks flushed.
“What are you thinking about?” He ran his fingertips over my exposed neck. I gasped at his touch and he chuckled.
“The future,” I said, voice soft.
“Ahh, well. There will always be one.” A crooked smile crossed his face.
I laughed, until his mouth fell on mine.
Dreams of Bonaparte haunted me while Hippolyte lay in my bed. I watched his chest rise and fall as he slept. Something felt different. Marriage had never equaled fidelity in my mind, not since I was a girl, and not even then. A memory of Papa slapping a slave girl on the rear flashed in my mind. Yet I had pined for loyalty and fidelity from Alexandre. I had come to understand my dreams were just that—a fantasy—and marriage would never be as I wished it to be.
Yet guilt gnawed at me. And the thought of Bonaparte touching another woman made me ill.
I sat up in bed and watched a robin hop across the floor of my balcony, its rust-colored chest puffed out proudly. An image came to mind of my husband standing on the dock at Toulon, kissing me possessively as the people exulted in their hero’s affection for his beloved wife.
My stomach lurched, suddenly queasy. I loved Bonaparte—deeply. How could I have been so blind? The wine, the ease of being with Hippolyte, the time away from my husband . . . I covered my face with my hands. It would crush him. I could lose him forever if he discovered the truth.
Hippolyte rolled toward me. His smile faded when he saw my expression. “What is it?”
“I’m disgusted with myself. I can’t . . . I just can’t . . . we must end this. I’m so sorry.” I clutched my middle. “I feel ill.”
He tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind my ear. “I knew this would come. The guilt. I can see it in your eyes. You truly love him, don’t you?”
A pang of despair rolled through me. I had not realized how much.
“Yes, I love him. Dieu, I love him, more than I ever guessed. What have I done? Had I realized . . . I’ve been so stupid.” Tears rushed down my cheeks.
He embraced me gently. “He doesn’t have to know. We’ll never speak of this again.”
“You mustn’t come back to Malmaison.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “I . . . we can manage business through letters or a courier.”
Sadness filled his eyes. “I understand.” He catapulted from bed and dressed quickly.
“Good-bye, sweet Josephine.” He disappeared through my door for the final time.
My affair ended none too soon. Two weeks later, Theresia visited to deliver a warning. We followed a path behind the house and entered the stables. The earthy scent of animals and damp hay permeated the air.
“You’re so thin. Are you well?” she asked.
Food had not appealed to me. I had been too racked with self-loathing to eat or sleep. How I wished I could erase my despicable deed.
I sucked in a deep breath. “Well enough.”
“I’ve missed riding,” she said.
The stable hand assisted Theresia and me onto our horses, and we trotted to the field behind the barn.
“I’ve ridden every day this week,” I said.
“I’m jealous.” She clucked her tongue at her horse. “Speaking of jealous, have you heard about Madame Delait?”
“No. What’s happened?”
“Her husband seeks a divorce!”
“No!” I said, shocked.
“Apparently he discovered Jeanette with her lover. Poor man. It must have been an uncomfortable scene.”
“Monsieur Delait was practically her slave. Completely devoted to—” I stopped midsentence.
My stomach dropped to my feet. The man had been devoted to his wife, like Bonaparte was to me. Now he was shattered and sought a divorce.
Theresia didn’t notice my sudden pause. “Completely. A man could not be more in love with his wife. He’s enraged.”
A pang hit me like a blow and I fell forward in my saddle.
“Do you need to dismount?” Theresia asked, tugging on her reins to slow her horse.
“No, no. I am all right.” I blinked back tears. I would be faithful to Bonaparte, come what may, I vowed. No matter the cost, no matter my fear—even if he cast me aside. Dieu, I loved him.
We rode up the hill in silence.
“Are the rumors true about you and Lieutenant Charles again?” Theresia asked at last.
“Oh, Theresia.” I gave her a pained expression. “I can’t forgive myself. I feel wretched.”
“Whatever for? You don’t love Bonaparte and he’s been gone for months. I’m sure he has taken a lover of his own.”
I did not respond.
She studied my face. “No! You do love him!”
“More than I knew.” I looked away, toward the edge of the wood.
“Everyone speaks of the lieutenant’s visits to Malmaison. Including Joseph. I heard him mention it to Madame Hamelin yesterday.”
Joseph knew? Dread pooled in my stomach. “Hippolyte came for business only, until a fortnight ago.” I snapped my mare’s reins and she increased her pace.
“And Joseph has no proof.”
Theresia’s skin glowed butter yellow under her wide-brimmed hat. “The Bonapartes don’t need proof. You know how they are. They enjoy making your life a misery. I hope you terminated your contracts with the lieutenant.” She gave me a worried look. “And I’m afraid I have more bad news. The Bodin Company—one of your suppliers?”
I gripped the reins a bit tighter. “My most profitable.”
“I feared so. The Bodin brothers have been arrested for selling inferior, stolen horses to the armies.”
“Merde! Are you certain?”
“Positive.”
The happy sky and lush fields of clover blurred. I would have to dump my contracts with them at once.
Theresia’s warning came a day too late. The scandal exploded the following morning before I could extricate myself. Every journal in Paris featured the story, and to my horror, my name appeared in bold black print among the investors. I crumpled my newspaper and pitched it at the wall. Bonaparte would be furious. I could be tried and convicted.
A sheen of cold sweat stole across my skin at the idea of jail—of divorce. My husband would not forgive me for deceiving his beloved armies. But how could I have known the horses were stolen?
I sought the counsel of a lawyer friend, who reassured me about my position. When it appeared I would escape a sentence, or even a fine, I wept with relief. But my relief did not last.
Barras invited me to join him for dinner at the Palais du Luxembourg. He had something pressing to tell me, his letter said.
I left Malmaison on edge.
To my chagrin, our private party included Joseph Bonaparte and his wife, and Caroline and her husband, Joachim Murat. I spent most of the evening avoiding them. I reassured myself Eugène and Bonaparte were well. Barras would have told me the minute he knew of their whereabouts. Yet after wandering through the main ballroom, I cornered Paul just before dinner.
“What is it? I can’t stand the suspense.”
“Later. After the Bonapartes leave. I can’t say anything in front of them without it becoming front-page news. Besides, dinner is being served. Shall we?”
Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 26