Becoming Josephine (30 page)

I wiped my eyes. “I didn’t bid my children farewell.” I threw my arms around Theresia’s tiny waist. “And I’ll miss you. I’ll miss Paris.”

Barras pulled his silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed my face. “Write to them.” He kissed the top of my head. “You’ll be home before you know it.” He held the carriage door open.

Fortuné barked from inside and leapt from Lieutenant Charles’s lap onto a startled Joseph Bonaparte.

“Get off of me, you mangy rodent.” Joseph pushed my dog to the floor and brushed at his trousers with a stormy expression.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Bonaparte.” I scooped Fortuné into my arms and settled in a seat between Hippolyte and Officer Junot.

A cloud of despair engulfed me. I would be riding for days with this wretched man in the sweltering heat. At the end of the miserable journey, I must start my new life—as Bonaparte’s wife. At least I cared for him.

Barras closed the door and waved.

“Farewell,” I whispered to the window as I watched Paris slide away.

Italian Princi
palities, 1796–1797

W
e did not rush to Milan, but stopped to rest for a day or two in the larger towns. I had little patience for long days of bumping over rocky terrain and pitted roads. Our carriage swayed past hectares of vineyards and olive groves, and over Alps that stabbed the sky with dagger peaks. The temperature grew warmer as we moved south.

Headaches blinded me for much of the trip. Joseph Bonaparte’s constant complaints did not make the journey more pleasant. He squirmed and whined in discomfort, though his precise ailment eluded me. His sour temper irked Hippolyte and Officer Junot as well. I hid my annoyance, unlike my friends, for I did not want to give my brother-in-law a reason to dislike me.

“We’re nearly there, brother.” I patted his knee. “I will order tea and a hot bath for you immediately. Is there something else I can do to ease your discomfort?”

“No.” He pulled away from my touch and scowled. “And I’ll see to a bath myself. I don’t need your assistance.”

I prayed the other Bonapartes were more endearing.

When at last the Serbelloni palace gates appeared on the horizon, a collective sigh escaped our lips. Gleaming columns of pink and white marble reflected the fading sunlight in a rosy glow. The air smelled of citrus blossoms and dry earth, parched from the unyielding heat of midday. Militiamen and a bevy of servants stood at attention, poised for our arrival.

Bonaparte had done well. Still, it was no Palais du Luxembourg.

I slipped from the coach with all the grace I could muster after our trying journey. Hippolyte glanced at me with a resigned expression. Our trysts were at an end.

My husband burst from the palace and rushed to me, arms outstretched.

“My beloved!” He smashed me to his chest.

For an instant I could not breathe. “Bonaparte.” A muffled laugh escaped my lips.

He pulled back to look at me. “How I have longed for this moment!” He wrapped one arm about my waist, pulling me to his lips for a passionate kiss in front of everyone.

I reddened. “You mustn’t show such affection in public,
chéri
.” I smiled to soften the reproach and took his offered arm.

He ignored my reprimand. “Why did it take you so long?”

“Many roads were blocked by Austrians. Your brother was ill, as was I, with constant headaches. We were forced to stop often.”

He stroked my arms and traced his fingertip over the tops of my breasts.

“Bonaparte!” I glared at him. I looked at the others to see who had noticed.

Hippolyte pretended to admire the palace, while Joseph stared at the ground. Bonaparte laughed and scooped me into his arms, then twirled me around.

At the palace door he turned to the others. “Welcome, everyone. You’ll be shown to your rooms for a respite. I expect to see you at the fete tonight to honor my dear Josephine.”

Bonaparte did not let me rest. Every moment of the afternoon he cradled me, stroked my hair, or kissed me as if I might slip away. He decorated my body with jewels, impressed me with paintings, ancient Roman vases, and expensive furniture. The luxuries did not make up for the loss of Hortense and Eugène, my friends, or my home. How I wished my darlings had come. Still, I was strangely happy to see him.

For the evening festivities, I dressed in white gown, head scarf
à la Creole
, and bangles. Bonaparte insisted I wear one of several antique rings tucked into a velvet-lined jewelry box.

“Where did you find this?” I wiggled my finger so the gem caught the light. The circular ruby flashed an exuberant red.

“A prince sent it as a gift to the new ruler of Milan.” He attached the last tassel to his uniform. “Me.” He laughed with glee. His power thrilled him.

I fastened on a pair of matching ruby earrings. “Gorgeous.”

“Not as gorgeous as you.” He kissed me. “Are you ready?”

I nodded. Ready as I would ever be.

My husband led me through corridors filled with servants rushing to and from the kitchen, their hands laden with platters. Each stopped to bow as their new ruler passed.

Such a fuss for a man who is only a general in Paris. I smirked. He would be enraged to know I thought such a thing.

The rumble of voices grew as we approached the ballroom. The central room was magnificent, with low arced ceilings decorated with mosaics of heaven. Sculptures came alive from their footholds on the wall. I paused to study a naked male statue. The lines of his muscle looked as real as my own, his expression of anguish heartrending, and the curved etchings of his hair exquisite. I reached out to trace the contours of his neck.

“You’ll have time to study them later, darling. Come.” Bonaparte tugged me across the room.

French soldiers milled about in uniform. Italian noblemen pranced in their
culottes
and stockings, flowing coats, and wigs. The Italian women, though as lovely as Parisian ladies, wore the formal gowns we had abandoned ten years ago. I pitied them—laced, tied, and corseted within an inch of their lives, every patch of skin covered and hair powdered. Passé from head to toe. Theresia would be in hysterics at such a sight.

“I’d like you to meet my officers,” Bonaparte said, dividing groups as we crossed the room.

A woman gasped at my style, eyebrows raised. Another waved her fan as if dying from heat.

How uncivil I must seem with bared arms, light fabric, and low neckline. I held my head high and smiled. I was their ruler’s wife. I would wear what I wished.

The evening passed at a tortoise’s pace, with no one of interest to talk to. I searched for Lieutenant Charles. I scanned the room again and again, but came upon only one face I knew: Bonaparte’s. He teemed with pride and adoration, exuberant to have me in Milan. In the rare moments he drifted through the room without me, women swarmed his small frame. He seemed annoyed by their attention, always catching my eye to assure me of his devotion, unnecessary but endearing.

Everyone treated Bonaparte with deference and he accepted their praise as if born to lead. My awkward little general had grown, indeed.

When we were seated for supper there was still no sign of Hippolyte.

“I haven’t seen the others.” I dipped my spoon into the velvety soup in my bowl.

“My brother did not feel well. He’s resting in his room. Officer Junot is here somewhere.” Bonaparte craned his neck to look for him. “Are you offended my brother could not make it?”

“Not at all. He was quite miserable on the ride. I pitied him.” And wished someone would whack him to shut him up.

“Serves him right. If he hadn’t spent time in the company of French whores, his loins would not burn.” Bonaparte slurped from his spoon.

I choked on my soup. So that was his source of discomfort.

“Bonaparte!” I smothered a giggle. “How can you say such a thing?”

“It’s true. Lord knows what he contracted from them.”

I leaned forward. “Shh. Someone may hear you. You don’t want to humiliate him.” I took a bite of bread. “And what of Lieutenant Charles?”

His spoon stopped in midair and he studied my expression. “He went on to headquarters in Brescia.” Suspicion lit his eyes. “Were you hoping to see him this evening?”

My heart plummeted, but I could not show my disappointment. “That’s too bad. He was interested in meeting a Milanese woman. He mentioned something about his grandmother being a beauty from Milan. Family tradition or some such nonsense,” I lied.

“He’ll have his chance with plenty of Italian women.” He kissed me on the nose.

Bonaparte remained at the Serbelloni palace only two days before he returned to war. Without him or a single friend, I was consumed by loneliness. I wrote letters, strolled through the palace gardens, and admired the art Bonaparte had collected during his campaigns. The spoils of war. I shuddered to think of how he had attained the treasures he now possessed.

One evening as I dressed for dinner a clatter of grapeshot shattered the tranquil evening air. I rushed to my window to locate its source. Soldiers and courtiers scattered to the far corners of the garden or ducked behind topiaries.

I moved away from the window as another round blasted. Screams pierced the air.

Mon Dieu
, were the Austrians here? I snatched my cloak and darted into the hall.

“Madame Bonaparte, we must leave at once.” Officer Junot bounded up the marble staircase. “An Austrian brigade has surrounded the town.”

War again. The stays of my chemise cut into my flesh. I leaned against the wall for support. Bonaparte wasn’t here.

Junot cupped my shoulder. “Madame?”

“More violence.” My pulse raced. “I don’t know if I can bear it again.”

“I will ensure your safety. Let’s get you out of here—”

“No.” I shook my head with vehemence. “I can’t leave until I receive word from Bonaparte.”

“Madame.” He took me by the arm. “I insist. There are bodies in the street and the Mayor has been taken hostage. I cannot allow you to stay.”

I freed my arm from his grasp. “You’re as much a stranger to this country as I. You haven’t the slightest idea where we should go. I’m not leaving without my husband’s orders.”

“I don’t think that’s wise.” He ran a hand through his wavy blond hair in exasperation. “If the Austrians invade the palace—”

“Bonaparte will send for me. He would never abandon me.”

Officer Junot dispatched a courier with a message to Bonaparte. I prayed the courier would arrive swiftly. If Bonaparte did not receive the message . . . I paced from bed to window and back again.

No—I would not think of it. He would send word.

I dressed in riding clothes and called my maid, Louise, to prepare my trunks. Ready to flee at any moment.

As the night wore on, the courier did not return. I lay awake in bed, fully dressed, cringing each time gunfire split the silence. Fortuné stood by the window, a rumble in his throat.

The clock sounded every hour, its brass clanging like cannon fire in the stillness. I started each time.

Bonaparte, where are you?

In the early morning hours I drifted into a fitful sleep. Almost at once, Louise pounded at my door.