Becoming Josephine (34 page)

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.”