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  PRAISE FOR

  Into The World

  ‘This enthralling novel is extraordinarily rich in historical detail … Stephanie Parkyn vividly brings this world to life. Marie-Louise was possibly the first European woman to visit Van Diemen’s Land, but her amazing story encompasses so much more than this fact. Highly recommended.’

  —Good Reading

  ‘Into the World is written by an author with a passionate knowledge of the subject matter and genre they’re writing in … an interesting and enjoyable debut that will have readers anticipating the author’s next novel.’

  —Books+Publishing

  ‘I was swept away by the suspenseful storytelling as Marie-Louise battles not only the sea, but her self-confidence and self-respect, the attentions of suspicious sailors, and heart-sickness at leaving behind her child. Parkyn deftly builds in themes of loss and discovery, of rebellion and betrayal, of love and duty, delivering a tale that lingers.’

  —The Blurb Magazine

  ‘An entertaining debut … The details of the expedition and the frictions between the mariners, naturalists and scientists run close to truth, and the narrative is written in an easy style with enough intrigue, adventure and romance to keep you turning the pages.’

  —Historical Novel Society

  ‘Into the World is a solid example of how fact and fiction can be expertly sewn together to create one vivid historical adventure tale … Stephanie Parkyn is one very talented storyteller!’

  —Mrs B’s Book Reviews

  ‘A well told tale of a fascinating woman and an intriguing and sometimes terrifying journey on the sea. Stephanie Parkyn is to be congratulated on her first novel, one which is sure to find a wide, and satisfied audience.’

  —The Mercury

  ‘For those who love historical fiction, this is a must-read.’

  —Latitude Magazine

  Stephanie Parkyn’s first novel, Into the World, was published to wide acclaim in 2017. Stephanie always wanted to write fiction, growing up in a book-loving family in Christchurch, New Zealand. She had a rewarding career as an environmental scientist, but is now living her dream of writing stories and travelling to find them. She is fascinated by the human motivations behind the events of history and is particularly drawn to illuminating women’s stories. After enjoying ten years living and exploring in Australia, she now writes from her home in a bush-clad valley in Coromandel Peninsula, New Zealand. Josephine’s Garden is Stephanie’s second novel.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously or are products of the author’s imagination.

  First published in 2019

  Copyright © Stephanie Parkyn 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76052 983 3

  eISBN 978 1 76087 295 3

  Set by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Cover design: Lisa White

  Cover images: Richard Jenkins, Getty Images and Shutterstock

  Dedicated with love to my mum,

  Nelli Parkyn

  Contents

  Prologue: Winter 1810

  PART I: Rose de Beauharnais

  Chapter one: Summer 1794

  Chapter two: Summer 1795

  Chapter three: Autumn 1795

  Chapter four: Spring 1796

  Chapter five: Summer 1796

  Chapter six: Summer 1796

  Chapter seven: Summer 1796

  Chapter eight: Summer 1797

  Chapter nine: Winter 1798

  Chapter ten: Summer 1798

  Chapter eleven: Summer 1798

  Chapter twelve: Winter 1799

  Chapter thirteen: Spring 1799

  Chapter fourteen: Summer 1799

  Chapter fifteen: Summer 1799

  Chapter sixteen: Autumn 1799

  PART II: Josephine Bonaparte

  Chapter seventeen: Winter 1800

  Chapter eighteen: Winter 1800

  Chapter nineteen: Spring 1800

  Chapter twenty: Spring 1800

  Chapter twenty-one: Spring 1800

  Chapter twenty-two: Summer 1800

  Chapter twenty-three: Summer 1800

  Chapter twenty-four: Winter 1800

  Chapter twenty-five: Winter 1800

  Chapter twenty-six: Summer 1801

  Chapter twenty-seven: Winter 1801–Autumn 1802

  Chapter twenty-eight: Autumn 1802

  Chapter twenty-nine: Autumn 1802

  Chapter thirty: Summer 1803

  Chapter thirty-one: Summer 1803

  Chapter thirty-two: Autumn 1803

  Chapter thirty-three: Winter 1804

  PART III: Empress Josephine

  Chapter thirty-four: Summer 1805

  Chapter thirty-five: Summer 1805

  Chapter thirty-six: Summer 1805

  Chapter thirty-seven: Summer 1805

  Chapter thirty-eight: Summer 1805

  Chapter thirty-nine: Autumn 1805

  Chapter forty: Autumn 1805

  Chapter forty-one: Spring 1806

  Chapter forty-two: Spring 1806

  Chapter forty-three: Summer 1806

  Chapter forty-four: Winter 1807

  Chapter forty-five: Spring 1807

  Chapter forty-six: Summer 1807

  Chapter forty-seven: Winter 1808

  Chapter forty-eight: Summer 1808

  Chapter forty-nine: Spring 1809

  Chapter fifty: Spring 1809

  Chapter fifty-one: Summer 1809

  Chapter fifty-two: Summer 1809

  Chapter fifty-three: Autumn 1809

  PART IV: Rose

  Chapter fifty-four: Winter 1810

  Afterword

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  Winter 1810

  A letter carried by a swift horse never brings welcome news. From a first-floor window, Rose recognises Bonaparte’s courier as his horse scatters the gravel of her path, and shatters the peace of Malmaison. She does not wait; she takes a tiny spiral staircase with quick steps and pushes out through a side door of the château and into her garden. The shock of the winter air is brutal. She runs across the lawn, her silk slippers made sodden by the damp grass and a cold wind pushing at her back. My garden will protect me, Rose thinks as she runs towards the dark hedge of rhododendrons, their glossy leaves held stiff like shields.

  Rose reaches her favourite bench beside the pond and finds it splattered with bird filth. For a moment she is torn, but she bunches her velvet skirt to her thighs and turns to sit heedless of her fine clothes. She flinches as a brown, cartwheeling leaf glances off her head. The wind is spiteful today. See, Hortense, she complains to her daughter in her thoughts, even nature turns against me. In her mind’s eye her daughter shakes her head. You always think the worst, Maman. Nearby, a tiered fountain sends water cascading over its rims and Rose is not surprised when the wind picks up the spray and spits it in her face.

&
nbsp; On any other day the weeping willows would be draping their fingertips into the lake and her graceful swans would sail serenely alongside one another, but today the bullying wind has kept them from the water. Untroubled by the chill wind, the four stone women sitting at the base of the fountain continue to dip their toes into the water, their naked skin so smooth and unmarked by age, their faces unblemished by the ravages of loss. These women will remain forever in their youth, Rose thinks with an irrational pang of jealousy. They will not know the pain of longing for the impossible.

  Many times Rose has been soothed by the peace of this corner of her garden. Years ago, she had draped herself across the mossy stones, wildflowers bursting at her feet, while Prud’hon sketched. His painting showed her skin as white and clear and flawless as a marble statue. She had looked both as old as antiquity and as youthful as a nymph. Bonaparte admired it greatly. Rose remembers how it had made her cry to see herself look so timeless against the ancient rocks of her garden.

  She glances up towards the house. Her view of the château from this vantage is achingly beautiful. She has a warm face, Rose thinks, with her sunny stone walls and perfect symmetry. Even on this forbidding day it cheers her to look upon her home. No matter that some have sneered and called her plain and small; Malmaison will always be her dearest friend.

  Inside, her courtiers will be waiting for her to return. They no doubt pluck their sleeves and wring their hands while watching from the windows. They will be anxious at my strange behaviour. Why am I not inside on this cold day, with my needlework warming my lap? Why did I run from the courier?

  An emu struts across the lawn, its heavy thatch of feathers disturbed by the breeze. She remembers when she first laid eyes on the bizarre creature. Its startling head on that long hairy neck. She had clung to Bonaparte as the bird took its first gangly steps with those preposterous long legs. How happy Bonaparte had been that summer. Those were days filled with wonder and joy, with music and plays and entertainments on the lawn. If she could have halted time, if she could’ve held them both in that idyllic moment, protected by the gentle embrace of her gardens, perhaps everything would’ve been different.

  Rose looks out through the soft foliage of her evergreens to the distant hills. No one else has a garden such as this. On a grassy slope, she watches a zebra find warmth within a herd of Swiss cows. She sees the exotic wattles growing alongside the oaks, the hebes among hydrangeas. My garden is unique in all the world, Rose thinks with a jolt of pride. My plants and animals have come from all the corners of the globe, all taken from their homes but able to grow and prosper in peace. In my garden, I have created harmony. Gradually she feels her anxiousness begin to ease. Her garden always has the power to restore her. Whatever news Bonaparte has sent, she is determined it cannot hurt her here.

  The wind rises in a gust and the last of winter’s dry leaves, curled like claws, smack against her skirts. The wind is a broom, she thinks. Out, old leaves, old spent leaves. They skid and trip and tumble, powerless to stop themselves. Rose picks one up and presses it to her breast.

  A figure is coming towards her from the house. A man. She frowns, puzzled, as it is not Moustache, Bonaparte’s courier. His head is down, watching his feet. As he draws closer, she recognises Félix Lahaie, her chief gardener. He carries a letter in his hand.

  Ha. So they send my friend to break the news. She feels her anxiety return and clasps her hands together for strength. The peace her garden has given her is gone.

  Félix coughs as he approaches. Rose sees pity in his face and it does her no good.

  ‘Empress Josephine,’ Félix says.

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ Her tone is sharper than she intends, but it is too late to take it back. ‘I will not be his Josephine any longer. I will not use the name he dictated for me.’

  Félix stares at her, his soft face folding in sadness. ‘Empress.’

  She grunts. Not that. Not now. ‘My name is Rose.’ She tilts her chin upwards.

  Félix holds out the letter but she refuses to take it.

  ‘Tell me,’ she commands him, aware that her tone is still too harsh. She has never spoken this way with him before. But the thorns are a necessary protection.

  ‘I cannot open it,’ Félix says.

  ‘What do they say?’ She nods towards the house. ‘What are they whispering? I need to know, and you are the only one who will tell me.’

  Félix looks pained. It is cruel of Rose to do this to him, but she has to know the rumours.

  He speaks to his shoes. ‘They say the Emperor is to remarry.’

  Her breath catches. ‘So soon?’ she whispers. The sky is a glaring grey and it hurts her eyes to look up at it. She feels the tears sting but will not let them fall.

  Félix’s hand is shaking. Rose takes the letter from him, loath to read the message, yet she opens it.

  Bonaparte’s scrawl blurs before her. ‘My eyes are bad,’ she says to Félix. ‘You will have to read it for me.’

  Félix takes back the letter and reads to himself. His lips are moving.

  ‘Speak up,’ she urges. ‘Who did he choose?’

  ‘It does not say,’ Félix replies carefully.

  ‘But you know. You all know. Haven’t they been talking about it behind my back?’ She looks towards Malmaison and her ladies-in-waiting, her courtiers, all gathered at the windows, watching.

  ‘The Austrian princess,’ he murmurs.

  To have it confirmed is a blade between her ribs. The tears come despite her resolve. Félix tactfully turns away. The eighteen-year-old. Nubile, fertile, ripe. She will give him what I could not.

  Heat rushes through her. Bonaparte arranged this long before he asked me for a divorce, she realises. He would have spent months deliberating over the options, drooling like a child at the window of a sweet shop, asking advice from those treacherous men who pretend to be her friends, listening to the poisonous whispers of his family. Rose breathes rapidly, noisily. Many times she has felt despair, but never this white-hot fury.

  On the path before her, spring is forcing itself through the crushed gravel. New leaves. The first flush of growth. Rose bends over and rips the slender stems out.

  Félix clears his throat. ‘The Emperor thinks it best if you… if you are not here when … He wants you to leave before his marriage.’

  ‘Leave?’ Her voice is shrill. ‘Leave my home?’ She reels back, looking out over her parklands to her glasshouses, her nurseries, her woods. Rose feels herself spinning. She feels as brittle as the fallen leaves, picked up and swirled helplessly by the wind. I want to die here, Rose thinks. I want to lie down in the garden beds and let my plants devour me. How dare he take my home from me?

  She snatches the paper from Félix’s hand. She cannot call it a letter; it is short, brusque, without tenderness. Nothing like his usual missives. He offers no proof of his enduring love. No longing to see her. She reads the date that he has commanded her to leave: 25 March 1810.

  Mere days away. This cannot be.

  ‘So the new queen will be jealous and I am to be exiled.’

  ‘He suggests the house at Navarre,’ Félix says.

  ‘Does he,’ she spits.

  It shouldn’t surprise her that he is still capable of inflicting pain, but it does. All his promises, all his declarations of esteem. I need you near me, he had said. You will have Malmaison. You will always be close to me. Lies. All despicable lies.

  ‘Château Navarre is a ruin. It has no garden. Only swamp.’

  ‘A project?’ Félix offers.

  ‘My project is here.’

  This was far worse than she had ever imagined. He will take all my achievements from me, she thinks suddenly. As though none of it was mine. As though I was never here.

  From the first moment she spied this crumbling mansion and its wild English garden, Rose knew she must have it. The house called to her. It needed love and nurturing and had withered from neglect. For more than a decade she has given her whole heart t
o this house and garden. It has brought her joy and comforted her in sorrow. Over the years she has made Malmaison one of the most celebrated gardens in Europe. She brought the wonders of the world to France and gave her visitors excitement and marvels. Her gardeners germinated seeds that even the Jardin des Plantes could not, and she commissioned artists to illustrate volumes of her flora and share her successes. I have done all that, not Bonaparte, she thinks. This garden is her legacy. Yet he could take it from her so easily, so heartlessly.

  Now it burns her throat to think that, without her here, those men of the Jardin des Plantes will descend on her treasures. How quickly they will come. She imagines the disdainful Jacques Labillardière wrenching her plants from one another, hating their close entanglements of stem and leaf and flowers, making them sit in dutiful rows. She sees the twining green stems of her violet sweet peas dragged from her New Holland forget-me-nots. He is a man who cares nothing for beauty and harmony, only order and structure. She despairs to think of him ransacking her glasshouses.

  As if he reads her mind, Félix looks towards the glassed nurseries and Rose follows his longing gaze. Together, he and his wife, Anne, had achieved so much. Does he wonder where his family will go if I am sent away? What will become of his life’s work?

  Rose makes her decision. She claws the jewels from her neck, throws the chain to Félix. ‘Give this to Anne. Tell her she can have anything she might desire. I need none of it.’

  The diamonds and pearls hang from his rough hand.

  She strips off her satin gloves, revealing her bare skin, and pulls all the rings from her fingers, holding them out for Félix. ‘Tell the servants to empty my wardrobes. Give away all the dresses, jewels, shoes, everything I own.’ None of it means anything. She will show him. It is Malmaison only that matters.

  ‘Is the courier still here?’ The stone seat is hard and cold, but small acts of defiance are all she has left. Her hands grip the edges of the seat and her arms stiffen.

  Félix nods.

  ‘Send word to Bonaparte. I will not leave.’

  Félix looks startled. ‘He will not like it.’

  Rose shrugs. ‘A pity. If he wants to banish me because his new fiancée wishes it, let him come and tell me himself. I will not move. I will not move from this seat.’