Josephine's Garden Page 5

  The notary drew closer still and she could smell the reek of a long day stiffening the armpits of his shirt. He lifted her hands in his. ‘You are too beautiful to throw yourself away on this upstart. An older man makes a much better match. A financier, perhaps, or a statesman.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Someone who will protect you. You are still young enough to attract a better class of suitor.’

  Her eyes fell on the parchment where she had carefully written out her name and age. Her hand had not wavered, the quill had moved slowly and evenly without pause as the slick, black ink traced the lie of twenty-eight years. It glistened in the candlelight.

  In his armchair, Barras snorted.

  ‘The man has allowed you only fifteen hundred francs a year.’

  ‘Rose has only modest tastes,’ Barras said with a smirk.

  Rose let the heat of her anger burn charming pink dots on her cheeks. She faced the notary with her bravest smile. ‘I have faith in Bonaparte.’ She adjusted her tricolour sash so he could no longer gaze down upon her breasts. This man’s attentions were worthless. He would make his promises and leave her, like all the others. Make your counter offer if you dare, she wanted to say. She was tired of it all. She was marrying Bonaparte because he was the only man who had asked.

  Leclerq rose to his feet with a snap of his knees. ‘It is madness to saddle yourself with a penniless soldier who might well be killed in battle, leaving you destitute!’

  Behind him, she saw movement through the crack at the door. Bonaparte was standing outside, listening. A firestorm of emotion tracked across his face. Affront, humiliation, anger and despair. She was startled—never had she seen a person wear their weakness so close to their skin as this young man. He will be easily hurt, she thought with genuine pity. She wanted to reach out her arms to him and soothe the thunder from his brow. She felt something, a warmth—not love, but something that made her rush to her feet and smile for him alone.

  With a scratch of the quill, it was done. For better or worse, she was now bound to Bonaparte.

  Two days later her new husband was called away to war.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Summer 1796

  ‘What freedom you have, Mme Bonaparte, with your husband away at war.’ One of the three Bichons, the tall one, had made the observation when Rose attended an opera unchaperoned. Her tone was either disapproving or merely jealous, Rose couldn’t tell which and didn’t care. It amused her to think back on it. The woman was right. The spring months had been charmed with all the advantages of a marriage, and none of the inconvenience of a husband.

  Rose looked out over the fields from the garden of Thérésa’s country estate of La Chaumière. The trees were plump with leaves, the hedges full, and in every direction the countryside was soft-edged and painted with shades of green. Rose breathed in the sweet, floral air, catching a hint of horse scent and clover. Heavenly.

  In those first days as a married woman, she felt light and happy and, most of all, relieved. Relief soaked into her muscles like a heated mineral bath. She could make plans for her future, she could imagine herself and her children in a fine home with her walls painted with pink roses and her chairs upholstered in blue nankeen. She immediately set about decorating Bonaparte’s residence for his return and their new life together.

  The news from the battlefronts in Italy was good. Bonaparte’s attack had surprised everyone with its speed and no one expected the Austrians to be driven out so swiftly. Rose was proud of her husband. At the age of twenty-six he had just been made commander of the entire French army.

  In Paris, they adored Bonaparte for bringing glory to France. They swooned over him. Rose was amused. Now they held balls in his honour, where once he was shunned as the awkward colonial. Oh, how delicious was the irony. Now everyone wanted to be Bonaparte’s friend. They cheered for him, they loved that he made them all feel powerful after so many years of pain. As Mme Bonaparte, Rose was the most desired party guest of all, dubbed ‘Our Lady of the Victories’. Even Laure, her first husband’s mistress, begged to be her friend. These days Rose was sanguine and inclined to be charitable. She felt no enmity towards those who had once treated her cruelly and was determined not to waste her energies on the grievances of the past. She adored her new life. She would be happy. And, like everyone, Rose found it was easy to love Bonaparte when he was at a distance.

  His letters to her were so intense with feeling she was sometimes afraid to open them. His heart was torn apart by a thousand daggers or he cursed the glory and ambition that kept him from her, she was the soul of his existence. He growled at her if he thought her letters cool by comparison. This force of passion, this infatuation, was smothering. When she confessed to her friends that she felt only lukewarm in her affections for her husband, they showed no surprise. Only Thérésa thought she was a fool to have married for anything other than love. Rose regretted this ambivalence in her emotions, but was helpless to change it. His letters brought no joy, only guilt. His last had berated her for not writing back, but how could she answer him? She did not want to think of what he asked of her, she would not think of it, so she bound the letter with all the others and tucked them in her pocket.

  Rose and Thérésa sat on a bench half buried in an unruly bed of wildflowers. Sunny calendula and bonnets of Queen Anne’s lace bobbed around them. At her feet were sprays of tiny blue and crimson flowers that she could not name. Rose still had so much to learn about these delicate European blooms.

  ‘Why did you agree to marry him?’ Thérésa asked Rose, interrupting her thoughts.

  Rose turned her face from Thérésa, tiring of the topic. Riders were gathering for the morning hunt. The heavy steeds flicked their heads and dripped foam from their bits, eager to begin the chase.

  ‘I am fond of him,’ she said, hoping that would be the end of it. A horse squealed and struck out with its foreleg at another.

  Rose and Thérésa were to ride out with the hunt that morning in Thérésa’s carriage. Rose loved the thundering chase across the fields and along the narrow lanes to keep up with the riders. The speed was exhilarating, and it was the closest she had come to being allowed to ride herself. In Martinique, she had grown up on horseback, but here in Paris she had found there were so many more rules to restrict her. A lady of her status simply must travel by carriage. The horses circled on the ends of their reins, digging holes in the moist grass with their hooves.

  ‘Do you regret the marriage?’ Thérésa asked, refusing to let the matter drop.

  Rose ignored the question. She watched her daughter chase their pug, brave little Fortu, across the lawn towards the house, her blonde hair unbound and flashing in the sunlight. Hortense had just turned thirteen and was at that awkward age where she didn’t know whether to play with her dolls or to embroider napkins for her marriage trousseau. Soon she would return to Madame Campan’s and her books. Rose was pleased to see her run.

  Madame Campan’s would give her all the advantages that Rose herself never had. It would equip her for this world of culture and refinement. Hortense was learning the harp and the piano, and she loved to draw, accomplishments that Rose had never mastered. Hortense was clever and Rose was determined her daughter would not suffer the humiliation of the Parisian women tittering behind their hands as she once had. But schools of this quality cost money.

  ‘Bonaparte cares for my children,’ Rose answered finally. ‘He wants us to be a family.’ Eugene was enrolled in military college, a dream he had long held. His future prospects could only be improved with Bonaparte in their lives.

  ‘But you do not love him.’

  Rose almost snorted. Had Thérésa lost her wits? Had she forgotten her own pitiless marriage at age fourteen to the debauched Fontenay? ‘When has love had anything to do with marriage?’ she asked, a little more defensively than she intended. What did love matter, she thought, if it could not feed and clothe you? If it could not give you a home?

  La Chaumière. Rose felt an ache as she looked on Th�
�résa’s home. From the outside, the manor house was rustic and romantic—a thatched roof, rambling ivy and paint peeling from the shutters. ‘You have a bougainvillea!’ Rose had exclaimed the first time she visited, excited to see the exotic plant with its bright red bracts growing abundant and vibrant over an arbour at the entrance to the house. Thérésa had shrugged, unconcerned by what her gardeners planted, unaware that this wondrous plant had been found growing wild in South America by the explorer Bougainville. Rose touched the strange, false flowers, leaves that changed to this brilliant red at the tips of its stems. Look at me, each leaf called to her. Look how beautiful I can become!

  Beyond the house and its floral garden were magnificent grounds with woods and rolling parklands. All this belonged to Thérésa. She owned it all now that Fontenay was dead because it came from her own dowry and could not be claimed by any of Fontenay’s family. A bee sting of envy burrowed into Rose. Thérésa had no need to marry for security. For her second marriage, Thérésa had married Tallien out of passion alone.

  With a flush of warmth, Rose remembered the house she had discovered only days before. It called to her. She’d had to thump on the roof of her carriage and make her driver turn the horses back. They were taking a narrow lane near Rueil when she caught a glimpse of a golden house through a leafy driveway overgrown with chestnut trees. The iron gates were partly open and her curiosity piqued, so she ordered the driver to take her to the house.

  Once this had been a grand manor, she realised as the carriage wheels ran through weeds in the gravel drive, but now its gardens were running to wilderness. Already Rose could see the possibilities. She felt her heart beat with desire. This was a home she could fall in love with.

  She peered through the dirty windows, shameless in her investigations. The furniture was covered in sheets, the home abandoned. Perhaps when Bonaparte returns from Italy, perhaps when we begin our life together, we will have a home like this. She put her hand against the warm sandstone, closing her eyes and making a wish.

  Only when her carriage turned out of the drive and she looked back did she see the name carved into the stone. Malmaison. House of ill fortune. What a sad name for a home, she thought, feeling even more sympathy for the lonely place.

  ‘An absent husband is the best kind,’ Thérésa said, squeezing Rose’s arm in hers. ‘Have you heard from Bonaparte?’

  Rose sighed. ‘Constantly. He exhausts me with his ardour. He writes twice a day.’

  Thérésa laughed. ‘That cannot be bad.’

  ‘He suffocates me. Listen to this.’ Rose pulled his packet of letters from her pocket and plucked one at random. ‘A thousand kisses on your eyes, your lips, your tongue, your cunt.’

  Thérésa twisted her face. ‘He is vulgar. What do you expect from a colonial?’

  Rose dipped her gaze, staying silent. Her friend had forgotten that Rose was from Martinique, one of the French colonies. Thérésa was Spanish nobility by birth but she had been educated in Paris and she had learned their prejudices. Parisians thought all colonials coarse and uncultured. Anger flared in Rose. She wished she had not read the letter to Thérésa. As colonials, they could never be good enough for the Parisians. In that one fact, she and Bonaparte were well matched.

  La Chaumière swam before her eyes. Thérésa had not meant to hurt her, Rose reminded herself. She was young and rich and did not have to live with consequences. She could marry for love if she wished, she could break every rule without a care. Ordinarily, Rose loved that about her friend, but today she couldn’t help her jealousy. She felt the heat of it in the pit of her stomach. She longed for the life that Thérésa had and it chafed that she had come upon it so easily. But Rose knew it was unfair to blame her friend for her advantages. We are all more fortunate than some and less than others, she reminded herself before her envy spoiled her friendship. Thérésa was her dearest friend in the world; she could not bear to lose her.

  ‘You must find something to admire in your husband or else your life will be miserable,’ Thérésa said with her usual surety. ‘At least Bonaparte is clever. Nothing turns a woman to sourness quicker than having to obey a stupid man.’

  Rose smiled, nodding. ‘So true.’

  What did she admire in her new husband? The question gave her pause. What did she truly know of Bonaparte? Their courtship had been a matter of months and she had spent only two nights with him after their marriage. Was he kind? Was he loyal? He was like a terrier in his eagerness to go to bed with her and hardly ever slept for long, often jiggling with some new idea or leaping up in the night to make a note of it. He had knowledge of every topic and opinions on everything.

  ‘I admire his courage,’ she said at last. ‘And the quickness of his mind. And sometimes this absurd self-confidence of his makes me believe anything and everything is possible!’

  Everyone had underestimated Bonaparte, Rose thought, perhaps even Barras and his government, the newly named Directoire, which had appointed him commander of the army. Bonaparte was bold, ambitious and determined to excel, but he could be morose and petulant when he felt overlooked. She thought again of the letter in her pocket accusing her of spending her days with idle gossips instead of devoting herself to him.

  ‘He expects me to go to Milan,’ Rose blurted. ‘He wants me to travel to the warfront, to be with him.’

  Thérésa’s eyes grew large, aghast. ‘You cannot go.’

  ‘I avoid the issue by not writing,’ Rose said.

  ‘I will miss you too much.’ Thérésa gripped her arm. ‘Paris will not be the same without you. I will not let him take you from me.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘You must not go. Find an excuse. Say you are pregnant.’

  Rose threw back her head to stare at the clear blue sky. If only it were that simple. She poked Thérésa’s thigh.

  ‘It will be too dangerous, travelling over the Alps. If he loved you, he would not ask that of you.’

  Rose pulled the petals from a wayward bloom and scattered them at her feet. What I want is of no importance to Bonaparte, Rose realised. It would not occur to him to think of it. She supposed all marriages became like this once the deal was struck, once the object of desire became the property. ‘You know he wants me to change my name,’ Rose said. ‘He insists I call myself Josephine.’ She twisted her muslin dress in her fist.

  They had been lying in the warmth of her bed, his arms tight around her, on one of those long nights together in the early weeks of their courtship. He turned her over to face him. ‘I do not like that I must call you the same name as everyone else does.’ He poked out his lower lip and looked so adorable as a jealous lover that she kissed him. ‘I want you to be mine,’ he said. ‘My Josephine.’ It was a secret name, one just between lovers, and Rose had liked to have a special, private name. To be a different person when she was with him.

  ‘He doesn’t like anyone to call me Rose. He wants no reminders of who I was before.’ She was to become his Josephine to all now that they were married. The demand unsettled her at first, but she could not explain why, could not refute his logic. He wanted no reminders of who she had been for Barras or her marriage to Alexandre; he meant to reinvent her for himself alone. Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to have her past so effortlessly wiped clean. There could be no harm in becoming his Josephine, she had thought. It would be for the best.

  Thérésa took her hand. ‘You will always be Rose to me.’

  Rose rested her head against her friend’s shoulder.

  In the distance, the hounds yelped in their cages, waiting to be released. Their blood lust was up and their eagerness made the horses whirl and stamp in the courtyard. A brass boar’s head with tusks splayed presided above them from the stable gates.

  In the garden, Hortense clucked her tongue and called Fortu across the lawn. Rose watched as she balanced her doll astride the little dog’s back and ran her hands down his legs, like a groom inspecting a mount. Rose smiled.

  ‘Te
ll Bonaparte you cannot leave your daughter,’ Thérésa said, following her gaze.

  Rose felt an urge to hold her daughter. She wanted to call her child over and bundle her into her lap. But Hortense was too old for such displays.

  ‘Hortense?’ Rose called.

  The girl looked up and ran to her mother.

  Rose wrapped her arms around her tight.

  ‘Maman! You are squashing me!’

  ‘I cannot let you go.’ Rose covered her face in kisses and stroked her curls. Once Hortense was at Madame Campan’s, Bonaparte would expect her to go to him.

  Hortense leaped up and away, and Fortu chased after her as if she were a hare. With Bonaparte they would be a family, Rose reminded herself. He would provide for them and give them a home.

  A Friesian horse, deep black and shining, cantered across the field. It pounded the earth with its hooves. Its crimped mane was long and flowing and its fetlocks fringed with hair. Rose stared. She had never seen a horse so beautiful. The rider wore a Hussar uniform and he pulled the horse up into a high, clattering trot as it entered the courtyard. Both saddle and bridle were black, enhancing the effect, and the horse gleamed like cut obsidian.

  ‘Who is that?’ she breathed.

  Thérésa shaded her eyes. ‘Oh, Charles—Hippolyte Charles. He is sweet. All the girls love him.’

  The rider nodded deeply, respectfully, towards the two women. He had a dancing smile as he urged his horse back into a bow, one foreleg thrust out, the other bent, its muzzle touching its knee.

  Rose clapped her hands in delight.

  Thérésa looked at Rose slyly.

  ‘I admire his horse, that is all.’ Rose pursed her lips and tried not to smile.

  ‘I must introduce you,’ Thérésa said. And they both watched as the Hussar, Hippolyte Charles, dismounted with grace and joined the other riders waiting for the hunt to be called. He wore the regimental uniform of a cavalryman: a fur-lined cape slung over one shoulder and a sabre at his side.