Becoming Josephine (27 page)

“I don’t deny a woman’s influence or intelligence, but find it ridiculous they should have so much power. Madame de Staël, Theresia Cabarrus”—his brow furrowed—“they have no real business but to cause trouble.”

I laughed again. “I won’t tell them you said so.”

It would do no good to mention the men I had swayed and the sums I had collected from my own business dealings; it would only inflame him. No matter. I would do as I pleased—my life was no business of his.

One winter evening, I threw a small soiree to welcome Hortense and Eugène home from school
.
I crushed them in my arms when they arrived, Eugène in his smart uniform and Hortense a blooming beauty in blue muslin. A mother suffered when separated from her children.

I spared no expense for the festivities. Our company included my closest friends: Theresia and Ouvrard; Marie-Françoise and her daughter, Désirée; Barras and General Junot; Fanny; and a handful of others. At the last moment, I invited General Bonaparte.

As guests trickled in, the hired pianist began to play. General Bonaparte arrived with an armful of gifts: flowers, ribbons for Hortense, and for Eugène a book of military strategy.

Eugène’s countenance lit up as he read the title. “Thank you, general.”

“
Merci
,” Hortense said, clutching the small box to her chest.

“You’re welcome.” General Bonaparte leaned toward Hortense and tugged her earlobe.

“Ouch!” Her hand flew to her ear. “I beg your pardon, general. That hurt!”

He laughed, a sharp, uncomfortable sound, and slipped his hand inside his jacket in a nervous gesture.

I gave Hortense a stern look. My daughter had no trouble speaking her mind. I took Bonaparte’s arm. “You were so thoughtful to bring us gifts. Would you care for a brandy?”

“Yes,” he said, winking at my daughter.

“I hope you enjoy your evening.” Hortense attempted to be polite, though disdain shone in her eyes. She turned on her heel and left to find Désirée.

Barras arrived moments later with Jolène, the same brunette from the theater. The sight of the two of them sent a tide of regret through me. I pushed it away and forced a smile.

“Welcome.” I kissed their cheeks, then went in search of wine.

My head reeled. I had not been prepared to be so saddened to see them together. I looked over the rim of my glass and met Bonaparte’s eyes. He patted Eugène on the back and walked toward me, a smile on his face.

I invited Bonaparte to escort me to Fanny’s salon a week later. A band of her friends could not wait to meet Barras’s protégé, the new general-in-chief to the Army of the Interior. Fanny insisted I bring him. My gracious friend hosted a simple affair, with Bonaparte at the center of attention. After dinner and music, the crowd dispersed. We hustled into our waiting coach to escape the cold.

The general sat as close to me as possible.

“I didn’t see you all night,” he said. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

He had, without doubt—his blue eyes sparkled in the dim light; his smile beamed. He was handsome when happy and well dressed.

I did not pull away, despite his proximity. “Fanny’s parties are always entertaining. You were the star of the evening.”

He swept aside an errant curl on my forehead. “My star could never shine as brightly as yours, sweet Rose.”

I covered my mouth to hide my smile. Who knew Bonaparte could be so sentimental?

He tucked my hands in his. “Such tiny hands you have. So feminine and delicate.” He stroked them for a moment.

I shifted in my seat, anxious at his display of affection. He held me with his gaze. I grew still as captured prey. Warmth spread beneath my skin.

“I have something important to say. I need you to just . . . think about it . . . to think before you answer.” He shifted in his seat.

“Are you well?”

“Quite.” He smiled again. “My darling . . . Barras doesn’t love you. You’re just another woman to him—one he will discard very soon, if he has not already.”

Another winning comment from the general. I tried to pull my hands from his grasp, but he tightened his hold.

“Please. Let me finish.” His voice became soft. “What I meant to say is, you’re ravishing. Intelligent, graceful. I’ve never met a woman with finer breeding. And you possess . . . a sense of calm and quiet confidence.” He kissed my palm. “Rose.” He said my name as if a caress. “I am in love with you. Consumed! I can’t eat or sleep. I dream of your long, lovely neck.” He rubbed the small exposed patch of my neck. “Of your lips . . .” He traced my lips with his forefinger. “Of the swell of your breasts.” He looked at my chest as if hoping to see through my winter cloak.

“Bonaparte.” I swatted his hand hovering just above my bosom. “You can’t be in love with me.” I moved to escape him, the vitality that emanated from him. To escape my drowning.

“You’re not young anymore.”

“Thank you for that.” I glared. Exasperating man. He always managed to say the wrong thing.

He gripped my hand in his as if I might slip away. “You need a husband. Marry me! No man could love you as I do.
Amore mio
, make me the happiest man alive and become my wife.”

My jaw dropped. I hadn’t expected this. Admiration and longing, perhaps a proposition to be his lover—but a marriage proposal? I stared back at him in silence.

Marriage had not suited me well. I had given everything I had—and for what? I was left with nothing. Alexandre . . . I sucked in a sharp breath at his memory. Peace be with you, dear friend. I tore my eyes from Bonaparte’s to hide my sudden emotion.

“You’re sad.” He ran a finger along my jaw.

I looked down. “Bonaparte—”

“I have enough love for the two of us. My star is rising. I’m respected and well connected. Your children will not want for anything as long as you live.” He kissed my hand again. “And
je t’aime
.”

I sat, unmoving, studying the intensity etched on his features. This man loved me.

“You don’t have to answer now.” He sat back in his seat. “But say you will consider the possibility.”

A sensation, an instinct, rolled through me and clouded my vision. The hair on my arms stood on end. I shivered.

“Are you cold, my darling?” He wrapped me in his arms.

I could not ignore my intuition.

“A dark stranger without fortune,” the priestess had said.

“Yes, Bonaparte. Yes, I will marry you.”

Paris, 1796

I
n truth, I thought of Bona
parte often—his strength, his sentimental side, and love of beauty. The way he observed everyone and seemed to know their hearts. How unlike my first husband he would be.

Still, I wrestled with doubt one afternoon in my salon. I shuffled a deck of cards absently.

I needn’t settle for one man. I possessed my own influence with so many friends in the ministries. Many men pursued me and would support me, for a time. But how long would I be desirable at my advancing age of thirty-two? Bonaparte would bring security, a father figure for Hortense, and a mentor for Eugène. His status improved daily. Yet would I hold his attention? The others had slipped away. A familiar ache throbbed in my chest.

The apartment door slammed.

“Where are you, my lovely bride?” Bonaparte’s voice boomed from the front hall.

“In the salon.” I sighed and placed my cards on the table.

“Come to me,” he bellowed as he entered.

I ignored his hand. “How was your meeting with Barras?”

“Later,” he said firmly. He lifted me into his arms. Layers of petticoats fanned over his arm in a frilly display. A beatific smile crossed his face.

“Put me down.” I laughed. “You’re going to throw out your back.”

“My wife will be carried! Worshipped!” He carried me up the winding staircase.

“I am not your wife.”

Bonaparte stopped midstep and fixed me with a penetrating gaze. I squirmed under his keen stare until he pressed his lips on mine. My mouth softened against his, and his urgency rose.

Warmth flooded my belly.

After a feverish moment, he pulled back and we gasped for air.

“You
will
be my wife.” He leapt up the remaining steps, swept me into the bedroom, and thrust me onto the vanity tabletop.

“Bonaparte!”

He silenced me with his lips. This time, he worked them softly.

He paused, holding me captive with his eyes. “I love you.”

His trousers hit the floor with a thunk. I covered his mouth with mine as he lifted my dress and pawed at my undergarments. Moments later the hard length of him pushed against the sensitive skin of my thigh before sinking into my secret folds. I cried out, then wrapped myself around him.

“You’re an angel.” He held my face while he rocked me, possessing me. “My angel. I’ll take care of you,
amore mio
. Always.” He clutched me to him, thrusting faster.

I abandoned my fears, my doubts, losing myself in his heat.

Our pleasure exploded, one after the other.

My husband-to-be sagged against me for a moment. I melted into his arms as he carried me to the bed. He cradled me in his arms. How tender he could be.

“What’s your full name,
mon amour
?”

“My full name? Why?”

He stroked my cheek. “I’m disgusted at the thought of another man touching you. I want to possess the true you, yet untouched. You will be reborn as Citoyenne Bonaparte.”

“Marie-Josèphe-Rose de Tascher de La Pagerie de Beauharnais,” I said.

“You’re not a simple Rose.” He clucked his tongue. “You will be Josephine. Josephine Bonaparte. Wife of a leader.”

“Reborn . . .” With so many metamorphoses of my person, of my stations in this life, I did not mind another name, another layer of my womanhood. In fact, I relished the thought. “Yes . . . I like the sound of that. Josephine Bonaparte I will be.
Your
Josephine.”

My own Josephine.

We didn’t announce our engagement to anyone except Theresia, Barras, and Captain Junot, who worked under Bonaparte. I guessed Bonaparte feared telling his family, though I could not be sure. I had no need to proclaim my status to anyone—being independent suited me—particularly Hortense and Eugène. But they were not as sheltered as I had hoped.

One afternoon, I finished a letter to my dear Claire, still in Guadeloupe, while Hortense composed a song for a school recital.

She stopped playing abruptly and spun around to face me. “You aren’t planning to marry him, are you?”

“Who, dear? Why did you stop playing?” I dipped my quill pen into its inkwell. “Your song is lovely.”

“You can’t avoid me, Maman,” she said snidely. “You have been seeing General Bonaparte. Everyone talks about it.”

“There is no need to be hateful.” I rubbed a spot of ink on my fingers without meeting her eyes. “And who is everyone?”

“Désirée and Eugène. And Madame Campan asked me as well.” Her face screwed into a look of disdain.

“And they are everyone?” I laid down my pen and folded the letter.

“I don’t like him. I don’t care if he gives me gifts. He yanked my ear! He’s abrupt and forceful.” Her voice shrilled in a whiny tone only an adolescent can master. “Eugène says he’ll try to take Papa’s place.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He would make a terrible father.”

My temper flared. “No one will take your papa’s place. It’s true the general courts me. He has been nothing but gracious to us. You and your brother will show respect. Do you understand?” I could not bear to tell her the truth. Not yet.

Hortense looked at the floor and mumbled, “
Je comprends, Maman.
”

“Now, let’s hear the rest of the piece you’re composing. Thus far I adore it.” I slipped the letter into its envelope. I would do what I thought best for the family. End of story.

Bonaparte and I spent most of our evenings in the company of Barras and his companions. My husband-to-be was still his protégé, after all. One night they debated the threat of war.

“Don’t be a fool!” Bonaparte sloshed rum on his hand as he waved his arms about. “The Austrians have made advances for months.
With success.
They now control all of the eastern frontiers. Do we wait until they invade France? If we aren’t prepared, they could destroy the Republican armies. Put a king back on the throne. How much do you value your head, Paul?”

Barras’s face grew flustered. “General—”

I linked my arm through Paul’s. “What Bonaparte means to say is that it’s imperative the borders be fortified. There’s no sense in putting the Republic at risk. What harm could there be in sending an army to protect what we have fought for?”

Barras looked from me to Bonaparte. We had become our own army.

“If you’re so passionate,” Paul said, “go to the Italian border to assess the situation. But you do not advance without my consent. Is that clear?”

Bonaparte nodded, a lock of his hair falling into his eyes. “I’ll begin preparing at once.”

I smiled sweetly. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I need to catch up with Theresia.”

On a gusty spring day I prepared for my second wedding—a civil ceremony to take place in the Mayor’s office, now located in the home of a former émigré. At seven in the evening, my notary, Citizen Calmelet, escorted me inside. We greeted my witnesses, Theresia, Barras, Tallien, and the Citizen Mayor.

“
Bonsoir, mes amis.
” I leaned my umbrella against the wall near the door. “Dreadful weather, isn’t it?” A steady drizzle had commenced earlier in the day and I had been unable to shake my chill.

“Miserable.” Theresia kissed me on either cheek in greeting.

“Bonaparte isn’t here,” Barras said. He turned his black stare on the man who would wed us. “Citizen Mayor, are you in possession of any brandy?”

“Of course.” The large man retrieved a brass key from his pocket and unlocked a cabinet behind his desk. In a flash, the Mayor produced a pitcher and poured the rusty liquid into glasses.

We chatted while we waited for my bridegroom, shifting in our uncomfortable chairs.

An hour passed. No Bonaparte.

Light rain trickled down the windowpanes. Candles guttered in their tins. I played with my tricolor sash as the Mayor poured more brandy for Tallien and Barras. This time I accepted a glass.

Inside I fumed. Bonaparte had better have an explanation.

When another hour passed, the Mayor stood and put on his overcoat and hat. “Citizens, I must go. Pardon me”—he tipped his hat in my direction—“but it is late and I have not yet eaten. I’ll leave my assistant in my stead.”

Heat crept up my neck. “I apologize for his tardiness.” I would give Bonaparte a to
ngue lashing for embarrassing me. To beg and plead with me to marry him and then leave me waiting! It was absurd.

When the grand clock on the mantel chimed ten, my anxiety grew. Surely he had not changed his mind?

Another quarter hour passed and Tallien stood to leave. “I regret, I must go. I’m sorry, Rose. It’s time I returned to La Chaumière.” Everyone stood, joining him, and began to put on their overcoats.

So that was it, then. Bonaparte had made a fool of me. I burned with barely controlled rage. “I’m sorry you all came for nothing.”

Theresia put her arm about my shoulders. “How could you have known he would not show? The ingrate does not deserve you anyway.”

Just then footsteps sounded in the hall and the door burst open. Bonaparte tore into the room, out of breath. “I’m here!” He ran a hand through his damp hair and looked about the room.

“Bonaparte! Where on earth have you been?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “We thought you weren’t coming. The Mayor has already gone.”

He strode across the room and held me against his chest. His rain-drenched coat soaked the front of my dress. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. You know how busy I have been preparing for departure.”

I pushed at his chest. “You’re soaking me to the bone.” He rubbed my shoulders to dispel my anger. Not likely. I glared at him.

“I would never miss my marriage to you, dear one.”

“Good God, man, it’s late. We had best get on with it,” Barras boomed.

“You could have let us know, general.” Theresia said, seething. “Contrary to the exalted opinion you have of yourself, the world does not await your every breath.”

He gave Theresia a look that could freeze fire.

Tallien cleared his throat. “Shall we proceed?”

“Theresia’s right,” I said. “You could have sent a note.”

“Please don’t be angry with me.” He tugged at my arms, unlacing them. “Can we just get on with this?”

The Mayor’s assistant, silent through the entire scene, spoke up at last. “General, I’m afraid I have no authority to marry you. The licensed official has left.”