Becoming Josephine (33 page)

While Bonaparte traveled, I settled into my routine. I visited Hortense and Eugène, met Fanny and Désirée. My military contracts boomed from my husband’s war. His success had given me limitless credit, despite his ignorance of my dealings. I managed to save most of my earnings, with the vision of Malmaison fresh in my mind.

One evening I dined at Barras’s country estate. After a meal of roasted duck, Barras and I played cards while Theresia entertained us at the pianoforte.

“Any news on the British?” I asked.

“Not yet.” Paul threw down his hand of cards. “Bonaparte insists the best way to attack the British is in Egypt. Head off their route to India. But the Russians are there as well, and we’d risk war if we blockade their passage routes. The best way to get at the bastards is directly on English soil. But it’s already been decided.”

“What has been decided?” I collected his cards, shuffled the deck, and distributed two piles.

“Egypt.” He snagged his cards from the table. “When Bonaparte returns from England, preparations will be made for a spring departure. Eugène will be his aide-de-camp and his brother Lucien will accompany them.”

I went cold.

“Eugène? He’s seventeen! He can’t go to war!” The thought of someone pointing a gun at him made my heart stop. I groaned as another thought occurred to me. “Lucien will turn Bonaparte against me.”

He patted my hand. “Maman, it is time to let your son be a man. Bonaparte will look after him. And Lucien is a snake, but he can’t sway your husband’s feelings. Napoléon loves you beyond reason. Near madness, I’d say.”

A husband and son at war. Dread settled into my bones. Something would change. I could feel it.

When Bonaparte returned home from his travels, he pored over maps and history books as before, but traded English coastline for Egyptian desert. I had to tempt him from his study in the late hours each night.

I sat on the edge of his desk in a lacy nightdress.

“When are we leaving for Egypt? I need to make arrangements.” I could not remain behind with so much at stake.

“You aren’t going.” He looked up from a blueprint. “At least not right away. It isn’t safe.”

I changed my tactic. “But how will I get on without you?”

“Wives don’t come to battle, dear one.” He stroked my thigh. “I will not put your life in jeopardy.”

“But you will put my son in harm’s way?” My bottom lip quivered for effect. “And you sent for me in Italy.”

“This is different. Egypt will be an arduous journey over sea and land with few comforts, if any. No place for a woman.” He pulled me onto his lap. “I will protect Eugène. But he has been well trained.”

“He’s thrilled to go.” I brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “Don’t you need your good luck charm?”

“I’ll bring your portrait. It will have to do for now. I’ll send for you soon. If it’s safe.” He smoothed the lines on my forehead. “We’ll be fine,
amore mio
. I swear it.”

And in the clutches of your horrible brothers. Apprehension rose in my throat.

I could not bear to lose either of my men.

Within the month, we traveled south to Toulon. The morning of departure, I joined Bonaparte and Eugène on the dock. The southern sun glittered on the shifting cobalt waves. A crowd of onlookers massed in the streets to watch the horde of frigates bob in the bay. The warships expanded as far and wide as the horizon.

I stared at the fleet. How many would return with tattered sails, or not at all? I inhaled a gust of briny air to calm my nerves.

A horn blared. Soldiers scurried to their ships.

“It’s time.” Eugène kissed my cheeks. “You must let me go.” He laughed his boyish laugh. I had clutched his arm all morning. “I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry.”

“
Je t’aime.
” I smiled bravely to mask the pain. He skipped up the gangway. A last wave and my son’s dark head disappeared amid the other soldiers. “Good-bye, son,” I whispered, turning my face into Bonaparte’s neck.

“I’ll take good care of him.” He rubbed my back. I pulled away to study his face. His usually pallid skin glowed and determination stamped his features. I straightened a button on his gray coat.

“My sweet Josephine.” He caught my hands. “I long for the day I return to your arms. I love you. A thousand times I love you.” He kissed me passionately in front of everyone. The crowd exploded in a chorus of cheers and applause. He smiled and waved at the onlookers.

“I must defend the honor of France,” he added, projecting his voice.

Another cheer erupted.

Sorrow welled inside me at the thought of him being in danger. “Please be careful! I couldn’t bear it if . . . if . . .” I touched his lips with my fingertips.

“Do not be anxious. Write to me.” He kissed me again.

My fearless husband slipped from my arms and climbed aboard.

I remained in Toulon for a few days to enjoy the salty air and to delay the detestable journey home. Yet despite the respite, my insides churned and prayers tumbled from my lips. I could not shake my dread.

Yes, keep Bonaparte, but my son—Lord, save my son.

By week’s end, I had traveled north toward Plombières-les-Bains, a small town in the Vosges Mountains famous for its healing springs.

“The springs promote fertility,” Bonaparte had said.

He didn’t hide his desire for children. He caressed my abdomen each time we made love, willing it to bear him a baby. I, too, longed for a child. A baby would ward off the doubts of his rigid mother and secure an heir, should there need to be one.

Doctor Martinet, a famed physician, devised a routine of salts and herbal elixirs, scheduled bathing regimes, and exercises to stimulate my menses. I followed his orders as if they were my religion.

“My courses have been disrupted since prison,” I complained to Madame de Krény. “It may be six months before I see it again.”

She had joined me from Paris to soothe a pain in her ankles. She dangled her feet in a pool of scalding water. It bubbled and hissed as she splashed.

“I was hoping to be with child already,” I said.

“Try not to despair. You are still of childbearing age.”

I dispelled the rising steam around my face with my hand. “There’s no sense in dwelling on it, I suppose. With my husband away.”

Bonaparte wrote to me as promised. He depicted the ancient land as I had imagined it: blazing heat that made the horizon shimmer like copper, ancient structures weathered by time, merciless sand flies, and warring men in mismatched robes and headcloths. Thirst that made him ache. He detailed Eugène’s impressive comportment on the battlefield and with his officers. Such a noble young man I had raised.

After several victories, Bonaparte asked me to join him. Relieved, I prepared my travel arrangements with haste. The afternoon before my leaving, I enjoyed refreshments with Madame de Krény and Madame Garer, a friend from the bathhouse.

“Why don’t we sit outdoors?” I carried a tray of pretty cakes iced with pink and green sugar. “It’s so lovely today.”

They followed me onto the balcony overlooking the street. A mountain breeze cooled the stifling summer air. We settled into our chairs as ferocious barking drifted up from the street.

“What in God’s name . . . ?” I peered over the iron railing. A red-haired poodle crouched in attack position, prepared to pounce on a spaniel puppy. The dogs’ owners jerked their leashes in an attempt to separate them.

“Goodness! That’s a lot of racket.” Madame de Krény joined me at the railing.

The sudden splintering of wood crackled. We looked at each other in confusion.

“What in the world?” Madame de Krény said.

I turned just as the dishes slid from the table and shattered. When the last fork and spoon clamored to the ground, the floor gave way beneath my feet.

Our shrill screams pierced the air. My stomach dropped with the sensation of falling.

I felt a thud, heard a horrible cracking, then blackness.

A beam of light blinded me.

I moaned and closed my eyes. After a moment, I peeled back one lid, then the second, and tried to focus my gaze. A brown square blurred across the room. An armoire? Where was I?

I turned my spinning head. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like parchment. I swallowed and lifted my head. Someone had stuffed my body under layers of covers.

Memory burst through my hazy mind like a torrent of water. I had fallen two stories and crashed to the street. Our balcony had given way!

I groaned and moved my arms, one at a time. Painful, but nothing broken. I attempted to sit up, but could not push my torso into an upward position. A tingling tickled my toes and I tried to move my legs.

No heavy weight of limbs.

I tried again. Nothing.

“I can’t feel my legs!” I screeched in a gurgled voice—as if I had not spoken for days. “I can’t feel my legs! Someone help me!”

Doctor Martinet rushed into the room. “Madame! Calm yourself!”

“I can’t feel my legs!” I screamed, my panic mounting. “What’s wrong with me?”

He adjusted the round spectacles teetering on the tip of his nose. “You had quite a fall. You broke your pelvic bone and it seems you’re suffering from temporary paralysis.”