The Second Empress (19 page)

I know I must write a reply to my father in the same dutiful tone, so when my husband’s spies open the letter, nothing will reflect badly on myself or Austria. I reach for the quill and am about to dip the nib into the ink when my chamber door swings open and Napoleon appears.
“Sire.” I rise and hope my tears are not visible. He gives me a slow, meaningful smile, and immediately I know what he wants.

“Undress,” he says, and the heat floods into my cheeks.

“Perhaps you would like—”

“I have told you what I’d like. Undress and bend over.”

I gasp. “The bed?”

“Or the chair. You can choose.”

My stomach clenches, and there’s a fire in my blood that would take oceans to put out. I let my dressing gown slip onto the floor along with my chemise. Then I climb onto the bed and lie quietly on my back.

“I said—”

“Yes, I heard you. But I’m the empress of France, not some common whore.”

He is still for a moment, trying to decide between respect and rage. Then he moves toward the bed. “Very well, my little German rose.” He unbuttons his pants and climbs on top of me without getting undressed. The whole affair is over within the minute.

When he is finished, he rolls onto his back as if he has accomplished something great and stares at the ceiling. With Adam, I would lie in his arms, and he would kiss me tenderly, starting with the crown of my head and making his way toward my lips. Then I would fall asleep on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

“How does a woman know when she’s pregnant?” he demands.

If I were pregnant, I would never have to tolerate him on top of me again. I could tell him any number of things, like intimacy might hurt the child. “She is tired, then sick, and finally, she stops bleeding every month. That’s the surest sign.”

He lies on his side so that he can face me, and I reach for my dressing gown. “I want to know within the hour you do,” he says firmly. “Even the suspicion of pregnancy is enough.”

“You will know as soon as I do,” I swear.

He watches me dress, and there’s something flat, even cold in his stare. The artist who painted his miniature portrait got it right. He is
the only man I’ve ever met whose soul can’t be found in the depths of his eyes. “
And what if he doesn’t have one
?” I can hear Maria ask, but I push the thought from my mind.

I return to the desk, and he watches me from the bed. “Are you happy here, in Fontainebleau?”

It’s a strange question to ask. He didn’t care about my happiness last night, when he ordered me to wait naked for him in bed, and he certainly didn’t have a thought for it this morning, but I must not insult him. “It’s not Schönbrunn,” I reply.

He raises his brows. “In what way?”

I hesitate. “What do you mean?”

“You said it’s not Schönbrunn. I want to know how it’s different.”

I look up at the painted ceiling and try to think. “Schönbrunn is run like a ship,” I tell him. “There are no excesses and certainly no pageantry.” It has been one week since our marriage, and I am still exhausted from the “celebrations.”

“Nothing separates a commoner from a king except a few glittering processions and a crown,” he challenges. “Our dear uncle Louis discovered that.”

Uncle Louis
. It takes me a moment to realize that he is speaking of
my
uncle, the husband of Marie-Antoinette. “I don’t believe that. Monarchy is about serving one’s kingdom,” I say carefully, “not the other way around. Processions are expensive, and a good king is always watching his treasury.”

“Is that what your father says?”

I turn in my chair to face him. “That is what
I
say. I was to be regent for my brother when he took the crown. Ferdinand has many … health problems,” I add, being generous.

Napoleon is very still. Surely he’s heard of Ferdinand. All of Europe knows. It isn’t some secret. “And are these health problems common in your family?”

I have heard people say that my siblings’ illness is the product of too much intermarriage. And it is true that my mother was my father’s
double first cousin. But it has always been this way for the Hapsburgs, and there has never been such illness before. “I suppose my mother was unlucky,” I tell him. “Two children born sickly.”
If this bothers you, perhaps you should have considered it before bringing me to France
. “My sister Maria-Carolina is epileptic and mute.”

Napoleon struggles to a sitting position. He is not a young man, and his stomach has grown large. “Well, I am lucky,” he says flatly, and there is not the slightest hint of irony in his voice. “The entire world will bow at my son’s feet. He’ll be the product of the greatest general since Alexander. Nothing will stop him.”

“And if it’s a girl?”

“Then she’ll be the Princess of Venice. But there’ll be sons,” he says with utter certainty. “There might be a son cooking in there even now.”

I press my lips together to stop them from curling.

“So will Metternich be regent when your father is gone?”

The question startles me. “I—I don’t know.” I can’t imagine a time when my father isn’t here. He’s so young and healthy. But then so was my mother. “I suppose.” Then I ask the question I’ve been wanting to ask since December. “He is the reason you took me for a bride, isn’t he?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment. “He pushed, as every ambassador pushed,” he says thinly, and now I see what Metternich has done. I wish there had been a way to warn my father of Metternich’s treachery.

“But Prince Metternich wanted it more than anyone else,” I press.

“Tell me about your father,” he says, avoiding my question. “How does he run his kingdom?”

“Carefully,” I reply. But I’m determined to bring up Metternich again. I will simply have to wait for a better moment. “His accounts are—were—always balanced.”
And then you came and demanded a fortune from our defeated country
. “He meets with his subjects twice a week, without fail. There is nothing more important to him.”

Napoleon studies me. “You understand what it is to run an empire
then. It is never-ending work, endless expectations, ceremonies, pageantries,
war
.” Then something in his dark eyes softens. “If you behave yourself here in Fontainebleau, nothing will ever be denied to you.”

Immediately, I think of Sigi.

“Pauline told me you wish to have your dog,” he says.

I am shocked: both that he has read my mind and that Pauline would intercede for me. “That—that would be wonderful.”

“Consider it done.” He stands and buttons his pants. “I’ll expect you to be ready tomorrow by six.”

“For what?” I thought the celebrations were over.

“Our honeymoon. We are visiting the Low Countries,” he informs me. “Have your ladies pack warm clothes and walking shoes.” Then he shuts the door behind him, and this is all I am told. But what does it matter? Sigi is coming! Just as I’m about to fling myself triumphantly onto the bed, there’s a knock at my door. It’s Hortense.

“I am here to help Your Majesty pack,” she says. I stand aside so that she can come in. She is dressed in a white gown with a shockingly deep
décolleté
. My dressing robe is more suitable for public attire. But her blue-gray eyes are innocent, and her chestnut curls are arranged around her head like a halo. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together, and I’m not sure what to say to the queen of Holland. “Then you know about the Low Countries?” I ask.

“Everyone knows about it, Your Majesty. Half the court is going. We’re to leave tomorrow by six.” She adds quietly, “He never travels alone.”

We sit across from each other at my writing table. I am eight years her junior, yet I was brought to France to take her mother’s place and give the emperor the child her mother couldn’t. By right she should hate me, yet I search her face and she is perfectly at ease, as if nothing on earth could be so normal as sitting with the woman who took your mother’s crown.

“You’d think it would be awkward between the two of us,” she begins.

I shift uneasily on the padded chair. This is exactly what I’m thinking and the second time my mind has been read.

“I hope you know I have never borne you any ill will. What happened to my mother was her own doing.” When she sees my shock, she hurries to explain. “My mother knew she couldn’t have more children when she married Napoleon. Things—terrible things—happened to her when she was imprisoned during the Revolution.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t realize.”

“Thousands of innocent people suffered your great-aunt’s fate, including my father.”

“I had no idea.”

She nods. “She married him anyway, and when he crowned himself emperor, she swore to him that there would be a child.”

“And when there wasn’t?”

“She asked to have mine.”

I sit back. “She took your
son
?”

Hortense shrugs, as if it really weren’t such a great deal. “She wanted to. But I insisted he be raised with me in Holland. It was a great fight between us,” she admits.

“But you won.”

“Because the emperor agreed with me. She was desperate. You have to understand, my mother loves Napoleon … tremendously.”

We watch each other in the morning light. What type of woman is Joséphine? Is she conniving, or just a thoughtless fool willing to sacrifice her own daughter’s happiness for a husband who is a tyrant? A servant comes to the door with tea, and I wait until the woman pours it before speaking. “Did you want to marry Louis?” I ask. I try to imagine having Louis Bonaparte for a husband. Even in Austria they’ve heard of his uncontrollable outbursts at court, and I’m relieved that he rarely comes to France.

Hortense cradles the teacup between her hands and stares at the table. Perhaps I’ve been too forward. After all, she owes nothing to me. I’m about to apologize when she replies, “No. I wanted nothing to do
with Louis. But that’s no great secret at this court, Your Majesty.” She looks up from the table, and her eyes are haunted. “It was my mother who wanted the marriage. For an heir—that’s what they say.” She covers her eyes with her hand for a moment, and I realize she is thinking of her eldest son, who died from croup at four years old. “My mother isn’t a bad woman,” she swears. “You don’t realize how it is in this palace. I mean—you will. I—I shouldn’t be telling you these things. Let me start packing.” She stands abruptly, but I reach out to take her hand.

“
Please
. I want to hear it. If I’m to be empress, I should know the way it is in France.”

She takes her seat, and I press the teacup back into her hand. “It’s treason, what I’ve said against my husband,” she admits. “But he’s not to be king for much longer. My brother is taking the crown from him. Louis refused to raise an army for an invasion of Russia. He said he wouldn’t send innocent men to a ‘fool’s war.’ ”

So there is one country willing to stand up to him. “Where will he go?”

“Your father is offering to give him shelter.” She frowns. “Your Highness didn’t know?”

Shame warms my cheeks. “Napoleon has yet to speak of politics with me.” I look into my teacup. “I don’t hear from my father very often,” I admit.

Hortense’s voice is slow and suspicious. “Because he doesn’t write, or because you don’t receive his letters?”

Hortense gives me a long look, and I am enraged.

“I’ve had two letters since I arrived,” I tell her. “
Two
! I have no idea how my brother Ferdinand is faring. And Maria—” Hortense reaches out to touch my hand, and I realize my cheeks are wet. “Should I confront him?” I ask her, and I don’t like the hopeless sound in my voice.

“My mother tried. It never did her any good. But then her letters were often to men Napoleon suspected her of having an affair with.”

“Was she?”

Hortense appears deeply conflicted. “If I am fair to Napoleon, I
would say he was correct in his suspicions. Still, he loved her. As much as it’s possible for him to love,” she corrects herself. “He wrote her such letters—”

“Do you have them?”

She glances at me warily. “Twenty—at least.”

“I would like to see them, to know if this man has ever loved anyone but himself.”

She hesitates. “They are love letters, Your Majesty. Some of them are very … detailed.”

“Did your mother ever read them to her suite?”

“All the time. There’s nothing she kept private.”

This is what I wanted to know.

“Does Your Highness truly want—”

I nod, and she rises. “Ten minutes,” she promises. “They’re locked away.”

I call for more tea while Hortense is gone, and when she returns, she is holding a small leather box. She places it in front of me, and I run my hands over the carving of Venus.

“My mother asked me to keep it for her. She wanted to make sure a few letters survived in case anything happened to hers.”

I open the lid and stare at the envelopes bundled inside. I glance up to be sure that Hortense still approves, and she nods for me to continue. “The twenty-ninth of December, 1795,” I read aloud. That was fifteen years ago, before Egypt, or Austria, or the throne of France.

I awake all filled with you. Your image and the intoxicating pleasures of last night allow my senses no rest. Sweet and matchless Joséphine, how strangely you work upon my heart
.

Are you angry with me? Are you unhappy? Are you upset? My soul is broken with grief and my love for you forbids repose. But how can I rest any more, when I yield to the feeling that masters my inmost self, when I quaff from your lips and from your heart a scorching flame? Yes! One night has taught me how far your portrait falls short of yourself
!

You start at midday:
in three hours
I shall see you again. Till then, a thousand kisses
, mio dolce amore!
but give me none back for they set my blood on fire
.

The intoxicating pleasures of last night allow my senses no rest
. I try to imagine Adam writing these things to me … to put them in a letter for any prying eyes to see. “Was she his first lover?”