The Garden Intrigue (18 page)

Pauline Bonaparte had become Princess Borghese. What might the former Emma Morris become?

She ought to have been delighted.

Mme. Delagardie turned in a slow circle, her gown whispering around her ankles, her eyes drifting over statues and bits of columns. Imagining her glorious future? Planning her gown for the coronation? There would be a coronation, Augustus had no doubt of it. Bonaparte didn’t miss a trick. If Charlemagne had one, so would he.

Mme. Delagardie sounded very far away when she spoke, the sound of her voice distorted by the vast marble walls of the former palace of kings. “It sounds so antique, not something for the modern age at all.”

“That is part of the idea,” said Augustus. “A return to the grandeur of Rome, with Bonaparte as our Caesar.”

Mme. Delagardie’s skirts tangled around her ankles as she came to a halt, fixing her gaze on him. For a future lady-in-waiting, she didn’t appear
to be particularly exultant. Her blue eyes looked like a cloud had come over them and there were twin lines between her brows. “Didn’t Caesar come to a bad end? I seem to recall knives being involved.”

“That was March, not May,” pointed out Augustus. “And his dynasty lived on long after him.”

He wasn’t sure whether she heard him. Lost in her own thoughts, Mme. Delagardie glanced away. “I thought he meant to refuse.”

“Refuse?” Augustus wasn’t sure he had heard quite right.

“If they offered,” she said. “I had thought he meant to refuse.”

In profile, the delicacy of her features was even more pronounced. She was too thin, Augustus thought, even for her narrow frame. From the side, the hollows beneath her cheekbones showed like gashes.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” asked Augustus, with genuine curiosity.

“It has been done before,” Mme. Delagardie said defensively. “Like General Washington. He might have been made a king if he liked, but he refused, out of principle.”

“General Washington is no Bonaparte,” said Augustus. And wasn’t that the understatement of the new century. General Washington hadn’t voted himself First Consul for life or set up the succession among his family members.

“Yes, yes, I know. Bonaparte still has all his own teeth.” Mme. Delagardie’s teeth, small and even, worried at her lower lip. “Do you remember that pamphlet—it must have been a few years ago—the one claiming that Bonaparte was the direct descendant of the man in the iron mask?”

Augustus nodded.

“Then you know what I mean,” she said earnestly. “I was there, at the Tuileries, when Bonaparte heard about it. He said it was laughable.”

It had been laughable, but not for the reasons Mme. Delagardie meant. Someone had gone to the trouble of making an argument that Louis XIV’s twin brother, the rightful king of France, had escaped from incarceration, made his way to Corsica, and begat the line that eventually produced Bonaparte—all, presumably, without removing the mask.

Personally, Augustus got a good chuckle out of the image of breakfasts in the kitchen of a Corsican farmhouse, with the chickens pecking at the legs of the table and the man in the mask reading the morning paper while little Bonapartes tumbled about in the dirt around him.

Mme. Delagardie clasped her hands together. “He might so easily have claimed to be a Bourbon and let them make him king, but he didn’t. He ordered the pamphlet suppressed. He said he had no interest in being made a king.” She looked searchingly at Augustus. “And that wasn’t so very long ago. A man’s philosophy doesn’t change that much in just three years.”

“King and emperor are two different things,” said Augustus gently.

It wouldn’t suit Bonaparte’s ambitions to be just another Bourbon monarch, an offshoot of a degenerate tree. No, he wanted to be all in all, self-made and self-sustaining.

“He fought for the Revolution. Why proclaim the rights of man one day and an empire the next? There must have been some mistake. Adele must have misunderstood.” Her show of bravado was belied by the anxious lines between her eyes as she added, “Don’t you think?”

Bizarrely, Augustus found himself wanting to be able to comfort her.

Comfort her? He had to be mad. She was on her way to becoming one of the most envied women in France. There was no reason to lose all grip on reality.

“Don’t you want to be a lady-in-waiting? There are those who would give their right arms for the position.”

Mme. Delagardie twisted her face into a wry expression. “I like my right arm. I’m accustomed to it. It’s quite useful.”

“Are you that set against the idea?”

It took her a moment to answer. She gave a small, hopeless shrug. “I’m not made for courts and palaces. I’m too much an American for that.” In a smaller voice, she added, “It feels wrong.”

“You’re already frequenting courts and palaces,” Augustus pointed out. It was a bit late to be having attacks of republican principle.

“Yes, but…” She looked hopelessly up at him. “It felt different when Bonaparte called himself First Consul. It made it easier to pretend.”

“Pretend what?” Augustus prompted.

She looked down at her gloved hands, worrying at the lump of a ring beneath the leather. When she spoke, it was so quietly that Augustus had to strain to hear her.

“That nothing had changed.”

“Pardon?” It wasn’t the most elegant question, but Augustus had no idea what she was getting at.

Mme. Delagardie’s eyes were still on her hands, but she was seeing something else entirely. “Hortense was the first girl I met at Madame Campan’s. We were friends almost from the first. She used to have nightmares, you know, about her mother being shut up in prison.”

“No,” said Augustus, since something needed to be said. “I didn’t know.”

“That was all before Bonaparte. Madame de Beauharnais had a little house in the Rue Chantereine, with tiny rooms up in the attic for Hortense and Eugene. I used to stay with Hortense in her room.” Mme. Delagardie shook her head. “It was like living in a theatrical set. There’d always be people coming and going and never enough chairs to seat them on. There was never any food in the larder, except right before a party. Madame Bonaparte would order in all sorts of absurd delicacies, but she’d always forget something, like the bread or the milk. We’d find ourselves with wine but not the glasses to serve it in, or chocolate but no milk to mix it with. Hortense and Eugene and I would be sent off to the neighbors, to beg or borrow whatever Madame de Beauharnais needed. It got to the point that when the neighbors saw me coming, they’d meet me at the door with an armload of crockery.”

She smiled at the memory, and Augustus found himself smiling with her, at the image of a small girl in a white gown staggering under the weight of plates and platters.

“It sounds…unique,” he said.

“It was lovely,” she said, in a voice that brooked no disagreement. “My
family was millions of miles away and Madame de Beauharnais was all that was kind. Even after she married Bonaparte, we had such pleasant times. We used to play prisoner’s base at Malmaison, and Hortense would sing in the evenings. There was no court and no curtsying and no protocol or precedence. Even after Paul—” She broke off.

“Even after?” Augustus prompted. After Paul what?

“They were very kind to me” was all she said. With a sigh, she admitted, “I miss it. I miss the informality and the camaraderie. I miss the simplicity of it all.”

“Nothing can stay simple forever,” Augustus said.

Unbidden, memories of the vicarage of his youth rose up before him, a churchyard and an oak tree and vines twining along the side of a house, red brick warm in the sunlight. His little sister skipped in the sunlight, twirling to make her skirts billow as she danced.

He had visited once, after the house had already passed into different hands. Polly had married, and his father had retired to Tunbridge Wells to do whatever it was that retired clergymen did. He had known it would be a bad idea, and it was. The tree had been cut down, the vines pruned away. There were fresh curtains in the window and rosebushes, scraggly with youth, planted by the door. It was a pleasant, prosperous place, but it wasn’t his. Not anymore. He had gone away without going inside.

It was for the better, he told himself. “We all grow up, whether we like it or not.”

“Perhaps.” Mme. Delagardie didn’t sound convinced. “But is there any need to make it more complicated than it needs to be? When I see what they did to Hortense, marrying her off to that—”

She broke off, catching herself before she could say whatever she had intended.

“Ambition,” said Augustus softly, “can be a very powerful force.”

This time, Mme. Delagardie didn’t take the bait.

She fluttered a hand in an unconvincing facsimile of her usual insouciant style. “Forgive me. I’m being horrible and selfish, babbling on at you
like this. What you must think of me! I scarcely know what I’m saying.” Rubbing two fingers across her eyes, she said, with obvious sincerity, “I didn’t sleep as well as I ought last night.”

“Out carousing?”

She flashed him a too-bright smile. “Oh, naturally.”

She was lying. They both knew it. But it was, in its way, a gallant lie.

Her lilac paint had smeared next to her eyes when she rubbed them. It gave her the look of a small girl caught playing in her mother’s paint box, with her rouge too bright for her cheeks and a feather hanging crookedly from her hat. For the first time, he noticed how small she really was, narrow-shouldered and fine-boned, dwarfed by her own finery. She held herself as though she were ready to ward off an army with a smile, balanced forward on the balls of her feet, head up, shoulders back, best feather forward. An act, but a brave one.

Despite himself, Augustus felt a dangerous stirring of pity. He had discounted her before as frivolous and vapid—and perhaps she was still those things. He had suspected her of scheming, or at least of playing the role of go-between—and there was nothing to say that one couldn’t look lost and vulnerable and still be a villain. Fundamentally, though, he didn’t know what to make of her. Attached to the Bonapartes, yes, but not to Bonaparte. Or was that, too, just an act? And what about Paul Delagardie? The gossip had been quite clear; she had left him, possibly cuckolded him, then taken up with Marston after his death. Yet, when she spoke of him, it was with something that sounded very akin to grief.

None of it made any sense at all.

He looked up to find her watching him. “Do you know,” she said slowly, “I’ve noticed something.”

“What?”

“For quite some time, you’ve forgotten to rhyme.”

Augustus sucked in air through his nose, feeling as though he’d just been punched in the gut. Not just any sort of punch. A punch thrown with killing force. His stomach muscles tensed, his kidneys contracted, he could
feel the cold prickle of sweat below his arms. His breath jammed in his throat as panic coursed through his body. The surprise of it had him gasping. She had walloped him good and he had never ever seen it coming.

She stood in front of him still, looking small and harmless and innocent, all frills and rouge, lilac paint smeared around her eyes, one earring caught in her hair, twisted at an odd angle.

Had all of it—the confidences about her youth, the feigned dismay, her friend’s interruption—been nothing more than a trap? If so, it was cleverer by far than anything Napoleon’s Ministry of Police had tossed at him before.

Augustus blessed the training that enabled him to maintain a calm mask, even as his skin prickled with goose bumps, and his heart thrummed beneath his shirt.

“Madame?” he said coolly, because he didn’t trust himself to say anything more.

“It’s all an act, isn’t it?” Mme. Delagardie was examining him as though he were a butterfly on a naturalist’s table. “You’re much more sensible than you sound.”

He had two choices. He could launch rapidly into a stream of inanities in an attempt to convince her that his seeming lucidity was an aberration. If she were the feather wit she appeared, that might have worked. But she wasn’t a feather wit, was she? She had certainly sussed him out neatly enough.

Augustus chose to go with the second option.

“And what if I am?” he said.

Mme. Delagardie shook her head. “Nothing. I just wondered…why?”

“People expect their poets to sound a certain way.” Augustus dropped his voice and shortened his vowels, reverting to his natural voice. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I satisfy their preconceptions. They commission poems. Everyone gets what they want.”

Sometimes, a false admission worked better than a denial.

Mme. Delagardie looked at him with curiosity, but without suspicion,
her blue eyes as guileless as a child’s. “Don’t you mind it? The dissembling?”

Step one: false admission. Step two: shift attention. Augustus took a shot in the dark.

“Do you?” he shot back.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.” Her words were bold enough, but her hands betrayed her, fidgeting with the ruffle on her reticule.

He had hit home. What was it Jane had said?
In her own strange way, Emma is a very private person.

Trust Jane to get it right. Again.

Augustus folded his arms across his chest, squishing down the folds of excess fabric. He took in the kohl that darkened her lashes, the rouge that lent color to her cheeks, the powder that hid the circles beneath her eyes. “You play the merry widow very nicely. You manage to sound nearly as vapid as Madame de Treville. But it isn’t true, is it?”

He had her on the defensive now, just where he wanted her, her attention focused on herself rather than on him.

“It isn’t all an act,” she said defensively. “I can be quite silly at times. And I do like parties and shiny things.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Made of paste?”

“I should never have told you that,” she muttered. She looked up at him. “Shall we make a deal? A bargain? For the duration of our collaboration?”

Talk of deals made Augustus wary. “What kind of bargain?”

She raised her chin. “No pretenses.”

“None at all?” Augustus regarded her quizzically. “Even lovers keep secrets, Madame Delagardie.”