The Garden Intrigue

by Lauren Willig

  It wasn’t an indictment, just a statement of fact.

  “What plans?” asked Emma suspiciously.

  “There are always plans,” said Hortense wearily. “This time it’s the invasion of England. He’s always wanted to conquer England. If he manages that…” She shrugged. “He’ll have achieved what none of his predecessors could. France will rule England. For that, he’ll need an heir.”

  Emma couldn’t care less about England, but she did care about Hortense. “But he has an heir,” Emma said stubbornly. “What about you? What about Louis-Charles?”

  The very purpose behind Hortense’s disaster of a marriage to Bonaparte’s younger brother had been to provide Bonaparte with that heir, an heir of both his blood and Josephine’s. Louis-Charles had been intended for that position from birth. If the Emperor had changed his mind now, it meant that Hortense’s sacrifice and all the pain she had endured since had been for naught.

  It was, thought Emma passionately, unthinkable.

  “He won’t go back on his word now,” she said, wishing she could believe her own words.

  Hortense smiled without humor. “It’s not the same. If he is to be an emperor, he must have heirs of the blood. Or so they say.”

  Emma bit down on her lower lip. “What about your mother?”

  Hortense didn’t even need to think about it. “It will devastate her,” she said simply.

  Emma could remember when Bonaparte had been the one clamoring for Mme. Bonaparte’s attention, suing for such crumbs of affection as she might choose to toss him. She had treated him, then, with a sort of abstracted fondness, and chosen her lovers elsewhere.

  Emma wasn’t sure when the balance had shifted; she had been preoccupied with her own affairs, with Carmagnac and Paul and her own wounded feelings. It had been a blurry and confused time, and, at the end of it, she had come to Malmaison to find that the world had shifted, that it was Mme. Bonaparte begging her husband’s affection, biting her lip and looking the other way as he chose his mistresses from among the actresses at the Comédie-Française, and sometimes even from among his stepdaughter’s friends.

  Once, Mme. Bonaparte might have had her own way with a single, softly spoken word. Not anymore.

  Emma had a very bad feeling about this.

  “What can you do?” Emma asked her friend.

  Hortense looked down at her son’s head. “I’ve done everything I can do,” she said, and there was a touch of bitterness in her voice. “What else, I don’t know.”

  They sat together in silence, each caught in her own thoughts. The sun shone brightly on the river, but it seemed dim to Emma’s eyes, too much light turned dark, like a black spot on one’s eye from staring directly at the sun.

  Emma looked at Hortense’s familiar face, at the new hollows between her cheekbones and the shadows below her eyes, prettier, in some ways, than she had been as a girl, but so much sadder. They had sat so often like this, she and Hortense, in this same spot, watching the play of light on the water, tossing crumbs to the ducks, and talking of books and dresses and life and love. Here Emma had told Hortense of her disillusionment with Paul, twisting her hands in her lap, hour slipping into hour as the sun set over the water, and here Hortense had confessed her love for a young general, Duroc, one of the set that had flocked to Malmaison in those long-ago halcyon days.

  Hortense had been so certain her stepfather would give his consent.

  Emma jerked around as a sudden clatter erupted from the river. Bored with the adults, Caroline’s child had wiggled free and was pelting Mr. Fulton’s steamship with pebbles. The noise battered against Emma’s skull, shattering the illusion of peace. The ducks squawked in protest, their feathers ruffled.

  Plink, plink, plink went Achille’s pebbles against the side of Mr. Fulton’s ship. Crowing to himself, he scrambled along the bank, looking for more powerful ammunition. Something, Emma thought bitterly, of which Achille’s uncle Napoleon would approve.

  Emma’s hands balled into fists in her lap. “It didn’t need to come to this,” she said.

  She didn’t need to explain what she meant; Hortense always knew.

  The Emperor’s daughter smiled wryly. “Didn’t it? My stepfather is the comet and we are the tail. We must follow where he leads for better or ill.” Her smile twisted, like a theatrical mask, half comedy, half tragedy. “I imagine the comet’s tail doesn’t much enjoy it either.”

  Emma’s heart ached for her friend. She held out a hand. “Hortense—”

  Hortense waved her away. “Forgive me. I can’t think why I’m being so melodramatic! It must be the child. It wreaks havoc with one’s emotions. You’ll see.”

  “But you’re not being melodramatic. Not at all! Not if you really believe—” Emma would have pressed the topic, but her words were drowned out by a resounding crash.

  In the shocked silence that followed, she could hear an ominous cracking noise.

  As the crowd stared in mingled horror and delight, the chimney of Mr. Fulton’s steamship cracked, sliding slowly sideways. The ship skewed sideways, a sad, ruined thing.

  “I sank it! I sank it!” crowed Achille.

  Mr. Fulton looked ill. Kort gaped, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Hortense sighed, and shifted her own sleeping son on her lap.

  “Yes, you did,” said the Emperor genially. He pushed out of his chair, gesturing brusquely to his staff. “Enough entertainment. To work!” He jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Fulton. “You, too.”

  With one last, wordless look of dislike at Achille, Fulton joined the stream of naval commanders following the Emperor to the summerhouse he employed as an office in good weather.

  The party was over, at least for some. Emma could see Mme. Bonaparte moving graciously through the crowd, smoothing over her husband’s gaffe, urging everyone to stay where they were and enjoy the refreshments and the fine weather. Most people didn’t need to be asked twice. Someone began plucking at a guitar, singing in a pleasant tenor voice about flowers blooming, bloomed too soon, ducking and striking a false chord as a candied chestnut sailed past one ear. In Hortense’s lap, Louis-Charles stirred fitfully.

  “I should take him in,” Hortense said, just as a shadow fell over their sunny spot.

  Emma didn’t need to look up. She could see the silhouette stretched across the blanket, the full sleeves, the curling hair, the long legs, distorted and caricatured by the angle of the sun, and, yet, still recognizable. Or maybe it was the other things that she recognized: the smell of fresh-washed linen and ink, the elaborate clearing of the throat that preceded a grand oration.

  Augustus addressed himself to Hortense. “Might I beg your indulgence, O Our Madonna of these Riparian Banks?”

  “You may,” Hortense said graciously. “Provided that you never call me that again.”

  Augustus bowed with a flourish, his head nearly scraping grass. “My dear lady, your lightest wish is my commandment. I crave only the counsel of your companion, should you be so very good as to release her into my custody for a brief colloquy.”

  “Her custody is her own,” said Hortense. “Emma?”

  Emma looked up at Augustus. “I need to talk to you,” he said in a low voice, intended for her ears alone.

  “What is it?” she mouthed, but he only shook his head.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Emma asked Hortense.

  Hortense mustered something akin to a smile. “Go,” she said. “I’m quite content to doze by the river now that the excitement appears to be over.”

  Was it? Emma’s pulse picked up as Augustus held out a hand to Emma. Against her better judgment, she took it, letting him draw her up off the blanket.

  “A thousand thanks, O benevolent ladies.” As he waved an enthusiastic farewell to the Emperor’s stepdaughter, Augustus bent close to Emma’s ear, sending a shiver down her spine as he murmured, “Come with me. We need to be private.”

  Chapter 24

  Hold not a mirro
r to my heart;

  The truth’s a very poisoned dart.

  That same mote that you claim to spy,

  Becomes a beam in thine own eye.

  —Emma Delagardie and Augustus Whittlesby,

  Americanus: A Masque in Three Parts

  Private?” Emma echoed.

  Behind her, on the blanket, Hortense studiously pretended not to listen. She was not listening so hard, Emma could practically hear it.

  Emma scowled at Augustus. “Surely, whatever it is, you can tell me here.”

  “There are some things one prefers to discuss without an audience,” Augustus said circumspectly.

  That was certainly informative.

  “You plan to abandon poetry and set up as a mantua maker,” Emma extrapolated extravagantly. “No, no, wait, don’t tell me. You have a sudden desire to go prospecting for gold in the outer Antipodes, accompanied only by your faithful bearer, Calvin.”

  “Calvin?” If she had hoped to annoy Augustus into an admission, the strategy failed. Her companion conducted a leisurely survey of the grounds, his gaze moving impartially over the revelers, some lounging on blankets, others, less daunted by the warmth of the sun, playing an impromptu game of tag.

  “What would you prefer?” Emma grumbled. “Hobbes?”

  “Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short?” Augustus raised a brow. “Why not? We have a fine exhibition of the state of nature here before us.”

  One of Mme. Bonaparte’s younger ladies stumbled on the hem of her skirt, tumbling into the grasp of the gallant who had been chasing her. She squeaked as he squeezed her, and dealt him a resounding slap.

  Oh. Emma grimaced. Maybe that hadn’t been tag.

  “Hardly poor,” she said. There were enough jewels in evidence to fund a small revolution. “Or solitary.”

  “You didn’t say anything about brutish.” Augustus regarded the assemblage with a jaded eye. “This lot won’t go in until the food runs out. We’ll have no privacy back here.”

  As if in illustration, the guitar struck up again, discordantly. Oh, dear, Lieutenant Caradotte had gotten hold of it. He would insist on playing, despite being tone-deaf. Emma winced as he struck a chord that sounded like an offended feline on a bad day. There was a thud and a squawk as someone tried to wrestle the guitar away.

  “Madame Delagardie!” Someone came jogging up. It was another of Bonaparte’s aides—no, not an aide anymore, but he had been three years ago during one of their endless summers at Malmaison. He was something important now, but Emma couldn’t remember what. To her, he would always be the aide whose pantaloons had split during a game of prisoner’s base. Sans Culottes, they had called him for weeks. “Come join us for blindman’s buff!”

  Emma waved back, all too aware of Augustus’s hand on her other elbow. Privacy, he had said. Privacy for what? They had agreed there was nothing to talk about. It might be nothing more sinister than plans for the masque, an addendum to the script, a change of cast. There were a hundred and one innocent reasons he might want to speak to her.

  “Later,” she called back to Sans Culottes. What was his name? “It’s too warm.”

  “See?” murmured Augustus. “You’re far too much in demand. I won’t have five minutes without someone dragging you away for a game or a gossip.”

  “I’m not so much in demand as all that. We could speak here. There’s no place so private as among a crowd.”

  A yard from them, Caradotte crashed onto the turf, triumphantly raising the guitar in both hands. “Nice try!” he yelled back.

  “Doesn’t someone want to call him out?” a lady called out from her semi-prone position on a blanket.

  “Lutes at ten paces!” shouted someone else.

  Augustus didn’t need to say anything. His point had been made for him.

  Emma sighed. “We could go to the theatre.”

  The minute the words were out of her mouth, she knew she had made a mistake. They stared at each other for an awful, frozen moment. The last time they had been in the theatre together—well, the less of that, the better.

  “The front of the theatre, I mean,” Emma babbled. “The large part with the stage in it.”

  “Er, yes,” said Augustus, and Emma felt her cheeks going even redder. What was wrong with her? She had managed to conduct an entire affair with Georges with complete sangfroid, and an accidental kiss had her bumbling and babbling. “I did rather get that. Miss Gwen is rehearsing her pirates. Remember?”

  “That’s right.” Emma seized on the distraction with relief. “What was it she called them? She said they were insufficiently fearsome.”

  “I believe the exact phrase was couldn’t pillage their way out of a wet paper parcel,” said Augustus delicately.

  They grinned at one another, completely in accord.

  Emma felt something catch at the back of her throat. She had missed him. She had missed this. Which was absurd, she knew. How could you miss someone when you hadn’t been apart?

  “I never understood why they were in that wet paper parcel,” Emma said, her voice constricted. She cleared her throat. “It sounded like a very uncomfortable venue.”

  “Perhaps they couldn’t afford a proper ship,” suggested Augustus. “They might be penurious pirates.”

  “You’re alliterating again,” Emma pointed out. “You needn’t do that with me.”

  They had been strolling rather aimlessly along the side of the house, but at that, Augustus paused. “No,” he said. “Not with you.”

  There was a strange note in his voice. Emma let her own steps dawdle to a halt. She looked up at him quizzically. He was looking at her, none of the usual mockery in his face. There were twin furrows between his brows, and he suddenly seemed older than she had thought him to be.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Whatever it was, he thought better of it. He shook his head, moving briskly along. “Where shall we go? The back of the house is occupied and the house itself is swamped with people.”

  Oh, yes. Their mysterious talk. Despite her growing unease, Emma strove to keep her voice light. “I draw the line at the stables. And the gardeners are very protective of the greenhouses.”

  Augustus didn’t look at her. “What about the rose garden?”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable suggestion. Leaving aside the romantic connotations of roses, it was well away from both the revelers in the back and the pirates in the theatre. A long alley of trees led down one side, shading the area and separating the roses from the bustle of the drive. It was as private as they could hope to be, with only one small caveat.

  “Is the Emperor working in the summerhouse?” Emma asked, as they turned their steps in that direction. “If he is, we might want to stay out of the way.”

  “Summerhouse?”

  She’d forgotten that Augustus didn’t know Malmaison. Sometimes, it felt as though he had always been there. “It’s at the end of the alley,” said Emma, “just past the roses. On fine days, the First Consul—I mean, the Emperor—brings his work out there. As long as the windows are closed, we should be all right, though.”

  “Mm-hmm,” said Augustus, which might have meant anything from yes to no to maybe. Emma took it as yes.

  Emma glanced at Augustus’s shuttered face, doubly screened by the long fall of curly hair. One thing was certain: She wasn’t getting anything out of him until he was good and ready to speak.

  They cut around the far side of the house from the theatre, along an alley of trees leading towards Mme. Bonaparte’s famous roses and the nondescript, octagonal façade of the summerhouse. Some of the roses, the earlier sorts, had already unfurled their petals to the sun. The leaves were stiff and glossy. There were rare and exotic varieties, Emma knew, smuggled in from all around the world, whisked into France in direct contravention of the blockades. The authorities knew to turn a blind eye when it came to Mme. Bonaparte’s garden.

  Emma knew she ought to know more about it, to be able to appreciat
e the distinctions of this rose versus that, but her knowledge of horticulture was limited to “Ooh, aren’t the pink ones lovely!” A connoisseur might appreciate the niceties of specific species; Emma had only a jumbled impression of color and the heavy, heady scent of roses, all the more intense in the hazy heat of the day.

  The low buzz of the bees was broken only by the sound of voices from the summerhouse, too low to be distinguishable, just loud enough to jar the peace of the garden. Emma could hear the earnest tones of Mr. Fulton’s voice, followed by the Emperor’s sharp bark, then another voice, softer, interceding. It must be very hot in there, with that many people crammed inside around the small table.

  A bee bumbled past, drunk with pollen.

  Emma looked at Augustus, who wasn’t looking at her. “All right,” she said. “We’re here now.”

  Augustus clasped his hands behind his back. He paced towards the summerhouse, head bent, body angled forward, pausing for what felt like a very long while. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the staccato rhythm of voices from the summerhouse and the low hum of bees among the roses.

  Emma’s skirt brushed against a rosebush, catching on thorns. She yanked it free again, making the flowers shake. The bee buzzed angrily and zigzagged away.

  She knew how it felt.

  The day was humid, despite the hot sunshine. Drops of sweat dripped down beneath her bodice, catching between her breasts. There would be a storm soon, if she wasn’t much mistaken. She could feel it in the prickling of the skin below her gloves, in the frizzled hairs at the nape of her neck.

  “Do you have something to say,” Emma burst out, “or would you rather just stand there?”

  For a moment, she thought Augustus might choose the latter. Then he turned abruptly on one heel. “Are you marrying your cousin?”

  Emma gawped at him, the minor irritants of sweat and skin forgotten. “What?”