Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland

Twenty-eight more hours of his fumbling caresses and embraces. Books are stacked on the dining room table, on the escritoire, by my bed. Every surface of my little house is covered with maps, journals, reports, scraps of paper with lists on them of provisions, names, numbers, schedules. Twenty-eight hours of frenetic activity, soldiers coming and going, couriers cantering into the courtyard. Today, tonight and then tomorrow, I thought - twenty-eight hours. I made a mental note to begin looking for a lady's maid as soon as Bonaparte left for the south.Īs soon as Bonaparte left for the south, and life returned to normal. 'The boots,' I told my scullery maid, who pushed one roughly onto my foot. It was a new ensemble and I was pleased with the effect, but I couldn't decide which shoes to wear - my lace-up boots or my silk slippers, which went so nicely. I'd changed into a long-sleeved violet gown over a dotted gauze skirt. 'You're not wearing your new jacket?' I asked, putting on a pair of dangling sapphire earrings. I wasn't sure how Hortense was going to take the news. He was anxious, I knew, about going out to Saint-Germain to see my children at their schools. 'The coach is ready.' He had a riding crop in his hands and was twisting it, bending it. This morning, as I was dusting my face with rice powder, preparing to leave, I saw Bonaparte standing in the door. Bonaparte is in a meeting in the study, and I'm back in my dressing room, seeking solace.

However much I am required to dissemble, to flatter and cajole, here I may speak my heart truly. But I've promised myself one thing-to be honest on these pages. I'm tempted to black out the words I've just written, tempted to write, instead: I've married, I am happy, all is well. My face in the glass looks harsh, etched by shadow, reflecting the dark thoughts in my heart. The word feels foreign on my tongue, as foreign as the maps spread over the dining room table, the sword propped in the corner of my drawing room. I am writing this in my jasmine-scented dressing room, where I might not be discovered by Bonaparte, my husband of one day.

Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe by Sandra Gulland