Becoming Josephine by Heather Webb Page A

eyes smoldered with longing.
    Heat swelled in hidden depths.
    “Perhaps you would consider riding with me tomorrow afternoon . . . if we have good weather?”
    I could hear Marie-Josèphe’s words of warning: “Don’t appear too eager. Rapid surrender will not win his affections.”
    “I have another engagement tomorrow,” I said.
    “And the following day? We could ride to one of my favorite spots.”
    I paused before answering. I enjoyed riding, and I liked him. I glanced back at the impressive château. A wealthy lover would be divine, even if only for a little while.
    “Sounds lovely.”
    “I’ll send a coach for you. Now, shall we join the festivities? A concert will begin in a few moments.”
    I grinned in the dark.

    Within a fortnight, I fell into bed with the duke—the first man, beyond harmless flirtations, since Alexandre. To be admired again made me feel alive. Charles possessed an adorable perfection, but with so many willing ladies yet unplucked, his attention faded quickly. I followed his lead and applied myself to the next interesting gentleman, and the next. To feel wanted, even for a short time, invigorated me, as did their expensive gifts.
    My financial woes deepened as the prices of flour, sugar, and oil swelled, and I moved in with Désirée and the Marquis to cut expenses. They adored having us live with them again. Both had missed our visits and those from Alexandre.
    One summer afternoon, Alexandre came to see the children, bearing gifts.
    “The gifts are lovely, but do you have my monthly stipend?” I asked.
    Eugène sat on the floor surrounded by soldier figurines. Hortense held her new doll against her chest and gazed up at her father’s face.
    “I will deliver it to you next week via post,” Alexandre said.
    “We won’t eat, should you choose not to.”
    “There is no need to be dramatic. I will send the funds.”
    “As you always do?” My tone brimmed with sarcasm.
    He glared at me and carried Hortense to the garden.

    Alexandre did not send the money he had promised. I considered visiting the judge—perhaps he could force my delinquent husband to pay.
    Hortense pulled on my hand as she skipped up the drive.
    “I wish Eugène were here,” she said. “Why does he have to go to school?”
    “To learn and become a man.”
    “Will I go to school?”
    “Yes. A school for little girls.” Though I couldn’t imagine how I would afford it. “Look! There’s a bunny in the bushes.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Shall we sneak up on him?”
    “I’ll be a bunny, too.” Hortense hopped after the animal, startling it.
    We turned at the crunch of hooves on gravel.
    “Ask Mimi to put on some tea, dear.”
    Hortense hopped inside as a portly man in elegant clothing descended from the coach.
    “Madame de Beauharnais, I presume?”
    “Yes. And you are?”
    “Monsieur Boucher.” The man wheezed as he spoke. “I’m here to collect a sum on account of your husband’s debts. Is he at home?” His foulard acted as a tourniquet around his thick neck.
    “My husband?” I asked, confused. “But he doesn’t live here. We have been separated for some time.” The man coughed into his handkerchief, a horrible gurgling sound.
    Perhaps I should offer him a chair.
    He wobbled closer. “This address is listed as his residence.”
    My eyes widened. “I assure you, monsieur,” I began, controlling my growing anger, “he does not reside here. You may find him in Paris, though I do not know the address of his residence there.”
    The man coughed again. Mucus rattled in his throat. “The next time you see him, please tell him I stopped by. Here is my contact information.” He waved a small card at me.
    “Of course. Good day.”
    The man nodded, then hefted his bulk up the short step and into the coach.
    I could strangle Alexandre. How dare he send creditors to our door! I stalked inside to begin a scathing letter.

    Alexandre’s creditors began arriving in droves. He had