Page 145 of The Boxing Baroness

Marianne nodded. “Thank you . . . Désirée.”

“But go on. I interrupted.”

“I just wanted to say that I am . . . well, a bit stunned, by all of this.”

“Naturally you are.”

“But to answer your first question—no, I didn’t suffer. Barnabas—the man who raised me—took me in almost immediately after my m-mother died. My life with him has been unconventional, but not unhappy,” she said truthfully.

“And you were never hungry? Or in want?”

“No.”

“That is a great weight off my mind.” She cut Marianne an uncomfortable look. “You must wonder how all this happened. You must think I am a terrible woman.”

“I don’t think that,” Marianne said honestly.

There was a knock on the door and the maid, Lavigne, entered bearing a tray. By the time the lavish tea and pastries had been set out, Désirée’s anxious expression had faded somewhat.

“I will serve, Lavigne,” she said, dismissing the woman.

Once they were both settled with cups and pastries that neither of them wanted, she began to talk.

“My sister—Julie, is her name—she is married to Joseph Bonaparte.”

Marianne nodded.

“It was she who introduced me to his brother.” Her lips curved into a fond, nostalgic smile. “Your father was . . . well, when he entered a room, there was nobody else who mattered. He was only a junior officer then, but we all knew he was bound for greater things. How great, of course, none of us guessed.” She laughed breathily. “When he went off to Paris, things changed quickly. I later learned that many women pursued him.” She gave Marianne an almost proud look.

“And he was unfaithful to you?”

She shrugged, taking a sip of tea. “That, I don’t know. But he did sever our engagement. He was . . . besotted with her. With Joséphine.”

“I’m sorry,” Marianne murmured.

“Oh, don’t be. It was so long ago. And—to be honest—it did not break my heart. I came to Paris to be with my sister and also because Napoleon’s family wanted me there.” She pulled a face. “They hated Joséphine. Oh, the things they called her.” She chuckled. “But I could not hate her.” She cocked her head at Marianne. “You know I carried her veil at the coronation.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

She laughed again, the sound infectious. “People looked at me oddly, but then they always have and still do.” She gave Marianne an impish smile and then sighed. “Napoleon felt guilty about what he’d done and was eager to marry me off. I was engaged again, but my betrothed died. Napoleon did not give up, and not long after I married Charles.” She pursed her lips. “But of course he was only plain Jean Baptiste Jules Bernadotte back then.”

She gestured to the teapot, but Marianne shook her head; her cup was almost untouched.

“Bernadotte is another like your father.”

Marianne’s stomach tensed every time this woman referred to a man who was yet again upending the world.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Charles is a man who was bound to make his own future. So ambitious for grander things.” She sighed. “I . . . let me just say that court life does not agree with me.” She shrugged. “But we were married, and it was good for me—although at the time . . .” She stopped and chewed her lip—a habit Marianne had, herself. “Charles’s family and the Bonapartes were . . . Well, let me just say that things did not run smoothly between them. It was a rough time. There were attempts on your father’s life—the friendship between him and my husband became strained. For a year or more I did not see Bernadotte while he was on campaign. I did not see your father, either. Until late in 1795, when he came back to Paris—very unexpected it was. He had received word about Joséphine’s relationship with a young officer.”

“You mentioned that in the letter,” Marianne murmured, her face heating.

“Oh yes, that is right.” She clucked her tongue. “The letters he wrote to Joséphine had been very passionate until then.”

“She let you read them?”

Désirée smiled indulgently. “She let her maid read them, and soon word of his love was well-known. That is life at court—not so different from a small village, where everyone is into everyone else’s business. In any case, he was full of passion—something he never felt for me. But she was cold to him—not at first, I think. But, er—” She cut Marianne a shy look.