Paris, March 1810
âThis wedding is going to beâ¦â The Emperor Napoleon paused. His courtiers froze. âThis wedding is going to be absolutely perfect,â Napoleon went on at last. âIn every way!â
With his strident voice still echoing all around the great hall of the palace, the emperor of half of Europe fussily started pulling on his gloves.
âThe wedding. Perfect. Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. Sireâ¦â Eager bows were being swept by the assembled servants: the stewards and the butler, the housekeeper and the Groom of the Chambers. Napoleon Bonaparte fixed them one last time with his eagle eyes, then strode purposefully out of the Tuileries Palace in a flurry of grooms and footmen to his waiting carriage.
Meanwhile, up in the shadowy gallery, a whispered admonition could be heard.
âFleur, do try to stop sniffling,â pleaded Sophie. âItâs a wonder the emperor didnât hear you!â
Eighteen-year-old Fleur dabbed at her eyes. âIâm sorry, Mamâselle Sophie. But itâs just so romantic! To think that our emperorâs riding off to Austria to claim his bride, whoâs the same age as me. And in two weeks, sheâll be here for the wedding!â
âIndeed, and weâve got plenty to do before then,â promised Sophie. âThe new empressâs rooms to be made ready, for one thing.â Sophie, as the senior seamstress, had told little Fleur they could leave their work for just a few moments, to watch the emperorâs departure. But now she rather wished she hadnât. For when Napoleon said âperfect,â he meant it.
Fleur chattered all the way back to the bride-to-beâs chambers. âAs soon as my darling Henri is back from the war, then we will be married too! Not that ours will be a grand affair, Mamâselle Sophie, but, oh, doesnât everyone love a wedding?â
Sophie was already threading her needle, and picking up a section of the pink silk draperies they were embroidering for the four-poster bed. And she was thinking, with a heavy heart, Love a wedding? Not me. In fact, Iâm positively dreading this one!
Only two weeks, and the Emperor Napoleon would be marrying the Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria in celebrations that were to be the envy of the world.
But there was one problem. And it was up to her, Sophie, to solve it, or her beloved papa would be utterly ruined.
Three hours later Sophie was hurrying through the crowded arcades of the Palais-Royal, home to drinkers, gamblers and prostitutes.
A gaudily dressed whore brushed past and cackled, âYouâll never get custom dressed like that, love.â
A man grabbed Sophieâs arm, leering. âOh, I donât know, sheâs quite pretty under that drab cloak.â¦â
âGet off me,â Sophie warned. His visage was hideous: his front teeth were missingânot unusual, because quite a few citizens had knocked out their own front teeth so they werenât forced into the army.
Fleur had explained it to her. âThey canât rip open the cartridge without any teeth, you see? But my Henri, heâs braveâhe wouldnât do a thing like that. Oh, I cannot wait to be his wife!â
Sophie shoved the half-drunk man away. Weddings, weddings. She pressed on to the corner where the Paris artists gathered, some of them with their easels set up, others with their pictures spread out for passing trade. Here goes.
âCan you help me?â she asked the nearest of them. âIâm looking for an artist called Jacques.â
He roared with laughter. âJacques what? Thereâll be thousands of artists named Jacques in Paris, love!â
âIf youâll give me a chance to finish, heâs from a place called Claremont!â Sophieâs voice by now was rather desperate. âI heard he was wonderful at portraits, and I heard he was cheap!â
âThat,â drawled a masculine voice just behind her, âdepends on what the commission is. And who is paying.â
She whirled round. A man stood there, looking down at her, and she felt her throat go rather dry. He was in his late twenties, and his dark, overlong hair and clothes were those of a devil-may-care artist. But his bearing, his composure, spoke of something altogether differentâof arrogance, even. His features were clean-shaven, and striking; his mouth was sensual, his eyes dark as his hair.
She drew a deep breath. âAre you Jacques the painter from Claremont?â
âMy name is Jacques, I come from Claremont, and portraits are my speciality.â