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.
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