Introduction

“Beautiful and poignant.” --Allison Pataki, NY Times best-selling author of The Queen’s Fortune

“Moving compassion, humor, and wit.” --Sandra Gulland, author of The Josephine B. Trilogy

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"Finding Napoleon is a fresh look at a larger-than-life figure we think we know and have come to understand — Napoleon Bonaparte. Told through the eyes of his lover whose name has been lost in time, Albine de Montholon, is a bright and compelling character living on St. Helena. She comes to know the military man in retreat and in retirement, and a man who ruminates on what is important in the final chapters of his life. Rodenberg brings the spirit of the revolutionary era and what follows it to vibrant life in a sensory debut." — Heather Webb, author of Becoming Josephine

With its delightful adaptation of Napoleon Bonaparte’s real attempt to write a romantic novel, FINDING NAPOLEON offers a fresh take on Europe’s most powerful man after he’s lost everything. Napoleon’s last love, the audacious Countess Albine?helps narrate their tale of intrigue, desire, and betrayal. In exile on remote St. Helena Island, Napoleon must learn whom to trust. To survive, Albine must decide whom to betray.

Best-selling historical fiction authors Stephanie Dray, Allison Pataki, Sandra Gulland, Heather Webb, and Louis Bayard recommend this award-winning novel.

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Excerpt

Excerpt 1, page 1:

Prologue

Albine

Unless you too stitched a white gown for the guillotine, do not judge me. But if you’d faced the terrors I have—if you were Empress Josephine herself—I’d accept your judgment on my morals. If you were Napoleon’s second wife . . . No, let’s not talk of Marie Louise more than we must.

Since you’re not Josephine (and likely an ember to her bonfire), I beg you to listen. Within these pages, learn secrets about Emperor Napoleon, whom I loved. He and I were of a piece, our hungers rooted in a bog of family, ambition, treason. We both had children to lose. We both had trust to betray. We both had seen better days. I expose our frailties for your entertainment.

Oh, I don’t pretend to be his equal. The Emperor inhabited a grand stage. I was a creature of the boudoir. History will remember me as a tendril in the forest of his life. Yet when we intertwined, one could break the other.

I warn you: some of this is hearsay from people with tarnished reputations. Much came from the Great Man’s lips when his body lay naked at my side. Part is from a novel Napoleon wrote about himself. I add spice to the stew.

So know my Napoleon, know me, and I shall love you for it. For what but love matters? It is the holiest, costliest, easiest thing to give. I gave mine freely, as Napoleon gave his to me. I was the last woman he loved.

Vive l’Empereur!

~Albine, Countess de Montholon

Chapter 1

Napoleon

January 1814, Tuileries Palace, Paris, France

“Born for war, my son.” Napoleon Bonaparte buried his nose in his boy’s auburn curls, feasting on child scent, milk and mash, perspiration and chamomile.

Outside in the Tuileries courtyard, a drummer beat rat-tat- tat. Another, another, dozens more joined in, until the call to arms rattled the windows that ran the length of his son’s cavernous bedchamber.

A shiver, absent in war, twitched the Emperor’s shoulders. Fifty-four battles, and he’d never been afraid to die. Until he had this child. Until he had his Eaglet.

The boy squirmed. “Papa-Papa?”

He kissed the Eaglet’s fingertips one by one. “Born for war. Come, I’ll read you what that means.” He shifted his manuscript out of the shadows. Not that he needed light. He’d memorized his faded scribbles years ago. He deepened his tone to an army timbre. “Once more, you seize the tattered battle flag. You yell, ‘Hoorah!’ from smoke-seared lungs. The cavalry, sabers drawn, thunders in your wake into the cannon fire. Your horse’s hooves crush bones of fallen men. All at once, a musket blows a thousand arrows through your chest. Your horse wheels, collapses. Earth soaks in your blood.”

His voice broke.

Around him, the palace bedroom loomed, desolate as an empty church. A crib occupied a corner, but his wife, always the proper empress, insisted their three-year-old sleep in the gold-draperied bed. How far from the straw pallet the Emperor and his brother had once shared. He stroked his child’s linen gown. “When I come home from war, mon petit, we’ll play outside. I’ll get the two of us good and dirty.”

The Eaglet giggled, his cheeks tiny peaches. “Now, Papa-Papa? Play now?”

A gangly schoolboy clutching a toy soldier scrambled from behind the sofa. “Moi aussi, mon cher oncle? I play, too?” Louis-Napoleon asked.

The Emperor straightened an epaulet on his nephew’s uniform. “But of course, Louis-N.”

Outside drums beat rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat.

The Emperor twisted his stiff bulk, bound though it was with ornamental sashes and stuffed into the lucky green military jacket that had grown too tight. He squinted through a window into the palace courtyard, where soldiers gathered under the winter sun. He counted the gold eagle standards held aloft.

All the troops hadn’t arrived. But even with the stragglers, he’d never have enough. And every day more foreign soldiers surged over France’s border, screaming for his blood. He hugged the wriggling Eaglet to his chest. “Be still, royal squirmer. Don’t you want to hear more of Papa’s story? Before I say goodbye?”

“Bye? Bye, Papa?” The Eaglet’s heart-shaped mouth, a miniature of the Emperor’s, quivered, gaped, and exploded in a howl. Louis-N covered his ears. The Emperor leaned in, absorbing the wail. He lifted the screaming child above his head and lowered him bit by bit until they met nose to nose, openmouthed, swallowing each other’s breath.

“No bye, no bye-bye,” the Eaglet whimpered.

The Emperor slumped into the velvet cushions, the Eaglet pressed between his knees and chest. There he rocked, his body aching to absorb the child, like a mother in reverse. Anything to hold him always.

The chamber door opened. Marie Louise, the Emperor’s young wife, swept in, centuries of imperial ancestors floating in the wake of her silk shawl. Her auburn hair twisted beneath a diadem, emeralds swathed her regal neck, and her china-blue eyes glared down her thin nose. On a table beyond her husband’s reach, she tossed a folded paper, its imperial Austrian seal broken.

Excerpt 2, page 108, On St Helena Island, Napoleon’s first meeting with Sir Hudson Lowe, the British general who will be in charge of the emperor’s exile:

Napoleon

A week later, a tall ship under full sail arrived in Jamestown Bay at dusk. Two hours after, a soldier knocked on the pavilion door and handed Marchand a folded note.

The Emperor broke the seal.

General Bonaparte:

I have arrived and shall interview you in your quarters at nine in the morning.

General Sir Hudson Lowe, Governor of St. Helena

“I think not.” The paper fell to the floor. The Emperor clasped his hands behind his back. He didn’t want Marchand to see them shake. “Write a note. I’m ill and unable to receive visitors. Tell this Hudson Lowe he’s to communicate with you tomorrow to determine when I am adequately recovered. Now, lock the door.”

At four o’clock the next afternoon, he positioned himself at the fireplace, his arm resting on the black mantel where his bicorne stood. Marchand had brushed his clothing, hung two ribboned medals on the green jacket of the Chasseurs of the Guard, and shined his boots. Not the regalia of an emperor, but better. The new governor, a military gentleman himself, would respect the power of Napoleon’s famous uniform.

Marchand shook his head.

“Ah, Marchand, you worry too much. Who knows?” He fondled the ribbons on his chest. “This governor could turn out to be an ally, despite his insulting note.”

“It’s not that, sire. I don’t want to upset you before the meeting, but you insist on hearing news immediately.”

“Yes? Say it, man.”

Marchand took a deep breath. “I think Madame de Montholon stole your best hairbrush.”

The Emperor laughed.?“Sire, it’s not funny.”?He flushed, accepting the rebuke. “Do you have proof she was the thief?”

“No, but no one else has access, and she’s always asking for money.” The valet frowned.

“Oh, don’t be such a Puritan, Marchand. Tell Cipriani to recover the brush. Now, let me prepare for our new jailer.” He turned his back on the valet.

Marchand, stationed outside, knocked twice.

The Emperor deepened his voice. “Enter.”

The door opened, and General Sir Hudson Lowe stood on the threshold, gnawing on his lower lip. His prominent forehead overhung a hawkish nose and a receding chin. In an unpleasant way, Lowe’s long neck reminded the emperor of his mother.

The lanky man spoke through his nose. “I should have liked to have seen you this morning when I informed you I would call. It was most imperative to write my initial report.” He sniffed. “You do not appear ill to me.”

The Emperor had been prepared to overlook yesterday’s insulting message, but then he hadn’t beheld its sender. Marchand closed the door, leaving him alone to face a man whose eyes shifted like a hyena in a trap.

With his blandest expression, he indicated a chair to his guest. “Have we met before? On the battlefield?”

“No,” Sir Hudson said.

“Really? Why not?” He gestured again for the man to sit. “Everyone sent their best military men against me.”

“I had other duties.” Sir Hudson dusted the chair seat. “Indeed, we have much in common. I led the Corsican Rangers in the battle for Capri.”

The Emperor snorted. “Traitors in service to the British.” He stalked to the door, jerked it open, and told Marchand to bring coffee.

The governor pinched a bit of lint from his pants leg. “Au contraire. Brave soldiers fighting for our cause. But to the points at hand. Admiral Cockburn leaves tomorrow, and I have arrived with new orders. I have directed work on Longwood be expedited. As soon as possible, you will move from here to there.”

The Emperor waited.

The governor’s head bobbled. “Now, I understand that you’ve had free rein to move about with minimal escort. That must stop. I have here an outline of the territory around Longwood that will be at your disposal. With a military guard always, naturally.”

“Do you have a wife?” the Emperor asked.

Sir Hudson wrinkled his forehead. “Why, yes.”

The Emperor sat on the yellow sofa opposite his jailer. “And did she accompany you? Ah, Marchand, yes, I will have a cup. Please serve our guest first.”

“Lady Lowe’s with me, and my stepdaughter.”

“Then since the lady accompanies you, and for her sake I am sorry to hear it, I suggest you gain her counsel on your manners.”

Sir Hudson, red-faced, leapt to his feet.

The Emperor stood. His throat was tight, his diction precise. “This room is small, the island, not much larger. There is no space for error in our relationship. Do not presume upon my patience.”

“Sir.” The governor wiped his hand across his mouth. “You are my prisoner, sir.”

“Ah, one more point on which we disagree. First, as a sovereign, I voluntarily sought asylum within your nation’s mercy. Tradition and honor should have granted me hospitality, not captivity. Next, your government claims I’m a prisoner of war. Those wars are over, and, by international agreement, all prisoners are to be released. Your own nation’s lawyers argue I’m confined illegally against long-held principles of habeas corpus. I grant your strength, but not your right to hold me. Do justice to my illustrious past or take your distasteful face from my sight.”

A quiver passed up Sir Hudson’s frame. “I, sir, am in charge and shall depart when I please.”

“Certainly. Marchand, leave the door open so the flies may come and go.” The Emperor picked up a book and began to read.

Excerpt 3, Page 118, On St Helena Island, Napoleon’s lover, Albine de Montholon slips into Napoleon’s residence at midnight. After love-making, he reads to her a romantic section of the novel he’s writing:

At midnight, while the guards changed shifts, Cipriani boosted Albine over the windowsill into the Emperor’s arms. She was fragrant like a peasant woman home from the field. Her loose hair streamed over her bare shoulders. The Emperor curved his hand around the nape of her neck. His passion rose at the dampness of her skin.

She tilted her face to his. Her small eyes shone with the piercing brightness he’d seen on Cipriani’s face, on the faces of half a million soldiers risking everything to follow him. A chance for glory, a chance to feel alive.

He could taste desire on her breath. He opened his mouth and kissed her.

Albine

The Emperor’s tongue caressed mine. I fell into the abyss of his embrace. I wanted nothing else. Nothing but him. This great man could sweep me into the destiny he preached. He could give me a life I’d only glimpsed. We could do anything. Be everything. If he loved me.

Unless he caught Charles spying for the British.

He must have sensed me quake, for he raised his head. I clasped the face known around the world and guided his lips back to my own. Tonight was mine—ours—to savor. Caution belonged to tomorrow.

Footsteps crunched outside. The Emperor swung me into the shadows. A soldier’s silhouette passed the window.

In the uncertain light, Napoleon resembled a young corporal, his unlined skin soft to my touch, his teeth as white as the moon, his worries tucked away. Once more, a man who didn’t know defeat. He beamed a happiness I’d never seen from him before. I had given him that.

He pulled me close. “Brave girl. You should’ve followed the army into battle.”

My lips brushed his ear. “I just did, my general.”?He buried his laugh in my bosom.?“Is your pitcher full? I ought to wash. All the running—”

“No, I like you as you are.”

He led me to the bed. Afterward, we shared a brandy while my Emperor—my now, my future—read out loud from Clisson. Charles was wrong. Napoleon could love me.

CLISSON: THE EMPEROR’S NOVEL

Valence, France, 1788

An orange sun rose as eighteen-year-old Clisson cleaned his army boots on the inn steps. In the courtyard, weary passengers climbed into the Diligence. Ostlers roped luggage to its roof while its six gray horses danced in their cold traces. A dark-haired woman came out of the inn and gave Clisson a sleepy smile. She smoothed the skirt of her elegant traveling clothes. “Are you coming to Paris in the coach, Monsieur?”

He fixated upon a glossy curl caressing her left ear. The morning light tinted its chestnut deep red. He yearned to coil the tendril around his finger. “No, I’m coming from Paris. I go to join Le Fe?re regiment at Valence.”

“What a shame,” the young woman said. “I wouldn’t have feared highwaymen with such a brave officer protecting me.”

His stare strayed to her puppy-soft mouth. She had such little teeth for a tall woman. “What makes you think I’m brave?”

“Oh, your gray eyes, Monsieur. They slice through me like steel. Indeed, I’m a bit afraid.”

His smile wavered. He reached for her slim hand. Blue veins adorned its delicate skin. “Mapped like butterfly wings,” he murmured, as her fingers wrapped around his. “I should never hurt such a lovely thing.”

She raised her hand to Clisson’s lips. “I believe you. For all the fierceness in your eyes, you have a woman’s mouth.”

The coachman blew his horn.

She withdrew her hand and hid its loveliness in a glove. “Valence’s garrison is but a day’s ride from my aunt’s home, where I live. We may meet again.”

His heart soared, then plummeted. “But you’re going to Paris.”

“To fetch a friend. I return in a few weeks.” She bestowed a fleeting smile and hurried to the coach.

His feet were rooted to the steps. What a clod not to have escorted her to the carriage. “How shall I find you?” he called after her.

“Visit the spa at Alle?s, near Champvert.” As the coach rolled, she leaned out the window. “Eat breakfast, brave Monsieur. You’re too skinny.”

It was the longest conversation Clisson had had with a woman in nine years. He forgot to ask her name, which made it difficult to keep her in his head. “Rose” fit her elegance. Rose of the Inn. He rushed inside to find a mirror. Making do with a window that reflected, he hardened his arched upper lip into a manly line. A woman’s mouth indeed.

She might be too tall, too old for him. How did one ask a lady’s age?

Upstairs in the inn, he pounded on a chamber door. “Des Mazis, Berville! Awake! We are no longer lazy cadets.”

Inside the room, someone heaved a boot against the door. Clisson pounded again. “Reveille!”

Large feet thumped across the floor. The door opened enough for Des Mazis’s tousled head. “Must you always be doing? You’ll wake the entire place.”

Clisson grinned. “Reveille! The day moves on.”

The door swung back. Des Mazis’s sturdy form filled the opening. “We have three days before we report for duty. Come on, let’s enjoy our first full day of freedom.”

“Freedom, Des Mazis?” Clisson barged into the room. “You French know nothing of it, while I, a Corsican, can taste its rancid loss.”

A second disheveled head, lean, square-jawed, with sleepy pale blue eyes, emerged from the bedcovers. “Now look what you’ve done, Des Mazis. You’ve set the fellow off again. Before long we’ll be back to his ‘born for war’ shit. Not before I’ve eaten breakfast, I beg you, Clisson.”

“Hurry, we must be on our way. I want to visit the Roman ruins at Vienne.”

Berville bolted up in bed. “Roman ruins, you ass. All I want is a girl.”

“What? Have you tired of your pillow?” Clisson asked. “Let me tell you, I, who rose early, have already kissed a woman.” view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. How did the three different points of view—Napoleon’s, that of his novel Clisson, and Countess Albine’s—help you to understand the characters and the story? Which “voice” did you like best and why?
2. Did your concept of Napoleon change by the end of the book? How would you describe him as a person? How much of his idealistic and romantic nature did he retain?
3. What did you think of the solution to slavery on St Helena Island that the British implemented? Can you think of current or past issues of injustice where half-measures or compromise seem the best way to solve a problem?

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