Late in the afternoon of 9 March, in a register office close to the new house Napoleon had leased on the Rue Chantereine, there was a small gathering of family and friends. Josephine arrived first, accompanied by Paul Barras who had offered to be one of the witnesses. Napoleon was over an hour late, delayed by the need to reply to some urgent dispatches. He hurried into the register office, flushed and breathless, still in his plain uniform coat. Letizia, who had been enjoying the delay, hoping that her son had at last seen reason, slumped back on her chair in dejection.

‘If we may proceed?’ the registrar said impatiently.

‘By all means,’ Napoleon panted, and the official went through the procedure in a weary monotone.

Josephine dug him in the ribs and whispered fiercely, ‘Thanks for making me look a fool in front of my friends.’

Napoleon glanced round and could see only Barras and a handful of others. He whispered back, ‘Those who could be bothered to come, at least.’

‘You swine.’

‘We’re here,’ Napoleon whispered softly. ‘That’s all that matters, my love.’

‘I had hoped for something grander than this.’

‘There was no time to organise anything else,’ Napoleon protested. ‘Some day, we’ll make it more formal, I swear it. A ceremony you can be proud of to your dying day.’

The registrar coughed and leaned towards them. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather complete the formalities before you have your first matrimonial row.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Napoleon blushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

The registrar glared at him for a moment before returning to his script and continuing with the ceremony. When it was over, Napoleon and Josephine signed their names, witnessed by Barras and Joseph.There was a small reception in the new house before the guests left and the newly wed couple retired to their bedroom and closed the door behind them.

‘Still angry with me?’ Napoleon smiled, his fingers gently untying the straps of her bodice. She stood stiffly before him, trying to keep her face fixed in a stern expression of rebuke.

‘Of course.’

‘Well then, let us see whether I can persuade you to forgive me . . .’

Two days later, as dawn broke over Paris, Napoleon stepped out of the house he had lived in for barely a week. Outside in the street Junot was waiting for him, holding the reins of their horses. The rest of the staff and his baggage had been sent ahead a few days earlier and there would be a long hard ride before they caught up with them. Napoleon swung up into his saddle, adjusted his reins and then turned to look at the bow window on the first floor. Through the glass he could see Josephine gazing down at him, her arms clasped about her body as if she were cold. Their eyes stayed fixed on each other for a moment, and Junot, sensitive to their need, turned his horse away and made for the end of the street. Napoleon mouthed words of his love, then waved one hand in a gentle gesture of farewell and rode off to war.

Chapter 10

Arthur

Dublin, 1795

After the frozen horrors of the campaign in the Low Countries, Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wesley returned to Dublin with a warm sense of familiarity and comfort. He was gaunt and thin after the harrowing experience of the campaign and his eyes seemed sunken on either side of his large hooked nose. Exercise and hearty eating would soon restore him to his normal athletic build, but the callowness of youth had been left behind on the battlefield and he was filled with determination to improve himself, and defend his country from the ravenous appetite of revolutionary France.

Even though he had been glad to quit his role as aide-decamp at the castle to lead the 33rd regiment of foot against the French, the terrible reality of war had taught Arthur to appreciate the easy-going life he had lived before.There would be no more of the stomach-gnawing hunger, no more of the cold that penetrated to the core of his being and made surrendering to its final embrace so tempting. For the present he was at home, amongst friends, and most important of all he would have the chance to see Kitty Pakenham again. Since moving into the family house in Rutland Square, Kitty had become a frequent visitor to the court in Dublin Castle, and Arthur, like many other young gentlemen, had quickly fallen under the spell of her gentle, teasing nature and indefinable charm. He had not seen her for several months, and as he made his way from his modest lodgings in Fostertown to the new Lord Lieutenant’s suite of offices in Dublin Castle, he indulged in the memory of the light brown curls that surrounded the delicate features of her face. He recalled, with a quickening pulse, the fine whiteness of her complexion and the faint scent of her skin as he had kissed her on the balcony outside the ballroom of Dublin Castle one night the previous summer.

Then the spell was broken as he recalled the harsh rebuff he had received from Kitty’s brother, Tom, when he had asked for her hand in marriage. As a younger brother of the Earl of Mornington, Arthur had no inheritance and lived on his army pay, an allowance from his eldest brother, Richard, and whatever he could borrow from the family’s land agent in Dublin. Hardly a decent prospect for Kitty, he conceded. Unless he could make a name for himself as a soldier or a statesman he was doomed never to win her. Just as fate had denied him an inheritance, it had also withheld the intellectual brilliance that had been so generously apportioned to his brothers, especially Richard and young Henry. While Richard was a rising star in Pitt’s government, and had recently been appointed to the Board of Control of the Indian Colonies, Henry had already embarked on a promising diplomatic career. Arthur felt a stab of frustration at his lack of advancement.

Even though England was at war, her army was small and dispersed across the world and there were few opportunities to win swift promotion and fame. The situation of his rivals in France was very different, Arthur reflected. With the aristocrats swept away the field was open for men of talent. Like that fellow Arthur had read of in a newspaper account of the siege of Toulon. He frowned for a moment and then recalled the name of the artillery officer who had masterminded the French victory. Bonaparte. A man of the same age as Arthur, and already a brigadier. If their situations had been reversed Arthur felt certain he would have achieved as much, and for a moment he was aware of a bitter resentment of the enemy officer’s good fortune. Then he pulled his heavy army coat more tightly round his shoulders, and exchanged a salute with the sentries guarding the castle entrance, as he trudged inside.

In addition to his light duties as an aide to the Lord Lieutenant, Arthur had resumed his seat as member of parliament for Trim, and was resolved to make something of a political career for himself, since the army provided little opportunity of advancement for the moment. He had requested this interview with Lord Camden with a view to being given a prominent office in the Irish parliament. It would be an opportunity to gain the experience he would need when he followed his older brother Richard into the English parliament and on to the first rung of the political ladder at Westminster. In the shorter term it would also lead to a significant increase in his income, enough perhaps to impress Tom Pakenham.

Making his way into Lord Camden’s suite of offices, Arthur presented himself to the Lord Lieutenant’s duty aide, a young cavalry lieutenant in a smartly cut jacket and long, gleaming boots. His face, thin and fresh, was unfamiliar and Arthur realised that he must be a recent appointment, enjoying his first posting. For a moment Arthur felt a twinge of envy as he saw himself several years earlier - free of the burdens of mounting debt and anxiety over the dwindling prospects of a worthy career.