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Summary
Author Notes
Allison Pataki grew up in upstate New York and attended Yale University, where she graduated Cum Laude with a Bachelor's Degree in English. While at Yale, she received Distinction in the Major from the English department and served as a campus reporter and news anchor for the student-run campus television program, YTV News.
The daughter of former New York State Governor George E. Pataki, Allison was inspired to write The Traitor's Wife: A Novel of Benedict Arnold and the Plan to Betray America, now a New York Times Bestseller, based on the rich Revolutionary War history of her hometown in New York State's Hudson Highlands.
Allison spent several years writing for television and digital news outlets prior to transitioning to fiction. The Traitor's Wife: A Novel of Benedict Arnold and the Plan to Betray America is Allison's first novel and it made The New York Times bestseller list in 2014. In 2015, her novel The Accidental Empress became listed on The New York Times bestseller list as well.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
This impeccably researched, expertly rendered historical from Pataki (The Traitor's Wife) gloriously recreates the personal dramas surrounding Napoleon Bonaparte. Following the French Revolution, Napoleon falls hard for beautiful Desiree Clary, a sheltered and wealthy 16-year-old. They become engaged, and their siblings also marry, but Napoleon has second thoughts when he meets socialite Josephine de Beauharnais. As Napoleon racks up military victories, Desiree and Josephine become friends, and they both end up in places they never expected to be. Desiree leaves a Catholic convent school in the south of France for glittering Paris parties, and later joins the Swedish nobility. Pataki's skill in chronicling Napoleon's transformation from an idealistic young soldier to a ruthless, callous leader drives the story, and her sumptuous scenes allow the reader to easily examine the political machinations and extreme luxury of the monarchy. Readers who enjoy Elizabeth Chadwick will want to take a look. Agent: Lacy Lalene Lynch, Dupree/Miller & Associates. (Feb.)
Kirkus Review
The rise of Napoleon as narrated by his first fiancee.The Clary sisters, Desiree and Julie, daughters of a recently deceased Marseille merchant, are trying to rescue their brother from revolutionary prison when they encounter Joseph di Buonaparte. Entranced by Desiree's beauty, Joseph uses his influence on the Clarys' behalf. Joseph attempts to court Desiree, but he's edged aside by Napoleon, who pledges marriage after toying with her affections. But as military ambitions increasingly preoccupy Napoleon, Desiree is supplanted by Josephine. Reluctantly, Desiree joins her sister, newly married to Joseph, in Paris. Not overjoyed that her jilter is now an in-law, she is too much the lady to show resentment, which may have served the historical Desiree but not so much the fictional character. When, early in the novel, she is admitted to Napoleon's inner circle, Desiree ceases to be a protagonist and becomes a passive, if acute, observer. Her proximity to the Little Corporal has some benefitsher marriage to Bernadotte, Bonaparte's most trusted general, brings not only love, but riches. Although the politics and contradictions of Napoleon's success, as seen through Desiree's eyes, are riveting, this is well-traveled ground. Desiree's point of view is too nonjudgmental to bring to the fore the ironies attendant on the trajectory of an impoverished Corsican who uses the revolution as a platform to exceed the excesses of the deposed and beheaded Bourbons. Likewise, the struggles of Josephine, who captivates Napoleon in part due to her age and experience and then displeases him for the same reasons, are related by Desiree with no particular insights to distinguish this treatment from the many more direct portrayals of the empress. Pataki's ability to flesh out imperial grandeur and foibles with telling detail, on full display in her Habsburg novels (Sisi, 2016, etc.), is equally evident here; however the dramatic demands of a novel are not met.All that is known of the historical Desiree is that she was a bystanderunfortunately, she remains so here. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
Desiree Clary, the first fiancée of Napoleon and eventual queen of Sweden, is the subject of the latest novel from Pataki (Sisi, 2016) featuring an understudied woman in history. Spanning the decades encompassing the French Revolution, Napoleon's rule, and the Bourbon Restoration, the narrative begins with Desiree's childhood in Marseille as the daughter of a bourgeois family fearful for their survival in Revolution-era France. Their fates take an advantageous turn when Desiree's sister marries Joseph Bonaparte, the brother of a certain general and future emperor. Desiree catches Napoleon's eye and, briefly, his heart resulting in a secret engagement that ends when Napoleon woos and weds his beautiful first wife, Josephine, instead. Desiree, meanwhile, falls in love with one of Napoleon's generals, Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, though the couple's marital bliss is soon overshadowed by Bernadotte's increasingly heated conflicts with Napoleon, which ultimately alter the course of Bernadotte and Desiree's lives. Desiree is a fascinating, intelligent, sympathetic protagonist, and historical fiction fans will relish this richly detailed, engrossing story of a woman whose name is well worth knowing.--Martha Waters Copyright 2020 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Young, rich, and beautiful, Desiree Clary conducts a torrid love affair with Napoleon Bonaparte at the start of the French Revolution. However, his wandering eye quickly fixes on the alluring Josephine, and Desiree is left abandoned and heartbroken. Meanwhile, her beloved sister Julie marries Napoleon's brother Joseph, and the extended family frequently spends time together--not the most comfortable situation for Desiree. Fortunately, she finds solace with the handsome Bernadotte, a rising star in the French army. His clashes with Napoleon don't prevent him from being named heir to the throne of Sweden, giving Desiree a crown she never imagined she'd wear. Their descendants rule Sweden to this day. Pataki (The Traitor's Wife) successfully creates believable settings and relationships, and carefully manages regular time jumps as she tells Desiree's story over the decades. VERDICT Breathing life into historic figures can be challenging, and Pataki does a solid job of showcasing a remarkable woman. Desiree's proximity to Napoleon and her place on the European royal stage will attract readers who enjoy historical fiction by Alison Weir or Stephanie Dray. [See Prepub Alert, 7/15/19.]--Laurel Bliss, San Diego State Univ. Lib.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter 1 The Convent of Notre Dame, Southern France Summer 1789 Something was very wrong. I could see it that morning in their pinched faces, the way the nuns flew up the corridor, their heels clipping angrily against the cold, ancient stones of the abbey. Whispers skittering to and fro, hesitant and erratic, like the fragile flicker of the candlelight that just barely illuminated their hurried steps. My stomach growled and I pressed my fist into my gut, willing my thoughts away from the hunger. "We haven't had a harvest this poor in decades," the nuns kept telling us all summer long. Equal parts resignation and censure, as if we'd somehow brought it on ourselves. "God is testing our faith." God's test lasted for weeks, then months. Months that, to a hungry girl of eleven years, stretched out with the vastness of eternity. "We must pray for the poor souls who are suffering. We pray for the poor, for the hungry," the nuns told us each night at vespers, and then again at the morning lauds. The hungry? I wanted to rail back at them. Am I not starving? But I knew better, of course, than to answer the Sisters with anything more than a doleful nod, eyes lowered piously to the floor. I didn't need my backside to ache along with my empty belly. In the convent, the only place where we got enough food was the sick ward; it was something we all knew as fact. When my sister, Julie, fell sick last winter, laid up on a pristine cot, tucked in between crisp, white sheets, I'd practically skipped through the halls to the nursing ward. I'd forced myself on her, pressing my lips to hers. Like a stag in rutting season, she'd gasped, her eyes wide with shocked and offended modesty as she chided me with one of Maman's well-worn scowls. It had worked--I'd gotten myself gloriously sick, far sicker than Julie even. It had been two weeks of gluttonous eating, weeks of luxuriating in my warm cot, dozing even as I heard the bells chime for matins and the other girls, exhausted, stomachs empty and groaning for bread, shuffling down the dark halls to the freezing chapel for the predawn services. I'd stretched that illness for days, even after my throat had healed and my lungs had cleared. Not only had I lied, but I had lied in order to commit the dual sins of gluttony and sloth. I'd relished every minute of it. But that morning, the morning when I was certain I was in trouble, it was not because I had feigned sickness. It was not because I had lied to get more food or sleep. No, that morning I had sinned far worse. Thou shalt not steal. I knew the commandment, and yet, I'd stolen. Perhaps not stolen--hidden. Sister Marie-Benedictine had been struggling across the yard during our morning recess when her wheelbarrow had toppled over, her dazzling supply of plump melons rolling across the small patch of parched, yellow grass. She'd enlisted us to help retrieve her bounty, but I'd stepped in front of one and kicked it quickly into a bush and out of sight. I'd just been so famished, and that melon had appeared so ripe and juicy--and so near. I'd felt a momentary pang of guilt, for Sister Marie-Benedictine was one of the kind ones, but my hunger pangs had quickly quashed that lesser discomfort. After Sister left, limping her cart across the remainder of the yard toward the kitchen, I'd enlisted Julie to help me move the melon farther from sight, tucking it away in the back of the yard. Our own treasure. But someone must have seen. Someone had snitched, and now Mère Supérieure knew. I was certain of it. "Does it hurt?" I asked my sister as we shuffled down the long, dim hallway that led to our dormitory. "What?" Julie asked. "You know," I whispered. Julie shrugged. "The beating," I groaned, my voice betraying my panic. "How would I know?" Julie frowned. Of course she would not know; she had never committed a transgression like this. Or, perhaps more accurately, she'd never been caught committing a transgression like this. She was far too cautious, her judgment far too sound. I had always been the reckless one. "I just know they found it." I gnawed a piece of skin off my finger, the tinny taste of blood seeping into my mouth. "Stop chewing your fingers," Julie scolded. Six years stretched between us, half my lifetime. Usually she was more a mother than a sister. "Why else would they have disrupted our lessons and ordered us back to the dormitory?" I asked, certain of our fate, my hand falling limply to my side. "Ah, the Clary girls, there you are. Julie. Desiree." Mère Marie-Claude raced toward us down the corridor, a flurry of white, her wimple fluttering around her face with each hasty step. Horror of all horrors! Mère Supérieure, Mother Superior herself, here to administer our punishment! God, I will never steal another melon, as long as I live. Please spare me your justice this once. I beg for mercy. Oh, Holy Mother, please intercede with your Son. But when I glanced back at Mother Superior's face, it wasn't anger I detected on her weary features. No, I knew that look, because it mirrored how I myself felt in that very instant; Mother Superior was afraid. "Girls, your family has been notified to fetch you immediately and take you home, back to Marseille." Neither Julie nor I spoke, so stunned were we by this sudden declaration. "Fetch us?" Julie asked after a moment, my ever-dutiful sister forgetting the proper formality of speech in her confusion. "Prepare your things at once," was all Mother Superior offered by way of reply. An image of my own mother's face, seared with anger--or was it her permanent disappointment?--blurred my vision. What would she say to this? "Mother Superior, please." I fell to my knees, the unyielding stone floor receiving my joints with a vicious smack; I'd have bruises, to be sure. I ignored that, raising my hands in supplication: "The fault was entirely mine! I deserve to be sent from school, but not my sister. She played no part. I beg you to--" "Hush, Desiree." Mother Superior lifted a long-fingered hand, her face stitching into an impatient scowl. "Quiet, for once, you foolish girl. You will return home, as will all the girls whose families can arrange for safe travel. The others . . . those whose families are abroad, well, we aren't certain how we shall . . ." Mother Superior exhaled aloud, an uncharacteristic display of some internal strain. "But never mind that. You girls are fortunate. Your family is close. They shall come and take you home, where you will be far safer than at this convent." "But . . . take us home? Why? We are not on holiday." Julie's voice betrayed the same confusion I felt. Why were we suddenly unsafe here, in the convent? I wondered. "War," Mother Superior said, her eyes softening, if only for a moment, as she saw our puzzlement. "You girls must pray. For . . . for all of us. And for France." "War?" I repeated the word, incredulous. The sound was alien, the statement as outlandish as if Mother Superior were telling us that the Virgin Mary sat in the dining hall waiting to have bread and milk with us that very instant. "War with whom?" I asked. Mother Superior frowned. "Ourselves. It's a revolution." Julie took my hand, her palm clammy and cold, as Mother Superior continued: "The people have risen up." The words I'd heard so many times in recent months raced across my mind: We haven't had a harvest this poor in decades. Mother Superior's voice pulled me back to her, back to this dark corridor in the damp stone convent. "They seem to believe that the enemies come from the nobility and . . . and the Church. We are not safe here. They are sacking monasteries and setting fire to convents all over the country--stabbing priests, defiling nuns." She raised her hands, clasped them before her breast in a gesture of prayer. "But I've said too much. You girls don't need to know . . . I do not have time for this." She blinked, looking at Julie and then turning her eyes on me. "Go to the dormitory at once. Prepare your things. You shall leave this night. I shall pray for you." Her eyes held mine for a long moment, her expression seeming to indicate a mixture of concern and something else. Was it sadness? Or perhaps fear for my suddenly uncertain future? But then the stern woman pulled her shoulders back, straightening to her full height, and with that, Mère Marie-Claude turned and strode briskly away, offering not another word or backward glance in our direction. "Revolution," Julie said in the nun's sudden absence, her voice barely a whisper. "Killing priests. Burning convents. How shall we ever make it home alive?" I took my sister's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Papa will get us back safely. Or else Nicolas. Julie, don't worry, we shall be home by this time tomorrow." I sounded confident as I said it, and I was, so complete was my faith in our father and our elder brother. And besides, no matter how terrible the news may have been for our countrymen and our clergy, I could not ignore one glorious, welcome truth: at last, we were going home. Excerpted from The Queen's Fortune: A Novel of Desiree, Napoleon, and the Dynasty That Outlasted the Empire by Allison Pataki All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.