As I prepared for bed, I wondered how I’d tell the emperor of the balloon. And then, all at once, it became clear to me that I could never tell him. If I did, he would probably forbid me from attempting any such foolish escapades in the future. He would not want me risking my life for him again.
But risk my life I would do again—and again—if it would help set him free. Yes, it was clearly too late for me to build another balloon, even if I could do it without Huff’s help. Bonaparte would be moved to Longwood soon, and the new governor would be arriving before the end of the week. But I vowed to try again to free the emperor, somehow, someday. Someday….
I glanced over at Jane. Sleeping like a rock, as usual. Whoever wrote of the “sleep of the just” never met my sister. With all the spiteful things she’d done in her life, by rights she should have been up every night, counting her sins.
But will she rat on me when she discovers Huff is dead? I wondered. I thought not. I doubted even Jane would be capable of such heartlessness.
I hid my wet dress in a bag so my mother wouldn’t see the bloodstains. I’d wash it myself tomorrow.
I pulled up my nightdress and counted my war wounds. Shall I get the Order of the Garter for this? I winced and eased myself painfully into bed.
At breakfast the next morning no one spoke of Huff’s disappearance. I imagined it would be some days—till Willie and Alexander’s next tutoring session—before anyone would notice his absence.
“Betsy, is something wrong?” my mother asked me. She had seen me ease myself into a chair with the painful caution of an old lady with rheumatism.
“Nothing, Mother,” I replied with my usual forthrightness. “Belle threw me yesterday. That’s all.”
“Nothing broken, I hope. Perhaps we shall have Dr. O’Meara take a look at you.” She looked at my father for his approval. “William?”
But I didn’t give my father a chance to reply. “No!” I said. Then, softening my tone, “I’m all right, Mother. Really.”
She gave me a suspicious glance. “You haven’t been riding astride again, have you?”
“Please pass the milk,” I said to Willie, trying to avoid having to tell another lie. I endeavor to limit myself to one lie each day before lunch.
“I have some good news for you, Betsy,” my father said. I could use some of that.
“Oh?” I said.
“Admiral Cockburn has made me purveyor to General Bonaparte and his suite.” He grinned pridefully, as if he had just announced he was going to be coronated king of England.
“Purveyor?” I didn’t know the meaning of the word. It was one of those stuffy ones.
My father explained. “I’ll be in charge of securing supplies for the Frenchmen. Food, mostly. Cockburn wanted to make sure the general would be well looked after in his absence.”
“Oh,” I said, unimpressed.
I suppose Father thought I was feeling glum about Bonaparte’s upcoming transfer to Longwood and that his news would cheer me up.
“Can you get him some more licorice?” Willie asked him.
Everybody laughed. Even my father.
Later that day, I volunteered to do all our washing, which pleasantly astonished my mother. But my real purpose was to scrub the bloodstains from my dress in secret.
That evening I dined with the emperor. It made me uneasy to have to sit across a table from Countess Montholon. But I simply ignored her whenever possible. She and the emperor did not steal amorous glances back and forth. If I hadn’t seen things with my own eyes, I would have thought there was nothing between them. I suppose that’s what they wanted Count Montholon to think too.
After dinner, we played whist. The emperor was the dealer, and I saw him slip an extra card to himself from under the deck.
“You cheated, Boney!” I declared.
Gourgaud ran to the emperor’s side. “What?!” Gourgaud snapped at me. “How dare you speak to the emperor of France in such a manner! Why, you common little—”
“Now, now, Gourgaud,” the emperor said. “She was only teasing. You are correct that I wasn’t cheating. So there is no need to rush to defend me.”
“Yes, you were,” I said to Boney.
“That does it!” Gourgaud said, stamping his foot. “Sire, I will not stand here and let this miserable brat insult you!” Gourgaud looked like he was going to strike me. I was entirely prepared to hit him back if the situation called for it.
Marchand stepped between us.
“We shall play a less dangerous game than whist,” the emperor said firmly. He collected the cards. And that, I thought, was that. I went home.
My parents seemed to be on a campaign to raise my spirits. And later that night my mother gave me a present. Little did she know all that had happened to me in the past twenty-four hours.
“Your first real ball gown,” my mother said as I modeled it for her. “You look like a grown-up young lady,” she said, misty-eyed. “And to think it seems just yesterday that I was rocking you in my arms!”
Normally, I wouldn’t have stood still for such nonsense, but just this once I didn’t mind having a pretty dress to wear. There was a certain young man I was looking forward to impressing at the admiral’s ball. I changed back into my everyday clothes. But then I had a good notion. I decided to test my dress out—on Boney. He was old, but he’d have to do.
I walked over to the Pavilion wearing my regular frock and carrying the new one to show the emperor. I was too lazy to actually try it on again. Besides, I didn’t want to risk dragging its train in the dirt outside.
Boney was reading aloud from Racine’s Iphigénie when I walked in. I was more than a little grateful that I’d missed most of his soliloquy.
“What do you think?” I said, holding the ball gown up in front of me for his inspection.
“Bien. Very nice,” he said. “For what occasion?”
“For the admiral’s party Saturday.” I smiled sheepishly and feared I might be blushing—a very un-Betsy-like state of affairs. “The ensign will be there, you know.”
Bonaparte nodded.
And before I knew what I was about, he grabbed the dress right out of my hands.
“Call me a cheater, will you?” he said, laughing.
“Boney! Give it back right this minute,” I ordered.
He shrugged and held it out to me. I reached for it. At the very last second he pulled it beyond my grasp and hid it behind his back.
“Not till you say you lied,” he said, laughing at me.
Gourgaud and the others seemed to be enjoying all this immensely.
“I most certainly will not!” I said, indignant. “Hand it over.”
“Mademoiselle looks very silly when she is angry, n’est-ce pas, Gourgaud?” he said. The rest of the group nodded to encourage Boney in his childish behavior.
Furious, I chased him around the furniture.
“Toro! Toro!” he said, waving the dress at me as if he were a Spanish matador and I the bull.
He was standing very close, taunting me. And then I had an inspiration.
I grabbed his sword right out of its scabbard.
“Sacre bleu!” said Gourgaud, horrified. Countess Montholon gasped.
I aimed the sword at the emperor’s chest. I didn’t intend to hurt him, of course. Just to make a…point.
“Frenchman, say your prayers!” I shouted. I think I’d once read that phrase in some book about pirates.
“Betsy, this is very serious,” Bonaparte said. “That is the emperor’s sword. Even Wellington did not take it from me. Return it at once!”
It was clear he was no longer amused. But then, neither was I.
“Sire, this is an outrage!” Gourgaud said.
“Give me my dress!” I demanded, unmovable. He studied me.
“Sword first,” he replied, eyes flashing with penetrating sternness. “Surrender, mademoiselle.”
All eyes were upon me. Some of the women looked frightened. The men seemed more nervous than
scared. I began to realize that I had committed some sort of terrible transgression. I’d thought a sword was a sword. But not in the emperor’s case, so it seemed. I’d have to set matters to rights.
I turned the gold hilt around to face him and passed the sword back to him.
“Sorry,” I said. I held out my hands. “Now my dress.”
The emperor tossed his sword back into the scabbard at his hip with a flourish. It made a steely whoosh!
Bonaparte looked very displeased with me.
“My dress,” I said again. He did not respond. “Boney, this is not fair!” I said. “You promised.”
But it was no use. The emperor laughed again like Puck, ran up to his bedchamber, and shut the door. I dashed after him and tried the knob. Blast! He’d locked me out!
For about five minutes I pounded on the door. I heard him chuckling softly to himself. Finally, I gave up and went home. Bonaparte was victorious. In one fell swoop the emperor had made up for his loss at Waterloo.
Chapter 14
I hardly spoke to anyone all the next day. And I’m rather ashamed to admit I spent the better part of two hours draped over my bed, brooding like a consumptive.
“But, Betsy,” Jane argued as she did up her hair for the party, “why don’t you wear your regular old party dress to the admiral’s ball? You’ve worn it to every other occasion.”
I wondered if she was trying to get in a subtle dig over my limited wardrobe.
“No!” I said. “This time is…different. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that stupid little—”
“It’s not so bad,” Jane interrupted, mumbling from the hairpins in her mouth. “Mother thinks you look like a little china doll in that dress.”
Looking like a little doll was the last thing I wanted, especially in front of Ensign Carstairs. I had no intention of going to the admiral’s ball in a child’s dress. I’d be damned if I’d go at all!
I lay on my bed, pounding my fists in frustration. If Boney could have seen me right then, he’d have felt even more triumphant than he had the previous night. Yes, I was a pathetic case. By dusk I pulled myself together and went downstairs—so no rumors would get back to the emperor that I was wasting away in misery over the theft of my dress.
I stepped outside for some air. It was a warm night, as most are on St. Helena the year round. It reminded me of all the evenings I’d spent talking to Huff under the banyan tree when I was younger. And it made me very sad to realize that there would be no more such nights.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bonaparte sitting on the Pavilion veranda. It was dark now, and Willie and Alexander were sitting on the porch swing near the emperor. I went around the corner of the house to hide where they could not see me, and listened. Boney was terrifying the boys with ghost stories. From his native Corsica, I supposed. I heard only the tail end of one of the stories.
“And so,” he concluded, “when the old owl screeches the night through…” Boney lowered his voice to a harsh whisper and then hooted like the owls I’d heard when visiting the English countryside. “When the mangy dog howls…” He imitated a wolf with a head cold. “And a pale yellow light appears over a man’s house…” Here the emperor paused for dramatic effect and removed his straw hat, placed it over his heart, and bent his head as if in respectful prayer. “…he will be the next to die.” Poor Willie and Alexander looked terrified. I’m sure this pleased the emperor very much.
I did not want to watch this ridiculous spectacle any longer, so I headed into Jamestown for a walk.
When I returned to the Briars, I found Jane downstairs, all dressed for the party. My parents had decided not to attend. My older sister had pleaded tearfully with them—Jane’s crocodile tears never failed to work their magic on my parents—not to “chaperone” her, and they had given in to her wishes. I wondered if they knew just how badly Jane was in need of parental supervision.
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind, Betsy?” my mother asked me. “Admiral Cockburn will be so disappointed not to see you there.”
I found it difficult to believe that the admiral would recall that he’d invited me, much less notice my absence.
“Yes, Mother,” I said. “I’m sure.” My father patted me on the head as if I were Tom Pipes. Jane gathered up her wrap and purse and prepared to leave for the party.
Oh, the tragedy of it all! I was missing the party—and missing what would probably be my one and only chance to see Ensign Carstairs again. He was expecting me, I reasoned. He’ll think I’m snubbing him! But, of course, I could never tell him the truth. What was I to say? That the emperor absconded with my dress and I had only an infant’s monstrosity to wear in its place? He’d never take me seriously again!
“Well, I’m off!” Jane said, like an obnoxiously self-absorbed princess from some country I’d never like to visit.
“Have a good time, dear,” my mother called after her. “Don’t be home too late!”
Too late for what? I couldn’t help thinking. My parents were already too late to preserve Jane’s maidenhead.
Miserable beyond words, I shuffled my way upstairs. When I opened the door to my room, I was enraged to see that Jane had left one of her dresses on my bed again. How could I properly flop down in dejection with her stupid dress there?
I reached to pick it up. But, to my astonishment, it wasn’t Jane’s dress; it was mine. My new ball gown! Eagerly, I unfolded it. Yes, it was good as new. How had it gotten here?
Just then I heard something hit the floor. A heavy object had fallen out of the folds of the dress. I bent to pick it up. Hello, what’s this? A necklace! With diamonds and sapphires!
There was a note pinned to the peplum of my dress.
The necklace was Joséphine’s.
It is yours for the evening.
—Boney
I was stunned. The emperor’s generosity almost made up for his bad behavior. Almost.
With trembling hands, I held the necklace up to my neck and examined myself in the looking glass. Imagine! Of all the girls in the world, he had chosen me to wear the jewels of the empress of France!
I never dressed so fast as I did that night. In a flash I ran downstairs in my bare feet.
“Mother! Please do my hair for me? I’m going to the party after all.”
“Well,” my father replied for her, “I knew you’d come to your senses.”
Mother obliged me by putting my hair up in a bun.
“Hold still, Betsy!” she said as she put in the pins. “You’ll get stuck!”
I jiggled nervously, like an organ-grinder’s monkey. I was worried about the time. If I didn’t get to the party soon, perhaps Carstairs would give up and go home.
As Mother worked on my hair, I had time to wonder again: How had my dress managed to end up on my bed? Who brought it there? The emperor was not permitted to come and go as he pleased.
“Mother, did anyone stop by the house this evening?”
“No,” she said. “Why?” I looked at my father questioningly, and he shook his head. Neither had seen anyone come in—and Jane would have mentioned it if we’d had any visitors.
“No reason,” I answered. I did not want to get anyone in trouble. But the matter of how Bonaparte had managed to smuggle my dress to me would forever remain a mystery. To my eternal frustration, he always refused to tell me.
My parents were impressed by the appearance I made in my new dress. Of course, I hid the necklace in the palm of my hand so they wouldn’t question me about it. I bade them a hurried good-bye and went to the party.
Plantation House, dark for so many years, was lit up like a big, beautiful birthday cake. When I entered the crowded ballroom, I was swept away by beauty and music and light, and over by the piano—oh, joy of joys!—Carstairs was there, as I had hoped. He’d waited for me! Carstairs held out his arm—bowing slightly in his crisp, handsome dress uniform—and we danced and danced till late into the night. He ignored poor Jane and all the rest—even girls pre
ttier than I, which I confess was most of them. I felt like Joséphine herself!
Sometime before the first waltz and the last quadrille, Carstairs took me outside, led me behind a column on the porch, and…
Well, some things are just too sacred to expose to the prying eyes of one’s readers. Suffice it to say that my first brush with romance led me to conclude that no girl had ever been kissed with such total devotion, such complete capitulation, such passionate resolution.
“May I call on you sometime?” Carstairs asked as we parted.
I didn’t reply. I was drifting, flying, careening, too overwhelmed to think clearly. I stared at him, feeling besieged by my own capabilities.
“If you don’t say yes, I shall have to kiss you again,” Carstairs joked.
“Oh,” I said. “Please do!”
“Call on you?”
“No—kiss me!” I said, pulling him near to me.
“Not now, little one,” he said, taking a step backward. I pouted, a bit put out that he had called me “little.” “We shall save that for the next time we meet. I would not want to forget myself with you.”
We parted, our hands hanging on until the last. First wrists, then palms, then knuckles, until our fingertips only touched like God giving Adam the spark of divine life in the painting by Michelangelo.
I floated back to the Briars, living all the while in a glorious, golden land within myself—a place of peace and freedom and autonomy.
As I drifted home, I took one last glance back at the spot that for me would forever have historical significance. The party lanterns hanging outside Plantation House waltzed prettily in the breeze. Faded music and laughter from the house reached my ears like a distant dream.
And then, much closer, I heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. I looked up.
It was the emperor, sitting on the Pavilion veranda. He seemed to be scowling at me.
I curtsied to him. Odd, I thought, that he’d be outside so late.
“Good evening, monsieur.”
I suspect he was a bit taken aback by my unusually formal behavior toward him, but he did not say so.
Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) Page 11
