Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “This damp is killing me.” Chef Gascon groaned as he rubbed his shoulder. He tossed his pastry tools into a bowl of water and swished them around. “The Trade Winds never stop.”

  Amélie massaged her own aching shoulder. They’d been in residence five days. She pulled her moist sleeve from her arm and turned to her father. “When I plant the herbs and spices in the courtyard, it might keep the earth from sliding away.”

  “It will be a useful effort and keep you occupied.” Perrault half smiled and waved aside the smoke from the oven, along with the smell of eggs from breakfast.

  “Maintain a close watch on your daughter,” Gascon said between coughs. “This won’t be a good environment. Too many soldiers. My daughters…my wife refused to come with me here. I won’t see them grow up. My wife still blames His Majesty because our son…died at Waterloo.”

  Amélie closed her book. Was Chef Gascon bitter as well over his loss? She found his other comment ironic. From what others teased, she doubted anyone would take advantage of her skinny charms and her father shouldn’t concern himself with such things.

  The rain stopped as abruptly as it started. She opened a window and ants crawled in. After the wind snatched out the billowing smoke the air smelled clean. Over at the wall, a soldier trudged by, rife on his shoulder. These patrolling sentries sprouted like crimson weeds at close intervals around Longwood’s grounds.

  “I’m going to rest my head. I don’t know how long I’ll last here.” Chef Gascon lumbered from the kitchen, squelching across the mud.

  “I suppose I’ll have to do the baking if Philippe stays abed.” Perrault untied his apron and hung it on a wall peg.

  “I can bake, Papa. I helped Suzanne in the kitchen many times.” Amélie spoke of her sister-in-law in Lyon. Her father looked tired and she intended to be useful to him. Each task might be a step up to something better.

  “You should be proficient in cooking. His Majesty must receive the best meals we can offer.” Her father always took pride in his position as the emperor’s chef. “I’ll check the butler’s pantry for what provisions we have. The supply shipment is long overdue. We’re low on flour.”

  Perrault left the kitchen. Amélie mixed a solution of vinegar and water, dipped in a cloth, and swiped down the greasy stove. The sharp vinegar masked the stink of mildew.

  She wrung out the cloth and draped it over a chair. She picked up her seedlings, provided by the Englishman, Mr. William Balcombe, who managed their household purchases. She carried a tray of basil, chervil, dill, and marjoram into the courtyard.

  Fertile soil from the western side of the island, requested by the Count de Montholon, slumped in slimy puddles. Amélie had already placed large rocks around the area to deter the wind from blowing it away. She crouched down, scooped out a hole, and loosened roots and placed in a seedling. According to the book, the dill liked shade, the basil and marjoram full sun. The chervil should thrive in both and substitute for parsley. Even with her kitchen garden experience, she enjoyed taking instructions from a book and putting it into practice. Intrigued by the medicinal uses of some of these herbs, she delighted in the pungent smell of the plants.

  Her fingers were soon muddy, her apron splattered. She planted four more seedlings, then began to hum. A line from the opera The Indian Queen popped into her head, and she sang softly, “‘Such slaves like gods did adore. Condemned and unpitied in chains. I fly from the place where flattery…’” She broke off, thinking of her sovereign—condemned and chained to this island.

  “I didn’t know you could sing.” Saint-Denis stepped out the back door. He carried several silver pieces toward the outbuilding where they were stored. “You sounded…yes, I have to admit it, almost pretty.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I used to sing for fun, with my sister-in-law Suzanne.” Amélie felt her cheeks burn, embarrassed that anyone heard her. “She taught me a few arias.”

  The emperor, with the Countess de Montholon, walked through a gap in the outbuildings from the left side of the house. The woman’s laughter tinkled like glass shards. She clung to Napoleon’s arm, swaying her head, her smile bright. She pressed so close to his green jacket in her fluttering blue dress with leg-o’-mutton sleeves that they moved like a plump iris stalk into the courtyard.

  Amélie squeezed a clump of mud in her fist.

  “Your Majesty, you shouldn’t scold us when we want to attend the colonial soirees given by the governor or Admiral Cockburn,” the countess said in her purring voice. “There’s so little to do here as it is. I feel cooped up like an animal. Why won’t you attend with us?”

  “Acknowledge an invitation sent to General Bonaparte? I haven’t been a general since Egypt.” Napoleon didn’t look at his companion. “Cockburn insults my officers by not seating them according to their rank. We should keep to ourselves and not endure these insults from the British.” They strolled nearer, scattering the rats that gathered like barnyard fowl.

  Amélie, aware she wasn’t supposed to stare, tried to concentrate on her garden again. The woman and Napoleon now talked in hushed voices. Amélie nearly strangled one of her plants straining to hear.

  “Our Amélie sings.” Saint-Denis walked back and stood over her. He bowed his long frame toward his master, who gestured for him to carry on. “Can you tell me if your father has any cream left?”

  “I’ll look for you.” She rose, more to get away from Montholon’s simpering wife, and bustled into the kitchen with the valet on her heels. After washing her hands, she pulled up the stone slab in the floor where they stored items for cooling. “No, we’re out like I thought.”

  “His Majesty said this morning he’d like some of those rolled waffles filled with cream.” Saint-Denis leaned against the stove and fought a yawn. “They are his favorites.”

  “Ummm, I know.” She fit the slab back and straightened. “Along with steaming hot soups, roast chicken, lentils...I don’t care for lentils. The emperor especially enjoys fresh almonds and cherries, Papa says. So much is difficult to get here, and the local farmers are slow to fill our request for cream. We hope for a shipment soon. When we do, I’ll make His Majesty some waffles.”

  “You cook as well as sing.” Saint-Denis winked and stretched. “The emperor had me up dictating half the night. He prefers my fine hand.” He crooked his fingers in writing stance. “My excellent penmanship comes from being educated in a notary’s office.”

  Amélie pictured herself as a scribe, surrounded by ink instead of mud. “Men are encouraged to use their skills. What is the emperor dictating to you?”

  “His Majesty likes to refight his battles.” Ali picked a piece of lint from his coat sleeve. “His mind is profound, and he’s so restless with little here to challenge him.”

  “He seems challenged by the Countess de Montholon.” Amélie tried to smooth the envy from her tone. She turned from him and with a rag, scrubbed at the mud on her apron front.

  The valet chuckled. “The countess does as she pleases. Her husband spoils her.”

  “Ali, what kind of courtier is the Count de Montholon? Did he serve with His Majesty in the wars?” She thought of the count’s words to his wife in the courtyard that first day here.

  “Well, some say the count’s military career isn’t very distinguished, and he only earned rank because of his stepfather’s influence.” Ali rubbed his shoulder as if his muscles ached. “He begged to be included in our entourage.”

  That sounded like her, pleading with her father to come, but she didn’t want any comparison to the count. He didn’t strike her as someone to be trusted. Didn’t he mind that his wife acted like a courtesan with Napoleon? “His Majesty might find more stimulation if he relaxed the protocol around him.” Amélie flicked the rag to chase a gray gecko out the kitchen window, thankful it left behind no stench.

  “No protocol? We must behave as if stil
l at the Tuileries.” The valet made a sweeping bow, leg extended. “No one sits before the emperor without permission, or speaks unless spoken to. Visitors must get passes from Count Bertrand before seeing him.” He grinned at her and wagged a finger. “No one’s allowed to approach…”

  “I didn’t mean all of it, bien sûr. Does the emperor need a reader? I’m very good at reading, having studied books on history, the Empire.” This man so close to her fingertips when once he dwelled at the highest level in palaces should appreciate her. “I am available.”

  Saint-Denis shook his head, a wry smile on his lips again. “Amélie, you are smart for a girl, but emperor’s readers have to be men. You would never be allowed such access.” He patted her cheek. “You shouldn’t tie back your hair. Your face is too thin. I must be off to the house.”

  “Smart for a girl? Aren’t women entitled to the same intelligence as men?” she said before he exited the kitchen. “Emperors’ readers have to be men?”

  “Don’t take offence.” Ali gave her another wink. “If you want to be of use to the emperor, sing more often. His Majesty enjoys hearing girls sing.”

  “Sing for the emperor?” Amélie spoke to Ali’s back as he loped out the door. She loosened her hair, then stopped herself and pulled the ribbon tighter. Her thick tresses still managed to spring loose here and there of their own accord.

  She opened the pantry door, careful not to jerk it off again in frustration at being branded a lowly female. She checked the sparse food supplies. The household each day consumed over ninety pounds of beef, six chickens, seventy-four pounds of bread, five pounds of butter, nine of sugar, two of coffee, and one pound of cheese. According to her father, monthly they drank 210 bottles of Bordeaux, twenty-six of champagne, twenty-three of Madeira, sixty Graves, and eleven of Constantia, the emperor’s special wine. Napoleon’s wine was kept separate, in a locked cabinet in the house.

  “Oh, Sire, you’re scandalous. The things you say.” Madame de Montholon giggled louder in the courtyard. “There are ‘other’ ways to find contentment here, if you look for them.”

  Amélie stepped to the window.

  “Saying isn’t necessarily doing.” Napoleon flashed the woman an ironic smile and removed her arm from his. “Aren’t we all in a play? Arranged badly, to my detriment, by these British scoundrels.” With a brittle laugh, the emperor strode toward Longwood’s rear door.

  Nose pressed to the glass, Amélie knew she’d be wrestled to the ground if she dared approach him giggling like a ninny. She thought of David’s painting of the young Napoleon crossing the St. Bernard Pass on a white charger, his right arm thrown up pointing the way. She tried to merge that image with this battered man whose scaling of such heights had banished them all to this forsaken outpost.

  An intelligent person must think of a way to use that banishment to their advantage.

  Cannon boomed from Alarm House, the observation tower atop one of the jagged peaks half encircling their residence. The ground shook and Amélie hurried outside.

  “It’s the ship!” a sentry near Longwood’s enclosure shouted. Amélie rushed to the wall. Cheering rose up from more soldiers, and rifles with bayonets swirled in the air. In the distance people mounted horses and rode toward Jamestown. Soldiers swarmed from the tents at the Deadwood Camp and hitched carts to oxen.

  “Grâce à dieu.” Amélie looked to the ocean at the ballooning sails approaching. The supply ship, their bridge to the outer world, tilted her masts as if saluting the ration starved island.

  More soldiers gathered, raising field glasses.

  “Saint Helena comes alive again. It’s ridiculous how these people rely on everything being shipped in, instead of tending their farms.” Napoleon walked up to the wall a few feet away, the countess mincing along behind him. “Now these fools will celebrate for days with their English love of drunkenness.”

  Amélie smelled his light eau de cologne and quivered at his voice so near. She pretended that he addressed her. “The ship arrives just in time, Your—”

  “How dare you speak up so brazenly.” The countess swept between them in a swish of silk and jabbed Amélie aside with her elbow.

  Amélie tripped, scraped her knuckles on the wall, and choked back an angry response. She held her breath as Napoleon turned and stared down at her, his expression, his blue-gray eyes, concerned.

  Chapter Four

  I believe that nature has intended me for great reverses—N.B.

  “Albine, that isn’t kind. Perhaps in anticipation she forgets her place.” Napoleon pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. He reached past the countess and took the girl’s hand. A thin waif, her eyes widened in surprise. Admiring her luxuriant blond hair and fair skin, he wrapped his handkerchief around her knuckles. “Your scrape doesn’t look too bad. You must excuse the countess’s slip of temper, Mademoiselle.” He inspected her hand, delicate and small, with dirt under the fingernails. “Do you work here in this garden?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The girl kept her gaze on him, her smile wavering. Her hand grew warm in his. “I’m planting herbs and spices for your meals.”

  Napoleon smiled and released her, slightly irritated because she hadn’t curtsied. Had he grown too sensitive because of the English refusal to treat him as emperor? “I commend you for bringing life to this arid land. Now run along.”

  “Thank you, Sire.” The girl nodded and backed away, her large brown eyes like a woodland creature watching him. She did have an interesting face.

  “Pardon, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to push the servant so hard.” Albine pouted, her cobalt gaze sparkling under her chestnut curls. Napoleon looked away, satisfied the woman wanted to be intimate with him. He deserved no less, but was not always easy with her forwardness. He sagged with fatigue—this entire farce was grating on him, but he did his utmost to remain respectable before the British. No word must ever reach his wife over an imprudent affair.

  * * * *

  Saint-Denis directed Amélie’s hand in a swipe at the large rodent that skittered along the dining room wall. “Swat it on the head, don’t play with it.” He laughed. “Look, there it goes. Rapidement!”

  She pulled her hand with the cue stick free, and scooted behind the creature, but the rat squeezed under the buffet. “I don’t want to hurt it.” She stopped and swept her hair out of her face. “I thought we were catching them.”

  The room’s humidity seeped under her clothes. Her senses expected the day before New Year’s to be cold, but an austral summer rain splattered on the roof. She slid Napoleon’s handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her forehead. She still felt the softness of his touch from three days past, and lamented that her cleverness melted away when he took her hand. She’d forgotten to curtsy!

  “Quick, Jules, it heads for home!” Saint-Denis called to another servant. The two men scrambled for the corner, striking at their quarry with sticks, but they couldn’t prevent the rat from scurrying back into a hole. In a scratch of tiny feet its slithery tail whipped from sight.

  “C’est ça, that puts me ahead.” Jules puffed out his lower lip. “I’ve killed three today alone.” A stocky, sandy-haired man in his late twenties, Jules Priour worked as the Count de Montholon’s manservant. He glared at Amélie through squinting eyes. “You can’t just catch them. They have to be killed.”

  “There’s so many, I won’t have any trouble beating you.” Saint-Denis thumped his stick on the floor. “I’ll have to work on Amélie’s ratting skills.”

  “How can you strike them like that?” She flinched at the thought. “We should round them up and herd them onto a British ship to be transported away. Back to England, to bite their government’s toes for mistreating our emperor.”

  Marchand entered the room and shook his head. “Let’s cover up these holes and be done with this. You don’t encourage blood sport where
the court eats. We need to sprinkle poison in the walls. That’s why the arsenic was brought here.” At twenty-five, a year younger than Ali, Marchand’s responsible attitude exuded authority.

  “Ruin our contest?” Jules slapped the table and sneered. “First you say we can’t shoot them with pistols, now not even sticks? How else can we occupy our time?”

  “Amélie, I’m surprised you aid these two in their mayhem.” Marchand smiled as if to soften his scold. “Now stop this commotion. His Majesty is receiving guests in the drawing room.” The chief valet, in complete green livery, walked into that room and shut the door.

  “He’s right. We’re finding bizarre amusements to occupy our time.” She stared after him.

  “We’d have more enjoyment if we were involved in the outside island society, instead of corralled up here.” Jules stepped to the mouse hole and clicked his stick around the entrance.

  “Oh, and you’d be included in the social whirl, such as it is?” Saint-Denis shouldered his stick like a rifle with bayonet. “No one informed me you were so privileged.”

  “Now you know my true value.” Jules snorted. “Ali, we are both too well educated to be mere servants. I don’t plan to suffer here much longer.”

  “We serve the emperor, there is nothing ‘mere’ about that.” Amélie watched the calculating glint in his eye. “Where do you plan to be?”

  “None of your business.” Jules thrust his cue so she had to jump back.

  “Stop that.” She batted the cue aside and walked toward the drawing room entrance. “Who is visiting His Majesty tonight?” The emperor had previously received officers from the Fifty-third Regiment at Deadwood, and the Balcombes, whom he’d first stayed with on the island.

  “Some officers off a ship that just docked from China.” Saint-Denis frowned. “The English can’t wait for an audience with the famous conqueror, but won’t grant him the dignity of calling him emperor.”