Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Watch where you step, you’ll crush my plants,” she said. His eyes turned flinty on hers.

  “This proves how foul this place is. We play with rats instead of dogs.” Clarice filled Longwood’s rear doorway. She strode out and tripped the tiny vehicle, then laughed at Jules’s glower. “Can’t you find something better to do, Montholon’s toady?” She sauntered, her hips swaying, back into the house and slammed the door.

  “She’s a shrew, that one.” Jules sneered. “Grown too broad in the beam as sailors say. I wouldn’t mind a bounce off her, but she’d slice my throat with her tongue.” He turned to Amélie, eyes glinting. “Now you’ve put on flesh. Not too unappealing for my tastes.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Amélie rushed past him in disgust. She checked her garden in case he’d trampled her herbs with his big feet.

  “We can’t all be ex-rulers to tickle your fancy.” Jules stomped on the rat’s tail to stop it, and bent to unyoke the squealing creature. “Or grace your bed.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about—and stop abusing the rats.” She flushed at the accusation, but with the odd power of people believing her capable of enticing Napoleon.

  “Just remember, mignonne, even ex-emperors have fleeting interest for kitchen maids.” His slit-eyed gaze roamed over her. “Especially one who has all of Europe watching, while he pines for a throne he’ll never regain. Your, I mean our emperor infuriated too many with his ruthlessness.”

  “I’ll report your nasty words. If the English looked into their own past they’d find actions far worse than his.” Jules was as disloyal as his employer, the Count de Montholon. The house brimmed with enemies. She shuddered and wanted to scrub her skin just standing near him.

  In the dining room, Marchand hurried by her with a water bottle.

  “His Majesty is ill again. He’s chilled and weak in the legs.” The valet’s face tightened with concern. “He refuses to eat; he says his stomach is on fire, his head pounding.”

  “His stomach’s on fire?” She laid her hand on the water bottle, hot beneath a towel. “I had the same symptoms yesterday, after drinking the emperor’s wine.”

  “I thought these problems gone since he’s riding and walking with you. I sent for Doctor O’Meara, but you know the emperor balks at taking medication.”

  “Let me bring him the bottle.” Amélie tugged it from Marchand’s grasp. “He told me his maladies were due to this peculiar climate. I thought it was inactivity, but I must be wrong. I think it’s the wine.”

  “Amélie, please, I don’t know if this is a good idea. He’s not in a pleasant temper.” Marchand pulled on the bottle, but she held fast. He darted his gaze toward the door, then stepped aside.

  She entered the gloomy study. Napoleon sat on the sofa, bundled in a blanket. He looked pale and shaken even in the dim light. Her heart sank. “Sire, here is a bottle to warm your legs.”

  “Amée, I don’t wish you to see my like this.” He sounded surprised, but not unpleased she was there. “No walk today, any light still splits my head.”

  She sat beside him and placed the bottle in his hands. She touched his sleeve, but resisted caressing his arm. “Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking your wine. It made me sick after only one glass.”

  “You’ll be my little nurse, won’t you?” He slid the bottle under his blanket. “It isn’t the wine, but this vile place. The British are murdering me by forcing me to remain.” His words didn’t sound as bitter as before, as if he had hopes she knew nothing about.

  “I wish you would stop drinking the wine, just the same.” If his accusations about the island were true, why weren’t the rest of them stricken with similar symptoms?

  * * * *

  “Stoutness bespeaks prosperity, Sire.” The Count de Montholon assessed him with his prim gaze. “The kitchen maid has you out and about too much. It will only tire you. Now we eat like goats with all her vegetable dishes. French sauces are esteemed everywhere.”

  “Stop acting like a child.” Napoleon buttoned his waistcoat, pleased that it fit him so comfortably, even if he’d never recapture the slenderness of his youth. “Even Socrates advised against overeating. He said, ‘One must never leave the table with a feeling of satiety.’ You seem to want me to stay fat and listless.” He glared at his subordinate. Montholon’s cool blue eyes revealed nothing. Napoleon bristled. His time spent with Amélie encouraged the others to act in too familiar a manner, yet her barging into his study hadn’t upset him. She cared about him, but what would she want in return?

  “I heard Governor Lowe convinced Lord Amherst that you exaggerated your trials here.” The count sauntered to the study door. “Accept my sincere—”

  “Go and finish my report on the battle of Leipzig.” Napoleon grimaced, now refusing to rise to this man’s obvious manipulation. Bertrand already told him about Amherst weeks ago.

  Ali ushered Montholon out. The clock struck one, and Amélie’s sweet face appeared at his door.

  “Come in, and behold. The tailor has taken in all my clothes. I believe I’ve lost nearly seven kilos.” Napoleon put his hands at his waist and turned for her.

  “You have; you look wonderful.” She clapped her hands, her grin bright. “Though the Countess de Montholon complained to my father about the food choices.”

  “Let them all complain, that’s what they do best.” He chuckled, preening before her. Then he sighed. “Grand Dieu, I don’t know why I should be happy. If I look too healthy, these British scoundrels will never see how this island is destroying me.” Lowe might suspect he had no intention of decaying here.

  “Don’t let anything destroy you.” She stepped close, a mixture of girl and ripe woman in her pink dress. This little bud now a full flower, scenting so many of his moments. “You need to keep up your strength.”

  “Ah, sometimes I think you’re smarter than a man who once ruled most of Europe.” Napoleon winked and tugged on her earlobe. Her statement was valid, but for reasons he’d never share. He would need all his vigor for what he hoped lay ahead. “You see, I’m not so obstinate as to deny you your due, even if you are but a woman.”

  “I could never be as wise as you.” Amélie pushed her hair behind her ear, as if inviting another touch. “I try not to be an empty-headed female though.”

  “Women would have been the charm of my life if I’d had more time for them. My hours were short.” He pressed a knuckle to his upper lip, but couldn’t conjure up one of his mistresses’ faces. Josephine’s flitted into his memory. Marie Louise…He blinked it away and looked into Amée’s tender expression. “I had so many things to do...back then.”

  “Can’t you appreciate women in a higher role than just adornments for men? Even women in ancient Rome and Pompeii were esteemed for political and civic accomplishments.”

  “They were also busy behind the scenes poisoning their husbands to gratify their malicious desires.” Napoleon smiled when her mouth turned stubborn. He took a pinch of snuff from his snuffbox and passed it under his nose. For some reason, the acrid scent displeased him. He discarded the leftover into the fireplace, leaving snuff sprinkled on his shirt.

  “Napoleon, you have an answer for everything.” Amélie laughed and brushed off his shirt, then pulled back her hand.

  His name sounded like music on her lips. He’d missed such endearments, her gesture forward. He’d relaxed too much with her, and couldn’t allow it to go far. He tugged her hair, perhaps too hard. “You like to challenge me. You are growing into the shrill shrew I warned about. A belligerent child.”

  “That’s unfair. I am certainly not a child.” She stretched to her full height, her bosom pushing out her bodice.

  “Remember, your big recital is tomorrow.” He suppressed the heat inside him—a long dormant reaction—and strode a few steps away. “Hutt’s Gate, a change of ven
ue from this prison.”

  “How could I forget?” Her gaze probed him. “I heard about Lord Amherst. Do you ever…entertain thoughts of escaping from here, if there’s no hope of release?”

  “Where do you get such fanciful ideas?” Napoleon chuckled to hide his surprise. Gossip on his half-formed ideas couldn’t be circulating. He averted his gaze. She had a disconcerting way of poking into his mind.

  “If you ever have such plans, I hope you’ll share them with me.” Her serious, intimate voice slid along his nerves.

  “There is nothing to trouble yourself with.” Napoleon turned his back on her. He never allowed women to interfere in things beyond their grasp. He didn’t care to be manipulated. He fisted his hand to regain control. “Now run along. We’ll forego your lesson so you can rest your throat for tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  Amélie squirmed on the chair, wincing as Madame Cloubert swept up her hair. The deep honey color had lightened in pale streaks in exposure to the sun with her garden duties. Her stomach knotted—her impeding fete an hour away.

  “You should keep your hair pinned up; it’s easier for a servant. I’ve wanted to tell you this since you have no mother to guide you.” The woman’s peach pit reflection scrutinized her from the looking glass nailed to the wall of her attic cell.

  “I might cut it off, like the stylish ladies of Paris.” Amélie’s heart twinged at the mention of her mother. She shifted on the stool, impatient for the woman to finish.

  “I don’t know how your father allows you to be alone with a man of such reputation with women as our emperor.” Madame sliced in another pin.

  Amélie winced. “His Majesty always treats me with respect.” Napoleon still often dismissed her like a naïve child. She’d encourage him to think of her as a woman. A woman with desires. “My father trusts me.” She wasn’t sure of that, either, and perhaps he shouldn’t. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled, to stir aside the conflicting emotions.

  “It’s not you he should worry about trusting, ha!” The spindly woman stood back, hands on her sharp hips. “We have enough lewd behavior in this house, high and low born. My prude of a husband is scandalized. Has anyone ever cautioned you over nature’s facts?”

  Heat seeped under Amélie’s dress. Did Madame have a better analogy than Clarice’s about lovemaking? She did want to know, but how to ask? She tried to envision Madame Cloubert allowing her husband to caress her with his calloused, manure-stained hands. She hopped off the stool. “Thank you for your help, Madame, with my hair.”

  Back in her chamber, Amélie slipped the white gown over her head and tied the matching silk fichu above her bodice to conceal its low neckline. She admired the way she filled out the garment, the muslin light as gauze against her body.

  Waiting for her father under the green trelliswork of Longwood’s tiny front veranda, Amélie watched the Countess de Montholon roll by in a cart with her husband. At almost eight months breeding, the woman should have stayed hidden. The countess’s silk dress barely covered her chest, which jiggled like two cow udders ready to burst. Amélie stared down at her own prim bodice and pulled off the scarf. Half the match for the countess, she appreciated that her plain cotton corset’s two gussets pushed up her bosom to some advantage.

  “I hope you aren’t making a habit of imitating the Countess de Montholon?” Perrault walked up behind her.

  “Papa, many women wear gowns far worse than this. It is the fashion.” Amélie swallowed her embarrassment and trotted down the stone steps. She raised her skirt slightly to keep the dust off the hem as they walked from Longwood’s grounds. Napoleon had gone ahead to have dinner with the others, which included British officers of the Deadwood regiment, but he hadn’t invited her.

  “Responsibility comes with growing up. It shows in how you present yourself. I cannot condone this.” Perrault studied her again. “Has the emperor seen you, exposed as you are?”

  “Napoleon won’t disapprove, and I’ve never behaved irresponsibly.” Not yet. She twisted the scarf in her hands. Her father didn’t understand she was no longer his to control.

  “Napoleon? Your behavior gets brasher. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He slowed his stride along the path. “His Majesty derided the women of Paris who flaunted themselves in revealing attire.”

  Such derision never deterred the countess. Amélie hurried her pace, the scarf draped around her shoulders. She did feel self-conscious as she’d never worn anything décolleté before.

  “I hope you always conduct yourself appropriately in every situation that occurs.” Perrault seemed intent, if reluctant, to drive home his concerns. “Remember what I said about curtailing all of this.”

  “Please allow me to make my own decisions, Papa.” Amélie squeezed his arm. Was her aloof father listening at keyholes to the nasty comments of others? She tensed with guilt and pulled her scarf close around her shoulders.

  They approached the colonial structure of Hutt’s Gate. Tall willow trees shaded the home’s front veranda and buffeted the trade winds. Situated on the edge of the plain, the land sloped from the rear of this place to the Geranium Vale.

  Inside the Bertrand’s home, numerous voices drifted from beyond the foyer. Countess Bertrand bustled toward them with a welcoming smile. “I’m so glad you’ve arrived, and what an attractive dress.” She clasped Amélie’s hand. The countess’s burgundy cashmere gown looked withered, like a rose pressed in a book. Her plunging V-necked bodice and split oversleeves showing white lawn beneath seemed a brave attempt to dazzle at the end of the earth. “Chef Perrault, please go on into the parlor.”

  “How kind of you to invite me, Countess.” Amélie traced her forefinger across the pink topaz necklace at her throat, feeling her pulse vibrate at the idea of tonight’s exhibition. The woman’s friendliness relieved her.

  The tall, graceful lady showed her to a tiny boudoir to freshen up. At a vanity with a large oval mirror, the countess helped Amélie rearrange her windblown hair. The countess had her own light hair brushed up with diamond combs and pulled back from her temples in the elegant Parisian fashion.

  Amélie admired the fancy toiletries on the vanity top.

  “Have you ever tried rouge?” Madame Bertrand opened a pot and stared in. “Hélas, everything here puddles, if the ants don’t carry it off first. This looks all right still.”

  “No, I’ve never tried it, Madame.” Amélie should dislike Countess Bertrand after her behavior in Plymouth over deserting the emperor, but the woman displayed none of the other countess’s arrogance.

  “Sit, let me dab some on.” Madame Bertrand carefully applied color to Amélie’s face, the woman’s finger cool against her skin, lips pursed in concentration. “Don’t look in the mirror yet, wait till I’m finished.”

  Lips and cheeks rouged, Amélie smiled at her reflection. Her sophistication should impress Napoleon.

  “You’re lovely, Amélie. The men will pound down your door any second, begging for your hand.” The countess patted her shoulder and winked.

  Amélie blushed beyond the rouge. “I assure you, I’m not seeking a husband.”

  “You will eventually, my dear. We all do.” Countess Bertrand put a dab of her expensive perfume behind Amélie’s ears. “Some young British officers are here tonight. You’ll definitely draw their attention.”

  “I’m not interested in any British officers.” Amélie smelled lavender in the perfume and stared at the woman, amazed she’d suggest such a thing. “I’m quite happy with things the way they are.”

  “If not marriage...I see, then it’s a career that interests you?” The countess frowned, thoughtful. “With your beautiful voice you could easily return to Europe to study properly, if that’s the sort of path you want.”

  “No, I don’t care for professional study,” Amélie said, thumping one of the silver boxes on
the vanity, her brown eyes wide in the mirror, “or returning to Europe.”

  “Ma foi, why not? There’s nothing for you on this rock. Nothing for any of us. Away from here you might have a chance at an actual life.” The woman grimaced in the glass.

  If Countess Bertrand saw her life ending, Amélie ached to spread her wings, her life beginning. “No, Madame, I don’t want to leave Saint Helena.” She stood and smoothed her skirt. “I’m completely satisfied here.”

  “Oh, you’re young still. There’s plenty of time to decide these things.” The countess bent to tighten the ribbons around her ankles that secured her worn satin slippers. “Let’s join the others. You can drink a cup of tea before you sing. I’d put honey in it, if we could get any.”

  The guests milled about in a small parlor with threadbare oriental carpets and two rumpled sofas—the same shabby furniture as in Longwood. Three uniformed young men turned to stare, but only one person interested Amélie.

  Napoleon saw her and strode over, his smile brilliant. “You’re very captivating tonight, Amée. That dress suits you. Your hair, though, I prefer it loose over your shoulders.”

  In his finest silk breeches and pressed green jacket, he resembled again an emperor receiving the crowned heads of Europe. His face leaner, complexion healthier, he illuminated the room with his radiance.

  “Do I resemble a woman of accomplishment?” Amélie caught her breath and grasped his arm to steady herself.

  “Indeed you do.” Napoleon escorted her to a handsome woman and a balding man with a plump belly. “This is Mr. and Mrs. William Balcombe. The generous people I stayed with my first two months on Saint Helena. A substantial reprieve from that dismal boarding house.”

  “Here’s the little herbalist.” Balcombe was in charge of purchases for the emperor’s household as an employee of the East India Company. Amélie had seen him around Longwood many times. “I have another herb you might fancy. Just arrived from India, brought down from China. It’s all the rage in the Orient, called ginseng of all things. No gin in it, I hope.” He chuckled at his own jest, rubbing his paunch.