Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “He cares nothing for me. I just wish he’d come out of his seclusion.” Amélie’s tears gathered damp behind her eyes.

  “I know he harbors dreams of someday returning to power. We all hoped we wouldn’t be here long.” Fanny groaned. “Napoleon likes to think the Emperor Francis, being his father-in-law, will come to his rescue. Those are remote possibilities. He’s delusional. He can’t fathom his own wife’s family would betray him.”

  “The other monarchs only feigned friendship to keep His Majesty from overpowering them.” Amélie rambled out words to shore up her fragile composure. “Marie Louise only pretended to be the adoring wife while he was in power.”

  “Marie Louise was a haughty, self-indulgent person.” Fanny took a sip of wine. “She seemed jealous of Napoleon’s attentions to their own child. I never cared for her.”

  Hortense Bertrand ran into the room with Montholon’s son, Tristan. “Maman, can we have more lemonade and cookies for my tea party? Tristan took bites out of all my cookies, spilled my drinks, and I hate it.”

  “Of course, go and ask cook. I have company, ma petite, go on.” Fanny stood and caressed Hortense on the head, her smile tired. The children scampered out. “The Emperor Francis had no intention of letting his daughter disappear into exile, even if she’d wanted to go, and I think at first she did. I’m afraid our emperor doesn’t realize how happy the European monarchs are to have him tied to this rock, far away from them. He can no longer threaten their countries, or their very thrones.”

  “It’s a hopeless situation, unless…” Amélie choked down the word “escape.” Impossible! She blinked back tears and took a generous sip of wine. “His own ambition has made it so.”

  “Then you see him for what he is. At least I hope you do.” Fanny half finished her drink. “How old are you, Amélie...nineteen?”

  “I’m twenty. I know I have my whole life ahead of me.” Amélie rubbed her throat, touching the hollow where his lips...“I’m thinking of becoming a nun.”

  “Don’t be that drastic. How about returning to Europe to study singing? You do have a talent.” Fanny emptied her glass.

  “He nurtured my singing. I should start fresh. Maybe in Paris there’s a Napoleonic mistresses’ society I can commiserate with. As long as the Countess de Montholon isn’t a member.” Amélie forced a sharp laugh, then finished her own glass. “That doesn’t sound very fresh, does it? I don’t even officially belong in that group.”

  “Don’t get me started on the dissolute Albine. Then it’s true, she was his mistress?” Fanny poured Amélie more wine.

  “Perhaps she still is. Not that it matters to me, anymore.” Amélie bristled at the idea of Albine warming his bed. She drank her wine. The alcohol blurred the razor sharp edges of her pain. “Did Napoleon never worry over that liaison getting back to his cheating wife? A man who can’t be faithful shouldn’t expect fidelity from anyone else. One woman was never enough.”

  Fanny refilled her own glass and took a gulp. “Napoleon did everything his way, and all who challenged him paid for it. He cared nothing for anyone else’s rights if they interfered with his own desires, and that included his wives.”

  “I’m certain he loved only Josephine in the beginning. Until she betrayed him.” Amélie half drained her second glass, trying to give Napoleon a trace of redemption. The wine bubbled around in her stomach.

  “He’s a man who ruined any chances for lasting happiness to fulfill his ambition. I’m afraid power was his only love, and now that’s been taken away.” Fanny sat once more and ran a fingernail over the rim of her wineglass. “I just want you to understand this, unkind as it sounds.”

  “I’m…still glad your husband is devoted to the emperor. He needs friends.” Amélie finished her wine and wished she no longer cared.

  “Henri is too devoted. I only came here to stay with my husband, and keep my family together.” Fanny sighed, swirling the wine in her glass. “Once I believed His Majesty to be an inspired leader, a gifted administrator. Until his own ego got in the way.”

  “I see your point, Madame. I’m also a little drunk. It does loosen the tongue.” She set her wine glass aside. “I’ll always love him. I can’t turn off my feelings, even if he can.”

  “You’ll find an appropriate beau.” Fanny pressed her shoulder. “You’re fortunate to get out unscathed, dear. Our emperor has illegitimate children all over Europe.”

  “I refuse to be a casual amusement for anyone.” Amélie hugged her arms around herself. “There’s no place for me in his scheme of things. I’ll return to the background and stay out of his way, until I decide what I want to do.”

  The house vibrated with the rumble of hoofbeats. The two women rose and walked out onto the front veranda. Governor Lowe and several men galloped toward Flagstaff Hill—a slim peak with a ruined watchtower atop—in a swirl of dust.

  Count Bertrand, standing near the road, hurried up to join them, his expression vexed. “The governor heard about a revolution in South America, a place called Pernambuco, and a fleet coming from the United States, all contrived to free our emperor from the English.”

  “Is it true, or a silly rumor?” Fanny’s jaded eyes brightened.

  “I have severe doubts, but Lowe is setting up more batteries and fortifications, and they’re doubling the sentries at Longwood.” Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. “More problems for us all when His Majesty hears.” The count entered the house, closing the door softly.

  Fanny turned to Amélie, her mouth drooping. “Napoleon should come out of seclusion just to fight these absurdities.” She gripped her shoulder again. “For you, avoiding him is probably wise. Do you think you’ll return to Europe?”

  Amélie watched the riders’ fading dust. Saint Helena under siege. Were these the rescuers Napoleon awaited, involving the Sandy Bay note? “I’m not ready to leave yet.” She wasn’t ready to let go of this island or Napoleon.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ...When, scanning the future, [a man] sees nothing but dreadful monotony...then, in my opinion, he is the most wretched—N.B.

  Napoleon left his bath and ordered Marchand to bring him his clothes to dress. “Today I will stroll in the front garden to see what the English have done to improve the grounds.” He made it sound as important as reviewing his troops before battle. He’d languished long enough and must keep himself fit for the coming event. Marchand and Ali had suffered from the orderly officer’s complaints. Napoleon put on the wide planter’s hat and strutted out to the front of the house.

  Four orange trees were planted on the patch outside his bedroom window. Their flowers perfumed the spring September air. Immortelles of red, golden, and violet, the seeds sent by Lady Holland, lined the wall. The Chinese constructed a high turf wall along the eastern side to shield the garden from the trade winds. Napoleon would be shielded from the sentries’ prying eyes. He smiled. Let Lowe think him resigned to this exile. By next winter, summer here, he’d no longer be on Saint Helena.

  Napoleon walked toward the wall and stared at the mountain that loomed at the sea cliffs called the Barn. Many thought it bore an eerie resemblance to his profile wearing his cocked hat. An image frozen in place, staring out to sea. King Odysseus—as Amée liked reading about—tormenting himself with sighs and heartache, gazing out across a barren sea with streaming eyes, desperate for deliverance from this island, her Calypso.

  Napoleon stiffened his shoulders. The girl’s startled fawn’s eyes haunted his dreams.

  * * * *

  Amélie filled with relief to see Napoleon on the front grounds. She hurried back to her own little garden. She knelt and stroked her plants. Part of her wished she had given herself to him in that weak moment of abandon—to know him better as a man. Then how much sharper his rejection.

  The charm of a female, the one influence she held over men? She’d acted
as sleazy as the countess yet floundered in her desires. Women needed education, to decide their future from a position of strength.

  The velvety rosemary leaves, the sensuousness of her own body when he’d caressed her. She blew out her breath. She’d started to scribble more notes on intimacy, the importance of women’s awareness before marriage—or affairs—of sexual matters. Before she chased down whores in Jamestown, perhaps Countess Bertrand could impart these details. This sounded more exciting than pious decay in a convent, something she’d no serious intention of doing in the first place.

  Amélie pinched away the flowers on her newly planted basil to make the plants leafier. She set chervil roots aside for boiling, to use in salad.

  “Amélie, His Majesty has finally cast you off as I warned, hasn’t he?” Clarice plodded up and hovered over her, balancing her laundry basket against her knee. “No woman holds his attention for long. Now you know how I feel since Marchand avoids me.” Her nasty tone slipped to regret, but only for an instant. “When will we see your protruding belly like the Countess de Montholon’s in the past?” Clarice bent down to stare at her abdomen as if expecting something to sprout at any moment.

  “Jealous? I’ll make certain to send you an announcement.” Amélie dug her fingers into the dirt and ripped at weeds, her sorrow at the truth of her castoff sharp. “With all your important duties, how do you find time to worry about me? I’m so flattered.”

  “I’ll give you some of my duties. Now you have the time.” Clarice snickered.

  “Oooops!” Amélie jerked a Double Gee and splattered dirt into Clarice’s basket. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Merde! How dare you!” Clarice swung the basket around, her fat cheeks wobbling. Then she huffed and sauntered away, undulating her bulging hips in her shabby Greek-style chemise. “Welcome back to the wasteland, Miss Opera Diva.” Her spiteful laughter echoed through the courtyard.

  Amélie pushed damp curls from her forehead and touched the blue-green rue she’d planted to repel caterpillars from her plants. She’d have to devise a potion for Clarice, since this smelly herb was also supposed to repel witches.

  Amélie wiped her hands on a cloth and went into the kitchen to hang nettles from the rafters to keep away flies. She forced herself to hum a tune as she worked. The chair she stood on wiggled and she gasped and turned around. “Oh. What do you want?”

  Jules’s square face sneered up at her, his shins bumping the edge of the seat. “Can your father prepare the Countess de Montholon something mild for supper tonight?” He plucked at her soiled apron. “She’s feeling ill. Probably caught His Majesty’s cold after their tête à tête last night.” He snorted. “You, Amélie, finally committed the foul deed of becoming too familiar, didn’t you? Too stupid with hero worship to see that a girl can’t improve her status. Only a clever man can.”

  “Don’t ever touch me.” Amélie swiped his hand aside and rattled down off the chair. “I’ll give my father your request, now leave.” She rinsed her hands in a bucket. From the pantry, she took out a bottle of olive oil, poured some in her palm, and rubbed the oil into her skin. Albine, sharing sensual kisses with Napoleon.

  “Are you still going to ignore me, now that you’re in disfavor with the emperor?” Jules moved close, smelling of sweaty linen, his squat nose in the air like a sniffing rat.

  She cringed with the creepy feeling he gave her, like ants crawled up her back.

  “I’m sure you have people to bother elsewhere.” Amélie walked around him, continuing to massage her hands, the skin turning supple.

  Jules stuck out his arm, stopping her. “Don’t be so aloof. One man is the same as another, non? Show me what you learned in the imperial bed.”

  “You’re the last man I’d show.” Amélie pinched his arm, leaving oily fingerprints on his sleeve, and he yelped. “Get out of here. I’ve already told His Majesty about your disloyal comments and strange actions.”

  “I suggest you keep your tales to yourself.” Jules snarled and strode to the kitchen door, rubbing his arm. “My master is quite pleased now that you’re out of the way. The court is much better without your interference. You only hindered everyone’s position.” He pointed at her. “If you change your mind, feel lonely and in need of a man, I’ll be around.”

  Amélie shivered when he slammed the door. His eyes blazed with fury at her mention of his actions. The emperor had too many ominous influences surrounding him, and now she wasn’t there to shield him. She must stay near Napoleon to keep an eye on events.

  * * * *

  “His Majesty must feel better to entertain tonight.” Amélie scrubbed her brush over the turnips that would replace the rotten potato shipment. Turnips and cabbage didn’t mind the harsh soil of Saint Helena. Ali, her father, and Chef Gascon also crowded out the kitchen.

  “An admiral and his wife, and an American diplomat His Majesty hopes to find favor with.” Ali pressed an iron over Napoleon’s uniform jacket. “The governor unbent to allow them to come to Longwood.”

  “Does the American have anything to do with the attempted rescue the governor is worried about?” To her selfish relief, no North or South Americans had stormed the island to rescue Napoleon. Another week had passed and she and the emperor managed to avoid one another. Without her company he took minimal exercise. She missed their vibrant talks and morning strolls.

  “I have no idea.” Ali shrugged.

  “It has been far too long since I took the trouble to create my sugar spun palace for dessert.” Gascon, his droopy eyes a little brighter, cut butter into a cup of sugar.

  “We should always take the trouble for His Majesty.” Perrault boiled beef in a huge pot bubbling on the stove. He slid a small fowl into the water. He prepared his rump steak à la Napoléon Ier. The fowl would be garnished with rice “alla Milanese,” the rump steak with the mashed turnips seasoned in thyme.

  Fragrant smells filled the air. Constantly involved in food, she ate little herself. Not much could squeeze past the granite lump in her throat or her stomach’s clenched muscles. Her clothes felt loose, swallowing her up.

  “I will leave that to simmer.” Perrault stepped out with a slow nod to his daughter as the people shifted around. Her father hadn’t said a word about her distance from their emperor and his lethargic manner worried her.

  “We do need a diversion. It’s been far too quiet around here.” Saint-Denis held up the green jacket with scarlet cuffs and collar, inspecting it. “Too bad you won’t be singing for them.” His sooty gaze looked half challenging, half sympathetic.

  “I have no interest in singing. The notes became…too complicated to interpret.” Amélie dropped the turnips into another pot of boiling water. She glanced at the jacket as Ali pinned on the iron crown and graduations of the Legion of Honor. She bit at her lip and turned away.

  Life at court moved on without her, yet she must have meant more to Napoleon than merely a distraction to pass the time. He’d interceded with her father, as if he still wanted to hold on to her, but for what purpose?

  * * * *

  At sunset Amélie strolled alone out in the recultivated front garden. She hadn’t spent an evening outdoors in over three weeks. Maybe the warming air would soothe her fractured mind.

  A flock of white terns with black-ringed eyes flapped overhead. They squabbled in their strange grunts. Their mass of wings beat the air, forked tails fluttering. The birds soared and dipped, and faded into the mist around Diana’s Peak.

  She sat on a bench near the garden’s center. Laughter drifted from inside the house—the emperor busy with his guests. Despite her wish to be his protector, she mused about returning to Paris, blurring her sorrows in the bustle of civilization. Could she continue her interest in herbs and sexual enlightenment, while pursuing a career in opera, and dismiss the man who instigated it? That had been the entire allure. Who would
pay for her lessons, the one man she should forget?

  Amélie closed her eyes and imagined herself at the opulent Paris Opéra, singing her lungs out. She basked in the satisfying roar of applause, long-stemmed roses thrown at her feet...and he would be there (how, she didn’t know) jealous of the attention paid to her...

  Someone came up beside the bench and she startled from her reverie.

  “Good evening, Amélie.” Marchand smiled down at her.

  “Louis. How are you this evening?” Amélie forced a smile and pulled her shawl around her shoulders, now feeling a thief in the emperor’s garden.

  “Well enough. With the emperor’s dinner party tonight, it reminded me of when you used to sing for guests. It has been a long time.” He rocked back and forth on his feet as he stood there.

  The shadows stretched along the ground, swallowing up their world in darkness. In the cool night’s air she smelled freshly turned over earth and the pungent scent of new plantings. “I don’t know if I’ll sing anymore.”

  “Why? Your voice is so pretty.”

  She looked up at his face shrouded in shadow. Why was he here? Had the emperor demanded he court her? Marchand, grand Dieu, relieve me of this nuisance of a girl...She almost burst into caustic laughter, but instead replied tonelessly, “merci.”

  “Amélie, often certain men don’t always know what’s best for them. It might be their nature to react in a way...in conflict with their true feelings.”

  His hesitant spiel made her squirm, though she foolishly wanted to hear it. “Yes, many people do that. How very sad.”

  Voices drifted closer to Longwood’s front door and the valet sighed.

  “The party must be breaking up. I’ll be needed. If you’ll excuse me.” Marchand touched her shoulder, turned, and headed back to the house.

  Amélie sighed as well and forced her thoughts to another subject: her mother. That dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty her father had married so young. Madame Perrault had been a spirited woman, always accessible and sweet. How Amélie missed her. She yearned for her female wisdom at this moment. She’d have to wait months for a reply from Theo to her letter, speculating on the nature of her death.