Napoleon's Rosebud

by Humphry Knipe

  “He is both malicious and vindictive,” said Charlotte. “The emperor had a favorite tree. He used to like reading in its shade, so Sir Hudson cut it down. Now wot you all tink ’bout dat?” she said in Yamstock before she could catch herself.

  This announcement, barbarous accent and all, was drowned by Lady Holland’s indignant cry. “What? Does that brute of a governor think Napoleon is a monkey?”

  Charlotte smiled, happy at the impression she was making. “Certainly not, my lady. The rats swarming everywhere in the house are the only creatures who come and go as they please.”

  This got a little laugh. One of the ladies, very pretty, took advantage of the frivolous moment. “What kind of perfume does Napoleon prefer his ladies to wear? He’s fond of eau de cologne, isn’t he?”

  “For himself,” said Charlotte. “After his bath he is rubbed down with it. But as far as women are concerned, he prefers them to smell of nothing at all. He has a very sharp nose, you see.” When this comment caused the exchange of embarrassed looks, she hurried on. “He can’t bear the smell of fresh paint, for example. It makes him quite ill.”

  “What about his meals? We’ve heard that he still dines very grandly.”

  “He does his best to keep up appearances,” said Charlotte, “but his entourage says that his dinners today are a parody of what they were in the great palaces of Europe.”

  “Although I’m told his servants are properly dressed,” said Lady Holland.

  “Yes, they are, in green and silver livery, worn every day, so it has become badly frayed. The governor complains about what he calls unnecessary luxury. When we left the servants hadn’t even been paid for over two months, poor things!”

  “What a disgrace! But you say the food is at least properly served?”

  “I think so,” said Charlotte, warming to her theme. “The routine is always the same, at least on the few occasions I’ve been invited to dine. On the stroke of seven, the door to the dining room is thrown open by the majordomo, also dressed in green and silver. He announces, in a very loud voice, ‘Your Majesty’s dinner is served.’ Then the emperor leads his guests into the little dining room. His chair, at the head of the table of course, is pulled out for him by his two valets, who take up permanent posts behind it. Only when he is seated does anyone else do the same. And no one dares to say a word unless Napoleon asks them a question, and he seldom asks a question because he’s too busy bolting down his meat. So the room is silent as a morgue!”

  “How extraordinary!” said Lady Holland, gazing across the vast expanse of the gilt chamber, to where Gaspard was standing surrounded by a bevy of bare-shouldered young women, some of whom had their waistlines as daringly low as Charlotte’s. “I do declare that your dashing young escort is attracting bees like a honey pot. Not since the happy days of Lord Byron have I seen the ladies so swarm a man.”

  “I’m sorry to have missed Lord Byron,” said Charlotte.

  Lady Holland raised a manicured eyebrow. “In that case you will be interested in seeing my inner sanctum. Come.”

  Greeted with bows and curtsies all the way, Her Ladyship showed Charlotte to her private drawing room. A hovering footman opened the door. The chairs and the sofa were covered in gold brocade. The walls were adorned with drawings and paintings, many of them oval miniatures.

  Lady Holland said, “My household gods. Napoleon on the right wall. Byron on the left. The gods of liberty and license, I call them. Go on. Feast your eyes.”

  Charlotte examined Napoleon’s wall first, a graphic record of his astonishing career. Napoleon backed by Pyramids. The famous one of him crossing the Alps, white horse rearing, face grave, hand pointing the way to glory. Napoleon’s triumphant entry into Berlin through the Brandenburg Gate. Napoleon presiding over conquered kings. Cannons blazing and cavalry charging at the battle of Austerlitz. Crowning himself emperor. Miniatures, caricatures. The swirl of that mighty life swept Charlotte away. And not only did this man know her, but she was on a mission for him. She was a player in his drama, a rider in the mighty cavalcade of history!

  A caricature caught her eye. It depicted a beautiful woman, naked except for her fan, dancing behind a gauze curtain while Napoleon, in full military uniform, watched.

  “The woman is Josephine,” Her Ladyship explained. “Do you dance for him, Charlotte? Everybody thinks so, you know.”

  “No, Your Ladyship. I suppose the emperor has more important matters on his mind,” she said, gazing at a reclining statue, done in the classical style, of a beautiful young woman who was naked except for the wispy drape around her waist.

  “Really? What could be more important than love except more of it? That’s what the lady who posed for that statue believed. The original, waxed marble, is life-size, but this gives you a good idea. Notice the apple in her hand. Paris awarded it to her because he judged her to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Venus Victorious. You know who the model is, don’t you?”

  Charlotte had seen the face before, in a print, but not the figure. “It’s Pauline, I think. Napoleon’s sister.”

  “In the flesh, so to speak. The most beautiful woman of our time, they say. Although I’m sure your admirers will beg to differ. Manners of a kitten, morals of an alley cat. Wellington, who ought to know, calls her a heartless little devil, because she bedded everything in uniform, especially vigorous young officers. Left a string of broken hearts in her wake. Harmonious voice, though, and that air of well-bred indifference. Easy for her, because she really didn’t care for anyone besides her brother. Perfect pair they make, don’t they? Lord of War and Lady of Love. Pauline suggested they get married, like the pharaohs who were always marrying their sisters. She told him that she was already bathing in asses’ milk, like Cleopatra, which she was—still is, no doubt—carried naked to her bath by a giant black Negro. Oh, I can go for hours about her little peccadilloes, but I won’t. Except to say that when Pauline was asked whether she felt uncomfortable posing in the nude, she answered, not in the least, the room was heated!”

  Lady Holland, who had been giving Charlotte sharp looks to see how she was taking all this, chuckled with glee when Charlotte laughed. “Now it’s Byron’s turn. As you can see, dozens of pictures of him—he is, of course, justifiably proud of his face and is happy to sit for just about anyone. Characters and scenes from his poems, mostly miniatures. He presented them to me when he left, one short step ahead of the law. At first I refused them, but he insisted. Said they’d be seized by the bailiffs if I didn’t take them. You see, his affairs were in a terrible mess.”

  Charlotte couldn’t resist the question, although she had the strong feeling it was indelicate. “Why was he exiled?”

  Lady Holland paused, and when she answered it wasn’t much louder than a whisper. “You have an important and very private message for me, from Napoleon, I have been told.”

  “Yes, Your Ladyship.”

  “Then it is only fair I share a secret with you. But you must promise to keep it to yourself, because it is a hanging crime in England, and as much as I enjoy having Byron hanging around, as the Americans say, I would hate it to be at the end of a rope.”

  Charlotte smiled dutifully at the grisly joke. “I promise.”

  “Like so many libertines before him, Lord Byron has a passion for boys.”

  Charlotte kept her eyes fixed on a miniature of the poet, which showed off his troubled gaze and swollen, enticing lips. “Yes, my lady,” she whispered, “I can believe that.”

  “But he was too much of a show off to keep this vice private. He dressed up his female conquests as pages and paraded them in public. Poor Lady Caroline Lamb was one of them. He met her here, you know. Now she’s locked away in the country, a slave to brandy and opium.”

  Charlotte would like to have filled in the silence that followed this announcement but couldn’t tear her eyes away from the seductive monster’s portrait.

  “And now,” said Lady Holland, softly as someone reluctantly waking up
a child, “it is your turn to tell.”

  “Dr. Barry O’Meara has had instructions.”

  “Napoleon’s physician?”

  Charlotte wasn’t surprised Lady Holland knew who Dr. O’Meara was. She seemed to know everything about everybody. “Sir Hudson Lowe has ordered him to assassinate Napoleon.”

  This, at last, took Lady Holland by surprise, because there was a short intake of breath. “Napoleon told you this?”

  “Yes. He said it was for your ears only and that he wanted you to keep it a secret until O’Meara is in London to confirm it. Then it can be sung from the rooftops.”

  “Let me understand you clearly, girl. That blackguard Hudson Lowe instructed Napoleon’s own doctor to break his Hippocratic oath and not just harm the emperor but actually murder him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unspeakable! And you have told no one of this?”

  “No.”

  “Keep it that way,” Lady Holland whispered fiercely, as if, in that instant, the pictures on the walls had grown hostile ears.

  The gilded carriage came for them at midnight.

  “Well, Rosebud,” said Gaspard, who was by this time slurring his words, “do you think they swallowed all the merde I fed them?”

  They had done well. Even after Lady Holland had introduced them to the most important Liberals in the vast room, Charlotte, with Gaspard in tow, had continued to seek out fresh pairs of ears.

  Lead him around like a chimpanzee on a chain.

  They made a charming couple—the beautiful island girl, surely Napoleon’s mistress, and the handsome young French general, Napoleon’s aide-de-camp, who wore his threadbare uniform like a badge of honor.

  “Yes, Gaspard,” she said. “You make a good liar.”

  “And you make a better one, because it is impossible to believe that anything that comes out of your lovely mouth is a lie. That impudent Captain Johnson was one of your most ardent victims, I noticed. He took up so much of your time I began to think I was going to have to take him outside and kill him. Fortunately he took the hint and disappeared.”

  Swashbuckling Captain Johnson’s attention had been most welcome, but he had indeed left suddenly, without saying good-bye. Had Gaspard threatened him? Why did she find that exciting? Two handsome men fighting over her while Napoleon’s bust looked on… What an abandoned hussy she’d become! What about Daniel standing bravely in the graveyard at dawn, waiting for certain death? When had she last thought of him?

  Impetuous thoughts carried her away faster than the carriage hurrying her home through the empty London streets. “Lady Holland says that not since Byron has a man been such a magnet to the ladies as you, Gaspard. You even caught my eye!”

  She reined herself in too late. Her heart sank when she saw the expression on Gaspard’s face soften.

  “At last, my Rosebud!” he sighed passionately. “I see flattering company has made you shed some of your thorns. The time has come to kiss and make up, don’t you think?”

  “Gaspard, I meant I was proud of you.”

  “Oh, you meant far more than that, admit it!” he said, moving closer. His leg touched hers. She shrank from him, but he had her trapped against the door, strong fingers digging into her bare shoulder.

  “No, Gaspard! We serve the same master, that’s all! You know I’m engaged to Daniel!”

  “That invert! I could have buggered him at that mountain pond if I’d wanted to! The time has come for you to have a real man!”

  She smelled the brandy on his lips as they hunted for hers. “Coachman!” Charlotte screamed. “Please stop!”

  Even before the carriage ground to a halt, she had thrown open the door.

  “What is it, milady?” said the footman, catching the door.

  “I am feeling ill. I need fresh air.”

  The footman glanced at Gaspard but made sure not to hold his angry gaze. “You’re welcome to take my seat up top, milady. I’ll ride on the tailboard.”

  The coachman was the taciturn type, but when he saw Charlotte shiver, because in her haste she had forgotten her shawl, he offered her a damp raincoat.

  By the time the carriage drew up at Lucia’s, she’d rehearsed something conciliatory to say to Gaspard, but the carriage door remained stubbornly shut. She glanced in the window. Gaspard was sprawled across the seat, snoring softly.

  Chapter 15: A Dark Day in Kew Gardens

  May 5, 1818

  Dearest Daniel,

  I can’t believe how we have become mirror images of each other, just the way you said! Here I am writing a letter to you from London, which you will read in Saint Helena instead of the other way round!

  Please forgive me for not writing sooner. We have been in London for five whole days, but I have not had a moment to put pen to paper. What a huge, exciting city this is! If you hadn’t been here yourself, you could never have conceived how far it is beyond the wildest dreams of people who know nothing except our remote, romantic little island!

  Let me begin with our hostess, Lucia Green, now Lucia Dodds, of course. She is already thirty, although she has kept the good looks of the twenty-year-old who captured and then broke poor Mr. Burchell’s heart. She has an adorable two-year-old daughter also called Lucia, who has helped keep her mother more or less on the straight and narrow.

  I say, “more or less,” because I am a naughty gossip who has absolutely no proof that my hostess seeks consolation for her husband’s being away at sea. All I know for certain is that, like most ladies, she has an absolute infatuation with Lord Byron and makes me take turns reading his poetry with her almost every evening. She even claims, with a little bit of a blush, I noticed, that she met him once or twice before his wicked ways got him exiled two years ago. The mad and dangerous man, I hear, has so far ravished more than two hundred women, so who’s to say that Lucia wasn’t one of them? Oh, I really am awful!

  My only excuse is that I’m still a little light-headed from my visit to Holland House last night. Daniel, you can’t believe the grandeur of the place, the brilliance of the company! So I would make a good impression on her illustrious guests, Lady Holland, who is totally besotted with Napoleon, bought me this lovely green dress, which makes my best Saint Helena weeds look shoddily homemade, which is, of course, what they are.

  So there we were, yours truly and General Gaspard, the center of attention of the cream of Liberal London society, who inundated us with questions about the emperor down to the smallest details of his everyday life—what he ate, who shaved him, and even what perfume he preferred on women!

  Then, precisely at midnight, a gilded four-horse carriage called for us. You’ll laugh at me, but there was a moment when I expected it to turn into a pumpkin pulled by mice! Since there are no secrets between us, I have to report that there was an embarrassing incident in the carriage on the way home. Poor Gaspard, much the worse for drink, tried to kiss me. I soon put him in his place and traveled the rest of the way outside with the coachman, even though I nearly froze off my pretty toes, as you keep calling them!

  Tomorrow I will visit Kew Gardens, your old haunt, because Mr. Burchell has invited me to spend the day with him. He says he has “sensitive” news for me. But of course you will be the main topic of conversation, just as surely as Lucia’s name won’t even come up!

  Sent to you with a sigh,

  Your Charlotte.

  The little botanist had not aged well in the eight years since she and Daniel had seen him off on his expedition to southern Africa, where he hoped, perhaps, to shake off the pain of Lucia’s loss. Always a slender man, he had shrunk even smaller, so that his clothes hung loose on his little frame.

  “Charlotte, what a beauty you’ve become!” he said, sounding jolly enough in spite of the hint of deep melancholy in his eyes. “How old were you when I last saw you?”

  “Fourteen. It was eight years ago.”

  “And so it was, so it was,” he said. “You were my favorite pupil.”

  “Taught me to spea
k proper,” Charlotte teased.

  “Indeed, though I suspect you still talk a good Yamstock when you’re in the mood.”

  “Yamstock? Wot dat?”

  Mr. Burchell laughed in a way that told Charlotte he was out of practice. “Come, enough small talk. Time for the grand tour.” He showed off the gardens, had something to say about almost every plant, but she detected a guardedness, a reluctance to meet her eyes, a gloominess that drew him to trees with dark histories. But he had nothing to say, not even a hint, of the sensitive news she had come all this way to hear.

  “Here we have an alder. Its wood turns red after being freshly cut, so the old people thought it bled. Here’s a black mulberry, which was planted in prison yards. The nursery rhyme ‘Here we go round the mulberry bush’ refers to the inmates trudging round and round in a circle, which was all the exercise the poor devils got.”

  Charlotte felt something had to be said that might open the door. “I know the two of you don’t often speak, but Lucia sends her regards. She has a two-year-old girl, you know.”

  Burchell winced as if he had been struck in the face. “Really? A girl? What’s her name? What does she look like?”

  “She’s also Lucia. She’s inherited her mother’s eyes and her coloring. I’m sure she’ll grow up to be a lovely girl.”

  “Of course she will, with a heart hard as stone,” said Burchell. But he seemed to want to talk about anything rather than Lucia, even the sensitive news Charlotte was dying to hear. “Well, there’s no point in putting it off, I suppose. Let’s sit.” He led the way to a lonely bench crouched in the deep shade of a chestnut tree. For nearly a minute, he was silent, moving his hands as if he was trying to wash them.

  “What is it, Mr. Burchell? Please tell me!” Charlotte said.

  “I hesitate, because I don’t know how to break this to you. It’s tragic news…Daniel…”

  “Daniel! What’s the matter with him?”

  “Daniel’s fine. The news is not. He asked me to break it to you in person. It’s about your very dear friend Mary Porteous. You must be strong. For the emperor’s sake.”