The chief valet slipped out the minute Madame Cloubert stomped in. “Amélie, you said you had some chamomile to put in my husband’s bath? He doesn’t sleep well at night. His jerking about keeps me up at all hours.” The woman ran a bony hand through her hair, a mixture of auburn and gray like cinders in a dying fire. Her skin smelled like linseed oil in the now warming kitchen. “What can I do with such an oaf?”
Amélie fought a grin and pulled down her chipped jar of chamomile.
“There he goes, that nosy Irishman.” Madame glared out the windowpane speckled with sawdust from the still incomplete right wing. “Always spying on us for the British.”
“He seems a nice enough man.” Amélie joined her at the window. Napoleon’s doctor, Barry O’Meara, crossed the courtyard.
“You should worry more about the orderly officer stuck right here on top of us, Madame,” Gascon said in a lethargic goad. “He’s on guard against evil deeds, with you their prime suspect.”
“They could never suspect you, Philippe. You can’t stay out of bed long enough to be suspicious.” The woman scrunched up her face. “Mark my words, O’Meara runs between here and Plantation House, Lowe’s fancy estate, with gossip from both ends. Strange how he latched on to His Majesty with his fluent Italian after our doctor refused to come to Saint Helena.”
“I wish I had refused to come.” Gascon moaned, staring into the mound of dough as if he foresaw his rising doom. “Maybe my wife was right to desert me.”
Madame Cloubert made no comment, to Amélie’s relief. She handed the woman the herb. After Madame left, Amélie checked the pot heating on the stove. “I’ll fix you a cup of basil tea, Chef Gascon.” She poured the boiling water over her leaves, inhaling the spicy scent, and set a cup before him, hoping it might make him merry. “Complaints about the island seem a waste. That’s something we can’t change.”
She picked up a broom and swept the herb debris from the stone floor they’d put in themselves. Then she stepped outside with her basket and looked to the east between the cliffs where a ship’s sails billowed as it made its circle around Saint Helena’s coastline, passing another ship circling in the opposite direction.
Amélie didn’t understand this escort business with the island situated a thousand leagues from anywhere. Up on the peaks, all pointed down at Longwood, the cannon from High Knoll fortress glittered in the sun. A bugle blared in the distance with a sharp roll of drums; gusts of wind rippled the tents at the Deadwood Camp. The soldiers surrounded them like fire ants in their red coats, with British troops divided between the Fifty-third Regiment here at Deadwood, the Sixty-sixth at Jamestown, and various detachments around the island.
Bending to her garden, she picked dill and rosemary, dropping them in the basket. She’d brew the rosemary in tea to strengthen herself and quicken her mind, or so the herbal book promised. Out of habit she began to sing, the effort calming her mood. Recently, she’d borrowed several books from Ali, who worked as the emperor’s librarian. Each book she’d opened with reverence and read the front piece inscribed in his neat hand: L’Empereur Napoleon.
One of the new books contained a history of Italian opera, with many of the librettos written out in detail. Having an Italian mother, she knew the language and Suzanne had showed her how to read notes and interpret the librettos.
She’d memorized some of them and today sang the aria “Questa Cosa” from the opera Il Matrimonio Segreto. She’d seen this opera in Lyon, about a girl who is secretly married to her father’s clerk and must fend off the attentions of a wealthy count. Amélie laughed, as if she would ever face such issues. Was Clarice right— did she glean all her life’s experience from books?
The wind increased and she raised her voice to accommodate it. Her restlessness released on the notes. The wind howled and she sang louder. Napoleon must hear her now and be drawn from his lair. Her voice vibrated up her throat. A movement to the right made her glance over. Her father beckoned in an anxious manner from the back door of the house.
“Amélie, please come in here immediately.” He sounded irritated.
She rose with reluctance and walked toward him, brushing off her skirt. “What is it, Papa?” She adjusted her straw hat, secured with a ribbon under her chin.
“Come with me. Someone wishes to speak to you.”
He steered her inside, mumbling words she didn’t catch, the wind’s song and her own still vibrating in her ears. She dug the dirt from under her fingernails. When in the prep room, he deposited her in front of someone.
Amélie stared up into the face of the emperor.
“Your Majesty, this is my daughter, Amélie Perrault,” her father introduced in a strained voice.
She kept her mouth from gaping but felt the blood drain from her face. The emperor scrutinized her and she wondered what terrible crime she’d committed. Maybe he too would scold her for witnessing his tirade against Governor Lowe. Or had her conniving for his attention finally succeeded? Light-headed, Amélie sucked in her breath and managed a smile. “How do you do, Your Majesty.”
She realized too late the emperor was supposed to speak first. Aware she should curtsy, her mind went blank, leaving her at a loss as to which foot went where. She dipped her head.
“Mademoiselle, the little gardener. Is that you I heard singing so spiritedly out in the courtyard?”
“You did listen? Oh, I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Your Majesty.” She grinned wider and didn’t glance at her father who stood rigid near the door—he’d faded into the background.
“No, no, you misunderstand. You haven’t disturbed me.” Napoleon laughed softly. “I find your voice very interesting. Have you had formal training?”
A rush of awe heated her from the inside out at this praise from the one man their entire world revolved around. Her knees trembled. “Very informal training, Sire, and self-study recently...from the books I borrowed from...I—”
“You learned to sing like that from books?” His sweet smile and flashing blue-gray eyes illuminated his pallid features.
“No, I...but I do love to read. You learn so many different things...it opens up the world...” She broke off, ashamed of her babbling, twisting the ribbon under her chin with nervous fingers.
“Quite right, Mademoiselle. Would you mind singing that song again for me, now?”
She blinked at him. “Of course...I wouldn’t mind…Sire.” The idea of singing directly in front of the emperor with her limited knowledge of music made her toes curl in her muddy shoes. A voice in the wind might not sound so melodious in the confines of a house.
“Tres bien. Come into the reception hall. It has the most space.” Napoleon strode from the room.
Passing her father, she didn’t look at him as she followed the emperor through the house to the front. The green reception salon was Longwood’s largest chamber. A mahogany billiard table the British had brought up in the first months of their residence took up a fifth of the space. An old piano stood in the far corner. Two lumpy sofas and several chairs slumped against the walls. Two globes, one of the Heavens, one of Earth, flanked the door from the drawing room. Amélie stood in the realm she’d been eager to explore. The wind rattled the window panes as she felt her nerves rattling beneath her skin.
She hid her dirty hands behind her back and waited for some signal to begin. Napoleon sat and nodded his head.
After a deep breath Amélie anxiously cleared her throat and started to sing. Tentative at first, her voice sputtered and crackled as she grappled for control. Now gathering momentum, she hoped her singing exuded a rich tone. She closed her eyes, trying to regulate her breath, hitting the high drawn-out notes and concentrating on doing her utmost—fearful of making a mistake. When done, her body quivered at the exertion. She took another full breath before meeting the emperor’s gaze.
Napoleon rubbed his chin, looking
at her thoughtfully. “Your voice is good. A little untamed around the edges, but brimming with possibilities. Do you know any other songs?”
“A few, Sire.” She named some of the arias she remembered off-hand.
“You must practice properly, Mademoiselle. You could have the makings of an accomplished singer.”
Caught unawares by this attention she’d longed for, pride tangled in with her fluster. “Yes, maybe someday I might think of such things.”
“No ‘someday.’” Napoleon rose with effort and approached her. “You need to practice now, and I will help you. I was quite the patron of the opera in Paris. Every week I attended the theater, when not on campaign. We can engineer some sort of strategy for you.”
Amélie stared at him and longed for a chair edge to cling to. She’d only hoped to spark his interest with such a caprice. Singing wasn’t the basis into his company she’d sought. “That’s very kind of you, but not necessary. I would like to discuss books, battle tactics, and aren’t you writing your memoires?”
“Nonsense. You have talent. Why waste it?” he said, his voice confident, his smile warm. “One must grasp the opportunities thrust before them.”
Amélie licked her dry lips, her heart throbbing. She quivered with the excitement she always imagined she would in his personal presence. Drawn by the melancholy she sensed beneath that smile, she said, “Yes, Your Majesty. You’re right, one must.”
Chapter Six
...Nothing is more ill-considered and blameworthy than to make girls stage theatrical performances—N.B.
The same ugly cramped kitchen seemed to glow with a new radiance, the chill of evening ineffective against the warmth simmering inside her. Amélie flicked a piece of rotten wood from the window frame and smiled.
“Amélie, are you listening? What is this singing for the opera? I had no idea you were interested in such things.” Her father scrutinized her with the green eyes that had steadied her throughout childhood, but for her, childhood ended when they’d sailed to this island.
“I didn’t intend it.” She’d broken through the wall, by accident or hidden design it didn’t matter. Not just a brief encounter, but the promise of time to come. She wiped grease from the stove in absent-minded strokes. “I just entertained myself, but His Majesty seems to think I have talent.”
“I have heard you singing in the garden. I hope you weren’t flaunting yourself there in the courtyard.” Her father’s tone didn’t accuse, but she knew he sought reassurance. He bent his gray head to scrub out his favorite iron pot, distrustful of anyone near his cookware.
“Papa!” Amélie stepped again to the window and looked at Longwood’s back door. She didn’t want her father to see her guilty face.
“I asked you to stay away from the court. Now I suppose…I don’t want to displease His Majesty, but you cannot be a nuisance to him.” Reflected in the window, he dried the pot with a cloth. The last wisps of smoke from the stove faded, and his hair reeked of it. “Still, I must tell you, don’t speak to His Majesty until spoken to, and you are supposed to curtsy when introduced.”
“I…if I’m not well versed in court protocol, I can learn.” She shrugged this off as she continued to gaze outside, the evening too lingering. She rubbed a nose smudge from the pane and smiled at her reflection.
“Just do your best, ma petite. That’s what I would expect from you.” He removed his apron and hung it on a wall peg. “Remember to always be polite to his courtiers.”
“Papa, I think someone my age should no longer be called petite.” She faced him, stepping forward. “Even though you mean it in the kindest way.”
“I didn’t know it bothered you.” He gave her a rare, indulgent smile, which didn’t help either. “I’ll try to remember not to.” His gaze turned serious. “Maybe I made a mistake, giving you too much education, putting you above your class.”
Did her father think her unworthy of the emperor’s consideration? The regret in his face made her uncomfortable. Her wish to be independent alienated her too quickly from him. She touched his hand. “No, Papa, it wasn’t a mistake. I’ve always appreciated my studies. You should be happy I’m not a feather-headed female.”
That night in her room, she rubbed her hair dry after a bath in the dented metal hip bath crammed between her bed and door. Stored in the privy, the tub smelled slightly of urine and the rosemary she sprinkled in there to diffuse odors. She mulled over the day’s events: how to proceed, how should she behave? Napoleon’s attention intrigued her. She deserved it, her yearning fulfilled…but as an opera singer?
* * * *
The emperor requested that she come to his study the next day at one o’clock. Amélie put on her nicest gown, a plain gray thing that now shamed her, fussed with her hair—the ribbon too childish? She tore it back out, snatched up her opera book, and entered the house at the appointed time. At awakening this morning, she wondered if the previous day’s encounter was all a dream. Napoleon couldn’t have spoken to her, or laughed, or listened with interest to her singing.
After her hesitant knock, Marchand came out from the study, smiled, and motioned for her to enter. A loyal servant who must take everything his master did as expected, he registered no surprise at her change in status.
“Welcome, Amélie. His Majesty will be with you shortly.” He stationed himself like a sentry inside the door.
“I’ve never been in here before.” Amélie edged in, curiosity overriding her flopping stomach. At last she stood in Napoleon’s “interior.” The Imperial study, a narrow chamber off the dining room, had a fireplace centered on the side wall between shuttered windows. Two makeshift bookcases stuffed with books sat on either side. She stepped close and scanned Machiavelli’s The Prince, John Barrow’s History of England, works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Montesquieu, Goethe, and many others. A shabby writing desk, sideboard, old sofa, and green-painted cane chairs filled out the remaining area.
Contemplating dingy yellow wallpaper and the faint odor of musty decay, she lamented her sovereign’s downfall. The Perraults’ simple cottage in Paris had been grander.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” Napoleon strode out his bedchamber door dressed in white kerseymere breeches straining at the seams and a waistcoat with gold buttons pulling. Hadn’t he realized how corpulent he’d grown? At the same time, without his epaulets, polished military boots, and cocked hat, Napoleon appeared smaller, more vulnerable.
“Bonjour, Your Majesty.” This time she managed an adequate curtsy. “I brought my opera book, as you requested.” She held this out, and her hand remained steady.
“Fine, fine.” He took the volume and leafed through it. “You must know how to read notes then, Amélie. May I call you Amélie?”
“Yes...please, Your Majesty.” His interest, his remembering her name, delighted her.
Napoleon smiled and asked her to sit on the sofa. Since the emperor rarely let people sit in his presence, he granted her an enormous courtesy, but her legs froze up and she respectfully remained standing.
“What about the reading of notes?” he asked again.
“Yes, I can read notes, but I’m slow at it, and make mistakes.” She admitted her shortcomings.
“I noticed you had a little trouble with that aria yesterday, but we can remedy that.”
“I have heard...attended several operas. My sister-in-law studied opera and we sang a few.” Amélie took a deep breath, wishing her pulse would calm. “She helped me with learning the librettos.”
“Taught by your sister-in-law?” Napoleon’s expression grew amused. “You seem to have a natural talent. That’s excellent. You understand Italian?”
“Yes, Sire. My mother was Italian. She spoke it to me as a child.”
“Splendid. Italian is my native tongue, so I can help you there as well.” His enunciation still held an Italian flavor, even
after his many years in France. “Which operas do you prefer?”
“I…like Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro.” She stated the first opera that came to mind.
“Libretto by Lorenzo da Ponte. Yes, and why?” Napoleon sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him. “Come, come, don’t be shy, sit.”
“The Countess Almaviva sings such poignant laments, believing the count no longer loves her.” Amélie lowered herself to the cushion. Careful not to sit too close, she didn’t want to appear rude.
“Another count lusting after a servant girl, but a comic opera with a happy ending.” He said this as if he disapproved of such things. “You enjoy the tragic aspects?”
“I like the comic too.” She didn’t care to sound maudlin with the stale air pressing around her. His quarters felt like the rest of the house when it should feel different, superior, in here. “Sometimes one needs to sing comedy to lighten the heart.”
“I myself always preferred the tragic operas. Tragedy is noble and creates heroes. You seem an intelligent girl. What type of schooling have you had?” He laid down the book, folding his plump hands on his knee in a graceful gesture.
“I attended Madame Vamoulet’s in Paris until I was seventeen. I learned history, geography, mathematics. I did well in most.” Amélie fingered the cushion beneath her, uncomfortable with bragging. She tried not to stare Napoleon directly in the face, but his large vivid eyes drew her own.
“I am well aware of that Paris school. An excellent establishment, and not inexpensive.” His smile encouraged her to continue, while his gaze probed into every corner of her being, making her defenseless and giddy at the same time.
“Oh, yes, Your Majesty, you would be aware...” Amélie winced, sorry to remind him of his lost eminence. “My parents saved for us to attend good schools, my brothers and I. Madame Vamoulet was regarded as progressive, to teach girls in such a manner.”
“Paris had many progressive schools. It was I who reorganized France’s school system.” He spoke with quiet pride before scrutinizing her again. “In what manner do you mean?”
Elysium Page 7