“Have you finished organizing my dictation on the battle of Wagram? You have?” The emperor waved his hand and Montholon positioned himself against the wall between two windows, a slender statue with arms crossed—the Imperial Gatekeeper.
“You don’t mind if Montholon stays, do you?” Napoleon stood in front of her and over his shoulder the count watched Amélie with slitted eyes—much like his manservant Jules—his slender nostrils flaring. Between the two Montholons she felt as welcome as rotten fish.
“No, of course not, Sire,” she said, lying, surprised the emperor consulted her. Montholon was unnerving and the countess revolted her, but back in Napoleon’s company she’d strain to be worthy of his attention. Her muscles bunched in knots. “You do like the Bertati libretto?”
“It is what few we have, this comedy of a secret marriage. I prefer Cimarosa’s other opera, Gli Orazi ed i Curiazi. A tragedy of substance.” Napoleon clapped the book shut. “The heroine ends up being stabbed by her brother.”
Amélie finished the song, wincing over the slightest mistake.
The countess rose from the bench. “Are we done for the day, Sire? I must find the laundress to scrub the mildew stains from my silk shawl.” She rolled her shoulders as she ran her hand around the garment, frothy at her neck.
“Perhaps His Majesty’s little friend can find the laundress for you, mon ange.” Montholon strutted over as Napoleon strode to the other side of the room.
The countess dropped the garment onto Amélie’s head. “This damp house has ruined most of my clothes.”
“I’ll try to inform the laundress, if I have time due to my busy schedule.” Amélie pulled the silk away from her face—like a cobweb left by a spider. Her irritation bubbling, she suppressed the urge to stare at the countess’s waist for evidence of an impending child.
The woman flashed her a quick sneer.
“We don’t wish to disturb you with such trivialities, Sire,” the count said when Napoleon paced back. Montholon caressed his wife’s arm, his manner as smooth and transparent as the shawl. “We are here to please. Shall we play a game of chess, now that school is over?”
“Perhaps later. Yes, we all have many trials to contend with, but me much more so than you, mes amis.” Napoleon sounded weary. All the enthusiasm Amélie noticed during the lesson had drained away.
“Your Majesty, it’s the weather, these damp days and frigid nights. I feel sluggish before I even get out of bed in the morning.” Albine’s petulant tone changed to a simper. “Oh, do forgive me, I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Keep your manner serene, for His Majesty.” Montholon spoke in a tranquil voice.
“Listen to your husband. The more we suffer the more bounteous our return.” Napoleon spoke sharply, but he sounded as if such thoughts no longer cheered him.
Amélie wrinkled the silk in her hands, then dropped it onto a new marble-topped console behind her. “If you please, Sire, we have fresh lamb and a lentil salad for dinner tonight.” Aware he enjoyed these food items, she strived to be a part of the conversation, not just an instrument of entertainment.
Montholon’s ice-blue eyes widened, then narrowed on hers as if she’d scuttled out like a cockroach from under the baseboard.
“That’s right, you do work in the kitchen as well, Mademoiselle.” Napoleon’s expression brightened. “Keeping occupied is a virtue.” He walked close and tugged Amélie’s earlobe. Her heart quivered at this unexpected touch.
“Are we playing cards this evening, Your Majesty? I hope Fanny Bertrand isn’t attending. Her haughty demeanor is so disturbing to me.” The countess clearly wanted the attention back on her. “All she does is whine about how we have no proper society here.”
“You should pay more attention to your court, if I may be so bold, and not the servants.” Montholon stepped beside Napoleon, angling himself to nudge Amélie aside. He brushed a hand over his left epaulet as if to sweep her beneath him. “You promised me control of the household, Sire. Only I know the correct way to conduct matters, unlike Bertrand, who has a more, let’s say, ordinary background. Which he proves with his undignified actions.”
“Enough of your bickering. All of you must work out your differences. I’m disgusted at being the moderator among you.” Napoleon turned away, hands clasped behind his back.
Amélie bristled as well, tired of being dismissed by these grand elite, but confused about her footing here. A strange dance she needed to learn the steps to.
“How will this little amusement of yours look to the English?” Montholon capered after the emperor like a court jester. His disrespect was shocking. The more time they spent here, the more the layers of etiquette seemed to peel away, though that might be fortunate for her.
Amélie moved over to the windows, out of the line of fire.
“I forbid you to question my behavior or to interrupt me anymore.” Napoleon stalked away from the Montholons and up to her. “These people will drive me insane,” he muttered under his breath. “To rise above such things they need to forgive one another’s weaknesses.”
Did he consider himself weak for dallying with a servant?
“They should try harder, Sire, for your sake.” Her voice soft, she wanted to erase the tension on his face. “They should seek a compromise or…it’s futile. Perhaps a walk in the fresh air, away from these quarrels, might do you—”
“Futility at its worst.” Napoleon lowered his voice. “I’m not impressed with Montholon’s handling of the finances, but since Bertrand doesn’t live here I have little choice.” Then his eyes shimmered on hers, his smile returning. “Until tomorrow, for your next lesson, ma chère.”
“I think I’ll take a walk, to clear my head. I always enjoy that, Sire.” Amélie warmed all over, his admission pleased her. Her emperor’s disdain for the count was surprising. After the way he—and especially the countess—treated her, she liked being the more significant confidant.
She left the salon. Two chambermaids dusted in the dining room. They whispered and cast her derisive looks as she passed. One giggled behind her hand. Lately, several people had behaved this way in her presence.
Despite Napoleon’s disinterest to accompany her, she walked around the courtyard and stables, then entered the kitchen and put an iron on the stove to heat. She’d promised her father she would re-iron a shirt badly pressed by Clarice. “The servants seem envious of me,” she told him, mentioning the chambermaids. She didn’t relay the Montholons’ attitude toward her.
“I’m not surprised. The emperor has picked you out for attention. It might be a useful experience...in poise.” Her father ran his carving knives over a wet stone, scraping in swift, even strokes. He sounded wary. “I hope you aren’t being any trouble to His Majesty or the courtiers.”
“Papa, you can’t keep thinking I’m a child.” She couldn’t tell her father she might be the one sweet event in Napoleon’s day—and she reveled in that position. She even enjoyed the singing. Her intellectual pursuits pushed to the background, there would be time for that later.
“His Majesty needs the attention. There’s so little for him to do here.” Amélie smiled as she maneuvered the hot iron over her father’s linen, careful not to burn her fingers. What did she care about envious servants or spiteful courtiers? Her importance in the household rose.
“Just remember to always behave with ladylike decorum.” Perrault rushed over his words as if it were something uncomfortable, though required to be said.
“I always do, Papa.” She’d let him believe—for the moment—that he still dictated her actions. Her father loved her, but without the vibrancy of her mother—he either came off curt or negligent. Amélie sprinkled more water on the shirt. Pulse like a drumbeat call to arms, she’d never allow decorum to spoil her aspirations to stay by the emperor’s side.
Chapter Eight
How t
ime drags, what a cross. It takes courage to stay alive in a place like this—N.B.
The May humidity clung to the air, the sun weak behind a haze. Amélie ran her fingers over the wilted plant leaves, more rat nibbles along the edges. Rain drenched down the previous day and her hands turned brown, caked with mud, her apron soaked at her knees.
Governor Lowe slashed their household funds, saying they wasted too much money. Food was scarce, the island plagued with shortages, supplies half-rotten when they arrived. The soldiers consumed most of the provisions and prices soared.
She ran a finger inside her sweaty collar, inhaled the rich smell of the earth, and admired the sprouting evidence of even minor accomplishment. Still, her garden wasn’t producing as she’d hoped. She sang some of the aria she’d practiced the previous day.
A shadow loomed up over her herbs.
“His Majesty is right. You have a strong voice, Mademoiselle. Tres bien!” the eavesdropper declared. Amélie stared up to see Cipriani.
An older Corsican with sharp, sepia features, the servants considered him a mysterious character. As maitre d’hotel he managed the household food, but everyone knew he worked in a shadier capacity for the emperor. Cipriani went into Jamestown on the pretext of purchasing food. Gossip said as Napoleon’s spy, he gathered tales of the outside world from sailors at the cafes and coordinated the underground system that smuggled correspondence to Europe despite Lowe’s restrictions.
“Merci, Monsieur Cipriani.”
“You struggle in this garden. The best crop to grow on Saint Helena is yams. Their roots are so bitter the rats won’t eat them. That’s why the soldiers call the locals Yamstocks.” The wiry man stepped around her toward the wall, and then turned about, his long coat flapping. “You have ripened better than your plants, and become very interesting to look at.”
“I don’t care for yams.” Amélie’s face seared and she turned away from the swaggering maitre d’hotel—a man of almost sixty—to pull more weeds.
Cipriani leaned down toward her. “Maybe you might like to accompany me to Jamestown some afternoon?” he whispered in his nasal voice. “It’s so dull to remain around here all the time.”
Amélie glared up. “No, I would not care to. That’s a very forward invitation.”
“Such dismay, but, no, I wouldn’t try to usurp His Majesty.” Cipriani watched her with a crafty smile. “I think you tantalize the emperor with much more than just your singing voice.”
“How dare you suggest…” Amélie snatched up her basket with the few basil sprigs and hopped to her feet. She marched into the kitchen and scrubbed her hands to deflect her anger.
“What did that man say to you?” Her father stirred a pot over the stove, one brow raised.
“Not much, we were talking about yams.” She glanced out the window to check if Cipriani lingered. Her fingers trailed down her body—a fuller more womanly form? She sighed. Now noticed, as she’d once been teased, for something she had no control over, she was accused of more brazen acts. She’d done nothing wrong. The emperor was her friend, dare she hope. She tore up the herb leaves. “Here is some basil for your veal stew.”
Perrault sprinkled it in. The veal simmered, stringy and unappealing. The tangy smell thickened the kitchen air. “Watch this for me. I’m going up to the attic to see if Gascon is feeling better.” His tone weary, her father left the kitchen.
Amélie felt a twinge of shame for not helping him more.
The door banged open. Madame Cloubert staggered in with a pot of water. She plunked it on the stove to heat. She sniffed and glared toward the other pot. “I’m not eating any more of that disgusting island meat. We’ll starve with that governor’s new restrictions. He expects our emperor to eat like a peasant.”
“Governor Lowe punishes us since His Majesty refuses to receive him.” Amélie stirred the veal; her stomach churned at the prospect. “The emperor won’t ride so the orderly has a clear view of him, but he only hurts himself. Doctor O’Meara should insist the emperor stop hiding inside just to irritate the English.” Amélie had tried to talk Napoleon into riding again, but so far he’d ignored her. She’d failed in being tantalizing.
The tar paper shingles flapped on the kitchen roof. One blew off and whacked the kitchen window, before sailing like a crow into the courtyard.
“That mouton? O’Meara cares more for his gossip than being a true physician, and Lowe has the gall to send two of our footmen and one groom away. O’Meara probably told him we’re overstaffed, when I work my fingers to the bone.” The woman waved her skeletal hands in the air. “Have you read those new papers Lowe’s pushed on us?”
“Mon dieu.” Amélie peeled and dropped garlic into the meat, the smell pungent. “The document we must sign swearing to stay until His Majesty’s death? The British have no plans to ever release him.” She’d signed the papers that arrived that morning, but feared Napoleon’s reaction. Just the thought of his death filled her with helplessness.
“Lowe’s an evil rogue.” The head chambermaid snorted. She opened the pantry door, then slammed it shut. “No wonder His Majesty instructed his departing staff to contact his older brother in America, to hatch some plot of rescue. That’s what I heard, anyway.”
“Shhh, Madame. You shouldn’t speak of such things.” Amélie banged down the spoon, feeling excluded from any schemes. “It’s unsafe if the soldiers catch you.” She waited for the woman to say more, then chided herself for listening to gossip.
Did Napoleon entertain thoughts of escape or rescue? Of course, he must. He couldn’t let the English keep him here until his demise.
The kitchen door opened and Ali strode in. A clanging noise rang through the courtyard. “The emperor is having his silver smashed up. He’s ordered Cipriani to carry it into Jamestown to sell, to let the islanders know of our foul treatment, to shame the English for cutting back our stipend.”
Amélie peered out the kitchen window. A footman swung an ax, pulverizing the imperial serving dishes—a crushing of their former way of life. She turned to Ali. “What does His Majesty think of this newest declaration from the governor?”
“He ordered us not to sign it, but I have. I’m sure you will too.” Ali’s evaluating look made her uncomfortable, as if he believed the same as Cipriani. “I came to tell you no lesson. The emperor isn’t feeling well. He has a severe headache and chills, and his eyes burn even in candlelight. These strange symptoms come and go.”
“That’s terrible. His doctor should be reprimanded. His Majesty needs to eat more fruits and vegetables and walk out for his health, but I imagine this other has saddened him.”
“It’s saddened the hell out of me.” Madame Cloubert stifled another snort and checked the temperature of the water she heated. She eyed Amélie. “Don’t you have any influence over our emperor?”
“Doctor O’Meara seems conscientious, but he can’t force himself on his patient.” Ali stared into the veal stew, nose wrinkling. “I’ll inform His Majesty what tasty treat we’re having for supper.”
“Wait, take him some chamomile tea.” Amélie hurried to prepare it. Escape and death swirled in her head. The selfish idea surfaced that if the English kept him imprisoned here, she’d retain her relationship with Napoleon in such close proximity. A relationship a few seem to have misconstrued. If only her mother had lived long enough to explain every aspect of intimate behavior.
Sudden moisture filled her eyes. Amélie blinked it back, yearning for Maman’s advice, her presence, in so many matters. Her mother’s painful death had punctured an abrupt hole in her life.
* * * *
Napoleon closed his eyes. Her voice was so sweet to his senses. Music had always calmed his nerves, soothed his melancholy, and warmed his heart. The afternoons passed enjoyably now. He had someone to mold to his wishes. The girl blossomed under his tutelage, the waif developin
g a figure with hips and bosom. Her face rounded, softening the sharp edges, complementing her large brown eyes. She no longer resembled a haunted undernourished creature, though the smell of herbs that surrounded her gave her a woodland aspect—something ethereal and untouchable.
“Your Majesty, I know we’ve discussed this, but you should take up riding again.”
He opened his eyes and sat up straighter in the chair. Amélie smiled at him shyly. She’d sung without accompaniment, Albine pleading a headache. Horses galloped outside. Had he fallen into a dream?
Amélie hurried to the salon’s front window. “It looks like Governor Lowe is here, Sire.”
Napoleon rose and peered through the holes he’d had his servants cut in the shutters, so he could look out without anyone seeing him. “Yes, our esteemed governor, cowing back from his minions. What could he want?” Governor Lowe had reigned in, allowing a group of soldiers to ride up near the front porch, their hat plumes fluttering in the wind.
Their smug faces annoying him, Napoleon motioned Saint-Denis out to inquire.
“I wish to speak with the Count de Las Cases,” the governor’s assistant, Sir Thomas Reade, Deputy Adjutant General, announced. His moon-face barely shifted with his sly smile.
Ali returned and Napoleon sent him to fetch the count who sat in the drawing room, having his hair trimmed by the imperial barber. “Go out there and see what that beast wants with you,” he said when the little man trotted in.
“I must say, I can’t imagine what he might want of my humble person.” The chamberlain bowed, twitched his nose, and stepped out the front door.
Napoleon bent again to scrutinize the trespassers; his shoulder muscles tightened. He nodded to Ali, who slipped out the door and followed Las Cases.
“That’s a large contingent of soldiers for a conversation.” Amélie touched his arm, but he didn’t mind, her hand comforting.
Several minutes later, Reade and another soldier escorted Las Cases out the front gate.
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