Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Basta! My executioner.” Napoleon raised his fists, his blue-gray eyes livid.

  Amélie stepped back, cowed by this vision of her furious, defeated emperor. His familiar silhouette towered above her. A man that she, as well as the English, had no right to cage.

  Chapter Twelve

  True character always pierces through in moments of crises—N.B.

  Lord Amherst gave what passed for a sympathetic smile on his cadaverous features. “I can fully understand your difficult circumstances, sir. The extreme logistics of the island is problem enough. I will be pleased to mediate with the governor for you.”

  Napoleon came close to feeling satisfied, but kept his face stern. Never let your opponents know if they’ve affected you, good or bad. He stifled a cough, the phlegm rumbling in his chest. “Lowe has a demented need to torture me with his petty restrictions.” He stepped from the black stone chimneypiece in the drawing room, his hat tight under his arm. Candles flickered around them, giving off the cheap smell of tallow. “Tell your parliament that I await, as a favor, for the executioner’s hatchet to put an end to my jailor’s outrages.”

  Amherst flinched, just the reaction Napoleon intended. “I protest such thoughts, sir. I will see what I can do. Our government has much to answer for, but their fear of your power, even in this situation, prompts their actions.”

  “It can be construed as cowardice on their part.” Napoleon stiffened his jaw. “When you reach Europe, give my good Louise my tender regards, and tell her that I stay faithful to her.” This remained his set statement to anyone returning to Europe, no matter how much it hurt to say it. He clung to the belief his wife was coerced into deserting him by her perfidious family.

  After Bertrand showed Amherst out, Napoleon walked back to his study, coughing into his handkerchief. His cold almost stopped him from granting this interview, but Amée insisted he meet with the man. She’d become a demanding little creature. Still, her compassion pleased him when he had little sincerity from the others.

  He sank down on his lumpy sofa and Marchand handed him a cup of broth. He tasted it, inhaling the steam, glad to find the soup hot enough to burn his lips. “Amherst hasn’t a kind face. He failed in his China embassy by refusing to submit to the humiliating protocol of the Peking court. I must have faith he’ll report the indignities Lowe torments me with to his superiors in London. I gave Lowe a pretty lesson.” If this official didn’t help him, he’d have to forge ahead with his alternate plans. His elation dampened, a little, at the thought of never seeing Amélie again if he left Saint Helena. She’d begun to invade his senses. So strange, when he strained for his emotions to be bronzed over. He had to ignore such folly.

  He slid over a tortoiseshell box on his side table and opened it. Several strands of fine blond hair lay within. “Make certain to thank your mother for this gift, discreetly of course.” Napoleon stroked the hair and smiled. His eyes moistened with tears. Marchand’s mother, who had gone to Vienna with the empress and Napoleon’s son, had sent this hair to Marchand saying it was hers. Napoleon saw right away it belonged to his little boy, the child he hoped someday to see again. The Emperor Francis wanted him to have nothing more to do with his son. Napoleon feared they would teach him to follow the legitimists and feel horror for his own father. This was hardly the destiny he’d planned for his little king at his long-awaited birth.

  “I will most assuredly, Your Majesty.”

  “What do you think of Amélie?” Napoleon pulled his flannel blanket closer around him. Some might think it strange that he’d ask his valet’s opinion, but here in these tight quarters he’d grown closer to this young man who tended him like a friend.

  “She’s a nice girl with a good reputation, Sire.” Marchand crouched down and wrapped a warm towel around Napoleon’s feet. He placed a heated brick under them.

  Napoleon sighed, gratified by the warmth coming through his soles. He heard no condemnation of their relationship in the young man’s tone—he always remained deferential. “A nice girl. Yes, indeed. I must find her a good husband.”

  He would depart this island, by legal or illegal means, it didn’t matter. The Irish captain of the East India should return from Cape Town, South Africa soon, but the “extreme logistics” of the island kept measures at a crawl.

  * * * *

  Amélie muffled a cough, straining to hit the correct notes while struggling to form the guttural words. She rehearsed as Pamina, who seeks her own death in “Achd, ich fuhl’s,” from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. The following month the Bertrands would host her next recital at Hutt’s Gate.

  Napoleon stood at his study fireplace, watching her. She bit her lip, frustrated he insisted she sing this aria in the original German. His having an Austrian wife must prompt this desire. It saddened her to see him pine for a shallow young woman who cuckolded him the minute her situation became difficult.

  “Amée, you are so close. Ecoute, if you would just pay attention to what I’m saying. You’re fighting the entire process.” The emperor’s scolding compounded her upset. “Now try it again.”

  Rain beat down against the study’s shuttered windows. Amélie perspired around her neck and down her chest, but Napoleon always enjoyed a raging fire.

  “This has none of the lilting quality of Italian operas. May I have some water?” she croaked. “I don’t think—”

  “Water must wait. One more time, you almost have it. Let’s not waste a moment!”

  He expected her to be flawless, but she feared she disappointed him, something she never wanted to do. Her head throbbed, her throat felt scraped with broken glass. “Let me rest. I can’t do this! I know why you want it!”

  Napoleon’s glare made her tremble with failure and she burst into tears. Humiliated, Amélie fled out the study side door. Blinded by tears and rain, she rushed through the chilling downpour, squelching in mud as she rounded the back of the house to her quarters.

  In her room, she flung herself on the bed, mortified by her behavior, but angry with him for pushing so relentlessly.

  A frantic knock on her door. She bunched her pillow around her head and hoped it wasn’t her father. “Please...go away.”

  “Amée, let me in.”

  At Napoleon’s voice she hopped up and hurriedly straightened the bedclothes. Wiping her face with a discarded nightgown, she fretted over what to do next. She had no choice, fingers flexing, and pulled open the door.

  Napoleon looked so distressed, she took a shuddering breath, amazed he chased after her. He proved himself a mortal man, weakened by her tears.

  “It’s all my fault.” He stepped into her narrow chamber, his hands gentle on her shoulders, water dripping from his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Amée.”

  She sniffed as more tears escaped. “I should never have behaved so. I’m sorry, but I needed so much to rest.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed her moist cheeks. “I would never intentionally make you cry, you must believe that. I got carried away. I realize I can be a hard taskmaster. Will you forgive me?”

  “Yes, but...I don’t like that opera in German. It’s harsh, even if that disappoints you.”

  “A strange language I once tried to learn myself. Worse than the English Las Cases tried to teach me.” He stared into her face as if mulling something over. “All right, if you insist, we’ll strike that song. Who wants to hear German opera? Italian is far superior, with grace and melody.” Napoleon drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.

  Amélie laid her cheek on his shoulder, absorbing the warmth of his embrace even through damp cloth. Content to be held by him, she trembled, then relaxed against his thumping heart. His hands tightened on her back.

  Napoleon pulled away as if she’d stung him like a wasp. He patted her face and said quickly, “Are we all right now? Good. The
n rest, until tomorrow.”

  He hurried back out the door. She hugged her empty arms around her tremulous body.

  * * * *

  Amélie turned from the Countess de Montholon who lounged like a fat cat in the study doorway. “I have no problem singing a cappella, Sire.”

  “Go and soak your hands, Albine.” Napoleon waved the woman away, his voice gruff. “We will dispense with your playing for the time being, since it so tires you.”

  Albine rubbed her hands together, her pout mawkish. “It’s only because of my condition.” She stroked her protruding belly. “You understand, of course, Your Majesty.” The woman grinned.

  “I’m certain your husband is very concerned about his baby.” Amélie smirked back through clenched teeth. The countess loved to flaunt the suspect paternity of her child.

  Albine wrinkled her nose and flounced from the room.

  “Ignore her. Albine likes to distract me. She’s not up to the task, so we don’t need her, do we? We’ll wait until she has her child.” Napoleon’s attitude showed no possessiveness toward the impending event.

  “We don’t need her at all.” Amélie smiled for him, but he looked away and walked to his sideboard. She relived his arms around her the previous afternoon, her quivering reaction—she’d never realized an embrace could stir up so many emotions. Now Napoleon seemed distant, ashamed?

  “Now, Amée, I want to commend you for your performance improvement on the points we discussed.” Napoleon raised a crystal decanter. “As a treat for your perseverance, I will give you a glass of my special wine. It isn’t my Chambertin, but the British won’t allow me such luxury.” He seldom shared this wine, reserving it for his own consumption.

  “I’m honored. Ali says you receive this wine from South Africa.” She accepted a glass, their fingers almost touching.

  “The British import it from near Cape Town, the Constantia vineyard. It’s called the Vin de Constance and has an unusual bouquet.” He poured his own glass and took a sip.

  Amélie sampled the wine, but the acrid flavor disappointed her.

  “Eh bien, do you approve?” Napoleon asked as if her approval was important.

  “Yes...but I think it’s…too rich for my tastes.”

  “I’ll admit, many have felt the same.” His smile turned thoughtful, sad.

  “I’m not much of a connoisseur when it comes to wine.” Out of respect she finished her glass, smiling through the bitterness. The beverage left a strange aftertaste in her mouth.

  “Have you seen this bust of my son?” Napoleon set down his glass and went over and pulled the item from his mantelpiece. A child’s impassive face encased in marble.

  “He is a handsome boy.” His longing saddened her. Rumors said the bust was a fake, made in London by men hoping to cash in on a father’s love, and not commissioned by the empress as Napoleon deceived himself. She, however, wouldn’t diminish his parental joy at the gift.

  “He looks too much like Marie Louise.” He turned the bust in his hands.

  Amélie savored his remark, as if that resemblance displeased him. “He has your chin.” She moved closer, her shoulder near his.

  “Yes, he does have my chin...and forehead.” Napoleon ran a finger over the child’s cold, noble brow. He stepped away and set the bust back on the mantel. “Lowe refused to forward this gift. The islanders protested and he was forced to release it. Another reason I can’t give in to Lowe’s edicts and let him refute my title. That will negate my son’s inheritance and rights to the throne of France.”

  “No one dares deny your sovereignty over France. Enlightened people will rally behind your son.” She fingered her empty glass and prayed the Austrians wouldn’t keep the child prisoner for the rest of his life in their embarrassment over a now inconvenient liaison.

  “In the difficult birthing of our boy…I asked the doctor to save the mother. My good Louise was grateful to me for that.” Napoleon sounded wistful.

  “That was kind of you. What a concerned husband would do.” Amélie almost wished the unfaithful empress had died in childbirth. Napoleon should forget about such a vapid creature. He had people close by who cared about him.

  “You are a loyal subject, Amée.” He patted her cheek, tenderness spreading over his face. His hand lingered for a moment. “Always compassionate. Your sincerity honors me. Not like the empty flattery of so many others.”

  She tingled inside with a strange heat, but wanted to be more than a sycophant. “Will we walk again soon? I know you’re angry at the governor for observing us, but this battle of wills is bad for you both.”

  “Please don’t mention that villain to me. You have no idea of the complexities.” Napoleon paced to the other side of the room, hands clasped behind his back.

  “A tolerant relationship would have to improve your situation.” Amélie softened her tone under his glare. She rubbed a hand over her throat at a slight burning sensation. “You can’t understand one another if you never speak.”

  “If we weren’t stuck on this rock, you could practice properly in a theater. This ridiculous island doesn’t even boast such amenities.” Napoleon’s expression brooding, she might have grazed on the truth. “Though nothing compares with Paris and her grand houses: the Théatre-Français, the Opéra. If Saint Helena did offer the finer pleasures of humanity, Lowe would wring any drop of joy from it. That’s his character.”

  “I heard they do have a small theater in Jamestown, but you know I’d never care to go on the stage.” He continued to deflect her concerns. She had to maneuver around his stubbornness. “Couldn’t you find a way to be happy on Saint Helena?”

  “Never. What is there to be happy about with a man who blindly follows orders? England wants me to be General Bonaparte, prisoner of war. Lowe threatens to send my servants to the Cape if they dare violate his rules, the islanders banished, a soldier accused of high treason. Are these the workings of a rational man?” He picked up a discarded newspaper and tossed it into a corner. Then he turned to stare at her, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re content here?”

  “I am, and I keep busy, which leaves me little time to be otherwise.” She flourished in the stimulating company she’d kept these last months. The one person who fed her need to stretch her limits, Napoleon had risen from obscurity to magnificence by his own will. Her stomach started to churn. “Your life here could be enjoy—”

  “How could a pretty girl like you be satisfied in this existence? You should be attending balls, riding in the park with young gallants anxious to please you, desperate to ask for your hand in marriage.” Napoleon’s gaze pierced her as if he’d shot an arrow.

  “I’m not looking to wed.” Her reply sharp, she pressed a hand to her gurgling stomach. She’d stay on Saint Helena—with him—safe in their cosseted world. “A person can be satisfied anywhere if they put their mind to it.”

  “That will be all for the day.” He scrutinized her with a new wariness she didn’t like.

  “Very well, Napoleon.” Dazed, she left the study. He’d called her pretty, but was that empty flattery? She’d grown poised in his company, enjoying his interest in her talents that had nothing to do with outward appearance. Now pulled in another direction, she craved those touches, warm embraces that sent shivers along her body.

  Outside her room, her stomach heaved. Amélie rushed to the privy and vomited into a basin. She coughed and sputtered, the sour taste burning her mouth and nose. She’d never drink another glass of the emperor’s special wine.

  * * * *

  After Amélie left, looking a little pale—he had to discourage their closeness, marry her off—Bertrand arrived at the study door. His grand marshal swept off his hat, his neck crimson.

  Napoleon sighed. “Over what ridiculous infraction is Lowe to torture me now?” He yanked on his bell chord.
“Marchand! Fill my bath.”

  “It isn’t the governor, Your Majesty.” Bertrand stepped in and bowed. His brown hair had thinned on top, his pasty scalp showing through like a goose egg in a nest. “I have a letter, or I should say, a proclamation from the British ministry. Lowe just had it delivered to me.”

  “Well, what is it?” Napoleon’s shoulders stiffened. It wasn’t good news, or Bertrand wouldn’t be staring at his scuffed boots. He heard splashes as footmen poured buckets of water into his tub in the other room and closed his eyes, anxious to soak away these torments.

  “Lord Holland held a debate in Parliament over your harsh treatment here. We had high hopes for this, if you remember, Sire?” Bertrand’s head about sunk into his shoulders.

  “Of course I remember.” Lady Holland had met him as First Consul during the peace of Amiens and admired him. “And? And? Tell me.” Napoleon rubbed his hands through his hair. Could you still kill the messenger who brought bad news?

  “Unfortunately, Lord Bathurst, the Colonial Secretary, has prevailed, preventing any change in policy toward you, Sire.” Bertrand straightened and looked at him with sheepish eyes. He held out the paper, wavering in his fingers.

  “They think they’ve heard the last of me, these men who once negotiated with me as the sovereign of France.” Napoleon snatched the paper and read through it. He then flung the letter into the fire, where it curled and blackened like his hopes. “Bertrand, we will write a rebuttal to Bathurst’s speech. We must keep matters stirred up at all times!”

  Napoleon couldn’t wait for Amherst, or any of the British. His strategy, no matter the risk, definitely changed now. He kicked a log in the fireplace and the air in front of him shimmered with sparks.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He who fears to lose his reputation is sure to lose it—N.B.

  Amélie breathed in the crisp morning air as she crossed the courtyard, eager for her walk. Jules cavorted around near her garden, snickering at the large rodent he’d tied to his miniature carriage. The creature wriggled and snapped the item about behind it.