Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  The doctor bowed his head and entered the house. She breathed in the pungent smells from her garden. She relived Napoleon’s sensual embrace, the way her heart had pulsed, her body steaming from the inside out. She longed for more of those sensations. How could he not feel the same? Amélie leaned against the kitchen wall, wrestling with a hedonistic emotion that crept up in her soul. This place was like the Tower of Babel, with everyone trying to communicate in different languages and no one understanding anything.

  * * * *

  Napoleon strode past the gate guards slumped in their little white lodges. The winter air chilled his face, but he planned to be gone from here before another winter arrived. O’Sullivan promised action. Amélie walked beside him, the footman following. He’d consented to walk, to remain strong, muscles stretching.

  “You angered Albine at cards.” He coughed, stared around the plateau, anywhere but her earnest face. “She complained, but I calmed her. She’s gone into confinement at last.”

  “I hope I didn’t upset you as well with my ill-advised words.”

  “You have become a sharp-tongued shrew.” He’d keep their conversation playful, just a light scolding, his spirits too blissful.

  “You shouldn’t try to marry me off. I’m capable of deciding on my own husband.” She sounded on edge and stumbled to keep up with him. They stepped around an everlasting flower that waved in the wind on its skinny stalk.

  “I don’t want you marrying someone undeserving of you.” Hands clasped behind his back, Napoleon made an effort to relax and enjoy the stroll. His own fears of tarnishing her prompted him to push her into someone else’s arms, yet he intended to control whose arms they were.

  “When a woman marries, she becomes subordinate to her husband and I don’t think I’d fit into such a role.”

  Three wild peacocks strutted in the distance, flaunting their rainbow tail feathers.

  “When a woman becomes too sharp it ruins her femininity.” Napoleon’s boots crunched over the pebbles, scattering red thistle—boots that once stirred the dirt on the great battlefields of Europe. “That’s the one charm she has over a man.”

  “If she is forced to marry someone cruel she’s stuck by law, no matter her desires.” Amélie hunched down into her jacket and he fought the desire to put his arm around her.

  Instead, he chuckled. This is why he needed to choose her a husband. “There’s a poem about unsexed female writers instructing and confusing men and themselves in the labyrinth of politics, or turning them wild with Gallic frenzy.” Napoleon threw up a hand, his breath sharp in the wind.

  “Gallic frenzy—our revolution. Archaic laws against women still need to be changed.” Her sullen tone showed she wasn’t really interested in this subject today. They passed over marled earth, dirty white or crimson in color, running like veins through the soil, both so obviously skirting the heart of the matter.

  The orderly officer trailed them in the distance on horseback.

  “The pounding fists of Poseidon cradles us on this shore,” Amélie said when they stopped at the sea cliffs, the surf rushing below.

  Napoleon smiled at her whimsical words and pictured himself sailing away over that ocean. “What about Saint-Denis for a husband?”

  “Pardon? He’s…like a brother. We’d never suit.” She hung her head and he prickled with guilt as they both sat on a large rock.

  “Opposites are complimentary. What one lacks the other provides. Josephine and I were a perfect example, yet we understood one another.” He took a deep breath. “Of course, Marie Louise and I had little in common, but she was very attached to me.”

  Amélie picked up a boneseed stem at her feet and twisted it until it crackled. Her blond hair blew about her shoulders. “Did you love the Empress Marie Louise?”

  He almost reached out, to run his fingers through her locks. Now his heart pinched.

  Had he loved her, or just cherished her as the mother of his child? For the Hapsburg blood she carried? Hadn’t her sluggish, dull ways annoyed him after a time? A fatal liaison, that marriage, for the Austrians still betrayed him. Her sordid affair with the Austrian count. He never let anyone know how that affected him. He’d made it “policy” to behave as if she remained his devoted wife.

  Snatching up a pebble, Napoleon tossed it. “She was a sweet, naïve girl...yes, I cared for her. She seemed to love me, but her family intervened. She was easily dominated. They persuaded my good Louise not to return my son, or join me in exile.” He stared off over the ocean. When he glanced back at Amélie he saw a pity there he couldn’t stand.

  “I’m sor—”

  “I suppose we ought to return.” Napoleon pressed her hand to stop her words. He held her soft skin for several minutes before remembering himself. He stood, fingers clenched. They strolled back. The orderly officer left them when they entered their grounds. Napoleon sighed with satisfaction. The place didn’t look so desolate now that he wouldn’t languish here waiting to die.

  “Who is this Captain O’Sullivan you seemed so anxious to meet yesterday?”

  “No one, only a distraction.” Napoleon cringed at her sudden inquiry into forbidden areas. “What about Doctor O’Meara?”

  Passing the dismal Park, several Javanese sparrows rustled in the tree limbs. Their ash plumage with white collars made them look like miniature nuns chirping devotions.

  “What about him?” Amélie frowned.

  Napoleon dismissed the footman at the front veranda. “To marry. He’s a physician, and I’ll pay him well when he decides to leave this rock.”

  She glared at him, her eyes startled. “No, thank you. I’ll make my own choices. I might never marry.”

  “Nonsense. A woman’s crowning achievement is a good marriage.” Napoleon resisted pinching the tip of her nose, to return her to the role of child—which countered with his efforts to interest her in matrimony. Perhaps he shouldn’t walk with her anymore.

  “You’re pushing me onto your valets, but they already have women in Jamestown.” She crossed her arms, mouth in a thin line, though the lower lip trembled a little.

  “Just mulatto women they use as their mistresses. No one important.” He started up the steps.

  “The mistresses might think they’re important.” Her brown eyes scrutinized him, probing where he didn’t want to go. “You shouldn’t dismiss them as insignificant.”

  “A mistress doesn’t keep a man from making a proper marriage.” Napoleon forced himself to sound gruff. If she only realized how significant she was, how she tore at him. He slammed into the house.

  * * * *

  Amélie lit the kitchen candles once the cannon fired to announce sunset—the drumbeat of their lives. Her father sliced turnips at the table. Chef Gascon prepared dough.

  “The countess is about to give birth.” Aware she shouldn’t speak of such things before the men, she didn’t care. Whose baby was it? She chopped parsley, tarragon, chervil, and chives for an herb sauce to pour over the tasteless albacore steaks they fixed for dinner. She thrummed inside and couldn’t allow the emperor to tire of her, but how far would she go to assure he didn’t? A mistress, as she’d contemplated? Amélie now understood her appeal and her desires. Desires for a man who denied his own. “Weren’t the Montholons a strange couple to invite to Saint Helena?”

  “Very true. His Majesty once dismissed Montholon, and I heard the count had legal problems back in France.” Gascon pinched and punched his dough. “The countess, married twice and unfaithful to her husbands. The emperor scorned her…before we came here.”

  Perrault raised a cleaver and sliced the last turnip in half. “We spend too much energy insulting one another, Philippe, and to what purpose?” Perrault dropped the turnips into a pot of boiling water, and stirred onions sautéing in a skillet. “Hand me more butter, Amélie.”

 
“François, everyone knows this.” Gascon frowned, mopping his sweaty brow with his handkerchief. “Peste, this flour we get from the Cape is so gritty. They say it’s ground with soft stone, which grinds into the flour, making a shambles of my creations.”

  “Montholon must have followed to hide from his legal problems.” Had Albine come to seduce their emperor? Why? How did you seduce a man? Amélie lifted the floor slab, swiped aside a trail of ants, and handed her father the butter.

  “That needs to rise.” Gascon gave his dough a last slap and plodded to the door, his handkerchief fluttering. “I must lie down to soothe my head. How much longer will I last? If His Majesty had stayed on Elba, I’d still have my Pierre, and wouldn’t be here.”

  “The king refused to pay the emperor’s pension, that’s why he left Elba.” Amélie glared after Chef Gascon. His subtle resentment toward Napoleon bothered her.

  “Amélie, maybe you should start spending time with people your own age.” Her father sounded tense over the sizzling butter. He placed the fish into the mixture. “A footman is not a sufficient chaperone. An older woman should accompany you.”

  She blinked at her father. He’d be devastated if she became Napoleon’s mistress, but she couldn’t appease everyone. Amélie stirred lemon juice, salt, pepper, and a little olive oil into the herbs to complete her sauce. “Don’t worry, Papa. One of the chambermaids is walking with us next time.” A small lie. How many more lies were to come? She stirred faster avoiding his scrutiny.

  “You must make certain to introduce me to this chambermaid.” His words prickly, he seemed intent tonight to act the overly concerned parent. She chewed on the tip of her lemon-scented thumbnail.

  Madame Cloubert barged through the kitchen door like a sand-filled sirocco. “The countess just gave birth to a baby girl. What a fuss in the house. His Majesty is all in a dither.” She leveled her sharp gaze on Amélie. “I wonder who the child resembles, the mother…or the father?”

  “I’m certain the count is very proud of his daughter.” The smell of food suddenly made Amélie’s stomach roil. Perhaps the child was Napoleon’s.

  “Didn’t you say you had some lady’s mantle tincture, good for slowing bleeding?” the woman asked. “The countess could use some after her travails.”

  Perrault coughed and stirred the fish. “We don’t need to go into any of the details.”

  “I’ll bring it to her maid, Madame.” Amélie opened the pantry door and took out the tincture she’d prepared by soaking the herb in brandy for three days. She stepped outside, anxious to leave the kitchen, her thoughts in turmoil. The cold evening air made her shiver after the heat from the stove; she’d cut through Longwood. Entering the dim house, she walked into the dining room. The floors squeaked. Someone came out of the shadows and almost knocked her over. She gasped and clutched the small bottle to her chest.

  “Amélie.” Jules jerked back from her as if pricked by a thorn. He held a set of keys, which he thrust behind his back with a jingle. “Why do you lurk in these corners?” He glared at her, his annoyance sharp.

  “What is the matter with you? I’m not lurking.” She crept back a step. “Here, take this to your master. It’s for his wife. A spoonful every three hours.”

  “I have duties elsewhere. Mind your own business.” Squinting at her, he snatched the bottle from her hands anyway and stalked from the room toward the front hall. He’d have to exit this portion of the house and walk outside to reach the Montholons’ quarters in the right wing, where he slept in a tiny chamber next to theirs.

  Amélie recognized the keys as the ones to the wine cabinet, keys the Count de Montholon usually possessed. Was Jules stealing the emperor’s wine? She’d tell Napoleon of his suspicious behavior.

  * * * *

  Amélie watered the gilly flowers she’d planted in front of the house, near the veranda. Their spicy scent tickled her nose. Napoleon stood near the wall, talking to Count Bertrand.

  Bertrand finally walked off. She tucked a flower in her bodice and approached Napoleon. She licked her lips and wished for the experience of a courtesan.

  “Good morning, Sire.” She flashed her best smile.

  He stared through his field glasses over the plain. “Good morning.”

  She waited a few minutes. “Does the Count de Montholon’s manservant have access to your wine cabinet?”

  “What? He shouldn’t. Why?” He spoke in a distracted manner.

  “I saw him there yesterday with the count’s keys. He acted angry that I’d caught him.”

  “I’ll mention it to Montholon.” Napoleon lowered the glasses. “Those fools, building that place on this same windblown, treeless plain. Don’t they understand that soon it will drip with mold as our present dwelling?”

  The rising structure of Longwood New House, or New Longwood as some called it, loomed a few hundred yards away. The building’s foundation was complete and a few walls erected. The breeze shifted and the smell of new wood carried through the air with the plunks of hammering.

  Amélie put her hand on his sleeve. “That’s because you refused to tell the governor where you wanted the house built.” For Napoleon that meant accepting the fact he may never leave Saint Helena. “Will you walk over with me and at least look at it?”

  “It’s an insult for them even to build it.” Napoleon scoffed. “A waste of their time and money.”

  “Don’t you want to live in comfort…even if it might be for a short while?” She threw the last in to placate him. “I’ve heard it will have a Grecian front with alcoves for statues. They’re sending out a marble bathtub for you. We could plant some pine trees for a windbreak.”

  “Perhaps I should walk over, lull Lowe into thinking I’m settling in here. Ease his fractious mind.” Napoleon tapped his upper lip with a knuckle.

  “You wish to lull the governor?” Amélie didn’t like his calculating words.

  “Never mind that. I’ve been thinking, the household needs to go on a picnic. Sandy Bay has striking scenery. Las Cases and I used to ride over there, before Lowe slithered into my life.” Napoleon turned to smile at her. “Marchand will accompany us, and we can invite that chubby maid who moons after him all the time.”

  “Clarice?” At least he wasn’t forcing the valet on her. Had he changed his mind about marrying her off? She caressed his arm.

  “Let’s plan it for next Saturday. I’ll invite the Bertrands and their children, if Fanny isn’t in one of her tizzies. I presume I can’t invite the Montholons, though fresh air would do Albine good.”

  He goaded her and she relaxed with a laugh. “Please, only the Bertrands.”

  Napoleon tugged her hair. “Might we try to instigate a little romance between Marchand and this Clarice?”

  “As long as you don’t try that trick with me. Clarice will be overjoyed.” A picnic with her sounded interesting and perilous at the same time. She hugged his arm close, unsure how an aspiring mistress should behave. Albine’s blatant actions invaded her thoughts. “How are the countess and her new baby? You seemed very concerned about her.”

  “She’s doing fine. Yes, I’m aware of the talk about the child’s paternity.” He turned back toward New Longwood and raised his glasses. “Did this rumor upset you?”

  “No, of course not.” If only she had the sophistication to overlook such things, instead of hoping he’d give an outright denial.

  “My concern was just a diligent sovereign in my little empire.” He lowered the glasses again. “The woman is desirable to no one but her husband.”

  “Is her husband so devoted to her?” She swatted away a jade dragonfly that buzzed about her face.

  “Amée, don’t become like the rest with their pettiness.” He squeezed her hand and her heartbeat trebled. When she laid her hand over his, he slid away and walked toward the house. She sighed. How did
one discern between the touches of deep affection and the fawning of a courtier? Didn’t he feel the sensations when they touched as well as she?

  “Please speak to the count about his manservant, Jules,” she called before Napoleon disappeared into the house. Jules, a devious man, but was he any less devious than his master? An aristocrat her emperor once dismissed who eagerly joined him in exile?

  * * * *

  Napoleon tossed his hat onto the sofa in his bedroom. He would have to bring up the study in Milan idea again. He’d only break her heart if things stayed as they were. Amée was too good to make into a mistress. He had to ignore his desires. Her touches, her smiles today. She needed to be sent off the island—for her own protection. This picnic at Sandy Bay would be their last excursion together, and all in the innocent name of friendship. He could arrange her departure far faster than his own. No one would care if she left Saint Helena…except for him.

  Cipriani came in, dissolving his gloomy thoughts. “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes. You are certain that letter to my Uncle Fesch made it safely off the island?”

  “Of course, Sire. Yesterday, as you commanded me.” Cipriani, dressed in his silver-embroidered emerald coat and black silk breeches—the way he served him in Europe—made a respectful bow.

  “Yes, yes, I keep asking, don’t I?” Napoleon rubbed his face hard. “I’m impatient for a reply. In France I had couriers rushing to and from me constantly. Here the ocean deters us all. This next segment of my plan is vital. We will accomplish this, won’t we, Franchesci?”

  The older Corsican’s face creased into his enigmatic smile. “We will, Sire. As the Count de Las Cases said in his last smuggled in letter, there are many on the outside eager to aid in your departure.”

  “Numerous people mourn my unfair incarceration here. Even England’s Lord Byron wrote an ode to me. Life never turns out as we expect it to. We must be vigilant in so many things.” Napoleon walked toward his fireplace. He looked up at the Consular watch positioned above the mantel, hanging from a braid of Marie Louis’s hair. Then he thought of Amélie’s hair, the clean scent, the silkiness between his fingers. Folly to have such feelings like a love struck boy.