Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Napoleon strode into his study and snatched a piece of licorice from a tortoiseshell box on the sideboard. He chewed methodically on the sweet in an effort to calm his stomach. Hadn’t he sent other women away when they got too close and inconvenienced him? He must be growing muddled in the head to feel such regret at having to do the same to her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ...It would be the merciful deed of a protective divinity to rid us of love and to liberate the world from it—N.B.

  “I don’t know if poor Marchand will appreciate your pairing him with Clarice.” Amélie smiled at Napoleon as she loaded his calash with the picnic repast her father prepared. The sun shone bright, no mists or rain.

  The valet rushed from the house, his expression harried, toting three bottles of wine. Clarice, her plump face as alight as the sun, followed too close on his heels.

  “Oh, I have other plans for Marchand, but a bit of distraction won’t hurt them,” Napoleon said in amused conspiracy.

  Amélie dropped the matter, and she’d also pretend he’d never mentioned marriage or study in Europe.

  Napoleon boarded the rear seat of the carriage and she slid in beside him, behind Archambault. Montholon’s son, six-year-old Tristan, wriggled in excitement beside the groom after the emperor had insisted on including him.

  “Will you sit with me, Louis?” Clarice gazed at Marchand. The valet gave a tight smile and shook his head. He helped her up into the front seat, then asked permission to squeeze in beside the emperor and Amélie. Clarice pouted, but continued to gaze fondly. She giggled, her smile returning as she twirled an auburn strand and rolled her shoulder at the beleaguered valet.

  Amélie sympathized with Marchand, yet almost wished he returned Clarice’s ardor, since it so improved her nature.

  Archambault snapped the reins and the calash trundled off the grounds.

  The Bertrands joined them at Hutt’s Gate, following in a cart with their children, young Napoleon, age nine, and seven-year-old Hortense. Bertrand would normally ride as escort beside the emperor’s cart, but Napoleon bade him to stay with his family. The orderly officer galloped in their wake.

  To Amélie’s delight, Napoleon whistled and hummed as the calash plunged down the serpentine road that wound around the mountains to the southern side of the island. Napoleon took obvious pleasure in their swift movement and urged the groom to more speed.

  “Archambault, aren’t we too close to the cliff? Affreux!” Clarice spoke in anger. A moment later she whimpered and grasped the groom’s arm. “Can’t you slow down a bit?”

  Amélie relished the rumbling beneath her and felt a possessive joy in being pressed against Napoleon. The carriage groaned, careening down the rutted road. Its left wheels—dangerously near the cliff side—sprayed rocks and cinder.

  “Are you enjoying this, Amée?” Napoleon smiled and winked at her. “Madame Bertrand usually screams when I take her out for this ride.”

  “Oh, yes, immensely. I won’t scream.” She gripped the seat with both hands. When they eventually slowed, she rescued her heart from her throat, the exhilaration akin to fear. Tristan grinned and squealed at the ride but Clarice blanched pale as linen.

  On the island for ten months, Amélie had never seen this side of tiny Saint Helena. The coast in the distance, between barren conical rocks, was dun colored with veins of red and purple clay. The ridge they passed around bore a combination of bare conical hills and striking rock pinnacles. Sharp ravines and rises gouged the volcanic landscape. The perforated ridges here resembled arches with gothic fretwork. Wide-eyed children tending goats on the hillsides, near huts with mossy roofs, stared as they rambled by.

  Passing Long Range, a mass of rocky mountains two thousand feet high, they entered the region known as Sandy Bay. The cove’s remarkable beauty struck Amélie: one of those clefts in this harsh earth lush with vegetation. On the boxwooded slope of Diana’s Peak, stretching down to the cove, enormous ferns, red hibiscus, and pink camellias rippled in the breeze. Scarlet splashes of canna and yellow ginger plants bordered the track they followed. Cabbage trees with long, splayed leaves provided sporadic shade.

  “This area is so beautiful. I wish we lived here.” Amélie craned her neck to observe this verdant contrast to their home on the Deadwood Plain.

  “Now, Amée, do you think the British would let me stay anywhere near a bay? I might swim away to Africa,” Napoleon said dryly.

  To the right of the cove, they slowed before a gradual slope that leveled out to an area overlooking the bay. Enough pine and date palms were present for shade, along with dense thickets of wild mango. Cattle and sheep grazed on the grass farther up. The cool breeze stirred the musky scents.

  “This is as good a place as any,” the emperor announced. The groom reined in and jumped from the calash.

  Marchand spread a large blanket beneath the trees. He and Clarice laid out their baskets of food and wine. Roast chicken, ham, fresh bread, cheese, a cake, and the small local peaches and bananas comprised their repast. Amélie pulled out the basket of imported cherries. She’d included this rare treat, since Napoleon enjoyed the fruit.

  “Let’s walk down to the beach. I need some relaxation after that awful ride.” Clarice adjusted her cap and grinned at Marchand. “It looks so steep, I will need a strong arm.”

  The valet’s shoulders drooped.

  “Take us too!” The Bertrand children shouted, clapping anxious hands. “Please, please.”

  “Go on, all of you. I’m quite comfortable here.” Napoleon sat under the largest tree with a book in his hand and waved them away. A puff of air ruffled the leaves above him.

  Marchand hesitated, reluctant to leave his master, or petrified of accompanying Clarice. Napoleon urged him to go, as well as Amélie. “Archambault will remain with me to tend the horses.”

  Curious about the cove, Amélie joined the others in the trek down the valley. Marchand went first, hobbled by Clarice who’d quickly grabbed his arm. The children skipped along after them, and the Bertrands with Amélie brought up the rear.

  Ridges and ravines converged to form this valley, sloping down from trees to shrubs, then thin grass giving way to slag. Dipping toward the sea into a crater-like cove, the surface was in shades of lilac, pale lime, and russet like layers of a cake. Red-legged partridges sat on the rocks near the water. Amélie looked up as a crimson dragonfly buzzed over her head.

  This is an enchanted land. In their seclusion on the wind-ravaged plain, the French didn’t appreciate the island’s primeval beauty. Did she see herself as Calypso, who held the sovereign-soldier captive? To Odysseus, even after seven years, her island was nothing but a prison and he wept to go home. Amélie had to muster womanly sophistication, not rely on foolish fantasy.

  The three children scrambled to hunt for seashells, their eager voices reverberating off the volcanic slopes. Amélie tasted the salt in the breeze, feeling her lungs cleansed, and picked a batch of blue irises at the edge of the grass.

  “Maybe the tide will come in while we’re here,” Fanny Bertrand said as the woman stood near the slag’s edge. “I wouldn’t mind being swept away. You promised only a year here, Henri, and that’s now come. If we’d stayed in Europe, I could have seen my mother before she died.”

  “Fanny, again, I’m sorry, but we can discuss this later.” Bertrand stroked his hand on the shoulder of his wife’s embroidered canezou jacket.

  “Look at them, watching our every move. It’s disgraceful to be treated like this.” Countess Bertrand sounded on the verge of tears. “We’ve rarely been out here, yet that ship is ready to attack...just because he’s with us.”

  A British warship, anchored not far from the beach, floated huge and menacing in the water. Flashes of redcoats among artillery spread along the cliffs on both sides of the bay.

  “Darling, please.” Count B
ertrand slid an arm around his wife. “Sandy Bay is the only area at the southern end of the island safely accessed by sea. With Jamestown, Rupert’s Bay, and Lemmon Valley in the north. Unfortunately, the navy does guard it with precision, as well as the soldiers.”

  “Ma foi, they’re suffocating us and savor every minute.” Fanny bent from his embrace and picked up a stone, flinging it into the white-capped waves. “What of the schemes you said His Majesty…The rescue you—?” Bertrand put his fingers to his wife’s lips and shook his head. The Bertrands walked off, farther along the cove.

  Napoleon had kept schemes from her. Amélie distracted her frustration and poked around in the rocks looking at unusual plants—purple amaryllis, pink Venus roses, and moon lilies. Clarice jabbered in Marchand’s ear as she urged him to keep walking. In fits of giggles, Tristan and Hortense chased near the lapping surf while young Napoleon scampered over various rocks.

  After she’d seen enough, Amélie clambered back up the slope, arriving out of breath at the top. She sat down on the blanket beside Napoleon and asked for a glass of wine as she laid her flowers near his feet.

  “Done exploring already?” Napoleon said, after requesting the groom do the honors. “Your cheeks are flushed.” He brushed a finger over one of them.

  “The cove is beautiful. You ought to go.” Amélie leaned in closer, reveling in his touch. “It might give you a different viewpoint of Saint Helena.”

  Archambault uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Handing one to each, he sniffed the cork and sighed before returning to the horses.

  “Do I need a better look at that sentry warship on my horizon? Perhaps my shadowing friend on horseback will shoot me, convinced I’m planning to make a break off the island.” Napoleon slapped his book shut. “No, that’s a little too dangerous for an old prisoner like me.”

  “Stop that, please. You’re not old.” Amélie frowned, sipping the tart wine, relieved it wasn’t the Constantia. “You’ve lost weight and said my ginseng tea made you feel more energetic. You must have…had thoughts of escape.”

  “Why are we on that subject?” He shifted on the blanket, obviously uncomfortable.

  “You brought it up, yet it’s a subject you won’t discuss with me, and that makes me wonder.” She was certain she’d grazed a nerve.

  “England’s evil goal is to keep me here until I die.”

  “Mon Dieu, don’t say such awful things.” She stared deep into his eyes to discern if he teased, aware of Napoleon’s ability to slip in and out of various moods. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re trying to change the subject.”

  “The English would be ecstatic if I died. Save them the money of maintaining all these guards...for just one man. Three regiments with nothing better to do than prevent my escape.”

  “Who cares about the English? Just ignore them. If you don’t plan to escape, then you’re safe, aren’t you?” She watched him closely and took another sip of wine.

  “No plans. I count on a change in the English government and their realizing their mistake in sending me here.” He half smiled. “Bertrand and I used to explore this area, these valleys. Then Lowe arrived and put up a cannon and assigned guards to secure me. Seeing these things reminds me of my torture and sickness on this island.”

  Amélie often worried over what he labeled his “climatic” illness. “I thought we were enjoying a nice outing. Are you feeling ill now?”

  “Only a sinking of the spirit. O’Meara informed Lowe I probably suffer from hepatitis.” Napoleon stared again toward the ship as if assessing its capability. “Lowe threatened to send him away, insisting I only despair in losing my throne.”

  “The governor is tactless to say such things, and your doctor for repeating them. It’s that sour wine you drink, that would make anyone ill. Thank you for not bringing any today.” She cringed at the idea that Montholon was in charge of that beverage. “Did you ever speak to the count about his manservant, Jules, having the keys to the wine cabinet? I thought the count allowed no one to handle his precious keys.”

  “Did you ask me? I’m sure the servant was there at his behest.” Napoleon thumped his fingers on the book. “You refuse to believe the English are assassinating me by dumping me here?”

  Amélie saw the teasing glint in his eyes. “I wish you’d try to enjoy today. Perfect weather, scintillating company, delicious food awaits.” Staring at the dark liquid in her glass, she’d almost said “loving” company. “You should stop drinking that wine and share what the rest of the household drinks, and please tell the count his servant is behaving oddly.”

  “Why should I stop drinking the wine? Do you suspect someone is trying to poison me?” He asked this with eyes too wide, mouth agape.

  “Don’t you need to be cautious of such acts?” Amélie’s heart fisted at the mere word. “I wouldn’t trust Jules.” She didn’t trust the count either, but it seemed outrageous to accuse him of poisoning. Napoleon would think so.

  “Don’t scowl at me like that. All right, I’ll be cautious. You win, I surrender, we’re having a wonderful outing.” Napoleon reached over and lightly pinched her cheek.

  A rush of heat simmered through her. “What are you…reading?”

  “A book on the Ossian ballads, my favorite poetry. Even if that Scotsman Macpherson made up some of his own. These praise the past, and lament the present.” Napoleon raised up the book. “Would you care to read it, aloud?”

  Amélie took the slim volume and turned her back. He didn’t surrender, but wanted to deflect her prying. Facing the sea she began to read out loud the Italian translation.

  “I once suggested an opera be performed about Ossian. Jean-François Le Sueur, my court composer, scored, with libretto by Dercy and Deschamps: Ossian, ou Les Bardes. It premiered at the Academie Imperiale de Musique in Paris in 1804.”

  Amélie paused in her reading to listen to him relate this with a dreamy pride. “We could stage it here.” The ocean rushed against the cliffs and she resumed.

  Less windy on this side of the island, the cloud cover had still abandoned the sky, leaving only wisps of cotton in the distance. Birds chirped above, responding to one another in mellow tones. The gentle breeze, the wine, and the prose Amélie relayed lulled her. It grew so quiet after several minutes, she turned to check on Napoleon.

  He smiled from his position, on his side and slightly behind her. Leaning his head on one elbow, Napoleon pulled the basket of cherries over and held one up. “I always appreciate a woman with a soft, lyrical voice. You could perform Rosmala who loves Ossian, if we had the libretto and music. It was a grand opera. Care for a cherry?”

  A Siren calling him to shore? “All right.”

  Instead of handing it to her, he sat up and dangled it by the stem before her lips. She watched the fruit bobbing close to her nose, then giggled and bit it from the stem.

  The sweetness filled her mouth. Juice dribbled over her lip, and she attempted a ladylike removal of the pit. She gave up and spit it into her hand, laughing harder. Napoleon chuckled and tossed her his handkerchief.

  After plucking a cherry for himself, he held up another for her. Amélie did the same, dampening her lips with more sticky juice, and she sputtered into his handkerchief. She playfully threw a discarded stem at him.

  Napoleon retrieved it and flung it back. Amélie tried to duck out of the way.

  “It’s in your hair...un moment, don’t move.” He leaned forward and raked his fingers into her tresses. “Your hair is so thick, I can’t find it.” She felt him separate the strands, searching for the lost stalk.

  “Don’t...worry about it.” Amélie again faced the ocean. Her shoulders tingled with his fingertips brushing the back of her neck, and she laughed in silly spurts.

  “Hold still, Amée.” Napoleon’s gentle voice made her shudder as he continued to entwine h
is fingers in her hair, across her skin. “You have very beautiful hair.”

  She held her breath. Feeling heavy and fluid at the same time, she closed her eyes.

  “Depechez-vous! Look what we found!” A high-pitched cry shattered the moment. Hortense poked up her head from the crest of the slope. Amélie sighed when Napoleon withdrew his hand.

  The little girl rushed toward them with the boys following. The adults trailed after.

  “What is it you found?” the emperor asked the child, his voice sweet.

  “A really big shell. Look, Your Majesty.” Hortense held out a sandy, whirled limpet shell, cracked at the top.

  “That is an extraordinary treasure.” Napoleon cradled it in his hands for a moment. He smiled and pinched the little girl’s cheek.

  Amélie stared away and fingered the back of her neck.

  “I’m hungry.” Tristan stood on tiptoes and stuck out his lower lip.

  “We’ve run so hard, we’re starving,” young Napoleon said, his eyes bright. “Papa says later, Sire, we might walk over the ridge and see Lot’s Wife’s ponds.”

  “Then by all means, let’s eat.” The emperor stood and patted his namesake on the head.

  Marchand and Clarice started unpacking the baskets. The air vibrated with anxious chatter, extolling the wonders of the cove and the splendor of the day. Plates were passed around, food unwrapped and commented upon.

  Amélie smelled the chicken and ham the valet sliced for serving, yet had little appetite.

  Hortense’s interruption had ruined the interlude and her body still felt sensual and yearning.

  Clarice shoved a plate at her. She accepted it, picking at the contents. When she’d had her fill, Amélie excused herself, saying she was going for a walk. She wished to be alone with her thoughts.