Countess Bertrand twitched a shoulder and gaped. “I thought that…you and Napoleon…never…?”
“We didn’t.” Amélie tensed. “Women are taught to be submissive, and if they had the knowledge, in writing, they wouldn’t be afraid or stupid…the way I feel.”
“That would be a brave undertaking. Ma foi.” Fanny walked off a few steps fingering the jar, stuffing the letter into her bodice. “Are you serious, my dear? It seems a—”
“I’m very serious.” Amélie shoved aside her doubts. “I just need to—”
“What a scandal that would cause. You couldn’t write under your own name. It would bring shame to your family.” Fanny’s eyes perked up with a mischievous sparkle. “How delicious that might be to do. Well, not the shame, the writing.”
Amélie almost laughed. “I would need help, with the ultimate details, of course.”
The countess stepped back to her. “Yes, you would indeed. How will you go about it?”
“I’m hoping…” Amélie inhaled. “That you will agree to provide this information.”
“Me?” The woman’s black eyes widened above her aquiline nose, making her look like a startled bird. “You’re asking me to help?”
“If you would be so kind. I know nothing of the…uh, consummation.” Amélie knew her cheeks flamed hot.
“I don’t know. The scandal...though I did just say…” Fanny acted caught between intrigue and caution. She glanced toward her children. “You could never use my name. Henri would be outraged.” She didn’t sound altogether displeased by that idea.
“Of course, I wouldn’t. I won’t use any names, only information.” Amélie’s heart raced at the woman’s subtle agreement.
Hortense Bertrand scampered up with a handful of wildflowers, smelling like fresh grass. “Mademoiselle Amélie, when are you singing for us again? Maman keeps asking.”
“Oh, you should sing again. It would break up the monotony of our lives.” The countess measured her with her dark gaze. “So will this other, no doubt.”
Singing was the last thing on Amélie’s mind. She patted the little girl’s head. “I suppose I’ve missed it a little. I think, sometimes, of returning to Europe to study singing, but I haven’t mentioned this to anyone.” Amélie tried to ignore her feelings of deserting the emperor. She could act as selfish as Napoleon and think only of her future, as he said.
“You should go if you have the chance, my dear. Please agree to a small recital. I’d be thrilled to host it here at Hutt’s Gate, and do anything to help.” Fanny gave her a tremulous smile. “If you return to Paris, I’ll be so envious.”
“If I do decide to perform...here is fine.” Amélie couldn’t put much enthusiasm into her words. Also, as one of the emperor’s followers she wouldn’t be welcomed back to Paris. The Count de Las Cases still languished in Germany, awaiting permission to return to France. “You are willing with the other topic, Madame?”
A kid goat loped up over the grass.
“I am, but discreetly, remember. How soon can you be ready for the recital?” Fanny stared over her shoulder. “Napoleon, make certain the goats stay out of the flower beds!”
Amélie winced at the mention of the elder Bertrand boy’s name. As if he stood there, watching her. “Please give me another week. I’m very out of practice.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
They [battles] lead in turn to new measures and bring about the crises—N.B.
Napoleon closed his study door and glared at his grand marshal—a man he raised up after the death of one of his most faithful, Duroc. “First of all, write a letter to the governor and inform him ‘we’ want no more of his chiding over Longwood’s expenditures. His constant letters are the result of a too agitated, unstable mind. England brought me here. Do they expect me to live as a pauper as well as a prisoner?” He’d have Bertrand sign this—Napoleon never let Lowe think he communicated directly with him. He clenched his jaw. “Now, about the other day. When I tell you something, I expect it to be kept in strictest confidence. What kind of soldier are you, to tell your wife of my secret plans?”
“Forgive me, Sire. Fanny was weeping…it slipped out in a moment of desperation.” Bertrand crumpled his hat in his hands—an imprudent act, since he wouldn’t be able to replace it. “I’ve chastised her for her public behavior.”
“A woman weeping! Bah, it’s weakness to fall for such manipulations.” Napoleon rubbed his stomach where his lunch sat like a stone. “You’ve chastised her in the past, and it never did any of us any good.”
“I understand, but without Cipriani, can we be sure your plans are carried through?” Bertrand rushed this out, his courtier obviously anxious for a change in subject.
“Dare I tell you anything? Can I trust you?” Who else did Napoleon have? “Men can always be bribed. O’Meara and Balcombe proved quite devoted once I paid them.” Despite Cipriani’s untimely demise, Napoleon had found sympathetic soldiers to help him in smuggling letters. He grew sad thinking of his compatriot, his suspicions over his death.
“It’s October. Perhaps by Christmas I will hear from my Uncle Fesch if he’s found my double, the one man able to take my place. If your letter to the British ministry was convincing enough on our need for a priest, by that time they have hopefully set sail. O’Sullivan should be close behind on his regular route.” Napoleon jerked around and jabbed a finger into his subordinate’s face. “Bertrand, don’t fall prey to a woman’s trickery. Show the fortitude of a man! Keep these details to yourself.”
Women, they only distracted you from important issues.
* * * *
After finally hitting the high note on key, Amélie sipped her warm lemon tea. For three days she compelled herself to practice in her room and tried not to recall Napoleon’s smiles and encouragement at such times.
The previous day at Hutt’s Gate, Fanny gave her information about bodily parts, and the “where they fit” of it. The act sounded painful and messy, not romantic, and did seem as bad as dogs mating. Fanny assured her it usually went better than her words conveyed, especially with someone you loved. Amélie had returned and stared at her notes. How would she describe lovemaking without scaring every virgin into joining a convent?
Amélie traced a finger across her bodice. Could she put down on paper the heat, that sensual pull you felt when your lover kissed your breast? She sighed as her body tingled with loss.
Fanny Bertrand arranged for the recital that Saturday and Amélie continued to practice until her throat was raw. Her empty stomach swished with tea.
On Friday, when she left the kitchen, Napoleon stood outside as if waiting for her.
She started, then winced, lingering so close to him.
“You are going to sing again, Amée?” His even tone disguised any feelings he may have harbored. Napoleon wore the wide planter’s hat. He seemed older, a man given up and deteriorating.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I thought it time for another fete.” Her voice deferential, she lowered her eyes, every nerve in her body thrumming.
“That’s fine. I think you should. One of your many worthy talents, you mustn’t ignore it.”
“Merci, Sire. I trust you and everyone will enjoy the recital.” Worthy, he said, yet she wasn’t worthy enough for him?
Napoleon nodded with an officious smile, though his gaze had a strange mixture of melancholy and warmth, before he continued into the main house.
Strung as taut as the veins in Madame Cloubert’s neck when she ranted, she’d have ruptured all over the courtyard if anyone had breathed on her. Amélie hurried to her room and threw herself into practicing her favorite arias until late into the night.
* * * *
Several British officers milled about in the Bertrands’ parlor when Amélie walked in.
“I wish the countess hadn’t invited
them,” she whispered to Marchand who had escorted her over at her request. The footman carrying her father’s hors d’oeuvres took them into the kitchen. Perrault stayed behind, feeling ill, and this also concerned her.
“You’re trembling,” the valet said as she clutched his arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll be wonderful as always.”
“I hope so. His Majesty isn’t here yet.” She released Marchand and fingered the gauzy dress she’d purchased in Jamestown. A superficial attempt to boost her spirits, the garment was of comfortable cotton in pale lavender. Tense with anticipation, she wondered if it was too transparent, leaving her naked and adrift.
“You look…island-like.” Fanny hurried over and handed her a glass of wine. “Definitely not the latest Parisian fashion, but then how would we know out here? Let me introduce you to Captain Hargrove and Lieutenant Pinecoffin.”
Amélie sipped the wine and grinned at one of them, but found she had no interest or talent for desultory flirting. She pulled Fanny to the side. “I’m really nervous.”
“You’ll be fine, dear.” Fanny squeezed her arm. “I can’t believe Albine is attending. I didn’t invite her. I engaged that girl from Jamestown to accompany you. I can’t stand Albine’s flaunting of their importance to my husband’s detriment.”
“You know I didn’t invite her.” Amélie glared over at the scantily dressed, bejeweled woman. Madame de Montholon preened her plump figure like a queen as she gaily chatted with one of the handsomer British officers, her fingers fluffing her chestnut curls.
A few of the British smoked pipes and Amélie squinted in the smoke, concerned how it might affect her voice. She took another gulp of Madeira.
“Where is her husband, our dear Charles? She needs someone to rein her in.” Fanny scanned the small room. “I don’t see him here.”
“The count is a poor candidate for that duty. He’s never stopped any of his wife’s…‘flirtations’”. Amélie’s retort was bitter, but Fanny laughed.
“Montholon’s been telling the governor that our emperor is too soft, and Europe has forgotten him.” Fanny snickered. “He connives to ingratiate himself with Napoleon and Lowe at the same time. I never trusted Charles. He hopes for monetary gains in Napoleon’s will.”
“He’s waiting for the emperor’s death? I hope you told your husband.” Amélie’s heart throbbed. She fought the urge to flee the room. “Count Bertrand needs to inform His Majesty of such disloyal actions.”
Minutes ticked by and Napoleon still didn’t make an appearance. The people muttered and moved around impatiently.
“You should begin. Even though my husband says we must wait for the emperor.” Fanny pressed Amélie’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“Au contraire, I wait for no one. Let’s start.” Amélie drained the glass of wine, took her place, and plunged into three of her favorite arias. Her words sounded flat, the emotion forced. The girl from Jamestown plunked out the accompaniment with amateur gusto.
For the finale she sang from Don Giovanni. In Anna’s furious aria, “Or sai chi l’onore,” she’s realized the man she sought help from to avenge her father is Giovanni in disguise—the same scoundrel who forced himself upon her and murdered her father. Amélie spewed Anna’s anger, releasing some of her own.
Afterwards, when many complimented her on her fine voice, she agreed with the ones who stayed silent. She sipped more wine and made polite conversation, but the night hadn’t given her any sense of accomplishment.
Albine slithered over, clinging to the arm of another officer. “You were just so...adequate. Still, it’s wise you’ve taken a renewed interest in this, since other things didn’t pan out. C’est la vie.” With a smug look, she dragged the Englishman away with her.
Count Bertrand stepped up, his balding brown head lowered, not giving Amélie time to react.
“Mademoiselle. The emperor was feeling tired. He sends his regrets over by messenger.” Bertrand gave an apologetic smile. Behind him, Fanny rolled her eyes.
Amélie nodded, still glaring at Albine. “I understand, Count Bertrand, thank you.” Just as well, since her performance was nothing to boast about and she didn’t need Napoleon’s company any more than he desired hers.
* * * *
Amélie scuffed alongside Marchand a few yards down the dark road between Hutt’s Gate and Longwood. She felt warmed with wine, yet numb from disillusionment, saying little to the valet’s compliments on her performance.
“Marchand! Wait. Please come here, I need you.” A woman’s shrill voice called from behind them.
Amélie turned. Albine stood on the Hutt’s Gate veranda, one arm waving vigorously.
“I’m afraid we must return, Amélie,” Marchand said with barely suppressed annoyance. They both trailed back, Amélie keeping behind the valet to block out the countess.
“Oh, Amélie, why don’t you go on ahead? I’ll only keep him a few minutes. I wish to discuss my—our Napoleon.” The woman’s arrogant expression intensified Amélie’s feelings of being cut away from the center, as jagged and forsaken as this island.
“I can walk on, if you give me the lantern.” Amélie moved beside him, anxious to be away from the insufferable countess.
“Don’t be silly, I won’t hear of it,” Marchand said. “Come in with me.”
“Marchand, attend me now. I have important needs.” Albine huffed in irritation, tapping her toe on the boards. “His Majesty won’t like you ignoring me.”
“Just hand me the lantern and go with her. I’ll be all right,” Amélie whispered as she clutched the handle.
“Mais non, this is out—“
“Please. I need time alone...to think.” Amélie tugged the lantern from his grasp.
“I still wish you would wait. I’ll be quick and join you down the road.” He sighed and tramped up onto the veranda.
Amélie heard the door shut, hefted up the lantern, and continued in the direction of Longwood. The black night swathed around her. She did crave this solitude, a moment to evaluate her next move. She’d leave the island. No more feelings of having to remain to protect her deposed monarch. How naïve to imagine she had any power to do so. Napoleon ceased needing her long ago. He had Albine, who offered more capable comfort. Count de Montholon was free to manipulate Napoleon without interference, while encouraging his wife to cuckold him: all precisely the way the court preferred it, the sinister undertones no longer Amélie’s problem.
“I wish now His Majesty would escape,” she muttered into the air, yet still found it hard to fathom he could.
The moon slid behind a cloud, making the darkness complete. Amélie shivered, wishing she had her shawl. Padding along the rocky dirt lane, she labored to keep the heavy lantern from bumping and bruising her legs. A small circle of light bobbed along with her, feebly penetrating the surrounding shadows. She tripped over Club-rushes, the low, thready plant that sprouted on the Deadwood Plain.
Amélie set down the lantern and rubbed her sore fingers, before squaring her shoulders and trudging on. In the morning she’d tell her father she desired to leave. She would return to Europe to study opera. This talent would finance her growing interest in herbs, and her writing.
In her new existence she’d be her own woman and never speak of Saint Helena or allow herself to fall in love. No man would take up such a portion of her life again.
Stage women already had scandalous reputations. If her undeserved status as Napoleon’s mistress followed her, she’d have little left to lose in writing about sex. She only felt sorry for her father to share her ignominy.
A noise from behind startled her. Amélie turned but saw only blackness. Probably a goat or sheep. These creatures wandered wherever they pleased on the island, crashing through garden fences to risk being shot by both English and French.
Resuming her stroll, she list
ened to the crickets chirping, the frogs clacking a lonely lament. Wind rustled her skirts and hair. Now she distinctly heard footsteps in the background.
“Marchand?” She paused and turned again toward the sound, the wind feathering her curls across her cheek.
Something swept up and hands grabbed her. Amélie gasped then cried out. She swung the lantern, but it was snatched and tossed aside. She shrieked as thick arms wrapped around her torso, trying to force her to the ground.
“Help! Secours!” Staggering on her feet, she slapped her attacker’s face and felt a macabre cloth-covered head over a meaty throat. She punched at the cloth and heard a man’s curse. She wriggled from the arms, stumbled off the road, and tripped through underbrush. Footsteps instantly pursued. Her assailant jumped on her, knocked her down, and pinned her hard to the earth.
“No! No! Help me, somebody help me!” Amélie writhed and wailed, rocks cutting into her back, and struck at unknown features through the material.
Slapped back, she felt warm blood trickle down her chin. Struck again and again in the face by a gloved hand, she threw up her arms to fend off the painful blows. Fingers tightened around her throat. She gurgled and clawed at them in desperation. She feared losing consciousness, wheezing air up through her windpipe.
The sound of running feet and shouting pierced her panic. The weight lifted suddenly. Her attacker swished through the rushes in the opposite direction. Moments later, Amélie heard English voices above her. Rolling over, she sobbed and coughed, gasping for breath into the gritty earth.
“Are you injured, Miss?”
“She’s bleeding—someone’s attacked her!” A lantern bobbed hazily in front of her, their English babble hard to discern.
“Are you from Longwood, Miss?”
“’Course she is. You know bloody well she is. Let’s take her there. They have a doctor.”
A soldier reached for her. Amélie jerked around, her instinct to scramble away, but she slipped and couldn’t get to her feet. She cried and covered her face, her fingers smeared in dirt and warm liquid. The soldier gathered her up and she went rigid in his arms.
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