When she next opened her eyes, she was being carried up the steps and into the reception hall of Longwood.
“What is the meaning of this?” Madame Cloubert demanded rather than asked. “Merde, what have you done to her?”
“The girl’s hurt. Fetch the doctor, Ma’am. An’ we had nothing to do with it, far as that goes.” This soldier spoke in half English, half French.
“Why are the soldiers here?” Saint-Denis’s voice. “Amélie? What’s happened?”
Everyone began to jabber, their words crashing around in her mind. Snippets of French and English muddled together. Amélie hated their gaping faces and struggled to be free of her escort.
“If you can stand, Miss. There you go.” The soldier set her on her feet. She staggered away from him, up against the wall for balance, smearing red from her fingers on its surface.
“Find O’Meara, sur-le-champ!” Madame Cloubert commanded. “The blood...her face.”
“I sent a footman to fetch him,” Ali said. “Amélie, let me get you—“
“Leave me alone, all of you!” Amélie gasped for breath, pushing the concerned faces away, ashamed and trembling. She tried to squeeze past them, to flee to her chamber. “Let me by.”
“Calm down, Amélie.” Doctor O’Meara rushed in. His footsteps cut into her brain. “Hold still. What’s happened to you, lass? Who did this?”
The doctor reached for her, but she recoiled like a wild thing, frightened to be touched. She tasted blood in her mouth, coughing. “I’m fine. Leave me be. Please!”
A clamp of firm hands restrained her. Amélie struggled but her arms felt like ribbons and she slumped to the floor. “Why can’t you…let me go to my room? Je voudrais aller...”
“Amée? What is…? Who has done such a reprehensible thing?” Napoleon’s furious shout. “Ali, clear out the soldiers, this isn’t a spectacle to be gawked at. If they’re at fault, I’ll have them shot...someone will have them shot. O’Meara, bring her in here.”
Dragged against her will through the other rooms, Amélie flailed arms and legs, grunting with the effort. They placed her on the emperor’s bed—the last place she wanted to be.
“Amée, who did this to you, tell me who it was?” Napoleon leaned over her, caressing her forehead, his eyes bright with worry.
His distressed voice triggered the opposite. He’d poison her with his false affection. She swiped his hand away. “Don’t touch me, don’t...never again.” All their piteous looks repulsed her.
“Everyone, please, she’s hysterical. Let me alone with her,” O’Meara said.
“I’m staying with her,” Napoleon insisted.
“I am not hysterical.” Amélie jerked to a sitting position, head pounding. She glowered at Napoleon. “I…I never want to see nor speak to you again. Don’t you understand?”
“Hush, lass, don’t be saying such things,” O’Meara cooed, trying to ease her down.
The anguish on Napoleon’s face indisputable, in her fevered mind, she relished being the instrument of rejection. He left the room and she fell back and sobbed into his sheets.
“Now, now, you didn’t mean any of it.” The doctor probed her face. Amélie flung up her arms, groaning and sputtering.
“Bring me warm water and a cloth,” O’Meara whispered to someone. “Also a glass of water for a draught.”
“Don’t give me anything. I want to go to my quarters.” Her cheeks and jaw throbbed. She dropped her arms, which now felt like granite pressing grooves into the mattress.
“Ali, go and fetch Fanny Bertrand. She trusts her, rapidement.” Napoleon spoke from the doorway.
“Can’t you go away? I don’t need you.” Amélie moaned into his pillow, on his bed.
“Easy now, lass.” O’Meara attempted to wipe the blood from her face, but she flipped her head away, aggravating the pain. “You must let me have a look at you.”
“I don’t need you...because you don’t know how…to love me.” After this whispered lament, Amélie turned her face to the wall. She bunched the blanket up over her head, and tried to smother the screaming in her brain.
Chapter Twenty-Five
...We dread the horrible solitude of the heart, the emptiness of feeling—N.B.
In a semi-stupor, Amélie remembered Fanny Bertrand giving her a sour liquid to sip and Count Bertrand’s anxious questions in the background—the emperor demanded to know who had attacked her—before she drifted away into billows of soft sheets.
Hands reached through curtains and clutched for her throat. She jerked awake and tried to scream, but no sound rolled from her lips. She bolted up and lashed out with her fists, swatting at material. The fingers groped. She hovered on a ledge and lost her balance. Tumbling down, she smacked against a hard surface.
Amélie whimpered and crouched in a heap on the cold floor. She groaned in an effort to raise herself and felt she still tumbled.
Someone rushed into the dim room. “Amée, are you all right?” Napoleon’s anxious voice cut through her fog. He knelt beside her, caressing her shoulders.
“No, no…don’t.” Amélie sucked breath through her raw throat and pushed at him, unsure why he was there. One candle flickered on a table.
“Please, you’re frightened. Don’t shove me away. You must have been dreaming—you fell out of bed.” Napoleon embraced her, but she stiffened and jerked back, sitting on her bent legs.
“Leave me alone…please. You’ve done enough,” she rasped out and coughed. Then she touched her fingers along her aching jaw and neck. “I blew off the cliff.”
“The cliff? What do you mean?” The light of the fire from the adjoining room illuminated Napoleon’s profile. “Would you like me to bring you a drink?”
“This isn’t my room.” Amélie’s head swam, her limp hair drooping about her face. Her temples throbbed like pestles pounding into her flesh. Her mind began to clear—she now recognized where she was. “Why am I in here?”
“Don’t move.” Napoleon rose and fetched a glass. He crouched down beside her and held it until she finally sipped the water. “That’s better. Everything will be all right.”
“No more, thank you.” Her thirst quenched, lips stinging, she scooted toward the bed and braced herself against the mattress edge. She looked down at her torn lavender dress, the cold from the floor seeping through.
“Let me help you back into bed.” He set down the glass and gently guided her up to sit on the mattress. “How do you feel? I can rouse O’Meara.”
“No, it’s all right.” She felt brittle like a cracked goblet beyond mend, and shivered. “Can someone walk me to my quarters? I’m dizzy.”
He sat beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t move around until O’Meara examines you again.”
She rested her damp forehead on the palm of her hand, the acrid taste of blood in her mouth, and wished she didn’t take comfort from his touch. “I want to leave the island. I’m not safe here.”
“You…You will be safe from now on, I promise.” Napoleon squeezed her shoulder, then pulled back the bedcovers. “Lie back down, s’il vous plait.”
Slowly she crawled in and stretched out, every move painful. He draped the sheet and blanket over her.
“Amée. Even if it’s no longer important to you, I…” He caressed his hand through her hair, his voice distant and sad. “It’s something I’ve rarely said in my life, or rarely meant, but I do love you.”
Amélie sighed. She’d longed to hear those words, but didn’t believe him. Her heart quivered. “You can’t just decide…I don’t want to talk anymore.” If he sought absolution, she was in no mood to give it. She settled into the warm place so recently abandoned but gleaned no comfort.
“You should sleep now, rest.” Napoleon tucked the blanket snug around her. “There’s much to
discuss in the morning.”
She stared up into his face. How could she believe in anything anymore, after the trauma of the night? After her past experiences with him? She felt too trampled on to play games. Her world twisted with sharp memories like a trail tangled in thorns.
Amélie turned toward the wall. He finally rose and stepped out. She tried to relax, but again that person chased her, struck her, and dragged her to the ground. On top of that, Napoleon’s words wormed inside her. She trembled beneath the covers, shaking this iron bed that had sat on so many fields of battle.
* * * *
Amélie opened her eyes to green taffeta curtains bathed in weak morning light.
Napoleon rose from a nearby chair. He came and hovered over the bed. “Oh, Amée...who did this to you? Your face is so bruised and cut. I’ll kill whoever did this.”
Amélie touched her puffy jaw and cheeks, wincing at the soreness. Her throat felt like fingers still squeezed it. Each move thumped through her muscles and bones. Her sleep hadn’t been restful and everything confused her. “I don’t know who. It happened so fast.” She coughed.
“Here, please.” Napoleon handed her a glass. “Drink slowly.”
Amélie sipped the sweet orange water, cooling her throat. “The person wore a cloth mask. I was jumped on, knocked down.”
“A mask?” Napoleon paced the small chamber, his clothes rumpled as if he’d sat up all night in them. “You should have stayed with Marchand. Why were you so rash to go off alone?”
“I had no idea something like this could happen.” His rage alarmed and satisfied her. She reeled in her conflicted feelings. “Is Doctor O’Meara coming soon?”
“I’ve sent Ali to bring him.” Napoleon stopped and rubbed his unshaven chin. “No one dared take any...liberty with you, did they?” He glanced away as he asked this.
“Liberty? Mais non, nothing like that.” She flushed inside. He didn’t understand she was already ruined for any other man. She pulled the covers under her chin. His scent floated up. “I think I mentioned leaving the island last night. I still intend to do that.”
Napoleon grimaced. “Please don’t make that decision yet.”
Amélie sat up. Gripping the covers close, she smoothed down her hair with shaking fingers, then looked at the blood stains on them. “It’s what you wanted, my leaving.”
“Not anymore. We’ll find who did this.” He stepped nearer, his gaze searching on hers. “I won’t let anyone harm you again.”
“I’ll go to Milan and study, as you once offered.” She sipped more orange water, her emotions roiling.
“I deserve nothing less than for you to desert me.” Napoleon’s eyes glistened with tears. “I let you down at your most vulnerable moment and deeply regret it.”
“You manipulated me to suit your desires.” Her bitter words masked her shock at his tears. “Then pushed me aside.”
Napoleon flinched. “I know I’ve made you feel this way. Yes, I’m guilty of so many things, and have done just as you said, but I swear I never used you.”
Amélie cradled her aching head in her hands. Her own tears welled up and she fought them down.
“I hardly deserve your forgiveness, but…” He spoke in the lingering silence. Close again, he rubbed his fingers along her back. “Give me the chance to prove I love you.”
Amélie quivered at his touch. She half thought she’d imagined his declaration of love. His repeating it baffled her more. “I don’t think…you know how to love.”
“I tried to act noble since I can’t offer you an honorable arrangement, but you’re right, my capacity for love has always been flawed.” His eyes vivid, weary lines were etched in his face. “I hope to change that.”
Amélie felt his words prick into her. She tightened her muscles to fend them off, like the previous night’s blows. She swept aside the covers to crawl out of his bed.
Napoleon sat on the mattress, preventing her escape. “Amée, can you forgive me for being a fool?”
He was too close, the warmth of him. Her pulse thumped. “I don’t know.”
A sharp knock. Napoleon stood and gave permission for Saint-Denis to bring O’Meara into the bedroom. She tried not to sigh with relief.
The doctor smiled. “How is our patient this morning? Better, I hope.”
Perrault barged in on the doctor’s heels. “Your Majesty, I demand to see my daughter. Amélie?”
Amélie cringed. Ali moved out of the chef’s way, his dark eyes curious, and departed.
“Please, gentlemen, everyone come in.” Napoleon stepped farther from the bed, waving them graciously into the small chamber.
“I have to hear from a valet about an assault on my own daughter?” Perrault nudged O’Meara aside. He grasped Amélie’s hand, his face withered like the “Old Father Live Forever” on the plain. “Who would do such a thing? Why wasn’t I informed last night?”
“I’m not so bad, Papa.” Amélie squeezed his hand and wished they would all leave her in peace. She had so much to consider.
“Affreux, someone should have told me.” Perrault glared from her to Napoleon. “Why weren’t you brought to your own quarters?”
“She was too upset to move around, Perrault.” Napoleon pressed the chef’s shoulder. “Fanny Bertrand was with her until she fell asleep, and I spent the night sitting up in a chair in my study.”
“There was so much confusion. I’m sorry no one told you.” Amélie sagged with fatigue. Selfishly, she didn’t care to assuage anyone else’s feelings but her own.
O’Meara broke in, taking her pulse and probing her facial bones and along her neck. She bit back the pain. He lifted her eyelids and stared into her eyes. “Just contusions and abrasions. Cold compresses will be best for your swelling. A honey-laced tea for your throat. I’ve something for the cuts.” The doctor rummaged in his little black bag. “Lass, I caution you to no more solitary late night walks.”
“Have you the slightest notion who might have done this?” Her father’s words were tense, his jaw stretched like old leather.
“No…I don’t.” Two people resented her presence, but Amélie couldn’t put her mind around that. “It might have been a random attack.”
“Could it have been the soldiers?” Napoleon’s anger simmered beneath that question. “I’ll have Bertrand insist their commander rigidly questions every one of them.”
“The man cursed in French. The soldiers rescued me,” Amélie said as O’Meara applied his salve to her cuts. She winced at the ointment’s stink and sting.
“Cursed in French? It might be a trick. Bertrand will investigate immediately.” Napoleon eyed her, then marched from the room. O’Meara soon followed.
Perrault glared at her, reducing her to a small child again. “Imprudent behavior, Amélie. What were you thinking walking off without an escort last night?”
“Please, Papa. I had no reason to believe I was in any danger.” She took another sip of orange water and waved away the lingering smell of the ointment.
“I have to ask, as your father…” Perrault cleared his throat, his hands clasping and unclasping. “Did anything else happen, did...you weren’t violated, were you?”
“Mon Dieu.” Amélie drew up her knees under the blanket and rested her arms on them, her virtue always in doubt. “I’m still as pure as the day I was born.”
“Flippant words. I want to believe that. I can see we need to leave Saint Helena as soon as there’s a ship for Europe, and don’t argue with me about this. It’s for your own good.”
Amélie groaned, everyone pulling her in different directions. “Forgive me, but don’t I have a say in what I want to do?” She crawled from the bed, ignoring the aches in her body. Napoleon’s dressing gown hung on a hook behind the door. She grabbed the garment, wrapped it around her, and limped into the
study. She had to escape from the emperor’s bed. “Papa, you could bring me a clean dress to put on.”
Perrault followed her, scowling at the gown she’d donned. “Again I ask you, do you and the emperor have an inappropriate relationship?”
“Papa, you’re overreacting.” She stroked the side of her head, a brain swirling with promises she knew she shouldn’t trust. “I haven’t been violated in any way by any one.” She staggered to a chair before the study fireplace. “Though if we had a consensual relationship, that would be my private business.” She rubbed her temples, trying to decide what was best for her.
“Oh, I think not, ma fille. You have strange ideas about what is expected behavior, even after my talks with you. I admit I let it go too far.” Her father’s complexion mottled gray, he sighed. “This island, this bizarre island has altered all our characters, and not for the better. There are other things happening here that you don’t see.”
* * * *
Napoleon listened to their argument from the dining room. He admitted his roguish character when it came to romance. He’d walked away from women just as quickly as he bedded them. After seeing Amée’s hurt, he didn’t want to lose her, or deny his emotions. He allowed his barriers to crumble—who else ever loved him so completely? The impulsiveness of his youth soared through his body. Even at age forty-seven, why not embrace happiness after so much sorrow? Was it transitory? That he didn’t know yet. He decided, in a mad whim, to integrate her into his plans. The situation remained delicate. His heart swelled at the challenge and he pushed open the study door.
“Your Majesty, I must leave Saint Helena without delay, and take Amélie with me. It’s no good for her here.” Perrault confronted him. His chef looked terrible, wrung out.
Amélie sat before the hearth. When Napoleon looked over at her, her eyes held sadness and confusion. He had to manage her upset, her understandable anger at his request to forgive his rejection. He longed to take her in his arms, but couldn’t.
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