Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  * * * *

  Heavy rain splattered down on the salon roof. Marchand set out billiard balls and cues.

  In the past two days of rain, Amélie had welcomed the seclusion. Her facial bruises faded, but her inner bruises were more difficult to mend. She’d tried to help her father who seemed to move slower and slower, though shrugged off any concerns about his health.

  “Are we ready for this entertaining game?” Napoleon walked up and put his arm around her.

  “Has Count Bertrand written up the agreement between us?” She clasped his hand. She warmed at the idea that this man, who she’d tried so hard to be close to, now sought out her company.

  “Yes, to give you spousal rights. We’ll both sign it.” He squeezed her close.

  “I don’t want to seem…greedy.” Her warmth increased at their contact. “I know I’ve preached about independent women…” Sadly, women usually depended on men in financial situations. Without the legal protection of a marriage, Napoleon must be bound to his promises.

  “You aren’t greedy.” He kissed her cheek. “Bertrand harps on Bingham and Lowe over your assault, at my demand, but they’ve learned nothing so far.”

  “Has anyone questioned all the servants here at Longwood? Perhaps they noticed something?” She leaned against Napoleon, wanting more kisses, but her suspicions remained sharp. Drag Jules out and inspect his face.

  Marchand removed the books, maps, and various papers from the billiard table.

  “Bertrand will question everyone. Why don’t you move into the main house?” Napoleon asked. “After that vicious attack, it worries me where you are at night. The library can be arranged into a nice room.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Amélie worried about her father’s reaction—the child rustled inside the woman. The woman needed to prevail.

  “We’ll need to make a decision, where you will sleep…soon,” Napoleon whispered, as if reading her thoughts. He then kissed her earlobe.

  Marchand set out wine and glasses. He smiled and was dismissed.

  Her senses fluttered. Napoleon had far more than sleep on his mind. Such a public show of affection proved how much he cared for her.

  “I know. You’re right.” Her feminine wiles at a loss, she stepped toward the table as her blue silk dress whispered around her legs.

  “May I join you, Your Majesty?” The Count de Montholon glided through the front door. His wife followed. Albine slumped on the sofa with a morose expression.

  Amélie filled with disappointment. She turned and set up for a game.

  “Let’s see if I remember the intricacies of this amusement.” Napoleon picked up a cue, waving it about like a sword.

  “Do you recall the rousing game you had here with young Betsy Balcombe, Sire?” Montholon glanced at Amélie with a sly grin. He fingered a cue stick with slender hands. “You two had such a close, playful relationship.”

  “The table is ready for battle.” Amélie tapped her cue on the table edge to tamp down her jealousy. Betsy, the daughter of their former household purveyor, had ingratiated herself with Napoleon when he stayed in their pavilion his first two months on Saint Helena.

  “Ahh, yes, I remember that game. Mademoiselle ‘Betsee’ spent most of her time shooting balls at my fingers, and laughed when I cried out in pain.” Napoleon chuckled. “She was a handful.”

  “A lovely little maid.” Montholon leered. “She was quite enamored of you, Sire. Of course a girl like that is too young to take seriously.”

  Napoleon lined up his cue and smacked a ball across the table.

  “Are you taking your shot next, Count? At the ball, I mean.” Amélie smiled through stiff lips. She shouldered her cue like a rifle with bayonet. These people should crawl back in their holes like rats.

  “The child was a hoyden, as I recall, Sire. She followed you around like a smitten puppy.” Albine twirled the ribbon on her bodice, her breasts plump as melons above. She idly scratched the back of her neck with a long nail.

  Amélie cringed. Both Montholons had a way of chiseling under her skin. Had Napoleon once kissed those breasts? Moisture gathered at her neck. “Shall I go next?”

  “You’re so right, mon ange.” Montholon gazed at his wife with affection, as if his former detachment over her attentions to Napoleon wore thin. “Naïve young maidens are always drawn to men of fame and power. Didn’t you once say, Your Majesty, that power was a...how did you put it, an aphrodisiac to women?”

  “Montholon, I’ve warned you about insinuations and minding your own affairs. You as well, Albine.” Napoleon scowled. “I won’t tolerate any of it. Now are we playing or sniping?” He stepped beside Amélie, touching his shoulder to hers.

  She smiled and relaxed a little.

  “Accept my deepest apologies, Sire, on behalf of both of us.” The count bowed low as if to hide a scoff.

  “How is your manservant’s toothache, Count?” Amélie leaned over the table, studying a shot, fingers tight on the cue.

  “Oh, Charles, I have such a headache. I’m retiring to our quarters.” The countess stood, then lowered her head. “If His Majesty will allow me.”

  “Perhaps…Albine and I will retire now, with your permission. Please excuse us, Sire.” The count clicked down his cue and held out his arm for his wife to take. Napoleon nodded. The couple bowed and strolled from the room. Both Montholons seemed to sag with the effort it took to patronize their sovereign.

  Amélie sagged with relief they were gone. “Didn’t the countess ask to leave the island?”

  “She changed her mind. You let the Montholons annoy you. They sense this.” Napoleon screwed chalk over his cue tip, his fingers soon blue. “What was that about his valet’s toothache?”

  “Jules is hiding his face behind a scarf, according to Ali. He claims a toothache.” The Montholons had hurried out at her question. She’d ask Ali to look closer at Jules.

  “Why does this bother you?”

  “I hate to jump to conclusions, but I’ll tell you later.” Amélie forced her attention to the game. She lined up a shot, struck with her cue, and snagged the table felt.

  “Take care, Amée. You aren’t plowing a field.” Napoleon laughed.

  She retrieved her glass of wine from a nearby table and took a gulp. “Then you try again, or have you given up?”

  Napoleon wiped blue chalk onto the tip of her nose. “Bah, I’ll show you how to master this stupid game.” He picked up his cue with a flourish. Snapping at every ball on the table, he sent them haphazardly into one another, but not one found its way into a pocket.

  Amélie laughed despite her upset, rubbing her nose.

  “A useless English game. C’est ridicule.” Amusement in his tone, he shot another ball, which avoided the hole.

  She missed her next shot. “Oh, well, we did something different tonight.” She sipped more wine, tart in her throat. “It’s not an English game. I think a Frenchman invented it.”

  “I can think of more entertaining occupations.” Napoleon laid down his cue and squeezed an arm around her. “Come into my study. Sit awhile.”

  “All right. I do have matters to discuss.” She walked with him through the drawing room. He swiped more chalk on her cheek, and she slapped away his hand, laughing.

  Amélie plopped down on the lumpy sofa. Napoleon sat beside her after ringing for his duty valet.

  Marchand rushed in and lit two candles, stoked up the fire, then bowed out.

  “Napoleon, if Count Bertrand hasn’t warned you…” Before he stopped her, Amélie repeated the conversation she overheard between Montholon and Lowe, along with what Fanny told her. “As I said, I don’t trust his servant either. He’s threatened me before.”

  “You think this Jules attacked you?” Napoleon grimaced. “I’ll have him brought before me immedia
tely.”

  “I only have suspicions, but yes, you should question him.” She pictured Jules’s angry eyes when he’d warned her to silence, and shivered.

  “Montholon, I realize, came here for his own gain. His words to Lowe are disturbing. Bertrand and Las Cases both warned me about him.” He rose, poured two glasses of wine, and handed her one.

  She sipped the fruitier beverage. “Then why keep him with you? Send him and his wife back to Europe.”

  He sat, took one sip of wine, and placed the glass on a table. “He’s been useful to me here, to a point. That’s all that matters.”

  “Please be alert in your dealings with him. I’m concerned for you.” She touched his thigh. Was Napoleon clinging to his last “blue blood”?

  He clasped her hand between both of his. “I’ll investigate this manservant. I’ve also discouraged both Monthlons, don’t worry.” He kissed her fingers, each knuckle. “Enough talk of them, they bore me.”

  Heat spread through her. She drank more wine, another form of heat. A courtesan would have thrown her arms around his neck.

  Napoleon took her wineglass and placed it on the little table. “I promise you my devotion. You have all my ardor, mon amour.” He stroked her cheek, his face solemn. “There are few people I bare my soul to. I’ve kept up my bravado, but I’ve spoken to you of things I’ve hidden inside.”

  “I’m delighted you do.” She grew supple under his touch. Had he told her all, or was the note at Sandy Bay a game he played with her? Napoleon might be delusional about escape, not facing facts, as with his Austrian ties, yet Ali knew something was afoot. “I hope you will always confide in me and respect my intelligence.”

  “Ahhh, I see your distrust.” He gave her his most ingratiating smile. “Never doubt me, and don’t forget that a woman can have passion as well as intelligence.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Her jittery heart was about to wipe away her acumen.

  Napoleon slipped his hand beneath her chin and leaned close. He kissed the tip of her nose.

  She fumbled her fingers over the gold buttons of his waistcoat. An experienced woman would unbutton the garment.

  He kissed her lips, slow and lingering. She moaned, their breaths mingled, and she trailed her fingers through his hair, light and silky.

  Someone coughed from the dining room. Her father? She gasped.

  Napoleon pulled back. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry.” She flushed with embarrassment at her girlish reaction.

  “I see you’re not ready yet.” He caressed her cheek, his words gentle.

  If he’d take her back in his arms, kiss away her nervousness. “I…”

  “It’s all right, we can wait. I don’t wish to frighten you.” He stood, pulling her with him. “Remember, I’m but yours to command.”

  Amélie didn’t know what to say to bring the moment back. Her body shuddered with desire, but should she fall so easily into the arms of a seasoned lover? She wielded a little power in his catering to her whims. “I’ll say goodnight then.”

  * * * *

  Napoleon climbed into his cold camp bed. He’d lied to her. He hadn’t spoken to her of everything he hid inside. He didn’t tell her of the escape. Doubts stopped him. What if it were all for naught? What if back in England, O’Sullivan thought better of such a dangerous endeavor, or his Uncle Fesch couldn’t locate his double?

  Amée would try to deter him from his plans. That’s another reason why he didn’t tell her. She wanted him to stay here, be an island farmer. She didn’t understand that a life under scrutiny was no life at all. What about Montholon? True, she urged his discharge, but he couldn’t afford any undue scrutiny from Lowe on Longwood. The dismissal of such a, on the surface, useful courtier would lead to just that. Besides, watching this dandy aristo struggle to manipulate him was an interesting game of cat and mouse.

  Napoleon rolled over on the thin mattress and sighed. Enough of his wanting the world to mourn his unfair captivity. He and Amée would make a new life somewhere, a fresh beginning.

  Soon they would consummate their relationship, but he didn’t want to rush her. Her body felt so soft next to his, her skin tender, the clean smell of her. Her luscious lips on his. He smiled against his pillow, stroked the sheets, and imagined her golden hair tumbled over them.

  Most of his life, when he made up his mind about something, Napoleon expected immediate action. This island taught him patience. When he had more details, he’d bring her in on the preparation.

  * * * *

  Amélie awoke, her body quivering from dreams of Napoleon’s kisses and caresses. She splashed water on her face from her ewer.

  After dressing, she entered the kitchen, surprised to discover no one there. She hurried to her father’s room and found him sitting fully clothed in a chair, holding a letter.

  “Papa? Are you all right?” She walked closer and pressed his shoulder. Then she kissed his sunken cheek, dry against her lips.

  “I’ll be fine in a moment.” He squinted at her, his sallow color worse than before. “I’m just a little dizzy. I was reading this last letter from Jacques. Théodore, now he hardly writes, but I suppose the children and Suzanne keep him busy.”

  “I’m happy Jacques has decided to partner Théo in his bakery. After all his luckless schemes for earning money.” Amélie sat down on her father’s bed, curious as to his mood. “He’s been a difficult one to settle down. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

  “Bullheaded. Some say he takes after his father, though your mother’s nature was determined. I suspect he and his sister are much alike.” Perrault smiled in tired amusement from the scratched cane chair. “I still believe it’s wiser for us to leave...don’t frown at me. I won’t argue with you anymore. You’re almost twenty-one.”

  “I don’t know the future, but I have to follow my heart.” She wrestled with insecurities over how to keep such a man as Napoleon by her side. Was she woman enough? Last night, she should have insisted on staying with him.

  Perrault made a deep sigh. “Amélie, I don’t want us to be at odds.”

  “No, neither do I. I know I’ve been a trial for you, and I’m sorry.” A childish part of her sought exoneration. Her father’s vulnerability stirred the guilt inside her.

  “You have to mature and make your own choices, and live with them. Of course, I would prefer a different situation for you.” He fixed her with a weary paternal gaze. “I won’t lecture. His Majesty promised me no harm will come to you. I must hold him to that, but I still caution you to be vigilant, close to the emperor.”

  “Papa, what specifically do you mean, anything, anyone? You’ve hinted at this before.” She gripped his fingers. Would he indict the persons she suspected?

  “I don’t know who. Just be careful…” Perrault coughed. “I have something for you I’m working on. No, it can wait. I’m not finished.”

  “Doctor O’Meara should have a look at you. No arguing over this either.” She used action to chase off her fears and left the room to find the emperor’s physician.

  Afterwards, insisting her father lie down and rest, Amélie walked with the doctor in the courtyard.

  “It seems to be his heart, lass. I’m sure this climate has a little to do with it. He should take it easier. I advised him to give more responsibility to the pastry chef.” O’Meara nodded his round face with its halo of wooly hair.

  “Chef Gascon rarely shows up for his own duties.” Amélie scuffed at the dirt with her toe. Her father had a weak heart? “If…if my father left the island, would that be to his benefit?”

  “No, that long voyage would do more harm than good.” O’Meara squeezed her arm, as if he understood her torn loyalties. “Just convince him to delegate his duties.”

  “I will do my best. He’s a stubborn man.” Amélie felt re
sponsible for her father, but the doctor’s words about the voyage softened her twinge of regret. If her parent had to leave Saint Helena, he would go alone. Her life belonged here.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Fates are spinning the lives of men—N.B.

  Amélie lit the kitchen candles when the brief twilight crept over the wall beyond the courtyard. She scraped a penknife over her quill tip and dipped the quill into the ink. “You must use caution when just his touch flutters your heart and warms your soul. Don’t be fooled by false tales of affection.” No second thoughts, but she wanted other females to be alert when they dealt with the opposite sex. “Make certain he is the one you wish to give up something so precious as your…”

  The door banged open and Madame Cloubert barged in. “Where is that polish you promised me?” she asked, scratching under her arm. “The rashes in this humid weather! With the house mold, my cleaning is never ending. What are you writing?”

  “A letter to my brother.” Amélie slid the scrap of paper away from the woman’s prying eyes. She’d disregarded her own caution by writing in the airy kitchen, instead of the clamminess of her room. “Here is the polish, Madame.” She handed her a crock bowl with the beeswax she’d softened in linseed oil.

  “That Jules is certainly an idiot. I went into the dining room a few minutes ago to search for my best polishing cloth and there he was, putting a wine bottle into the emperor’s wine cabinet. When he saw me he practically dropped it and had the nerve to scold me for sneaking up on him.” Madame Cloubert stuck her bony finger in the waxy concoction and twirled it around. Her rusty hair drooped out from her white cap. “As if I’d bother.”

  “He was putting a wine bottle back in the cabinet?” Amélie’s suspicions about Jules angered her again. Why had he kept himself hidden from her all this time? Napoleon had questioned him yesterday, but Jules no longer wore the scarf and he had no bruises on his face. They’d have faded by now. He swore he was in his quarters at the time of her attack. She snatched an onion from the pantry, sliced off the crinkly skin, and started to chop it. Her eyes watered as she minced it up.