Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “If the wine’s been tampered with, who would have access to it? It comes in casks, then it’s bottled.”

  “The British of course.” He said this matter-of-factly, more interested in caressing her skin.

  “When it’s presented to you, are the bottles already opened?” She returned the pressure of his fingers, enjoying their mutual touch.

  “I’ve paid little attention to such things. I suppose so. My symptoms may again flare. Who can predict?” He shrugged, looking disgruntled in the fading light. “It may have nothing to do with the wine, but be the fault of this climate.”

  “Perhaps you should pay more attention to such things.” Amélie stifled a groan. Sometimes Napoleon left too much to fate. “How can you be so cavalier about something so important as your own life?”

  “Shhh, we aren’t here to discuss murder, are we?” Napoleon raised her hand to his lips and kissed each finger. “Let’s drink a toast to New Year 1817—may it bring many surprises.”

  Amélie clicked her glass with his. The word murder jolted her. “The idea of a poisoner frightens me, and it should frighten you.” She gripped his hand. The touch of his lips stirred her yearning.

  “Many have betrayed me. Men I heaped honors and riches on couldn’t wait to betray me once my power slipped. The British have the most contempt, and now the best opportunity.” He released her and swept out his hand as if to encompass the island. “Nothing along those lines would shock me. I’ve lived surrounded by hazards most of my life.”

  Amélie scooted to the edge of her chair and leaned her elbow on the table. “Would anyone besides the British or their allies have reason to harm you?”

  “Why not? I upset the entire world. I did things no one dared to do before.” He looked reflective, a quiet pride.

  She traced a finger over his hand. “You know I love you. That’s why I worry.”

  Saint-Denis hurried out, cleared away the dishes, lit two candles, and left.

  “Let us speak of love then.” Napoleon ran his finger along her lips. “As impossible as I’ve behaved, how long have you loved me?”

  She kissed his fingertip. “Since that night you accused those British officers of drooling down my dress, and you admitted jealousy.”

  “Since then?” Napoleon’s gaze mesmerized her. He leaned over the small table and kissed her lips. He stroked along her cheek and trailed his fingers through the curls that cascaded down her shoulders.

  Amélie shivered in pleasure. Her desire rose like warm bread. She had a difficult road ahead of her to keep him satisfied on this island, safe from the outside world’s influences.

  “I hope we will always make each other happy.” Amélie stroked his cheek. His lips, his breath sent quivers down her body.

  Night had fallen, the sun disappearing behind the ridge of mountains that radiated in spurts of red tufa stone from Diana’s Peak toward the coast.

  Napoleon kissed the side of her neck. “Not many women have manipulated me for long, but you...you are my compassion. I never cared to admit any weakness in my life.”

  “Admitting such a sentiment is a sign of strength.” She smiled. His expressive eyes mirrored his hunger, and hers must show. “You need to be loved the way I love you.”

  “Then clarify it for me.” Napoleon’s voice seductive, he pushed his chair beside hers.

  She hunched her shoulders as another shiver traveled up her spine. “You can hardly hope to seduce me out in the garden while everyone watches.”

  “Let them all watch. I don’t care.” Napoleon kissed her on the mouth again, drawing the breath from her lungs. His lips massaged over hers, until she wanted to puddle into liquid and flow and eddy around his body. He stroked one hand across her rib cage and over her breasts, his other caressing her knee.

  Amélie felt that heaviness low in her body and imagined her and Napoleon sweeping the chairs aside and surrendering to passion under the rose bushes while the British sentries gaped over the wall. She laughed.

  “You’re not supposed to laugh when I kiss you.” Napoleon eased back, his face intense, eyes clouded. The candlelight sparkled over his features. “Now that you’ve conquered me, my love, what are you going to do with me?”

  “I want to…be alone with you. In your bedroom.” She pulled him to her and kissed his mouth. Napoleon’s once reluctant ardor thrilled her. The sensual sizzle heated her blood. He deepened the kiss and caressed his thumb over her nipple. She groaned.

  “Amélie!” Marchand appeared on the front porch. He bowed low. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Sire, but her father has collapsed in the kitchen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There are many paths to Paradise, and decent men have always been able to find theirs—N.B.

  Amélie reached out to steady her father, but he moved aside with a jerk, returning to his mixing of a tomato paste as if he hadn’t stumbled. She maneuvered about the kitchen, trying to anticipate his needs without incurring his anger. He’d recovered quickly from his collapse the previous day, but she still worried.

  “I don’t need any more help,” he finally grumbled. Though he denied it, her reuniting with Napoleon added to his upset, and this increased her guilt.

  Amélie left the kitchen, fetched water, and moistened her garden. The smell of damp earth and pungent plants cleared her head. When Chef Gascon entered the kitchen she felt easier, and went into the main house to find her emperor.

  “There you are, Amée.” Napoleon stepped from his study with a ledger. He tossed it onto the dining room table. “Montholon never does balance his expenditures to my satisfaction.” His gaze turned sympathetic and he put his hands on her shoulders. “You look tired. I can assign more help for you in the kitchen. I hate to see you exhaust yourself watching out for your father.”

  Napoleon’s touch warmed her, yet the mention of the Count de Montholon almost ruined the moment. “Mais non. Papa resents the help he receives now. He throws me out when I persist.” Amélie smiled up at him. “Men are such stubborn creatures, and always want everything their way.”

  Napoleon kissed her on the forehead, his gaze distant over her shoulder. “I know you’re troubled, still I hope we can spend time alone together, soon.”

  “As do I, but I think his illness is more serious than I wanted to believe.” Sadness dragged her down. Any private rendezvous with Napoleon sent her to her empty bed throbbing with an ache that needed to be assuaged. With her father so ill though, she dreaded adding to his concerns.

  “The entire atmosphere has changed.” Napoleon sighed, his fingers tightening on her flesh. “You frantic in the kitchen. Montholon’s constant complaints about my interfering servants.”

  “I think it is his servant who is interfering. What else is upsetting you?” Amélie asked when he released her and turned away.

  Napoleon faced her, his expression grim. “Lowe is threatening to have O’Meara removed again, the one man I trust to be my physician. This time it looks like the villain will succeed.”

  “Because of the doctor’s outspokenness on your behalf?” She encircled her arm with his.

  “Lowe was furious when O’Meara told him he promised me he’d never repeat our conversations, unless they involved escape. Lowe demands to know every word I utter, every thought I think. O’Meara is forbidden to lend me any newspapers, unless Lowe approves their content.” He rubbed his chin, eyes flashing. “When I asked O’Meara to present a snuffbox to the island reverend for officiating at Cipriani’s funeral, Lowe threw a tantrum and ordered O’Meara from Jamestown.”

  Amélie feared this would be a bitter blow for Napoleon. “Maybe it’s all bluster and nothing will happen. What would you do for a doctor without O’Meara?”

  “I rarely took his advice anyway. You’ve been more of a doctor to me. I like the man. He’s a friend. Friends are hard to co
me by here.” Napoleon squeezed her hand, then kissed it. “I must go and speak with O’Meara.” He walked off toward the salon.

  The sound of arguing streamed through the open back window and Amélie returned to the courtyard. Perrault pushed out through the kitchen door and stalked for his quarters. She hurried into the kitchen and found Chef Gascon, slumped in a chair, staring at the floor.

  “Amélie…I...I’ve tried to assist your father, as His Majesty wishes, but he’s so obstinate.” Gascon shook his lumpy head, groaning a long sigh. “It’s the strain of this island. Often I wish I could go back home. Maybe patch it up with my wife and daughters. She’s angry because…our son was killed at Waterloo.”

  “I’m sorry, Chef Gascon. I will speak to him.” Amélie left and entered their quarters, torn by the two men she loved in far different ways.

  Perrault sat on his bed, cheeks sunken in ashy skin. His rigid posture looked as brittle as a withered twig. His still-full head of gray hair resembled dried thistle.

  She choked back a sob, aware of how much he meant to her. She strained for a serene tone. “Papa, are you all right? Should I bring the doctor?”

  “No. Sit here beside me, ma fille.” His reedy voice, once the steadying force in her life, scared her. She sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand.

  “Amélie, I know I can be a difficult man, but no matter how I’d like to ignore it, I feel the time has come—“

  “Please don’t say such things.” She squeezed his hand but it felt like frail chicken bones. “Let me call Doctor O’Meara.”

  He raised his other hand to silence her. “I have a failing heart. I’m beyond the doctor’s skill. Please, just listen to me.”

  Tears moistened the corners of her eyes as she stared at him and nodded.

  “When you leave Saint Helena, and you will someday, please take my body back to France. In the meantime, the cemetery near Plantation House will have to do.” Perrault’s words were so calm she barely had time to absorb them.

  “Papa, we don’t need to discuss this now.” Her breath quickened and her hand moved around in his dry one, searching for strength. “You’ve had these bouts before and were fine.”

  “I wish to be buried in Lyon. Near St. Nizier’s...next to your mother. You must see to that.” His voice sounded firmer as he ticked this off. “Amélie, will you?”

  “Yes, bien sûr.” Tears dripped from her eyes, the finality unbearable. She sniffed and wiped her face on her sleeve. “I’m finding the doctor now, enough of this talk.”

  Amélie located O’Meara in Napoleon’s study. The doctor rushed to fetch his bag. Napoleon held her in his arms and she gleaned comfort from his embrace, her cheek against his soft shirt.

  “I’m sorry for my rant earlier, when you have your own heavy burden.” He caressed her hair.

  They hurried across to await the doctor’s verdict outside Perrault’s door.

  O’Meara, somber-faced, urged them into the courtyard after his examination. “Your father’s heart is extremely weak. There’s really nothing more I can do. Lass, I’m afraid he might not have much longer.”

  She expected this diagnosis. Her own heart lurched. Just when she appreciated her father’s love, he faded away from her. “I’m thankful for your efforts, doctor.”

  “I’m here if you need anything, Amée.” Napoleon hugged her, kissing her on the lips. He wiped her tears away with his thumb.

  “I…I need to be alone with him. Thank you, both of you.” She walked in a haze into her father’s room and closed the door. Perrault, now lying on the bed, smiled at her, wan and fleeting. She sat again on the edge of his mattress.

  “You have to be strong, Amélie. Strong, as when your mother died.” He patted her hand as if she were the invalid.

  “Yes, yes, strong for everything...oh, Papa.” She blinked back fresh tears. “Maybe you should have returned to Europe. Even if I wouldn’t go with you.”

  “This isn’t your fault. My heart would be just as weak there as here.”

  “I suppose I blame myself.” She trembled with regret, but was selfish enough to be glad she didn’t follow his wishes.

  “I gave you education. I will trust you to manage, no matter the bizarre situation.” His intake of breath rattled across his tongue. “I must admit, a father looks on a daughter as someone to…marry off to a good man. Not for what she might achieve.”

  “Marriage doesn’t matter to me. I’m happy to be here, loving you and Napoleon.” Amélie ran a finger over her father’s veined hand. “No greater love could I have found. Both of you. Please don’t upset yourself.”

  “A father just likes to protect his child.” Perrault groaned, his parchment skin wrinkling around his eyes, the dark circles beneath them pronounced. He fingered his leather shaving kit beside him. “Now, Amélie, listen closely. I have something for you, but I want to discuss it when I’m not so tired.”

  She smoothed down his pillow. “Yes, we’ll talk of all this later, rest.”

  “It’s…important that you know.” He drew another ragged breath and coughed, but waived away her concern. “In my shaving kit, a letter for you. I finished it a few nights ago.”

  “Papa, a letter?” She tried to smile, to indulge him, to ease her fears.

  “Oh, just remember.” Perrault tucked the kit under his arm and shook his head. “I’m so sleepy, but don’t want to be. O’Meara gave me a powder...” His eyelids fluttered, then closed.

  Amélie sat quietly beside him, watching him sleep, trying not to think of the immediate consequences. She wanted to tug away the kit and open it, to peek inside, but her father looked so peaceful. They would discuss it later. Instead, she fetched a book and read, staying by him now as she’d once pulled away, aware of each change in his breathing pattern.

  * * * *

  The afternoon drifted to evening, the content of the book barely absorbed. Amélie massaged her aching head. She’d be needed for the dinner preparation.

  Chef Gascon wasn’t in the kitchen when she entered. He’d probably given up and gone to bed. She waived flies away from the raw chicken breasts laid out on the table.

  The door opened, and Marchand popped his head around it. “His Majesty wants to know how your father is faring.”

  “He’s resting now—”

  Clarice squeezed in past Marchand, her bosoms rubbing along his arm.

  “My mother said to give this chamomile back.” Clarice held out a jar, smirked for Amélie, and gave Marchand a rigid shoulder. She swayed her hips as if she couldn’t help herself. “Maman put it in Papa’s bath, but he still can’t sleep at night.”

  “I’ll tell His Majesty your father is resting.” Marchand backed out quickly.

  Clarice glared after him and huffed.

  “I thought you were interested in Jules.” Amélie accepted the jar, but watched the other, curious how deep her interest went.

  “All men are scoundrels.” Clarice tossed back her head, upper lip puckered. “Liars to get their own way. You’ll see.” She nudged Amélie. “I hope I didn’t interrupt you two.”

  “I’m faithful to Napoleon.” Amélie placed the jar in the cupboard. How much did Clarice know about the sneaky manservant? “What does Jules lie about?”

  The kitchen door squeaked open again. Perrault dragged in like a struggling wraith.

  Amélie gasped. “Papa?”

  “I must prepare my special Chicken Marengo today. The dish is the emperor’s favorite.” Her father snatched up his discarded apron and knotted it around his waist. The skin on his face stretched against his cheek and jawbones, his eyes unnaturally bright.

  “Papa, you must go back to bed this instant, please,” Amélie said, stunned by his abrupt stamina. Clarice stumbled back and watched him with narrowed eyes.

  “Why? I’m no bet
ter off there than here. At least here I’m busy. Let me attend to my duties. Chop two onions.” He snatched these from a basket and handed them to Amélie. Spreading out the five chicken breasts, he lit the fire and put on a large skillet. “Clarice, I need flour, white wine, and three tablespoons of that tomato paste I made earlier. Oh, and mushrooms.” He heated olive oil then browned the breasts, adding the onions as Amélie chopped.

  Clarice gaped at him, looking about to flee. Then she slowly moved to the pantry to rummage around. “I can’t find any mushrooms, Chef Perrault.”

  “Then we do without mushrooms,” he said, sautéing the onions in the oil.

  “I’m capable of preparing this. You should rest.” Amélie coughed at the sharp smell of raw onions, eyes stinging, then handed her father salt, pepper, thyme, and a crushed garlic clove.

  Perrault added these other ingredients with a half cup of water and brought it to a boil. He lowered the heat to a simmer and covered the skillet. “One of you cook the rice.”

  “Papa, that has to simmer for thirty minutes. I can manage it from here. Please go back to bed.” Amélie tugged on his arm.

  Perrault grasped her wrist, a little tighter than she thought necessary. “Ecoutez, I’m still the parent here, and I deserve the proper respect.”

  Amélie backed off. Could O’Meara be mistaken in his diagnosis? Her heart lifted.

  To her surprise, Clarice rushed to prepare the rice.

  When they finished, Saint-Denis and a footman carried platters across the courtyard, fragrant with Perrault’s Chicken Marengo over rice.

  Amélie followed, to remove herself from her father’s barbed stare, and helped to dish this feast onto plates to be presented to the Montholons in their quarters, and the emperor and O’Meara in the study.

  Napoleon strode into the prep room, his gaze concerned. “How is your father?”

  “I’m amazed, but he’s up. He seems to have rallied, and insisted on cooking the meal,” she replied with a quick laugh. “Nothing I said would stop him.”

  “That is excellent news. I had hoped—”