Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  A high-pitched scream echoed from the direction of the kitchen.

  They both rushed into the courtyard. Clarice burst out the kitchen door.

  “Chef Perrault collapsed on the floor!” Her eyes wild, her cap half off, Clarice ran for the main house. “I didn’t know what to do. Doctor O’Meara!”

  Amélie bit back a cry and ran for the kitchen, Napoleon behind her. Several servants scrambled into the courtyard, O’Meara with them.

  Her father sprawled facedown on the floor. Napoleon went to him and gently turned him over. Doctor O’Meara knelt, feeling for Perrault’s pulse. At her father’s chalk-white face and blue lips, Amélie flinched and bumped the wall behind her. His glassy, staring eyes sank her muscles and every drop of blood seemed to puddle at her feet.

  Ali wriggled in. He and O’Meara picked up their chef and carried him out of the kitchen. Napoleon slid his arm around Amélie, assisting her out the door. She stumbled beside him. Her head dizzy, she felt like she slogged through mud.

  They laid Perrault out on his bed. Ali covered the chef with a blanket. Amélie stifled a sob and rushed forward to grasp her father’s shoulder. He couldn’t be gone, not yet.

  Napoleon eased her back to sit on a chair near the door. O’Meara unbuttoned Perrault’s shirt, pressing a long hollow tube that flared at the end to his pale chest.

  “What…what are you doing?” Amélie trembled, her hands knotted together, staring at the man lying limp on the bed.

  “It’s a new instrument, a stethoscope,” Napoleon whispered. He stood beside her, his hand firm on her shoulder. “To listen for the heartbeat.”

  Murmured conversation seeped in from the closed door behind them. Seconds that seemed like hours ticked by.

  “Is he...how is he, tell me?” Her voice croaked out. She feared the answer but prayed for a miracle. Napoleon squeezed her shoulder.

  “In a moment, lass.” O’Meara no longer concentrated on his patient. Head down, he slipped his instrument back into his bag.

  Nausea bubbled in her throat. Amélie might be sick if someone didn’t tell her what she already knew.

  “I’m very sorry, Amélie.” O’Meara straightened up, heaving a breath. “His heart just gave out. He probably passed instantly. He was a good man, one of the best.”

  “Of course, Doctor.” Her words hollow, she staggered to her feet. The room wavered.

  “I’m so sorry, mon amour.” Napoleon embraced her. She leaned into his chest, her cheek against his heartbeat.

  “I need to be alone, please.” She swallowed, thoughts tumbling. She had to sort through this forever alteration in her life.

  “I understand.” Napoleon kissed her forehead and opened the door. The servants congregated in the narrow hall scattered. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Amélie slid into her bedchamber. The same rumpled bed, scarred dresser, and spindly chair. Her shabby clothes press painted a garish yellow, her mother’s doily. She fingered the doily—but nothing was the same.

  She sank to the moist sheets on her mattress, and hugged her knees to her chest. The only sound was her strained, shaky breathing. The thick heavy loss as when her mother died flooded into her. Darkness filled her chamber and Amélie muffled sobs into her pillow. Her body trembled over the death of a man she might have undervalued.

  * * * *

  Amélie woke stiff and sore. Her high narrow window rattled in the wind. A gray morning light seeped in. Her tongue felt huge in her parched mouth. She unlocked her door and opened it to a deserted hallway. She stared at her father’s closed chamber, fear trickling into her bones.

  She was left alone to handle the rest of her life, no real security for her future. The man she loved might leave her to follow his ambitions elsewhere. She straightened her spine and crept into her father’s room. Someone had washed and dressed him, laying him out for burial. Soon the one secure link to her past would be shrouded.

  “Forgive me, Papa, for becoming a woman.” She touched his forehead. “I always loved you, though it was hard to tell.” She kissed his cold brow. He looked as if he were napping, attired in his best brown waistcoat and linen shirt, yet the air already smelled of decomposition. She glanced at the moldy walls, the books piled on scruffy furniture: a shabby end to a worthy man.

  In the kitchen she brewed herself a cup of basil tea. No food smells. Chef Gascon must have forgotten to rise early, now he had to prepare breakfast. She slumped at the table, digging at the sugar cone to sweeten her tea, flicking away ants. Her head ached like a dry husk sucked of tears.

  The kitchen door opened. “Amée, you’re up. I’ve had Marchand checking. I’ve asked everyone to leave you alone. How are you feeling?” Napoleon stepped in, his eyes tired as if he’d had little sleep.

  “I’m finding it hard to believe in a world where my father won’t walk in…and take over the kitchen.” Her throat thickened. “He said he’d create miracles in here…and he did.”

  “Under the worst of circumstances, your father was a supreme chef.” Napoleon crouched in front of her chair, his hands caressing down her arms. “He worked for me at the Tuileries. I too mourn his loss. Can I—”

  “May we talk later? I have so much to consider.” Her desire for him improper at this moment, his hands hot on her flesh, she needed to remove herself. The earth quaked beneath her.

  “Of course. Whatever you need, please ask. I want to share everything with you.” Napoleon stood, kissed her cheek, and left.

  She heated water for a bath in her room, and lolled in the tub until her fingertips puckered. Her hair curled in the humid space like Medusa’s snakes, her thoughts just as twisting.

  * * * *

  Napoleon asked Chef Gascon to cook a light lunch. He instructed Marchand to set up a tray, but he carried it himself to the outbuilding. Amélie invited him into her room, her pale little face so wan. His tenderness increased.

  “Amée, I insist that you eat.” He squeezed into the small space. He’d have to insist that she move into the main house. “I had Gascon prepare a hot chicken soup.”

  She sat back on the bed, her expression surprised. He placed the tray on her knees, unfolded the napkin, and handed the cloth to her. “My stomach is a little queasy.” She tasted the soup as he stood over her. She ate a few spoonfuls.

  Napoleon poured a glass of wine from the carafe. “Now sip this slowly.” He sat beside her on the bed and stroked her hair. “I took the liberty of detailing Count Bertrand to make the…necessary arrangements.”

  “I appreciate that.” Her gaze met his, her fawn eyes so sad. “I know they’ve taken my father down to St. Paul’s church.” She rubbed her puffy cheeks.

  Napoleon waited for her to finish the soup. He set aside the tray and hugged his arm around her. “Let me comfort you as you have comforted me. I lost my father at sixteen, and had to take over as head of the family. It is a powerful tragedy to lose a parent.”

  “I pushed him away in my rush to mature. I suppose all children do that.” Amélie gave him a timorous smile. He eased her head to his shoulder, squeezing both arms around her and felt her relax in his embrace. “I need to…find my own footing.”

  “Allow me to hold you up.” He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the fragrance of her hair.

  “If one day for some reason you can’t be beside me, if things change, I need to be self-reliant.” She sighed. “I realize I asked you for money…”

  “Oh, Amée, you’ve always been strong.” Napoleon massaged along her back. Her qualms disturbed him. Did they reflect an inevitable truth? No, he’d strive to believe again in the sanctity of love. “You’re all that’s good, sweet, and honest...something I regret I’ve rarely encountered.”

  “I can’t help protecting myself.” She nestled against his shoulder. “I’ll try not to doubt you.”

 
; “You are precious to me, never forget that.” Could he dismiss all his selfish ways, grabbing whatever he desired? His fingers in her golden hair, Napoleon caressed the back of her head. How supple and warm her body felt pressed into his. “I have numerous faults, however, you will have to suffer with.”

  “I realize the difficulties.” She gazed up at him with a woman’s eyes, the child dissolved in the cruelty of death. She cuddled back in his arms. “I love you. That’s what matters.”

  He’d have to manage this maturing woman. Would she turn from him someday, to a younger man?

  Napoleon kissed her scalp again, the luscious taste of her, to wipe aside his insecurity. “I wish I could obliterate your heartache.” He stroked his thumb along her lower lip, lifted her chin and kissed her mouth. Their idyll would be disrupted by outside events, and he regretted not having more time with her. She’d need to be pragmatic for the future.

  Napoleon stopped kissing her, before he couldn’t stop—his flesh all too willing and weak. “We’ll forge a new beginning, you and I.” He hoped fate would move quickly with Sully’s return, but not separate them forever. He didn’t want this pleasure they’d soon share destroyed.

  Chapter Thirty

  Man has moral as well as physical needs...the chain of events brings him pleasures and pains—N.B.

  Amélie stiffened like a wooden doll as Madame Cloubert fitted the bonnet on her head in her attic room. The whole day seemed like a rehearsal for a distasteful play.

  Madame primped at the black material she’d sown over the hat. “I have no black gloves. This bonnet will have to do.”

  “With the gray dress, I should be fine.” Amélie avoided the woman’s sharp eyes in the looking glass. Her muscles ached, her spirit sagged.

  “Your father was a respectable man. You should remember that.” Madame jabbed in a hat pin and Amélie winced. “Some of us would do well to follow his decent actions. Comprenez-vous?”

  “People find love in difficult places,” Amélie replied, teeth on edge. “My father understood that.” Her serious reflection stared back from the pitted mirror. “Are we through?”

  “Such a place as this.” Madame rearranged Amélie’s hair under the hat. “I wanted to apprentice Clarice to a milliner in Paris. The Empress Josephine promised to help, then that admirable woman died. My daughter would have had a future there.”

  Amélie pictured Clarice jamming hat pins into customers’ heads.

  “You know I revered your father.” Chef Gascon kissed her cheek an hour later as they prepared to leave for the funeral. His face drooped more in grief. He dabbed at his brow with his handkerchief. “I regret our argument. What will we do? He cannot be replaced, je m’inquiéte.”

  “It means you’ll have to remain out of bed and manage the cooking, Philippe.” Madame Cloubert rustled by in black, resembling an irate spider. “I’m certain that will be a chore for you.”

  “I’ll manage quite well, as long as you stay out of my kitchen, harridan.” Gascon blew his nose loudly in her direction. His cheeks wobbled. “Oh, forgive me, Amélie.”

  “The emperor will secure more kitchen help.” Amélie glanced around, but didn’t see Napoleon. He offered to accompany her, but since his animosity toward Lowe made it a humiliating sacrifice, she asked him not to. She yearned to have his arms around her.

  Marchand helped Amélie into the waiting cart. “Your father was one of the finest men I’ve ever met. All of us respected him. It’s a great loss for the household as well as for you.” The chief valet clasped her hand for a moment.

  She nodded, trying to numb herself for the ceremony ahead. The others crowded in where they could. Doctor O’Meara accompanied them.

  At Hutt’s Gate, Fanny urged her to ride in their cart down to St. Paul’s church, adjacent to Plantation House.

  Most of the household was in attendance. However, the Montholons and Jules were conspicuously absent.

  Amélie felt blighted as they stood in the modest little cemetery shaded by cypress trees. The churchyard adjoined the garden of the governor’s residence, the small gothic church on a hill behind the estate.

  She watched her father lowered into the ground and gripped Fanny Bertrand’s hand. The countess hugged her.

  Governor Lowe’s assistant, the short, plump Sir Thomas Reade, represented the island officials. A few bored clerks stood with him.

  “Their governor apparently thinks a cook’s death beneath his august attention,” Madame Cloubert grumbled loud enough for the English to hear. “We’re still plagued with a Protestant clergyman, with no Catholic priest on this island.”

  Count Bertrand said a few words, praising their loyal and diligent chef. He also read a testament prepared by Napoleon to honor François Perrault. Amélie listened through the swirling fog of her own turmoil.

  The reverend finished, closed his Bible, and stalked off, followed by the English.

  Fanny touched Amélie’s arm, pointing up on High Knoll. Napoleon sat astride his horse, on that looming hill of pumice stone, watching from afar through his field glasses. Her eyes filled with tears for her father’s death, as well as for the proud man hampered from maneuvering freely about his current habitat.

  * * * *

  “Amée, you look exhausted. I’m so sorry you had to go through this.” Napoleon kissed her cheek and hugged her when she stepped in Longwood’s front door.

  “I am tired.” Amélie rubbed her temples, her mind floating in a haze. She leaned into him for a minute. “I think I’ll rest in my room for—”

  “I want to make you comfortable, so I’d prefer that you move into the main house. You can occupy the library.” He kissed her forehead. “I insist on this.”

  “I won’t argue, though it will seem hasty.” She said the last to honor her father. Amélie had few qualms about deserting her room for the larger library. The Montholons, then Las Cases had used the room until the back wing was finished.

  “I don’t care how it seems. You’ll be safer in here.” Napoleon’s soft voice and the touch of his lips calmed her.

  Her things were transferred to the library that afternoon. Saint-Denis and a footman assisted with the larger items. Amélie ignored the pointed stares from the chambermaids. Her father not cold in his grave and his wanton daughter scurries for the main house to be closer to her lover.

  She surveyed her new domain. At the library entrance sat a table covered in green cloth; above hung a large map of Italy made by Baron d’Albe, the emperor’s topographer in France. Beside the table, three mahogany bookcases with gilt grillwork and green curtains—sent from England—were filled with most of the emperor’s books. She ran a finger over the literature she once coveted, but books took a poor second to the man.

  “You once wanted to be my assistant. Now you’re here, you can help me with the mildew, a never-ending chore.” Ali winked and picked up a leather-bound volume with a fine dusting of blue mold. “Unless that might be beneath our esteemed new princess.”

  “Thank you for your labors. I’d rather be alone now.” She straightened the items in her clothes press. She felt like a wrung-out rag, but made an effort to sally back. “I’d prefer empress to princess, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m only trying to make you smile.” Ali patted her cheek. “We’ll certainly miss your father. Chef Gascon has huge shoes to fill. Let’s hope he stands upright long enough to do so.”

  He rechecked the bed legs he’d just reattached, bowed in exaggerated deference, and departed the chamber.

  Amélie, emotionally drained, stretched out on the bed and promptly fell into a deep slumber. When she awoke, she blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings, the airier room that smelled like leather instead of clammy clothing. She sat up, her head pounding.

  She went out into the dining room. Napoleon’s and O’Meara’s voices drifte
d from the study. How unusual to now live in the middle of everything, and feel solace here. She entered the prep room where Marchand arranged coffee, cream, and sugar on a tray.

  “At last, you’re up. I hope you rested well. The emperor has me checking on you constantly.” He smiled, his gaze solicitous. “Do you want some dinner?”

  “Not really, but I’ll have a cup of the coffee.”

  “My pleasure. You should have seen the Countess de Montholon’s face when His Majesty informed her you were moving into the library.” Marchand’s grin unusually wry, he prepared her cup.

  “Now we’ve turned you into a gossip. I can only guess at the countess’s joy.” She took the steaming cup he handed her, inhaled the aroma. “With my father’s last illness and...I’ve neglected…have you found out anything more on Jules and the wine cabinet?”

  “The count scolded me for interfering and says Jules was there at his behest. His Majesty’s health has been good.” He clinked spoons onto the tray. “Perhaps we’re mistaken in any suspicions.”

  “I hope so.” She wasn’t convinced. Why had Jules reacted like a thief when discovered? She took a sip of coffee, and scooped in more sugar. “Marchand, can I ask you something? Was the countess...ever the emperor’s mistress?”

  Marchand’s brotherly expression didn’t waver. “I don’t think that at all certain,” he replied with the flare of a diplomat. “I’d forget about sordid rumors. Together with you, maybe the emperor will find the Elysian Fields he yearned for.”

  “The Champs Elysees. The plain at the world’s end where no snow falls, no rain or strong wind. A tuneful breeze refreshes.”

  Amélie stirred her coffee, trying to untangle her mind. Saint Helena’s brutal trade winds might be a poor substitute, and she didn’t add the other aspect of the myth: where the gods are sent to die.

  “Elysium...a delightful paradise. The Count de Las Cases said, when we were at The Briars, that His Majesty spoke as a spirit in the Elysian Fields.” Marchand’s voice turned wistful. “As if his past were centuries behind him, but it’s all around him, a part of all of us.”