Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “So true.” Amélie admired the extreme loyalty the valet possessed for his once powerful master.

  “Sit and try to eat something.” Marchand handed her a small plate of biscuits. “I must tell His Majesty you’re awake. He’s instructed me to do so.” He pressed her shoulder and left.

  Why she let the countess aggravate her she didn’t know. Napoleon professed the woman was out of favor and she’d promised not to doubt him. Then what about Albine calling to Marchand, urging her down the road alone?

  Amélie slumped into a chair at the dining room table and tried to shake that image.

  She picked at a biscuit as her gaze wandered around this mildewed, windowless chamber where no one cared to eat anymore. Napoleon’s little court had once dined together here nearly every evening on the emperor’s fine Sévres porcelain designed with his past victories. That was before she became a part of his life. Before Las Cases left, before Cipriani and her father—strange to resign herself to that—had died. Now she faced the heart-wrenching task of writing her brothers back in France about their father. The thick sorrow moved again inside her.

  * * * *

  After Marchand brought him the information, Napoleon rose from his study table, ending his discussion with O’Meara. “I regret your inopportune return to Europe, Doctor, but we’ll use it to our advantage. We’ll find ways to keep in touch. I’ll provide you letters for Las Cases and a few more of my faithful.” This tactic deflected his anger at the jovial Irishman’s impending dismissal. He needed people back in Europe to work in his favor.

  Napoleon walked into the dining room. Amélie sat at the table, looking frail and overwhelmed. He sat beside her. “Amée, do you feel better after your sleep? Have you eaten?”

  “I’m not hungry. I feel sad, still tired.” Her face lit up at seeing him, softening some of the disturbance on her features. Napoleon smiled and she dropped her gaze into her coffee cup.

  “Are you settled in? If there’s anything you need in your new accommodations, don’t hesitate to ask.” He put his hand over hers and felt her shiver. It pleased him that he had this effect on her. “I want to see to your every comfort.”

  “I’ve just wondered, now with Papa gone...” She stumbled out the words. “What is my official role here at Longwood?”

  This question surprised him. How could he define her? A pampered mistress didn’t fit with Amée’s personality. “That depends on what you want to do. Is it your wish to continue with your gardening duties? I’d rather you no longer assisted in the kitchen. I’m also aware that being on this island with no useful occupation can be tortuous. Though I’m certain I could find...pleasant activities to fill up your time.”

  Her cheeks flushed, but her bright eyes revealed she was flattered. He’d try his best not to rush her into anything, to take advantage of her vulnerability with her father gone.

  “I suppose Chef Gascon will be the official chef now. His pastries aren’t much in demand. I do want to keep cultivating my garden.” Amélie bashfully met his gaze.

  “Nothing has to be decided this instant.” Napoleon stood and assisted her to her feet, taking her in his arms. He massaged his hand between her shoulder blades and wished he could sweep her up and bundle her away from earthly concerns, but he had to make certain she understood. “Amée, you deserve to be a beloved wife, and I cannot offer you marriage, just this dishonorable arrangement.”

  She eased back and frowned. “I know we can’t marry. I’ll stay with you, and love you, as long as you respect me and treat me as a beloved wife.”

  “I only want you to be aware of what’s ahead for us.” Napoleon was unable to resist testing people, even her. “In this society, if we have illegitimate children, you will be the one to carry the shame.”

  “Another inequity that must be changed.” Amélie stared up at him, her mouth stubborn. “I’ll love having ‘our’ children. You promised me devotion. You can’t back away now.”

  “You have it, as I said.” Napoleon ran his fingers along her waist, over her hips, his desire for her strong. She was still innocent in many ways, but he was soothed that she loved him when he no longer had power.

  When younger, he’d dreamed of a woman who would love him for himself. He struggled not to be too jaded for such pureness of heart. Napoleon squeezed her close, his face in her hair, her breasts plush against him. He kissed her forehead, then forced himself to release her and step back. “Now isn’t the proper time to discuss this. You should go to bed, get some more sleep.”

  “All right,” she whispered, but didn’t move apart from him. The longing on her face almost prevented him from turning away.

  “Good night, my sweet.” Napoleon denied his ardor. When he took her to his bed, he wanted her ready for passion, not weak with loss.

  * * * *

  Crawling from bed to the new sounds and smells of the main house, Amélie stretched and wished Napoleon had kept her in his arms last evening—then she brushed aside her misplaced hunger. She’d jot down more notes about women falling prey to their desires. She must proceed with wisdom. Hadn’t she already written that? Confusion clouded in on her.

  The murky sadness that her father wasn’t in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, returned.

  She washed and slipped on her clothes, intending to speak further to Marchand about the night of her final recital. She found him in the duty chamber. “Louis, please come in my room for a minute. I need to talk with you.”

  “How are you today, Amélie? Is this room satisfactory?” Marchand followed her back to the library and stood in the doorway. “His Majesty has decided to put Clarice in the kitchen to replace you.” His face looked so dismal she almost laughed.

  “Oh, dear. Poor Chef Gascon.” Amélie folded her arms and paced around the cluttered chamber. “I should have mentioned this before, but with everything that’s happened…Remember when the countess called you back that night at Hutt’s Gate? You said she wanted you to copy a recipe?”

  “How could I forget after that awful incident?” He shook his curly brown head, his serious brown eyes brimming with sadness. “A recipe she was dying to have prepared at Longwood. A waste of my time, and dangerous to yours as it turned out.”

  “The countess encouraged me to go on ahead, remember?”

  “I...yes, she did, didn’t she?” His unhappy expression changed to quizzical.

  Amélie wiped dust from one of the gilt-fronted bookcases, trying to steady her thoughts. “Do you see any relation to that and my attack?”

  “What are you implying? That the countess knew someone awaited you out there in the night? You couldn’t think...” Marchand rocked on the balls of his feet. “She is a frivolous, rather loose woman, but not capable of such nastiness, even in her jealousy of you.”

  Amélie motioned for him to step farther in, and whispered, “What about her husband, do you think him capable?”

  “Of what? Physical violence? I doubt he’d soil his polished nails.”

  “What if he had someone else carry out the attack?”

  “You believe he’s that desperate to be rid of you?” Marchand’s whisper tense, he glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, he’s petty and envious, and I’m sure out for monetary gain. Still, Amélie, the count—”

  “What about Jules and the wine? He acted too sneaky, and I’m positive the wine made Napoleon sick.”

  “No, you might be wrong. A few others have had those symptoms. Not as severe, it’s true.” Marchand sucked in his breath. “His Majesty already spoke to Jules. Now you’re connecting the wine incident with your assault? Je ne comprends pas.”

  “Someone wants to take me from the emperor’s side.” Amélie gripped her elbows and sank down on the edge of her bed. “To snatch everyone away and do him harm, I’m certain.”

  “That would be the British. Lowe’s doing,
not someone in our own house. You asked me not to say anything, but have you told His Majesty about these grave allegations?”

  “Not every detail.” She couldn’t get past Napoleon’s reluctance to take this seriously. Why was Marchand averse to believing her as well? “Please, keep a close watch on Jules if he’s in the house.”

  Marchand left and Amélie sat back on the bed, uninterested in breakfast. She stared up at a water-stained ceiling, then around the room. Items were in disarray, as if her residence here was obviously temporary. Her gaze fell on the crate that contained her father’s belongings.

  “Mon Dieu!” She straightened with a gasp, remembering what he’d said about a letter in his shaving kit. How could she have neglected this? Did a letter actually await her there?

  Amélie debated for a minute, then pried open the crate’s lid with a knife from the dining room. The kit was at the bottom, a worn, well-used leather case that held many memories. Warm and friendly moments of watching her father shave when she was a little girl.

  She opened the kit and emotion swept over her. It smelled of her father’s shaving soap, the clean, spicy smell that was his essence. Her eyes blurred with tears, her throat tightened.

  Under his brush was an envelope with one word written across it in her father’s concise script: Amélie. She tore it open and read:

  My dear Amélie:

  I never wanted to divulge this, but circumstances force me. First, you are entitled to the truth. Second, which will become clearer, something has happened that demands this. Your mother, that beautiful woman you resemble, she our marriage was not what it seemed. In the beginning we were happy, but as years went by and you children grew, she became dissatisfied. For all her strength, she hid a delicate soul. She needed a nurturing I could not provide. Because of this, she sought comfort with another man. When I found out, she was devastated, as was I. She became melancholy, but swore to never see this man again. I thought things settled, and we would learn to love each other once more. Sadly, she suffered deeper than I realized. She was so unhappy despairing she took her own life. She did this by drinking poison. Arsenic! She confessed this, right before her horrid death, but begged me never to tell you children. I was furious and distraught, but shouldered my responsibilities. For your sake, I sent you to Théo’s so you wouldn’t see my anger.

  Now you know this awful secret. I tell you this because I believe Cipriani died from the same poison, his symptoms so similar to your mother’s—but his wasn’t self-inflicted. The man was murdered. I can only speculate why. Perhaps because he was so close to the Emperor, his “eyes” and “ears” in Jamestown. Whoever did this is undoubtedly trying to get to the Emperor himself. That’s why I warned you to be on guard. Your intimacy with His Majesty makes me fear for your life as well.

  I should have expressed my concerns of poisoning to Doctor O’Meara, but I denied them. I also wasn’t sure who could be trusted. O’Meara works for the British. Be vigilant, Amélie. Warn the Emperor, he will listen to you much more so than anyone else.

  My deepest love to you always. Despite what she did, your mother adored you children. When you think of her, let that be your first thought.

  Papa

  Bile rose up in her throat, threatening to gag her. She reread the letter to make sure of her comprehension. She crumpled the paper to her chest. A scream stirred inside her.

  Her sweet, cherished mother, capable of such a vile act? A woman so full of life, so loved, how was it possible!

  She too had seen the similarity between her mother’s death and Cipriani’s. “Oh, Papa,” she spewed angrily and clumped her bedding in her fist. “You should have told me about Maman...before it was too late. Who will I ask questions of?” Amélie wheezed a sharp breath. “Why didn’t I confide to you that I felt the same danger?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  When is life an evil? When it offers nothing but suffering and pain—N.B.

  “I’m so ashamed and find it impossible to believe. If you had known her you wouldn’t believe it either.” Amélie sniffed back tears in Countess Bertrand’s Hutt’s Gate parlor. “Not that I…want to doubt my father’s words.”

  “This is incredible. You poor child. Ma foi.” Fanny shook her head as she held the letter in her lap. “You haven’t told Napoleon?”

  “Not yet. Of course he must be told. He’ll be outraged about Cipriani. He won’t want to accept it. I needed to talk to you first...about my mother.” Amélie’s voice quavered, on the verge of breaking. “This must be what she meant when she told me her heart was weak, shortly before she died. Somehow I knew…she meant love and not illness. How could she have been that miserable?”

  “No one can understand what’s really in someone else’s heart. Don’t torture yourself trying.” Fanny clasped her arm, her black eyes sympathetic. “We can only guess at the gloomy place she must have been in, inside.”

  “My poor father, living with such crippling knowledge.” Amélie gripped the sofa cushion. “Maman loved another better than he...at least at the end. Their marriage was a charade. My mother went through each day as if we were still the most important people in her life.” She shuddered. “What a lie.”

  “You were important. She loved you, as your father emphasized in the letter. She may not have stopped loving him, but was caught up in a passion that grew out of control. Your father hadn’t the...sensitivity...to fully bring her back. He hinted as much here.” Fanny sighed, rustling the paper. “Parents aren’t infallible or immune to heartache.”

  “How wretched Papa must have been, and to never let anyone know, not even me.” Amélie rubbed the lump in her throat, tasting phlegm. “I disappointed him as well, not that I’m ashamed of what I feel...or want.” She thumped the chair arm. “That’s different from concealing the truth, though, something I had a right to know...Oh, I suppose it was his male pride.”

  “Yes, they do have that. You know your father’s manner didn’t allow him to be very open about his private life.” Fanny raised the letter and narrowed her eyes. “About this other, someone out to harm the emperor. Who could it be? How is it since you moved into the house? Have you noticed any strange behavior? Albine must be spitting fire at being replaced.”

  “The Countess de Montholon has stayed to herself lately...” Amélie met the older woman’s probing gaze. “I think you misunderstand. I am sleeping in the library.”

  “Still a virgin. That won’t help you with your treatise.” Fanny smiled indulgently. “I might have guessed, knowing you as I think I do. Napoleon must think highly of you to let this go on. He was never so patient with his amours in Europe.”

  “I’ve heard all the sordid stories. Circumstances are different here.” Amélie chewed at her thumbnail, determined to believe this herself. Soon, she’d remedy her virginal status to satisfy her own needs.

  “I have noticed a change in our emperor since you’ve happened along. You have been wonderful for him, though is being a mistress the life you want?”

  “I’d rather be his wife, but I won’t desert him. I’m extremely concerned about these accusations my father brought up.” Amélie glanced around the Bertrands’ parlor. “Countess, the truth is, I feared something underhanded was taking place. My father’s letter confirms it.”

  “You knew there was a poisoner?” Fanny’s jaw dropped and she hunched forward.

  “It involved Napoleon’s special wine, which I asked him to stop drinking. The wine made me ill once...and now he admits to feeling better. It’s frightening to think someone at Longwood could be committing this traitorous act. Didn’t Mr. Balcombe suspect something and, before he left, insist the governor exhume Cipriani’s body?”

  “True, and they couldn’t find it, very peculiar. The headstone Napoleon bought for him had even disappeared. How can you be sure the wrongdoer isn’t someone from the outside, most likely one of the Br
itish?”

  “I haven’t ruled out anyone.” Amélie took a sip of the coffee Fanny had served, her drink now cold and bitter. The liquid sloshed in her empty stomach. “The British are the obvious choice, but it’s more difficult for them. They have limited access to him. Certainly they have access to our food, yet that would risk poisoning all of us.”

  Fanny nodded, staring at her wide-eyed. “Good point. Now who at Longwood? What about the orderly officer stuck right under your noses?”

  “He too has limited access.” Amélie took back the letter, folding it between nervous fingers. “Jules has to be involved. He was always making disloyal comments about Napoleon.”

  “Jules who? What’s this?”

  “The Count de Montholon’s manservant.” Amélie told Fanny of the two incidents. “Napoleon questioned the count about it. His Majesty has to see the threat. The longer we wait, the more dangerous it is.”

  “The manservant sounds suspicious.” Fanny poured more coffee, then traced a finger over her chipped Sévres pot. “Your father didn’t trust O’Meara enough to vent his concerns, but it’s a shame an autopsy wasn’t done on Cipriani. Being a servant, no one bothered. I suppose the villain bargained on that.”

  Amélie watched the cream she added congeal in her cup. “I imagine my father didn’t trust O’Meara because of his rumored spying for the governor. Lowe is sending him back to England soon anyway.”

  “I heard. That’s a pity for Napoleon. He’s quite fond of the man. Amélie, is there a chance O’Meara is involved?” Fanny spoke softly, leaning even closer.

  “If O’Meara is an agent for the British, why would Governor Lowe have him recalled? I think the doctor was telling trivial tales to the governor to appease him. I can’t imagine he’d harm Napoleon. He’s too vocal in Napoleon’s defense. That’s why he’s being removed.”

  “If we’re looking for someone with little ethics or conscience, I can drum up a few people who fit that description.” Fanny stood, smoothing her faded gown as she walked across the worn oriental carpet. “Could...Montholon be a part of this? I have always wondered why dear Charles rushed to Napoleon’s side after Waterloo. Why join a man who once fired him for disobedience? A man now banished from France…along with me.”