Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “En vérité, I’ve never liked the count.” Amélie’s prejudice always rumbled beneath the surface. “We can’t be vindictive. It is still speculation. His servant could be the guilty one.”

  “This seems to be related to your attack that night.” Fanny sat on the arm of the sofa. “Your father expressed his concerns about you in the letter, saying he’d warned you before?”

  “The warnings were always vague. Papa would never tell me why he felt that way. I suppose he’d have had to reveal…my mother’s actions,” she said, swallowing down her sorrow, “and couldn’t face it.”

  Amélie speculated on Montholon. A man mired in debt, waiting for the promised legacy from the emperor’s will, or a paid Royalist assassin? She hopped to her feet. “Please don’t mention this to your husband. Let me go now and speak with Napoleon.”

  * * * *

  Napoleon instructed Marchand to set out luncheon for him and Amélie at the small table in his study. How much calmer his digestion was now that he’d allowed himself to open up to her—as much as he dared. He looked up and smiled when she walked in, but her anxious face dissolved his contentment. “What has happened?”

  “I have something important you need to read.” She held up a letter.

  “Your Majesty, I apologize, but there are two British soldiers here with Count Bertrand.” Saint-Denis barged into the room. He bowed low, as if to make up for his breach of etiquette.

  “Then have my grand marshal deal with them.” Napoleon bristled with impatience.

  Bertrand entered behind his valet, his expression harried. “Pardon me, Your Majesty, Governor Lowe has requested to see Mademoiselle Perrault.”

  “He dares again to interfere with my household?” Napoleon clenched one hand into a fist and gripped Amélie’s shoulder with the other. “Why?”

  “I am...not certain, Sire.” Bertrand kneaded the hat he’d swept from his head upon entering. “There are two officers here to escort her to Plantation House.”

  “I won’t have these insults!” Napoleon stalked around the table, bumping a chair. After years of his threatening them in war, his dominance in Europe, the English relished this constant disruption of his life. “That sbirro Siciliano has no right with his arbitrary edicts. She won’t be going. You tell him I refuse to permit it.”

  “Please, Sire. I’m sure it can be easily handled. It’s probably nothing.” Bertrand’s head sank into the shoulders of his threadbare blue tunic.

  “Nothing? He sends two officers for nothing? I hardly think so.” Napoleon strode to the fireplace, hands clamped behind his back, hating his slip of temper. “Where is the warrant for her arrest? Is this the perfidious way he plans to treat us now?”

  “Arrest? What have I done?” Amélie’s voice quivered a little.

  Napoleon hurried back and clasped her hand. “Bertrand, I want a written request as to the nature of this action.”

  “May I suggest myself accompanying her, with your permission, Sire?” Bertrand looked hopefully at his sovereign.

  Napoleon, muscles rigid with fury, filled with frustration that he couldn’t protect his own people from his jailor’s injustices. “Amée, I don’t want to subject you to this man.”

  “No...I’ll go. I don’t want to be the cause of any more discord between you two.” She spoke bravely, but he saw the trepidation in her eyes.

  “I disapprove of this. Bertrand, don’t leave her side for an instant.” Napoleon hugged her to his chest and kissed her cheek. “Amée, if I could only keep such insults from you.” To hide further emotion, his helplessness, he strode into his bedchamber. A man should be in control of his own destiny, and the people he cares about. That’s why he must flee this island.

  * * * *

  The solemn group of four rode across the windswept plain, skirting the Devil’s Punchbowl, following the twisted road from Longwood to the governor’s residence. Amélie sat stiff in the sidesaddle, hair pinned up under her straw hat, staring at the soldiers’ backs.

  She tightened her fingers on her horse’s reins when they entered a drive shaded by mimosa, bamboo, and lemon trees. A path, edged on both sides with blue agapanthus, led to an expanse of cultivated lawn and a terrace fronting a white stucco colonial structure with light gray shutters. The Union Jack flapped—like her pulse—from a flagstaff in front of the Georgian porch.

  The air in this lush tropical foliage moistened her cheeks. A complete opposite world from Longwood, Plantation House was geographically sheltered from the constant trade winds that battered their side of the island. Cocoa trees and baobab provided ample shade.

  Amélie swiped loose curls from her eyes and tried to swallow with no saliva. Although she’d attended her father’s funeral nearby, she hadn’t paid any attention to the verdant grounds and handsome house. She steamed with contempt for the man who lived in this splendor, while they dwelled in comparative squalor. When they first arrived on Saint Helena, Plantation House had been the dwelling suggested for Napoleon, until Admiral Cockburn deemed it too good for him.

  As she and Count Bertrand were escorted into the building, Amélie’s stomach rolled over. Whatever Governor Lowe wanted, it wasn’t likely to be in her favor.

  A jug-eared aide took them down polished, dark wood floors, through a long hall dominated by British royal portraits. They entered an antechamber filled with unscratched, elegant rosewood furniture with brass inlays. A blatant disparity to the furnishings provided for her emperor.

  Minutes later the clerk bade them to enter another room. From behind a massive desk, a skinny man rose like a ramrod ready to plunge down a gun barrel.

  Amélie squared her shoulders, her nerves bundled like knots in a string.

  “Good afternoon.” Governor Lowe glared at them with small cold eyes. His curly red hair peppered with gray framed a bony face with a high forehead. His narrow lips made no effort to smile. He wore the scarlet uniform with gold braid and epaulets of a lieutenant general in the British army. The room smelled of linseed oil and not a trace of mildew.

  “Governor Lowe, this is Mademoiselle Perrault.” Bertrand removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.

  The governor nodded and sat down. “I will speak with her alone.”

  “I’ve been instructed not to leave her side,” Bertrand informed him dryly.

  The governor cast him a distasteful look, his left eyelid twitching for a moment. “By whose authority?”

  “The emperor’s.”

  “I’m not aware of any emperor on this island. Your general is no longer in power. He has no authority here.” Lowe’s voice was abruptly callous.

  Amélie plucked at her hat ribbon, growing tenser by the minute. “If you please, Governor Lowe, I’d prefer for Count Bertrand to stay with me.” She scrutinized the man before her, straining to keep her voice steady. “May we have a seat?”

  The governor now glared at her. He put his long fingers together and leaned forward. “If you must.”

  She sat in a chair facing his desk, but Bertrand remained standing.

  “Your father passed away quite recently, is that correct?” Lowe ruffled through a stack of papers on his shiny desk, yet his gaze darted across them both.

  “Yes, that’s correct.” She squeezed any sadness out of her response.

  “Then I presume you’ll be returning to Europe as soon as it can be arranged?”

  “I am to remain here, in the employ of Longwood.” Amélie forced a smile, to appear confident. He wouldn’t dare send her off the island.

  “In what function?” Lowe’s sharp eyes flitted over hers, his eyebrows a thick mesh above.

  “Mademoiselle Perrault is an experienced cook. She was her father’s most able assistant,” Bertrand cut in, stiff beside her chair.

  “You have another cook up there,” Lowe said in an officious
monotone. “In the interest of frugality, we must lessen your household expenses. I think it prudent to return you to the mainland.”

  “Most of our kitchen staff was left behind in England.” Amélie bit at her lip. “If anything, we’re understaffed. I perform other duties, such as management of the spice garden, and—”

  “...And General Bonaparte’s intimate, how shall I put it, companion?” Lowe punctuated his accusation with a thin-lipped smile. He thrust up a hand as Bertrand moved to speak. “No, General, let Miss Perrault answer for herself.”

  Amélie squirmed in the chair, but expected this. Lowe wanted her expunged, not because of her father’s death, or any need to decrease Longwood’s staff, but because she might be providing feminine comfort to the prisoner. Why else ask to see the cook’s daughter? She glared back. “Those are false rumors. The emperor and I are good friends, nothing more.”

  “You intend for me to believe that?” Lowe’s freckled face looked ready to break into laughter, if that was possible. He brushed a finger over his twitching eyelid. “You French rarely tell me the truth.”

  “Governor Lowe, that’s uncalled for. As well as your previous slander.” Count Bertrand squished his hat under his elbow.

  “You expect Napoleon to not have any friends.” Anger bubbled up inside her.

  “Even Count de Montholon, a genuine member of the aristocracy, has informed me that this young lady is no longer needed at Longwood. Now you, General Bertrand, are trying to convince me she is?” Lowe directed a pointed insult at Bertrand’s rank as a promoted count during the Empire.

  Lowe’s words chilled Amélie. Montholon was out slithering again! She gripped the seat of the wooden chair. “Why take the Count de Montholon’s word, sir, over ours? His luck of birth should not be a determining factor.”

  Lowe grimaced at her. “Because many sources have confirmed my suspicions. The regiment of soldiers keeps a close watch on the house activities, as does the orderly officer during his ‘escort’ of you and the general. Essential are you? No doubt, but not in the way you’d have me believe. You’ve done me a service in bringing the general out again, to be seen by my officer, improving him with exercise so I’m not bombarded with letters on his failing health.” He darted a sharp eye at Bertrand. “Now your usefulness is at an end.”

  “I don’t understand this merciless treatment.” Amélie’s composure shattered at Lowe having the nerve to thank her for performing his dirty work. “Why do you insist on humiliating us? Does civilized Europe condone the way you British imprison the emperor? Does Europe even know the dreadful conditions we’re forced to live in, while you reside here like a king?”

  “Amélie. Stay quiet,” Bertrand sputtered, grabbing her shoulder, but she knew she’d gone too far. “I’m certain we can—”

  “You dare to threaten me, to question my authority, Miss Perrault?” Lowe stood in one jerk, his fingers crumpling a paper on the desktop.

  “Please, let’s calm down.” Bertrand tugged at the shoulder of Amélie’s dress. “Governor, we should keep our discussion civil. We can’t do without Mademoiselle Perrault. She’s invaluable. She handles the food management now that Cipriani is dead. As for those other accusations, they are groundless.”

  “I was informed that Montholon is the one handling the—“

  “Mais non, it’s me.” Amélie stared into Lowe’s ruddy face devoid of sympathy. Tears pressed behind her eyes. “Show some compassion, Governor. We no longer face off on a battlefield. Must you torture an already overthrown man?”

  “Amélie, we’ve said enough.” Count Bertrand bunched her dress collar in his anxious fingers. “Montholon erred in what he told you, Governor. Mademoiselle Perrault is indispensable in the running of Longwood. If that’s all, then our business here is done. Excuse us.” He dragged Amélie out of the chair and toward the door.

  Lowe’s expression flashed livid for a moment. Then he vibrated, as if restraining himself, his mouth a timorous slash. “I do my best for you people, but he never makes it easy. Return to Longwood. I’ll inform you of my decision at a later time.”

  Coldly but thankfully dismissed, Bertrand hustled Amélie back outside.

  “I’m sorry, Count.” In the shade of a mimosa tree, Amélie leaned a hand on its trunk for balance. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate. A huge tortoise lumbered by over the sweet-smelling grass. “I saw this place, how he lives, and I couldn’t help it. He’s contemptible. No wonder Napoleon can’t stand to speak with him.”

  “I pray you did no damage. It matters little that...most of what you said is true.” Bertrand slapped on his hat. “We’re at a great disadvantage here and always will be. Lowe isn’t above enforcing anything. He could send you off quite easily.”

  “I know, and I let him goad me right into it. Quel faux pas.” Amélie fought tears, pushing the flood back again. Had she ruined everything? “If Governor Lowe showed us—more important, Napoleon—some kindness, understanding, and most of all, respect, all this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “Unfortunately, Lowe is a man unsuited to this position. He’s overwhelmed by responsibility beyond his skill.” Bertrand cupped her arm. “He’s terrified of losing a highly lucrative post if anything goes wrong.”

  “You seem to know a lot about him, Count.” She pressed on her stomach as they walked toward their horses.

  “I spoke with his personal physician once, shortly after he arrived on the island. Quite without my asking, the doctor said Lowe was too agitated a person for this post. He’s constantly afraid of what will happen if his prisoner escapes. I’ve had plenty of differences with Lowe.” Bertrand helped her onto her mount. “Still, in the beginning, the emperor would have done better to...perhaps...”

  “...Stay on good terms with the governor?” Amélie appreciated Bertrand’s candor. He’d never be brash enough to advise Napoleon along these lines. “Your sentiments are similar to what mine were, but I’m not certain anymore.” She blew out a breath. “How much of your dignity can you sacrifice, day in and day out?”

  * * * *

  In Longwood’s salon, Amélie removed her hat, her hair damp beneath. Napoleon’s field glasses lay next to the front shutter, where he’d probably been on the lookout for her return. “Count Bertrand, please wait outside the study for a minute. I need you to hear the news I’m about to tell Napoleon concerning a letter my father left me.”

  “If I can be of any assistance to His Majesty.” Bertrand followed her to the dining room.

  Amélie smoothed her humid tresses and walked into the study, closing the door.

  “I should have gone with you.” Napoleon swept her into his arms, his expression more worried than irate. “I have never been a coward, but that man brings out the worst in me. I felt that twinge in my left leg that happens when I’ve lost control. What did the villainous wretch want?”

  Amélie’s nerves ragged, she ran her hand up and down his fraying-at-the-cuffs shirt. “Lowe wants to send me home.” She suppressed a shudder, explaining her interview.

  “You say Montholon told the governor you were no longer needed? That’s absurd.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more. My father left a letter for me. I’ll ask Count Bertrand to join us. He should hear this too.” Amélie fetched the traumatic missive she’d stashed back in her chamber.

  When she finished reading, her hands so unsteady the writing seemed to tremble on the page, the two men stared in shock. She explained to Count Bertrand about Jules and the wine.

  “This is reprehensible,” Napoleon said. “This is the letter you wanted me to see earlier?”

  “Yes. I had just found it, or remembered to look, this morning.” She turned to Bertrand. “I thought the Constantia wine tainted because I became ill after drinking it, and Napoleon’s illness. Now this other...Cipriani...”

  She shivered, and
despite Bertrand’s presence, Napoleon embraced her once more.

  “Amée, I questioned Montholon about his servant. He said he was only helping him inventory the wine, which was still a breach of his authority.”

  Montholon did know of Jules’s forays at the cabinet. Amélie cringed. “Then why did he act as if he wasn’t supposed to be there? Marchand promised to handle it, but got nowhere.”

  “Marchand was in on this little misadventure as well?” After a chastising look, Napoleon kissed her on the mouth, holding her so close she felt his heart race in rhythm with her own.

  “Then Jules hiding behind that scarf, his toothache...” She tried to calm her breathing. “He might have hidden bruises.”

  Bertrand, who’d turned away in embarrassment, now faced them.

  “I spoke to this Jules about where he was the night of your attack. I saw no bruises.” Napoleon grimaced. “He is a toady character. I didn’t like him at all.”

  “They would have faded by then.” Amélie swallowed. “I told you of his threats.”

  “I’ll have him removed from Longwood immediately.” Napoleon looked to Bertrand. “Arrange the matter.”

  “First we have to find out who he’s working for with his insidious deeds.” She averted her gaze for an instant. “Is it…Montholon?”

  Napoleon’s eyes widened. He tightened his fingers on her upper arms. “You think Montholon is involved in your attack? Prissy Montholon?”

  “He could have put his manservant up to it. The count hates me unreasonably. You would think he’d be glad I bring you happiness here, but…” She fumbled to strengthen her position. “His contempt grows stronger.”

  “All right, we’re connecting your assault with the wine and Cipriani’s death?” Napoleon released her and raked a hand through his hair.