Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  She’d even snuck off to the library a few times to work on her treatise—the sensual details—but hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell Napoleon of her endeavor.

  A discordant noise close by diverted her attention. Hiccupping sobs and sputtering drifted from behind the kitchen. She stepped over, next to that building, touching the splintered wooden side for guidance. As she walked around through the murkiness, the sobs grew more distinct.

  At the back, Amélie dimly made out a figure hunched near the wall. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Who is there...can I do anything?”

  The figure moved, sniffing loudly, but didn’t answer.

  Amélie edged closer. “Do you need help?”

  “Nooo...go away.” A female’s angry, pathetic wail.

  Amélie hesitated, then slipped inside the kitchen to retrieve a lantern. She lit it and retraced her steps. The light splashed over the figure. The person jerked up her hands to shield her face, scrunching down farther.

  Amélie hovered close, holding the lantern aloft as a woman squinted up.

  “Let me…” Amélie caught her breath. She stared into the blotchy face of Clarice. After setting the lantern down, she crouched beside her. “What is it? What has happened?”

  “You don’t care. Go away!” Clarice’s sobs turned to anger. Her auburn hair clung like rust to her damp cheeks.

  Amélie wasn’t sure if she cared or not. Clarice had caused her a lot of misery, but she had too much heart to desert her in this tragic mood. “Shall I get your mother?”

  Clarice reached up and grabbed her by both arms. “No, you can’t do that.”

  “All right, I won’t.” Amélie shifted her feet to regain balance, before pulling at the other woman’s fingers to loosen her grip. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Clarice let go and swiped her sleeve under her nose with a sniff, her white cap drooping over her forehead. Her hazel eyes looked like red wounds in the lantern light. “Everyone will know soon enough. I’m going to have a baby.” She spewed it with bitter loathing.

  Amélie said the first thing that entered her mind. “Is it Jules’s?”

  “Merde! That jackass. He wanted to have his way, but when I told him I was expecting, he became irritated. As if it were all my fault and he had nothing to do with it.”

  “You let him leave the island…without marrying you?” Amélie grimaced, torn in her wishes. Madame Cloubert would be outraged when she found out, but Amélie reveled in Jules’s departure.

  “He wanted me to rid myself of the embarrassment.” Clarice gripped her arms around her knees. “Then he refused to admit it was even his. He couldn’t wait to flee to Europe with the Montholons.”

  “If you had told me, I could have had Napoleon force Jules to marry you.” She shivered in dismay. “Then you might have sailed with them.”

  “I’d never marry that imbecile. He didn’t love me.” Clarice raised her head, her voice steadier. “You can help me, Amélie. I need money. You can get funds from the emperor.”

  “For what?” Amélie narrowed her eyes and fidgeted in her cramped position.

  “I want to go to town, pay my way on the first ship out of here.” Clarice wheezed in a deep breath. “Before my mother sees me swelling.”

  “You can’t simply leave.” Amélie gaped at the other woman’s fantasy after all they had endured on Saint Helena. “The governor must approve it.”

  “The hell with that man. Just get me the money. I’ll find a way off. I know what to do.” Clarice grabbed Amélie’s arms once more. “Don’t mention this to anyone. If you help me, I have a secret Jules told me about the Count de Montholon, but if you betray me, you’ll hear nothing.”

  “Not Montholon again?” Amélie gritted her teeth and shook off Clarice. “I, all right, I promise not to tell. Go into the kitchen and clean yourself up. I’ll think of something.” She rose and staggered back toward the house in an agitated daze. She’d so hoped to be done with the Montholons.

  She felt compassion for wretched, selfish, pregnant Clarice, even after harsh treatment by her hands. If Amélie did give her money, she had to know what deviousness Clarice planned. She couldn’t risk her actions further damaging Napoleon’s relations with Lowe, and she must hear this secret about the count.

  * * * *

  Napoleon heard her enter the study and he stuffed the letter to his banker in his desk cubby hole. “Did you enjoy the evening air?”

  “A little. A cold wind is blowing.” Amélie walked up beside him and caressed his shoulder. “What are you writing?”

  “Nothing important.” Napoleon pulled her onto his lap, embraced her, and smoothed her hair. She smelled fresh, like a breeze off the Alps. “You look upset. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m very happy to be here with you.” She smiled, softening the disturbance on her face, and kissed his cheek.

  “You realize, Amée, if I had met you years earlier, as I might have wished, if our youths could ever match, I would have loved you and left. I was too busy with my own affairs, rushing to my next battle, searching to further my ambition and power. I never took the time to really love anyone.” He kissed her mouth, using his honest confession to cover up his remorse at the subterfuge. Did she suspect his plans and how much longer could he hide them from her? “I’d never have given myself the chance to discover you.”

  “That’s a sweet, lovely sentiment.” She settled into the comfort of his thighs and leaned her cheek against his. “You’ve been writing a lot lately. I heard you wrote Josephine very erotic love letters.”

  Napoleon laughed, remembering that lovesick young man who had romanticized Josephine into something she wasn’t. He liked that he could laugh and put aside the humiliation. Might he recapture that now, toward someone who deserved his affection? He stroked her face. “Once I aspired to become a writer. Can you believe that? A man who had spent most of his life on the battlefield, pondering such a gentle pursuit.”

  “I am surprised, but you stayed a soldier instead?” Amélie rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I wrote in journals constantly in school. I thought if I had no success as a soldier, I would try composing novels.” He stared into the fire for a moment. Her bottom on his lap stirred other desires.

  “Did you ever write anything fictional?” she asked.

  “I wrote some allegories. A few small novels: La Nouvelle Corse, Le Comte d’Essex, and Masque prophète.” His spoke with dreamy pride about that idealistic youth.

  “You should try writing again, here. What better place to be a writer than on a remote island?” She fingered one of the gold buttons on his waistcoat.

  “I’ve written plenty on this island that never passed through Plantation House, many which were published in England and France. Remember the Remonstrance and Letters from the Cape, venting my spleen against the governor and his superiors for the world to see? Not that I signed my own name to those.” Napoleon cuddled her closer. His mood drooped a little. “I also...wrote a poem about my son.”

  “Vraiment?” She raised her head to look at him. “Can you recite it for me?”

  He sighed, opened a small door to the right on his desk, and pulled out a creased slip of paper. Unfolding the paper, he rubbed it with his fingers. “‘My wrongs my cares, should be forgot with thee, my power Imperial, dignities renown. This rock itself would be a heaven to me, Thine arms more cherished than the victor’s crown. O, in thine arms, my son, I could forget that fame...’” Napoleon’s voice thickened. He saw tears spring to her eyes and hugged her head to his face to rub off his own tears in her hair.

  “That’s so beautiful.” Amélie embraced his shoulders. “I hope my arms make this a heaven for you as well.”

  “They do. I wrote this back before I found such glory in your sweet touch.” Napoleon kissed the tip of her nos
e, her cheek, earlobe, then trailed his fingers over her breasts.

  “What about writing more novels?” Amélie moaned and nestled closer.

  “You’re determined to make me content on this rock.” He unfastened the back of her dress, yet his mind brimmed with worries: O’Sullivan’s return, his uncle’s success in finding his double. He tugged down her bodice and kissed her bare shoulder. “I spent so much time on the writing of my life with Las Cases, re-creating my campaigns, recording my contributions to France.”

  “Now you could write anything you desired. Let your imagination run wild, manipulate your characters as you would wish in real life.” She unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Write of the exciting places you’ve been, such as Egypt.”

  “Many would say I’ve already tried that, the running wild and manipulating of people—my head in the Ossian clouds.” He chuckled because he wasn’t done yet. Only death would keep him from his dreams. “You’d think I’d learn not to confess these things to you.”

  Amélie chewed on her lip for a moment. “I’ve been writing myself. On women needing to be better educated. A discourse…on sex for women so they aren’t ignorant or helpless the first time.”

  Napoleon laughed again, certain she jested. “You aren’t serious, of course?”

  “Why shouldn’t women be as informed as men?” Amélie sat up straighter, rearranged her bodice. “I know this shocks your male sensibilities, but I think it’s important.”

  “Amée, you’re talking insanity.” He scowled. The little minx did want to shock him. He’d convince her not to even attempt it. “A man likes his woman innocent. As you were our first time. The man wants to be the teacher of intimacy.”

  “Please, read what I’ve written before condemning it. I’ve described the act as tastefully as possible.”

  He gripped the chair arms, shifting beneath her. “You are serious. You’re using our relationship for your sordid details?”

  “You could assist me with your power of intellect.” She slid off his lap. “I’m also addressing other matters. Women alone are punished in adultery. I asked you to protect me in our relationship, but all women should have similar protection by law, especially if they have illegitimate children. If marriage isn’t possible, we common women need legal recourse.”

  Napoleon grimaced, thinking of his once innocent Marie Louise bearing Neipperg’s illegitimate child. No one would condemn her because of her status. “A husband needs to know if the children his wife has are his and not someone else’s. That’s why women have been punished and not men.” He stood and paced the room to contain his irritation. This isn’t the way he’d expected the evening to progress. “I’m not comfortable with you writing intimate details about me.”

  “I don’t mention names, of course. It’s more a ‘general’ description. Women are more vulnerable to a man’s attentions, the way things are. If the man is a cad and deserts her, she should be legally protected.”

  “The legalities are fine. You have some interesting points, but this other…you would create a scandal. I don’t like it. It would encourage women to be forward. They would lose their gentleness.” Napoleon strode back and slipped his arms around her. “Rousseau says ‘A woman should never be made to feel independent, she should be a coquettish slave to render her alluring, an object of desire, a sweeter companion to man.’ Don’t look at me like that. I’m only quoting.”

  “Women are left with passive obedience without sufficient character to manage a household or family.” She smiled up at him, trying to cajole no doubt. “If her husband is weak, they both fail. If a man has an intelligent partner and friend, they both benefit.”

  “En vérité. You have valid issues, but you must forget these other outrageous ideas.” He pinched her cheek, treating her like a naughty child. “My Civil Code provided for women after divorce. A husband had to support her if she hadn’t the money, and whatever she owned prior to the marriage she retained afterwards.”

  “The divorcing husband chooses where she resides. An adulterous wife can be sent to prison, and only the husband’s consent to take her back frees her. Children born of an adulterous liaison can’t be legitimized. All that’s in the Civil Code.”

  Napoleon shook his head. Sitting on the sofa, he dragged her onto his lap again. “I have always preferred docile, submissive women, and look who I fall in love with.” His smile faded at her serious expression. “I would marry you, Amée, if it were possible.” He surprised himself with these words. “Divorces are still frowned upon in many countries. I worry about my son’s future.”

  “Shhh. Don’t you understand here something as mundane as being wed to an Austrian archduchess doesn’t apply?” She stroked his face and kissed him. “The rest of the world is too far away for its rules and regulations to matter. On this island, I am your wife.”

  “On this island, my sweet…” Where after this? His bold protégé must have the courage to follow in his wake. “Despite your women’s issues, will you be my comfort, my coquettish slave?” He nibbled on her neck, like silk against his lips, and massaged his hands along her thighs.

  “Of course I will, if you’ll be mine.” She ran her hands over his chest.

  “With no campaigns to plan, no countries to administer...all I desire is enticing you back to bed. If you promise not to write of it.” Napoleon slid his hands inside her bodice to stroke her soft skin. He’d deter her from these foolish ideas later. “Perhaps it’s that sinful ginseng, an herb renown for stimulation, didn’t you say? Be aware, record one action in which I recognize myself and I will burn your licentious words.”

  * * * *

  Amélie gripped the cart seat, sitting beside Clarice as they trundled down the steep Side Path into Jamestown. She’d told Napoleon she needed money to go shopping with her the following day. He seemed surprised at this sudden friendship, but acquiesced. Amélie hated to tell him the truth. He’d force someone to marry Clarice—an intolerable situation for both her and any hapless bridegroom—but she disliked keeping secrets.

  Archambault dropped them off in front of Solomon’s Shop on the main street, where everyone bought their jewels and Chinese trinkets. He ambled off to find amusement elsewhere. Amélie had counted on the groom drinking in one of the sleazy cafes, ignoring his duty as chaperone.

  Passersby glared as the two women stood before the shop. People whispered and cast sly looks. In this insular community, everyone knew they were the French who cohabited with him, the infamous prisoner of Saint Helena.

  “I feel like a freak on parade the few times I’ve come here,” Amélie whispered, trying to ease the tension. The sultry air smelled of rot, reminding her of her first moment on the island. She twinged at the idea of her father beside her. “I’m surprised the governor lets us shop now.”

  “There’s nothing worth buying,” Clarice groused, staring at the package Amélie held. “You didn’t have to come into town with me.”

  A phaeton pulled by four black ponies rambled by. A woman sat inside, wearing a fuchsia gown much too garish for her middle age. Nose in the air, she preened as the feathers in her hat bobbed.

  “Yes, I did. Look at that haughty Lady Lowe.” Amélie watched the arrogant woman, married to their jailor. If she had a trace of compassion, Lady Lowe could do much with her husband to ease Napoleon’s situation.

  “She looks like a silly goose pretending to be a peacock.” Clarice grumbled and hunched her shoulders. “Have you heard the verse invented by her? ‘God save the King, God save the Queen, but damn the Neighbor?’ The Neighbor, that’s what these stupid Yamstocks call His Majesty.”

  “How unkind of her.” Amélie inhaled and squeezed the parcel under her arm. “I have the money. Now what do you intend to do?”

  “If you insist on following, let’s walk.” Clarice strode off down the street paved with small stones. Whitewashed houses with
narrow verandas decorated in bright flowers lined both sides. A parakeet screeched from a window.

  Amélie shivered despite the humidity seeping into her clothes. The ochre-colored cliffs that loomed on both sides of the town imprisoned the tropical air. They passed the soldiers’ barracks which stood next to a tiny plot, called the Company’s Garden, at the south end of the street. The East India Company’s storehouses sat on the other side of the square—the hub of Saint Helena’s confined world.

  “Now hand me the money, I can manage alone,” Clarice snapped as she sat on a bench in the park with its cypress, fig trees, and tangled foliage.

  “I need to know what you’re planning.” Amélie sat beside her. “Also, what’s this secret Jules told you about his employer?” A man so despicable he tried to bribe her at the end.

  “The ganache made me promise not to tell. I’ll take that.” Clarice snatched the package and smoothed it over in her lap, the contents clicking inside. “He said the count came here for monetary reasons, and you had ruined it all.”

  “That much I know. Did he say his master was on a paid mission?” Amélie plucked at her dress skirt, sticky on her thighs. “A scheme to prevent Napoleon from ever rising to power again?”

  “Something like that. You know how Jules enjoyed boasting. He said he managed to sprinkle arsenic in His Majesty’s snuff. That probably caused the emperor’s last illness.” Clarice whispered this final part as if ashamed.

  “Did you have knowledge of any of this beforehand?” Amélie gripped the splintered bench to resist jerking the other woman’s arm.

  “No, of course not. I would have warned the emperor.” Clarice sounded a shade contrite, if a resentfully expressed weakness.

  “Did Jules tell you anything else?” Amélie lowered her voice as two soldiers strutted by, chuckling behind their hands as they gawked. “Was Montholon’s stepfather involved? Did his wife know of this plot? Was my assault part of it?”