Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Ochi, more wine? Ahhh, have some. It is not bad for Italian grapes.” The eager Greek refilled Amélie’s glass, but she nudged the glass aside. A clear head remained crucial.

  After finishing their meal, her escort consuming more wine than food, they returned outside to a bracing wind.

  “November is such a foul time of year to travel. What a nosey old moulari she was. Not good for us, uh?” The Greek turned up his coat collar, then jauntily clasped her arm and they traipsed through the village.

  “We will stay in a hotel at the end of town,” he told her. “A nice quiet place, né?”

  She fought the urge to jerk free. Her aching muscles longed for rest.

  The sun had almost set by the time they ascended a sloping path to a plain, square building in a grove of lemon trees. The Greek procured two gloomy rooms in the back.

  * * * *

  In the sparse chamber, Amélie undressed, draping her damp clothes over a chair. From the small bundle she extracted a wrinkled nightgown. With no water to wash, she threw on the nightgown and climbed into bed. Stinking like sea kelp, she tucked the covers snug around her. She absently moved her thumb toward her mouth, but stared instead at the strong, fine nail she hadn’t chewed in months. She massaged the anxious knots from her stomach, desperate to hold on to any mark of courage.

  She prayed to be almost there. Her loneliness for Napoleon pierced her like a pain she never knew existed. Ten months had elapsed since he slipped from his exile. Her body ached for his touch, her soul for his smile. She felt as much his wife as if she’d stood in a cathedral and been blessed by a priest. “For all my bravado about strong, intelligent women, I’m still a silly lovesick girl.” She laughed to herself, burrowing under the thin bedclothes.

  A sudden knock startled her. Always afraid of discovery, she dragged the blanket from the bed, wrapped herself, and crept to the door to listen above her racing heart.

  “Open please, despinis,” came the Greek’s voice.

  Amélie opened the door a crack, staring at him in question.

  “May I come in for a moment?”

  She shook her head and didn’t budge, refusing to allow him into her dark little room.

  “I thought...you might want company.” He smiled, holding up a bottle of wine and two glasses in the shadowy hall.

  Amélie’s eyes widened. She thrust up a hand. The door gripped tight, she jerked out her finger and pointed down the hall toward his room. She bristled at his insulting behavior. She feared this was the payment he expected for helping her.

  “I was mistaken...signomi.” He shrugged his shoulders, tapping his forehead with the bottle. He slunk down the passage without protest.

  Amélie shut the door, wishing it locked. She wedged a chair under the knob, surprised and repulsed by the men who found her attractive. She heaved a sigh and only desired one man.

  * * * *

  Over breakfast the next morning, Amélie glared at her companion. The Greek remained unflappable, never losing his amiable countenance.

  They walked north out of the village. She hugged her arms close to her body, staying a few feet away from him. Past olive trees and rustic huts, they followed a rocky trail up a hill where crimson ice-daisies sprouted from between stones. A boy herded goats that grazed on one slope. Their bells tinkled sweetly in the morning breeze.

  “I am glad the rain is gone.” The Greek stopped and stretched at the crest of the hill.

  She plucked at her bandanna. A few clouds scattered in the blue-gray sky—the color of Napoleon’s eyes.

  “I don’t know who you are, or why I am even doing this.” He shrugged. “I’m a man who doesn’t mind performing favors, and I keep my mouth shut.”

  Amélie bit at her lip. She suppressed her rising anger, her urge to demand that he perform his duty and leave personal feelings out of it.

  “They told me you wouldn’t speak, because you could not. Have you no tongue?”

  She turned away, moving her tongue inside her mouth as she pinched the ends of her scarf. She glared at him once more and thrust up one hand in a gesture of where do we go now?

  He slapped his cap against his knee. “I am taking you down to the opposite port, over there.”

  Below, a group of fishing boats huddled together in an inlet of deep blue water. This no-name island shimmered in shades of green and bronze, with pink sandy beaches lining a restless sea. She swayed in the gentle breeze, far from the rough trade winds of Saint Helena. Though Saint Helena had been paradise to her for a time, her Elysium.

  The Greek started down the other side of the hill, scattering pebbles. He glanced occasionally over his shoulder as she trailed behind.

  They passed under Judas trees down to the shore. Fishermen repaired huge fishing nets laid out on the sand. Women wearing dark scarves and plain black dresses, their faces weary from a lifetime of hard labor, toted baskets of food to the men. Brown children skirted the surf, laughing and arguing playfully.

  “Wait here for a moment.” The Greek touched her shoulder, his hand almost lingering. “I’ll see if this is the right man.”

  Amélie stood on the loose sand, yearning to take off her shoes and stockings and feel the warmth between her toes. Her companion approached one of the boats, and after a short interval returned to her.

  “This fisherman on that boat, his name is Lorenzo. He is the one who will take you across.” The Greek removed and fingered his battered cap.

  She almost laughed as at last she learned someone’s name. She searched her escort’s face, eager to hear a destination, but knew that would be dangerous.

  The Greek leaned close and kissed her cheek before she could back away. “Safe voyage, despinis.”

  Amélie hurried off, rubbing the end of her scarf over her face. She reached the boat where a bare-chested man in tight gray breeches waited. Lorenzo stood tall and muscular, proudly displaying his copper physique. A deep scar rippled down his left temple.

  “Come, ragazza, quickly.” He gave her an impatient hand into the vessel. “We have to catch the tide or it’s all for nothing.”

  Bundle clutched, Amélie stumbled onto the deck. Demoted to “girl” she wished she could hire her own boat and travel alone, but the risk for a lone woman prevented such an endeavor.

  At Lorenzo’s order, the crew of five men rushed to raise the sails of the small two-masted craft. One or two threw curious stares in her direction.

  Lorenzo opened a hatch and directed Amélie into a tiny cabin below.

  The stink of fish filled her nostrils as she fumbled around in the dim chamber. She found a spot behind the ladder, where she hunkered down in her dirty clothes. Covering her face with her scarf, she struggled to ignore the rocking boat, the stench. Her head on her knees, fingers digging into her calves, she dismissed the chaos, and concentrated on her own thoughts. She relived her last night with Napoleon as she had nearly every night since. That shattering moment when he’d revealed the reason behind the whispering and overt secrecy.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  There are things written in the great book of destiny that must be accomplished whatever one does—N.B.

  Napoleon sipped the chamomile tea in an effort to calm his stomach. His entire body raged, as if cannon fire struck him and burned around inside fighting for a way out. The moment he awaited hovered just hours away.

  He sloshed aside the cup and stared over at Amée as she readied for bed. Down to her shift, she slipped the garment over her head, her firm young body with full breasts enticing. With regret he let her shrug into her nightgown. Since she’d found the letters, she remained perturbed.

  “Amée, sit with me.” Napoleon sat on the bed and pulled her down beside him. “I realize I’ve put off your concerns these last few days, but I know I can rely on your courage. What I have to tell you is
both alarming and exhilarating.”

  “Finally, you’ll explain. What is it?” Her dark eyes sharp, expression leery, she still caressed his shoulder.

  “I am attempting an escape.” He squeezed her hand, feeling the pulse in her wrist jump.

  “You can’t mean that,” she said with a nervous laugh. “It’s just a game, harmless plotting, isn’t it?”

  Napoleon drew her close, kissing her lips, avoiding her startled eyes. He smelled the sweetness of her and tried to relax. “I regret not being able to confide in you before, but everything had to be planned to the tiniest detail. I couldn’t risk your reaction being a hindrance.”

  “You’re taunting me. Admit that you are.” She pulled back and glared at him as if he’d lost his sanity. “I knew you and your Corsican guests were scheming about something, but I don’t believe it’s possible from here. I can’t—”

  “Don’t despair, mon amour. I wanted to make things easier for you...if I could.” Napoleon stroked her thick hair, regretting the misery on her face. He hoped to survive his ordeal and rediscover the love and pleasure he shared with her. Something he’d enjoyed far more than he thought he would at this stage in his life. “Your upset only proves your devotion to me. When I arrive at my destination, if things remain calm, I’ll instantly send for you.”

  “Send for me?” Amélie pressed her hands on both sides of her skull, as if attempting to absorb and hold this in. “Mon Dieu. Where will you go, how…?”

  “I can’t divulge where I’m going, nor give you much knowledge of the plan, for that may prove dangerous to you, as well as me.” He waited for her to compose herself, reassured by the adoration she felt for him. “Amée, I can no longer tolerate this situation—the eyes of the world upon me only to watch me fade. I want more, my freedom, and you beside me, living life to the fullest.”

  “If you’re caught, they may execute you.” Her lips quivered, her voice rising in pitch. “You can’t take that risk, please.”

  “Shhh. I will be all right.” He ran his fingers along her silky neck. “Maybe now is the time for me to go to America. If I had gone in the beginning, I may never have grown close to you. Fate directed me to you.” Napoleon hugged her to his chest, but she stiffened, resisting. “Now the world mourns my unfair incarceration, so let them ponder my next move when they discover I’ve slipped away.”

  “How can you throw all we have away?” Amélie pinched at the material of his nightshirt, a mock inflicting of pain. Tears pooled in her fawn’s eyes and dripped down her cheeks. “I wanted you to pursue a different life here, not go back to what was before. How can I forgive you for…? Do you want to start a war? You can’t do all that again.”

  “No, no. My destiny has changed. We’ll have far more, you’ve shown me that. I no longer want to be a warrior, but a thinker, a philosopher, and theorist. Never doubt me on this.” He strained to squelch his own doubts. He captured her hands and kissed them, then kissed away her salty tears. “I also need to make certain my son has a future. Marie Louise is too weak to ensure he’s advised by the right people, that he’s brought up the French way. You and I will see to it, through people I trust. I was foolish to think she could provide his future, or that by remaining true to her I protected it. I don’t need that connection of ancient blood. My blood is more vibrant, fresher. My son’s heritage is me, not a Hapsburg.”

  “I’ve always believed so.” Amélie clung to him, wiping her face on his nightshirt. Her whole body trembled like a frightened bird. “Yes, I want to do that, but take me with you. Please.”

  “Not yet.” Napoleon massaged the back of her head, the delicate bones. She must remain brave after his departure. “It would make it harder for both of us. We have to follow the plan.”

  “The…” She stared up again, sniffing. “When will you go?”

  “Before tomorrow’s dawn.” He hoped he sounded apologetic, but his muscles thrummed, blood hot, the confident general, excited on the eve of battle.

  “Before dawn? Mon Dieu.” She gasped, jerked from his arms, and left the bed. Striding the length of the room, she gripped her elbows. “Are you certain it’s safe, what you’re doing? How could you be?”

  “Listen. You remember that merchant captain who called at the island a few times? He’s a trusted man in the East India Company, but he condemns my treatment here. He’s helping me.” Napoleon would prove his trust in her by revealing this much. “If I’m successful, and I believe I will be, you and I will reunite in several months time.”

  “Several months, so long?” She heaved a breath. Her nipples poked through the thin material of her gown. “I can’t believe you kept this from me.”

  Napoleon smiled over the sadness of leaving her. She’d never understand his nature, his thrashing at the bars in this cage. “I kept this secret because I knew you would try to talk me out of it and I might have listened, as your powers of persuasion are legendary.” He said this to placate her. He’d never allowed anyone to direct his wishes.

  “Can I stop you now? I’m afraid—”

  “Non, don’t be afraid. Others have gone before me to pave the way.” He held out his hand. “You gave me back my strength, my determination. The luck that I thought I’d lost after I put aside Josephine.”

  “Then I can blame myself if anything goes wrong.” She blinked, sat on the mattress edge, and raked her fingers through her hair. “What was that letter for funds to be sent to Ireland? I assume Bonheur is someone who will funnel money to you…somewhere? You can’t think of returning to Corsica.”

  “No, not that island. This man who is risking everything to help me has family in Ireland. Many Irish have little love for the English. You are right about Bonheur.” Napoleon caressed her neck and shoulders, her soft, smooth skin. His desire throbbed. “I don’t wish to abandon you either. That part tears at my heart.”

  “How will we here explain...your disappearance?” She sniffed and put her arms around him. “We’ll have to cover it up, to give you time.”

  “Shhh. All this is taken care of, my sweet.” He traced his fingers around her ear, down her neck, and across the quivering pulse in her throat. “Let’s only think of our love tonight, and how much we’ll store for when we reunite.” Napoleon eased her down in the bed, kissing her savory lips, his hands stroking under her nightgown. He caressed and kissed every inch of her. At first Amée resisted, her breathing erratic, almost a sob, but soon she responded to him, and he reveled in the slow tender melding of their bodies. He’d carry her essence with him on his journey.

  * * * *

  In the morning, Amélie awoke alone in the bed. Napoleon hadn’t attempted awakening her to bid farewell. Determined not to sleep, she’d fallen into an enervated slumber. He’d stolen away, possibly to great danger or death. She muffled weeping into her pillow, smelling him on the sheets.

  When she mastered her emotions, it struck her that these others he mentioned must have been the Count de Las Cases, the various footmen, even Doctor O’Meara, all sent off the island at different intervals. All, as she’d witnessed, devoted to Napoleon. What finer rallying of support than the eloquent Las Cases singing the Great Man’s praises to all and sundry. O’Meara, whom she’d heard was discharged from the navy over his defense of Napoleon—and disparagement against Lowe.

  Had her astute lover been wise to Montholon from the beginning and not entrusted him with this stratagem?

  The young priest, Abbé Vignali, immediately assumed the identity of the escaped prisoner. He was the same height, basic bone structure and build, and had blurred this resemblance with his scruffy hair, disheveled robes and slouching manner.

  Vignali dressed in Napoleon’s clothes and frequently worked in the garden under a broad hat that shadowed his face. He walked with Amélie some mornings, just enough so as not to arouse suspicion. Occasionally they rode the horses, but that was rare.
As long as none of the British came too near, they hoped no one noticed the difference. Still it was a complex orchestration to keep the orderly officer fooled. Vignali proved adept at subterfuge, portraying both the young priest and the notorious general under the same roof. He wasn’t at all the ignorant peasant he’d first affected.

  As Napoleon had told her that last night, his screen against Governor Lowe and the orderly officer, his habit of evading them in the past, leant itself to deception.

  “Colonel Bingham is here,” Ali said to her after a month passed. He sooty eyes held no amusement. “He insists on seeing the emperor. He says he has something important to convey.”

  “Oh, no. The colonel has had enough close contact with Napoleon to know the difference.” Nausea rose in Amélie’s throat. Their plan couldn’t go awry this soon. “We can’t even summon Count Bertrand to smooth the way. Fanny says he’s down with dysentery. Tell the colonel His Majesty is ill. Send Marchand to tell him.” She rushed to peek out the shutter hole at Bingham standing on the front porch. Marchand walked out and the two men conversed, but she couldn’t hear over her hammering heart.

  Finally, Bingham left and strode out the front gate. Marchand came back in.

  “I suggested he talk to Count Bertrand, who will probably crawl from bed to protect our emperor,” Marchand said, his expression grave. “I said His Majesty is ill from the same affliction and can’t be disturbed.”

  “How long can we put off these high-ranking officials?” Amélie shivered and went to their bedroom where she slept alone in the camp bed, mourning the man who once shared it with her. Vignali slept in the adjacent study to preserve the illusion of intimacy. She suffered in this deceit, her arms empty each night. Even working in her garden didn’t bring much solace. Each day she agonized over Napoleon’s safety and the idea that Governor Lowe, or someone like Bingham, might demand an audience.

  * * * *

  After three more tense, mind-numbing months, Marchand spoke with Amélie alone.