Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Everything seems to have gone smoothly,” he told her in the privacy of her bedchamber. “Of course, we had the long wait for a letter to come back to inform us. The next step is to have you removed from the island. We must be careful not to make anything obvious.”

  “You’ve heard about him. From him?” Amélie almost flung herself on the chief valet. “Is he well and—?”

  “I can’t go into details.” Marchand steadied her with firm hands, his smile indulgent. “Yes, I was informed that he’s well.”

  “Oh, Louis, if you knew how I’ve worried over him.” She choked back a sob, her heart flopping. “He’s safe, grâce à dieu. Now how do you propose to remove me?”

  “Count Bertrand will go to Plantation House and inform the governor that his wife wishes to return to the mainland with her children and she’s taking you on as their governess.” Marchand gazed around this room where he’d taken such tender care of his master. “I wish I could join you, but we’ll proceed from there.”

  “He’s safe.” Amélie fluttered her hand down the camp bed’s curtains, staring at the stern eagle atop who had observed her lonely nights. “Fanny wants to leave? Without her husband?”

  “The countess wishes to put her children in school, and has wanted to go for some time. This is the perfect opportunity. Count Bertrand will follow, probably by next year.” Marchand studied her expression. “Madame Bertrand was only let in on this when you were.”

  “Lowe might still suspect something. He knows how devoted I’ve been to the emperor, by rumors or conjecture.” She pressed her fingers over her quaking chest. “How do we explain my forsaking him?”

  “We planned for that also. Hints have been dropped about your relationship souring...and now mutually ended. That our emperor has taken up with another servant, the lovely Mary Hall-Saint-Denis.” Marchand winked. “A major reason you’re anxious to accompany the countess, and for her to seek a new governess.”

  “A…good plan. I hope there are no obstacles. You know how awful I’ve felt since he left. All this anxiety, night and day, wondering if I’d ever see him again.” Amélie walked to the mantelpiece. Frederick the Great’s clock ticked out the time—time that had weighed too heavily on her.

  “Don’t say that. You will reunite.” Marchand stepped over and squeezed her shoulders in brotherly affection. “In Europe you will be notified of the next action to take.”

  “At least now I’ll feel I’m making progress.” She sighed and smiled. “What does this mean for those of you who stay? Can you be sure the servants, or anyone, won’t gossip?”

  “No gossipers, we’re all loyal. Also, a monetary bribe didn’t hurt. We have several plans. Only time will tell which one we’ll be forced to use.” Marchand moved toward the door.

  “Will you stay on here indefinitely with your Jamestown mistress?”

  “We do have a fine son. I don’t know yet what I’m going to do.” He hesitated before opening the door. “His Majesty wouldn’t allow me to marry her. He wants to elevate me to a more acceptable marriage. A daughter of one of his old guard. He thinks that highly of me.”

  Still, Napoleon lowered himself to love his kitchen wench. Amélie had to attribute that to her own force of personality. She rubbed her forehead as another situation jumped into her mind. “Louis, I need to take my father’s…body back to France. I promised him I would.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “I could never leave him here, without me.”

  Marchand nodded, his smile sympathetic. “Bien sûr, we’ll arrange that for you. Everything will be all right. My one regret is, I may never see the emperor again. Though I do hope, in a few years, to join you…with my new wife, whoever she may be.”

  “I hope for that too. You’ll be most welcome. Promise me you’ll provide well for your mistress and son here before you leave.” Amélie hated to see him abandon his island family, but the valet would never defy Napoleon. She followed him out into the study where Napoleon’s other camp bed was made up for Vignali. Not much longer! Excitement, a purpose, careened through her. Some of the tension eased from her clenched muscles.

  * * * *

  Following two weeks of negotiations with Governor Lowe, Amélie and Fanny Bertrand, with her children, were granted permission to return to Europe. François Perrault’s body would be removed from the cemetery at St. Paul’s, to be placed in the hold of a ship for transfer home.

  Amélie prayed each night for Napoleon’s safekeeping. When the day came for her departure from Longwood, she had the odd feeling of desertion. Deserting the place where she’d won his love and rallied his soul. The place where she’d grown into a mature, sensual woman, and…where she’d lost her father. She’d leave behind, however, a house that had echoed like an empty shell without its formidable master. Where was Napoleon now? Had his escape been rough and perilous? Was he ever sick or lonely? Had enough time elapsed for him to be secure somewhere else?

  “Say hello to Versailles, my birthplace, and Paris for me,” Ali said when he’d told her goodbye, standing beside his pretty blond wife—the rumored new imperial mistress. “Give my deepest respect to our emperor.”

  “Amélie, have a safe voyage. What will I do without your special herbs? My head will fall off, je m’inquiéte.” Chef Gascon hugged her, his cheeks jiggling. “Put your father to rest. We’ll have none here.”

  After the long voyage home, they were detained in England until the authorities received permission for them to reenter France. Arriving in Lyon in late September, Amélie absorbed the early autumn weather, but for some reason missed the clinging damp and mists of the Deadwood Plain. She’d seen to her father’s interment in the cemetery near St. Nizier’s, beside her mother. She hoped eternity would mend the break between her parents.

  Staying in that city with her brother Théo and his wife, she kept in touch with Fanny Bertrand. Back in the land of plenty, she had little interest in her surroundings. She only noted the political unrest under the Bourbons.

  Another month crawled by and Fanny asked her to come and stay with her at the countess’s home on the outskirts of Paris. Amélie had quickly obeyed, impatient for any news that brought her closer to Napoleon.

  “Everything is ready for you to travel. I haven’t been given all the details, no one has. It’s necessary for secrecy. Amazing how they kept this from us for so long on Saint Helena. I have yet to totally forgive my husband,” Fanny said with a wry smile. Her complexion looked healthy, pinker, now she was back on French soil. “Ma foi, Abbé Vignali was really Eugene Robeaud. A man who used to impersonate the emperor in France, at his request, in certain official situations when Napoleon wanted or needed to be elsewhere.”

  “No wonder he was so skilled at it. Our quiet, rumpled priest.” Amélie shook her head. “I didn’t appreciate being excluded either, but if it’s been successful...”

  “With the network of Bonapartists anxious to free their idol, and other sympathizers, it appears to be.” Fanny stepped to the window of her little parlor, which showed a cool autumn day. “I enjoy having our seasons back in the right order, and look, not one red-coated soldier in sight near my garden.” Her shoulders sagged. “I only wish Henri was here.”

  “We’re both missing our men. It’s all right to miss them, as long as we persevere.” Amélie rallied her strength each morning with that mantra. She glanced at the gloomy sky, but saw a turbulent sea, that other October two years past, when the Northumberland had sailed into Jamestown harbor and she’d compared herself to a little moth that yearned to be a butterfly.

  Fanny turned, her black eyes mischievous. “While the children are still at school, let’s discuss this other matter. Your manuscript on sexual education for women.”

  “I finished it in Lyon. My sister-in-law, Suzanne, thinks it’s wonderful. Read it and see if you agree.” Amélie pulled out a package from her portmanteau. “You said you
knew a publisher in Paris who might be interested. Publish it under the name Madame Carolina, the name of the first opera character whose aria I sang for Napoleon. See that it’s distributed for all women to read. The information is important.”

  “I definitely will, je te promets. I can’t wait to see it stir up all the self-righteous males around here.” Fanny took the package and crackled the paper as if dying to peek inside. “I’ll be discreet so nothing can be traced back to me. Henri would be scandalized.”

  “So will Napoleon.” She twinged with guilt, her underhandedness, but maybe she’d never tell him. “I have money he left me. Give this amount to the publisher. It should be sufficient.” Amélie handed her a small purse of coins. She embraced the older woman. “I value your help, Fanny. Now I have to concentrate on continuing my ‘grand adventure.’”

  Amélie laughed to soften her worries at this reverse Odyssey. She wasn’t the nymph Calypso, but the brave wife Penelope, trying to find her way to rescue Odysseus, her husband-soldier.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  There are only two powers in the world—the sword and the spirit…the sword is always beaten by the spirit—N.B.

  “Now, just where will you sleep tonight?” Lorenzo bounded down the ladder. He stood with hands on his slim hips, his muscled body framed in the fading light from the open hatch.

  Amélie squinted up at him from the place she had burrowed since setting sail, the darkness and fish smell a cloying shroud around her. Hadn’t Il Greco informed him of her incapacity to speak? She stood and stretched her cramped legs.

  “I’ll have someone bring you food, but we have nothing fancy here.” Lorenzo lit a lantern, revealing coiled ropes, buckets, and extra sails. He then tossed her a blanket. “Sleep in that.”

  She wrapped the dirty blanket around her, anxious for the food.

  “Now stay below, I want no trouble.” He glared at her as if he resented the information she yearned to know.

  She gripped the smelly wool, nodding. The ship heaved and she stumbled.

  “Crawl back in your corner, sleep. I have my own problems.” He sprinted up the ladder, dropping the hatch cover with a bang.

  Amélie staggered back and curled up behind the ladder, determined not to despair. How much longer? The ship’s fabric creaked and swayed. The air turned frigid and she shivered. She stiffened in her cocoon each time a fisherman traipsed down the ladder to fetch something. One man brought her a bowl of fishy soup and a slice of hard bread that she choked down with gratitude. Her stomach sloshed with the soup, as chaos surrounded her. Would she be fortunate enough to be taken unscathed to the correct locale? Would she survive long enough to reach Napoleon?

  * * * *

  A storm swept up on the second day. A fierce gale, and a lashing rain, battered the small vessel. Amélie gripped the ladder as the boat groaned and jounced her about. She pushed open the hatch and poked out her head to gulp for fresh air, the water soothing her face.

  Lorenzo and his crew fought with the flapping sails. “I warned you to stay below!” he yelled at her.

  Slumped on the ladder under the closed hatch, nauseous, she heard the rain slow. The boat stopped listing. Desperate for air, she crawled out onto the deck. The drizzle refreshed her. The lighter wind swirled her hair. She stumbled to the rail.

  The sky pushed down coarse and gray. Another boat loomed out of the mist in their path. This larger boat sailed up on their port side, crew shouting. Amélie couldn’t decipher their language. The Italians she traveled with shouted back. The other boat lowered a dingy into the sea.

  “Didn’t I command that you stay in the cabin?” Lorenzo grabbed her shoulder. “Lower the rope ladder!” he ordered one of his men. “Make certain of their business.”

  Amélie pulled from his grip. The ladder flopped over the side with a thunk. Two men climbed up from the dingy and conversed with Lorenzo’s crew.

  “Damned Greeks, they think they own this sea.” Lorenzo poked at a small pistol in his waistband. “If these aren’t the right people, I’ll shoot them. You, ragazza, get below!”

  She shuddered, stepping away from him on the slippery deck. The boat heaved. She stumbled toward the hatch. The two strangers hurried toward Lorenzo.

  Amélie slipped and smacked onto her bottom, the air knocked from her lungs. She gasped for breath, crawled for the hatchway, and trampled back down the ladder.

  Moments later, two men swarmed into the cabin behind her and she staggered into a corner. Pressed against the bulkhead she trembled, confused.

  One man, in a filthy red cap and dark coat, rushed toward her and pointed up the ladder. He snatched her arm, trying to steer her onto the bottom rung. She stifled a groan, then gestured toward her bundle of meager belongings. Did he mean to harm or save her? She ached to speak, to demand answers.

  The man shook his head, shoving her up and out on deck into an increasing rain. Amélie tried to jerk away. She stared around, swiping wet hair from her eyes. Lorenzo was at the bow, his back to her.

  Redcap dragged her to the rail. Grasping her by both shoulders, he leaned her over, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Climb down, you must! Parakaló!”

  Below her, the small dingy bobbed in the churning sea. A man with oars sat on its bench. Amélie gripped the rail, her thoughts in turmoil. Were these men her next contacts?

  “Get in boat, you must!” Redcap ordered in broken Italian, his accent similar to Il Greco’s. The other man joined him and these two strangers wrestled with her, finally forcing her over the rail. She crawled down the wobbly ladder and stumbled into the dingy. The two jumped in after, almost capsizing them.

  Half blinded by rain, Amélie sat rigid on the soaked bench and hugged bruised arms around her shaking body. If they weren’t saviors, had she been found out? Would they demand she tell them where Napoleon was, when she had no idea herself? She bit down on her lip, tasting blood.

  Her captors rowed away from the fishing boats, conversing in their Greek tongue. They seemed to study her with sinister smiles. Amélie squeezed her elbows, trying to steady her breathing. She whispered a prayer, her mind spinning with ideas of escape. She shuffled her feet in an inch of water on the boat’s floor and prayed not to drown.

  Another landfall rose into view, wavering in the gray mist. The boat touched shore on a narrow beach. Redcap hopped out and reached down to assist her. Amélie gave him her hand, anxious for solid ground. The man still in the boat pressed on her bottom, fingers groping. She cringed.

  The instant her feet felt earth, she pushed Redcap away and he slipped and toppled back into the boat. The others cried out.

  Amélie lurched up a slope of slick grass. She ran down a narrow lane that led to an ancient-looking village clinging to a hillside. She slogged through muddy streets already peppered in footprints, and ducked into an alley to crouch behind a cart. Why would they molest her if their intentions were honest?

  After remaining hidden for quite some time, she crept from the alley and peered out onto the main road. A fat man driving a donkey cart squelched by. She slumped against the wall. The alley was a dead end. She had to risk the main thoroughfare.

  She rushed along the narrow, crooked lane that split this village in half, glancing over her shoulder every few minutes. Cracked stone walls loomed up on both sides. Whitewashed houses, amid locust and lemon tree branches, peeked over the tops. She’d lost her assailants, but was now lost herself.

  The rain stopped. Amélie’s soaked clothes stuck to her legs, chafed against her skin. Her drenched body stunk. Her feet squished in the mud. She traversed a steep hill and an old woman in black passed her carrying a basket, a small kid goat trotting at her heels. The oldster, her shriveled lips sunk in a toothless mouth, stared in disapproval at this water wraith.

  Amélie sucked down a whimper and swore she was a victim of a nightmare. Now
she had second thoughts about those men. Lorenzo had let her leave with them, but was he reliable?

  She trembled. She might be stranded here with no hope of rescue, wandering these islands forever in search of her lover.

  Teeth clenched, she trudged up the road, unsure where to go. Unfamiliar stringed music drifted from beyond where the wall stopped. On the corner, elderly men sat outside a taverna at spindly tables under a dripping awning. As they talked in animation, throwing back glasses of wine, they scrutinized her progress.

  The street veered sharply to the left, but a smaller path led up another incline to the right, ending in a set of stone steps. Above that was a small, covered terrace with a few tables and chairs, a low-slung building on the far side.

  Silence lingered around the area, yet she felt drawn in that direction as if she heard a call pertaining to her. Her knees ready to collapse, she dragged up the steps, passing fig and cypress trees on banks of scented green maquis. She entered the terrace and dropped with a squish into one of the chairs.

  The evening bore down, chilled, and a young girl strolled the perimeter of the taverna’s terrace, lighting lanterns that dangled from poles.

  Another dark-haired girl with a long face approached Amélie’s table. She asked a question, undeniably in Greek.

  Amélie motioned as if eating. She needed her strength, to plan her next strategy. She pulled out a few of the coins she had left, laying them on the table. The girl nodded and returned to the building. Amélie had no idea if she’d communicated her wants or not.

  The girl brought her a glass of thick, red liquid. Amélie sipped the sweet cherry flavor, quenching her thirst, trying to soothe a now scratchy throat. Her cheeks and forehead simmered with heat, despite the chilly air.

  Through the spill of lantern light, three men entered the terrace. Her stomach lurched. Redcap strode toward her table and she cringed. He grinned with a slight shrug, as if nothing adverse had happened between them.