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Kindle 978-1-77145-308-0
WEB 978-1-77362-197-5
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Copyright 2014 by Diane Parkinson
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
This novel is pure fantasy; any true historical personage is presented in an entirely fictitious manner. The timeline of actual events has been compressed for dramatic purposes.
October 1815
After a sailor shouted, sighting land, Isabelle rushed to the ship’s rail. The island of St. Helena slid into view—a black volcanic lump spewed from the ocean. Her heart clenched.
They navigated closer. Splintered cliffs rose like sabers from the South Atlantic they’d sailed through for an interminable two and a half months. A cloud of dark mist hovered like gray moss on the peaks.
“Parbleu,” she hissed under her breath as she steadied herself at the slick rail, her knuckles white. More grumbling people gathered near her. A myriad of sails slapped above, fighting against the yardarms. The breeze rustled the skirt of her muslin lavender gown. “What a craggy, severe-looking place. I should have begged to stay in Paris.” She spoke to no one in particular, and widened her stance to balance with the ship’s rocking.
Saint-Denis, one of Emperor Napoleon’s valets, squeezed through the gawking people and up beside her, as others in the French contingent moaned and whimpered.
“Behold our new home,” the young man said as he stiffened his lanky frame against the rail. At twenty-four, he was two years her senior, though the melancholy she’d sometimes noticed in his gaze made him look older. “These English fiends have made certain His Majesty will never escape again.” He glared over at the British soldiers who appeared to fill every corner of HMS Northumberland like splashes of blood in their crimson coats.
Isabelle looked up into his sooty eyes. “Well, let’s pray it’s prettier farther inside. I hope we won’t have to stay here long. This must be a mistake.” She twisted a loose strand of hair around her finger, the light-blonde color dull—her hair stiff with salt. She feared it was no mistake; they were to be banished forever. Her pulse skittered. “My mistress was too eager to follow the emperor. I believe she has less than decent designs on him. She might be an embarrassment.”
“I have no doubts. The Countess de Montholon is a woman of…dare I say…frivolous morals.” The valet smirked and tugged his hat lower over his slick black hair. “And her husband never seems to mind. He was one of her affairs.”
Isabelle had worked as personal maid for Madame de Montholon for two years, after her previous mistress—a sweet elderly woman—had died. She had a difficult time respecting her new employer, but the countess paid well.
The loamy scent of land wafted over them, replacing the stink of bilge water and fish.
The volcanic island’s cliff’s appeared to separate as the ship rocked closer, sails billowing. A few red roofed buildings and palm trees peeked out from the harbor.
“The port of Jamestown doesn’t look too decrepit,” she said, desperate to bolster her spirits. Her saltwater-washed gown chafed under her armpit, but she refrained from scratching.
“At least we found land. I feared we’d drop off the edge of the sea before we reached this wart.” Saint-Denis shifted his long legs incased in white stockings. He cut a fine form in his frock coat and breeches of green livery with gold-embroidered collars and cuffs. He leaned down from his impressive height. “I imagine we’ll find time to know one another better while we’re here.”
Isabelle laughed, to hide the ripple that traveled along her spine. She knew she filled out her classical-style, high-waisted dress well—she’d had plenty of compliments—and she did find the valet handsome; but, unlike her mistress, she was not one for casual affairs. “I think you overstep yourself. I do have my standards, monsieur.”
At that moment, the emperor strode out on deck. The French swept off their hats and bowed. The British hats remained in place. Napoleon’s face, rounded and plump as he neared fifty, was pale under his cocked hat. His belly pushed out the front of his green jacket with red collar and cuffs. Raising his field glasses, he scrutinized the island. He grunted in disapproval, spoke with his officers, then turned and went back below decks.
“His Majesty has the same reservations that I do.” Isabelle tightened her shawl about her shoulders, her white cap fluttering in the wind. Their emperor looked pasty and overwhelmed. Since his defeat at Waterloo, four months ago in June, an event that had sent them from Europe to this island, she saw him fading from his once glorious career.
She shivered, her future caught up with Napoleon’s since her mistress’s husband decided to leave Europe with the exiled ex-ruler. It was rumored that the Count de Montholon was evading money problems back in France.
“Eh bien, I only hope there are fresh pickings beyond those cliffs.” Saint-Denis seemed to say this to himself as he scrutinized the island’s strange, crumpled landscape.
“What do you mean?” Isabelle had often wondered at the young man’s enigmatic behavior. She’d discovered him wandering the ship at night, his expression overly brooding. His dark hair and thick-lashed eyes gave him an exotic look—someone hiding secrets filled with mischief, and something else she couldn’t define.
“It’s not important. I should go below and attend His Majesty.” Saint-Denis forced a cocky smile. “I’m not certain the countess requires your services as yet.” He winked, stroked her shoulder, and walked off down the deck.
Isabelle quivered. Why had his touch felt cold and enticing at the same time?
To the left, the Countess de Montholon could be seen flirting with a handsome British officer as the alien Union Jack flapped above their heads. The countess flashed her cobalt blue eyes at the officer as she flicked white fingers through her brassy hair.
Isabelle stifled a sigh of dismay. Trapped into service at the age of eleven, after her parents’ death from a fever—her heart weighed heavily at the thought—she wished she had enough money to break free. She’d have enjoyed training as a milliner—she always had a flare for hats—in a shop on a pretty Paris street, rather than having to rot here.
Dusk started to fall as the ship neared the port. The Southern Cross began to glimmer in the sky, the island far south of the equator. Sailors spread through the rigging like spiders to trim the sails on the seventy-four-gun man-of-war.
She studied the port while the ship’s planks heaved beneath her. Cannon, along with watchtowers and sentry boxes, dotted the two huge peaks that squeezed in on both sides of the town. A church steeple and a building that resembled a castle came into view.
“Napoleon’s self-aggrandizement has forced us out here. Ma foi!” Countess Bertrand, the wife of the emperor’s Grand Marshal, pushed to the rail. A tall woman with a strong nose that gave her an air of dignity, she looked about to throw herself overboard in despair. “This island looks like a pile of dung.”
Count Bertrand, a quiet, handsome man in blue uniform, put his arm around her. “As I’ve explained, it’s my proud duty to accompany my emperor wherever he must go.”
“That’s our entire problem, your loyalty to a madman.” His wife swept apart from him—her dignity forgotten—and shoved her way through the sailors, who snickered.
Both the countesses were going to be a problem, Isabelle surmised.
A shot fired, announcing the ship’s arrival, but people had already gathered on the wharf, no doubt curious about the infamous man on board.
Shadows lengthened over the land mass. Another man stood on the quay, separate from the islanders who crowded to stare. A line of soldiers marched over a drawbridge and, with rifles raised, ordered the gawkers back.
The lone man was thin, his long coat draping loosely around him, his shoulders bunched in what appeared to be intense anger.
Isabelle shuddered. Though she couldn’t see his eyes, a strange, reddish aura seemed to radiate off him. She sensed a danger that made her want to plead for the ship to turn around.
* * *
Hudson Lowe entered Plantation House, his Georgian residence in a pretty hollow, up the cliffs from Jamestown, and removed his coat. A servant dashed forward to take it. Lowe entered his parlor and poured a glass of port, the sweet wine a poor substitute for what he really desired.
This new prisoner he was saddled with—a scoundrel his country had been at war with for twenty years—would only make things complicated. The world, as much as they could in this remote location, would now intrude on his privacy, his coveted getaway. Saint Helena was now under martial law. Lowe gritted his teeth.
“I suppose you saw him?” His wife entered, wearing one of her preferred low-cut gowns. A little too “flaunting” for his tastes, but she carried herself well.
Lowe smiled, smoothing over his frustration at these startling events. With the slowness of news here, they’d only had a few weeks to prepare. “No, I arrived too late on the wharf. He was below, I was informed.”
“He’s a hideous man, I’m certain.” Susan smiled in return. A tall, attractive woman, she’d been previously widowed when he’d married her the year before being assigned as colonial governor of St. Helena. “I’ve heard he has horns and a tail.”
“We’ll soon see. I’ll visit when Bonaparte is given his permanent dwelling.” Lowe poured her a glass of wine. He admired, as always, her thick, brown hair, bright eyes and very pretty neck.
“I suppose you must be polite to the rogue.” She took the glass and sipped, her pinky raised. He’d heard the servants whisper she was a prima-donna who, at age thirty-five, wore too much rouge.
“I must play the diplomat, of course.” Lowe caressed her shoulder, watching a vein throb in her throat. His innards clenched, but he breathed deeply. “They wanted to give him Plantation House, but I objected. The air is perfect here, and I look out for your health.”
“Put him somewhere dismal.” She waved a hand in the air as if she conducted a choir, leaving a scent of Jasmine. “On the other side of the island if possible.”
Lowe glanced around the well-appointed room with its richly paneled mahogany walls and green velvet drapery. The furniture was shipped from England, and expensive. “As far from us as I can manage, my dear.”
“Excellent. You must always put me and my daughters first.” Susan finished her drink, kissed him on the cheek, and left.
Lowe appreciated his wife’s daughters from her previous marriage. They kept Susan occupied and not so nosey in his affairs. His wife was a self-involved woman, which also helped. He swallowed down more of the sweet beverage, his taste buds unsatisfied.
He fisted the delicate glass. Back to his current conundrum. Why did his government have to ship the scourge of Europe to his island? A firing squad for the Corsican ogre would have been better.
Lowe’s career had led him to many islands, including Elba and Corsica, as if he’d followed in the footsteps of General Bonaparte. Now Bonaparte followed him here. Outrageous! He’d managed his business on the other isles, but St. Helena was perfect for his needs. So remote, a thousand miles from the nearest land, and the abundance of slaves here never counted in any ledger.
Lowe licked his thin lips. He returned his glass to the sideboard, avoiding the cheval mirror that hung over the mantel. He knew his visage wasn’t handsome, not that he’d be able to view himself clearly. His hair was rusty colored with streaks of gray, his face long and bony. But he’d wooed Susan, hadn’t he? Even if she’d been penniless, she did have fashionable connections.
However, more important matters churned in his mind. He must curtail these French invaders before anyone discovered his secrets.
* * *
“Our emperor thought he’d be received as an honored guest.” The Countess de Montholon huffed as she sat before her rickety vanity table at their new residence, Longwood House. “But aren’t we surprised in our delusions. Look where we’ve ended up, in a farmhouse not much better than a barn. C’est la vie.”
Isabelle rearranged her mistress’s hair, twisting it up in the back the way she preferred. The confining room closed in on her, stale and damp. “This is not an acceptable house, I agree, Madame. But the carpenters from the ship are enlarging it.”
“What materials will they find in this isolated outpost?” Albine de Montholon pouted childishly into the looking-glass. “Oh, how I will miss my modiste and the perfumers. I now wish I hadn’t come, but my husband was adamant. We must go for our emperor’s solace, he said.”
“You are attending the governor’s ball tonight. That may cheer you up.” Isabelle had seen Plantation House where the governor resided, before the narrow, twisting road that led here. She longed to glance inside the place, the finest, she assumed, on the island. Her petulant mistress would do well to enjoy what little they were offered.
“My dresses are mildewed, and we’ve only been here barely two weeks. The Count’s shoes and mine are blue with mold.” The woman spoke as if she were the one cleaning off the mold. The countess checked the rouge on her cheeks, her pretty blue eyes—her best feature—shining. “How will I impress His Majesty if I look like a wilted flower?”
“I’m certain he will be impressed.” Isabelle had seen the two flirting, as she’d suspected, but Napoleon had sunk into a bleak despair days after taking up residence in the larger part of the house. “Will the emperor attend the ball?”
Albine laughed bitterly. “No, he’s refused. The governor wanted him to come with an armed British escort, an insult to His Majesty.” She powdered her nose, though the powder clumped together like cotton tufts on her face. She wiped them away. “I see I will have to charm this governor, so he may treat us kinder.”
The woman, at nearly forty, was past her prime as a coquette. But no one had bothered to tell her so.
“I have faith in you, Madame.” Isabelle turned and hid a smile. She picked up a frothy shawl and draped it over the countess’s plump shoulders.
“The British won’t even address him as emperor. He’s relegated to General Bonaparte. Hélas! More insults. I believe they fear him. He brought them to their knees in battle, now they have their revenge.” Albine rearranged the shawl and fluttered her eyelashes. “I’ll make certain this government sycophant treats me with respect. I will uncover his soft side.”
“I have little doubt of your success.” Isabelle bit down on her lip as her mouth twitched. She wished the countess would stay focused on her husband, as a wife should. Her parents had shared a loving marriage. She fought a sigh. Such intrigues would only cause problems. Isabelle then spoke of the topic that was closest to her heart. “Is there a possibility of the allies realizing their error, and for us to return to Europe…soon?”
“Mais oui. That is what we hope for. But I detest to ponder these political ministrations.” Albine stood, her high-wasted pink gown snug around her full figure. Her breasts spilled out like two cow udders at the low neckline. She tugged at a sleeve. “This house’s humid air will be the death of me.” She glanced at Isabelle and touched her hair. “You have such beautiful blonde locks. Soft with youthfulness.”
“Merci, Madame.” Isabelle was surprised by this genuine-sounding compliment from such an egotistical woman.
“Ah, well, youth is fleeting.” The countess nodded and walked toward the bedroom door. “Where is my husband?”
“With His Majesty, I would guess. Trying to amuse him, as is his special talent.” Isabelle stifled a laugh as she pictured the count genuflecting before their emperor.
Her mistress sauntered through the tiny parlor then out the door to the outside. Isabelle cleaned up the mess on the vanity top, flicked away ants, and hung the countess’s dressing gown in the wardrobe. The dreary room was crowded with scratched, green-painted furniture. A closet of a room adjacent was where she slept—quite the come-down from the elegant chateaux in France. She battled her own sinking into despair.
Stepping out for a breath of fresh air, Isabelle stared around the desolate area where their house stood. The wind buffeted against her off the Deadwood Plain. Longwood House, a yellow wood and stucco dwelling with a gray slate roof, was once used by the Lieutenant Governor as a summer residence. Now it was late spring in November in this southern hemisphere, but the air blew frigid and moist.
A watchtower loomed up in front of her. Several soldiers marched around the property’s perimeter wall, their boots crunching over the clay and stone earth, all guarding the notorious captive.
Count de Montholon exited from the emperor’s section of the house, sleek in his high-collared blue tunic with gold braid, his simpering wife on his arm. The count stood slender as a reed, his small mouth in a greedy smile. He caressed his wife’s shoulder.
Isabelle walked to the low stone wall as the Imperial retinue, minus their leader, climbed into carts to ride over the treacherous road to Plantation House.
Propping her elbows on the rough wall, Isabelle longed to be included. She recalled from the journey to this plain, the zigzagged path carved into the cliffs above Jamestown. How they’d feared tumbling to their deaths. The road then snaked around the island’s ridges, a sharp backbone of jagged basalt hills and knolls.
The carts now started off, their wheels stirring the gray volcanic powder as they passed scattered gum trees whose whorled trunks bent over, their sparse foliage blown inside out in the wind.
She turned when someone came up beside her.
A young slave girl who worked in the kitchen stood there, her large doe eyes watching. Her skin was as dark as a coffee bean. “I fear for them, Missy.”
“Why do you say that?” Isabelle scrutinized the girl. “Will the British mistreat them at a party?”
The slave shifted from foot to foot, shaking her head swathed in a red bandana; a few fuzzy dark curls peeked out. “This be a bad place. A bad place after dark. Many get lost out there. They never come home.”
Isabelle wanted to scoff at the girl’s superstition, yet something prevented her. Her mother had been a superstitious woman, believing in fairies, angels, and much scarier creatures that lurked in the night.
Despite her best effort, a chill rippled up her spine. “What is your name?” Isabelle’s English wasn’t the best, but passable. They’d had an English neighbor in Paris, and she’d grown up playing with their daughter.
“Amanda, Missy. Don’t tell no one I said any of this to you.” The girl ducked her head and scurried off.
“Mon Dieu. What more will we be plagued with?” Isabelle shivered as the sun disappeared into the endless mist of clouds. She must find a way to achieve her ambitions and get off this forgotten island.
Hudson Lowe danced slowly with the Countess de Montholon in Plantation House’s spacious ballroom. She smelled of strong perfume, and her flirtatious glances left him cold. “You must understand my government’s position. The prince regent denied your. . .ah, general’s asylum. The general’s staying in England would have weakened Louis XVIII’s monarchy.”
“I care little for the details, Governor. And I’m afraid Louis is a sloppy dullard of a king.” She fluttered her lashes, an action pleasant on a much younger woman. “But please don’t punish us all, as for what choice did we have in this decision?”
Lowe eyed her pretty, white neck. “Your entourage was given a choice to travel with the general or stay in Europe.” Fluent in French and Italian, Lowe’s words stayed even. Bonaparte’s ship had taken him to Plymouth, where they’d anchored, forbidden to come ashore, until forced by Britain’s government to the South Atlantic.
“Some of us would have been arrested if we’d stayed. Not me, of course. I am innocent in all things.” The countess’s smile was impish, meant to cajole. Her small, delicate features were marred by her over-roughed lips and cheeks. She was worse than Susan. “Tell me, what is the purpose of this teeny island so far away from anywhere?”
“Ships traveling to the Orient would stop here to replenish their water and supplies. The East India Company once owned it before our government recently took over.” Lowe observed the other dancers, trying not to grimace as the French swilled his wine. But proper diplomacy dictated that he at least attempt to entertain them.
The crystal chandelier above, lit by dozens of candles, sparkled light around the room, heating up the perspiration and perfume of his guests.
“India, the Orient, such exotic places. Have you ever been?” She ran a finger down his crimson coat lapel.
“I’ve been in numerous countries at various times.” He cleared his throat. She didn’t realize she might stir a desire in him of a different sort. “Distances are vast out here. News takes forever to reach us. We were quite pleased to learn of the success of Waterloo.”
The countess pouted her lips. “Now you tease me, as you can since I am your lowly prisoner.”
He stiffened in irritation. “No one is a prisoner here, really, except for General Bonaparte. You are all free to leave, if you wish.” And he’d be relieved if they did.
Lowe counted on the night ending early, for he had an errand to take care of, the need pulsing through him. His wife at least would be lulled asleep quickly by the flow of alcohol.
“It is so noisy in here. May we find a place to talk, more privately?” The countess grinned up at him, her head tilted to one side.
Lowe could see she’d be nothing but trouble, and he must restrain himself. He dare not damage his reputation, or how else could he carry on as he had?
“The only private conversation I require, Madame, is if Bonaparte thinks of escape.” He tried a smile on the silly woman. “Would you tell me if you had such information?”
His government had left strict instructions on this possibility, and how he should prevent it. A terrible burden!
“Now you ask me to be disloyal to my emperor.” She shook her head slowly, her tiny chestnut curls swinging. “What sort of woman do you take me for?”
Lowe didn’t dare answer that. The music stopped and so did they. He released her and bowed. “Thank you for the dance, Madame. We will talk again, I’m sure. But, remember, there is no emperor on this island.”
“Ah, again you tease me. You may be certain of our talking again, soon.” She winked and sashayed across the room toward her husband.
Lowe wished to avoid that man as well. The count seemed a groveling minion, but interested in his own advancement at the expense of others.
Count Bertrand, another of the General Bonaparte’s staff, approached in a dark blue tunic, a red silk sash with gold fringe tied around his waist. “We are very disturbed by our accommodations, sir. Is there no place else on this island for my master to live?” A round-shouldered man with thinning hair, he appeared the most straightforward, if annoying, of the French. His wife was at least of aristocratic lineage, unlike the Countess de Montholon, a woman twice divorced.
“We will build a new house for him, General Bertrand. But, as I keep informing you, these things take time. And money. Most of the houses here are mere cottages, and not large enough for your general’s entourage. My government is doing its utmost in a sensitive situation.” Lowe fought a grumble. What else could they do with the Corsican reptile, after being forced to play host to him after he’d ravaged the continent with his ambition? All of Europe, for and against the scalawag, watched from afar. Just what Lowe did not need. “If you’ll excuse me?”
He passed by his wife, Susan, who spoke to Countess Bertrand, a tall, blonde woman of lean figure. They’d managed to lodge her, her children and General Bertrand, in a small dwelling called Hutt’s Gate, at the turn of the road to Longwood.
“My husband rarely eats, that’s why he’s so thin. I don’t know how he manages it,” Susan was saying with a laugh.
Lowe left the ballroom, his guts churning. His hunger was rampant, but not for the fare that Susan supposed. His body trembled with need. When he got this desperate, distracted by these French and the battalions of soldiers now stationed here—all these mouths to arrange to feed with limited resources—he might not be responsible for what could happen next.
* * *
Isabelle mixed the ingredients for the Countess’s favorite skin oil, two ounces of rose water, a tea-spoonful of oil of sweet almonds, and twelve drops of oil of tartar, in Longwood’s tiny kitchen. She poured the mixture with its fragrant scent into a bottle. Her mistress had brought these ingredients from Europe. She wondered how easy it would be to replace them on this island with only one town.
Isabelle had hoped to speak to the kitchen girl, but Amanda was nowhere to be found. She wished to ask her about the island’s lore, out of curiosity and an extreme lack of other distractions. Last night a scattering of odd sounds had kept her awake.
She scurried through the wind around the side of the ramshackle house, the wings like dilapidated sheds bound together. The sailors hammered away on the new additions. Flecks of sawdust swirled in the air.
The gale rustled the tents out on the plain—the new Deadwood Camp, set up to be on guard against Napoleon’s escape. Jagged cliffs like squeezing fingers half surrounded them here, with the imprisoning ocean to the east.
“The English are so ridiculous, they even have ships constantly circling the island,” her mistress had complained the day before. “As if we could fly away like birds.”
Isabelle placed the oil bottle in their quarters, but returned outside, hesitant to stay in the fetid rooms. She scratched under her arm at a rash from the dampness, and should “borrow” some of the oil. She slipped back in and rubbed the slippery mixture on her skin, the feeling soothing and luxuriant. Before the age of eleven, she’d never realized how she’d have to sneak in any pleasure, especially with the avaricious Montholons.
Returning outside, she saw Amanda hauling water buckets through the front gate—as inconvenient Longwood had no water source.
She went up to her. “Let me carry one for you. They look quite heavy.”
“No, Missy, I need no help. I’m very strong.” The girl hurried by her, her red kerchief-wrapped head bent.
“I want to speak to you about what you said the other evening.” Isabelle fell in step beside the girl, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Slaves were the largest population on this island, brought here years before to assist the planters.
“I spoke out of turn.” The awkward buckets swung against the girl’s plain cotton skirt. She glanced around them. “It’s to do with my cousin…but I should say no more.”
Isabelle felt Amanda’s fear, and this intrigued her further. “What about your cousin? I will tell no one, I promise.”
They’d entered the stark courtyard, muddy from a recent rain; the red earth stuck to their shoes.
Amanda stared around again, her eyes wide. “My mama won’t like me sayin’. But how will anyone stay safe if they don’t know?”
“You’re very kind to feel that way,” Isabelle prompted, then steeled herself for an absurd legend that only the ignorant would believe; yet unlike the others she began to want to understand this island.
“My cousin, he has vanished, into the mountains. He works the fields, growing yams. The soldiers, they call us yamstocks.” The girl quivered; water sloshed. “My mama says the beast took him. There have been many others who’ve disappeared.”
“Who is the beast?” Isabelle kept her face impassive. Did a lion or bear lurk on St. Helena?
“A creature who roams the mountains at night, searching.” Amanda ducked her head. “My grandmama, she comes from Africa. There it’s knows as the Asanbosam…”
“An African tale brought here?” Isabelle probed for more in the girl’s silence.
“It rips out throats.” Amanda shook and the water slurped over the rims of the pails. “I must be careful. I don’t wish to bring evil on me.” She rushed into the kitchen.
Isabelle started to leave, filled with doubts about a beast—though her skin prickled. Were people really vanishing or was the girl a fool, believing in primitive yarns? Why did she care? Boredom she supposed. Still, the island could be teeming with odd creatures. Then she recalled the man who had disturbed her on the quay. Who was he?
Saint-Denis exited the Butler’s Pantry, another shed where most of the servants ate their meals. “Ah, Isabelle. It’s good to catch you. You’ve been so busy, we’ve had little time to speak intimately.” He smiled, his dark, inscrutable eyes taking her in.
“And what would we speak of, Monsieur Saint-Denis?” If a tease, she’d emit a girlish giggle; but she wasn’t, and wouldn’t dare let him know how he affected her. Something unsettling about him always made her hesitate in being too familiar when he was near. She certainly didn’t need the complication of a beau in her life.
“What was that slave girl saying to you?” He hovered over her, smelling of a light, spicy cologne. “You looked a bit nervous.”
“I was no such thing. She told me the soldiers call the slaves yamstocks. Isn’t that amusing?” she replied quickly, his question too prying.
“A strange, haunted land this is.” The emperor emerged from the back door of the house, his Grand Marshal, Count Bertrand, like a spaniel on his heels. “Some of the scents remind me of Corsica, but this windblown plain aches harsh in my bones.”
Isabelle dropped into a curtsy and Saint-Denis bowed low. They followed a strict protocol here as if still residing at the Tuileries palace. Isabelle thought it overdone, given the circumstances.
“We are trying to change dwellings, Sire. Governor Lowe promises a new house will be shipped out, in pieces, to be built. It will have a marble bath for you, I’m told.” The count hunched his already round shoulders, his words frantic as if it was his fault they were marooned here. “Let us hope we’ll be removed from this plain.”
“Or off the island. There is much to dislike on St. Helena. Hardly the tropical paradise I’d yearned for. Malta, near civilization, would be a more appropriate exile.” The emperor stopped and clasped his hands behind his back, his expression thoughtful. “However, that villain of a governor will hear no complaints from me. I remain above such things.”
“Of course, Sire.” Bertrand nodded, though still looked anxious with his beseeching gaze. “You’re correct, it won’t be easy for us on St. Helena. The people here are lazy, with little commerce. They wait for everything to be shipped in. That’s why they go without provisions for so long.”
“I could turn this island for the better, as I did on Elba. Hard work is a cure for many ills.” Napoleon smiled, a sad yet sweet smile. “We must show the British we are above their petty annoyances. France will soon demand me back. The French are fickle. They need me.”
Isabelle’s heart lifted at hearing that. If she was allowed to approach or speak to the emperor, she’d ask for additional hopeful news.
“We shall ride as if on the Elysian Field,” Napoleon announced, as if preparing for battle. The two men, in full uniform, medals twinkling, walked toward the stables, a hundred yards behind the main lodging.
“His Majesty cannot even ride but a few miles around this house without a British soldier following.” Saint-Denis crossed his long arms, watching their sovereign with a pensive expression.
Isabelle thought of the roaming beast. “Perhaps it’s better if His Majesty has a bodyguard.”
The valet’s breath prickled on her ear as he leaned close. “I suppose you’ve heard the sordid tales about the island at night?”
Isabelle quivered and slid away half a step. “What sort of tales?” She wondered what he’d heard.
They left the courtyard, strolling toward the wall. She stared off over the strange marled earth with its few tall, skinny gumwoods that comprised the Deadwood Plain. A thick mist suddenly bore down on them, the air soggy and chilled. The sky darkened. Isabelle hugged her shawl around her.
“Frightening tales.” Saint-Denis smirked. “Didn’t you just hear His Majesty say the island is haunted?” The young man chuckled, one dark brow raised. “Do you believe in ghouls, Isabelle?”
A soldier tramped by with a rifle shouldered, a glower on his face, and she and Saint-Denis lurched away from the wall.
“Of course I don’t.” At least, she’d never thought she did. In France the world was normal, and more interesting with fewer limitations. Here, where the Trade Winds groaned like an injured animal around her room every night… She shook her head to clear it, yet she’d seen real fear in Amanda’s eyes. But she was only an unwitting slave. “I think our tormenters here are quite human. What are your beliefs?”
“That is complicated.” He looked away from her, rocking on the balls of his buckled shoes. “I was raised in a notary’s office, so I am well-read and educated. But the night is not without its secrets, is it?”
“You’re trying to be mysterious.” Isabelle laughed and raised her chin. He meant to frighten her, she was certain. How could she tell him about the rumor of the beast, when she’d promised the kitchen maid she wouldn’t? Tightening her shawl even more, she hated to allow her imagination to run wild, though it reflected her time with her mother. Her shoulders drooped; she missed Maman in so many ways. “Like His Majesty, I too hoped for a paradise, not this barren plain. Let’s hope he’s right and France will need us back.” She’d accompanied the countess for not only a paid position, but a chance for adventure. However, not of the hazardous sort.
“France is busy with its own upheavals. The allies have stuffed fat Louis on a throne carved from the revolution by His Majesty.” The valet appeared to be quoting Napoleon. His brooding gaze lowered to her lips. “This could be a paradise, mon amie. Why don’t we meet some evening when I’m not on duty?”