Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) (11 page)

I
hardly spoke to anyone all the next day. And I'm rather ashamed to admit I spent the better part of two hours draped over my bed, brooding like a consumptive.

“But, Betsy,” Jane argued as she did up her hair for the party, “why don't you wear your regular old party dress to the admiral's ball? You've worn it to every other occasion.”

I wondered if she was trying to get in a subtle dig over my limited wardrobe.

“No!” I said. “This time is…different. I wouldn't be caught dead in that stupid little—”

“It's not so bad,” Jane interrupted, mumbling from the hairpins in her mouth. “Mother thinks you look like a little china doll in that dress.”

Looking like a little doll was the last thing I wanted, especially in front of Ensign Carstairs.
I had no intention of going to the admiral's ball in a child's dress. I'd be damned if I'd go at all!

I lay on my bed, pounding my fists in frustration. If Boney could have seen me right then, he'd have felt even more triumphant than he had the previous night. Yes, I was a pathetic case. By dusk I pulled myself together and went downstairs—so no rumors would get back to the emperor that I was wasting away in misery over the theft of my dress.

I stepped outside for some air. It was a warm night, as most are on St. Helena the year round. It reminded me of all the evenings I'd spent talking to Huff under the banyan tree when I was younger. And it made me very sad to realize that there would be no more such nights.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bonaparte sitting on the Pavilion veranda. It was dark now, and Willie and Alexander were sitting on the porch swing near the emperor. I went around the corner of the house to hide where they could not see me, and listened. Boney was terrifying the boys with ghost stories. From his native Corsica, I supposed. I heard only the tail end of one of the stories.

“And so,” he concluded, “when the old owl
screeches the night through…” Boney lowered his voice to a harsh whisper and then hooted like the owls I'd heard when visiting the English countryside. “When the mangy dog howls…” He imitated a wolf with a head cold. “And a pale yellow light appears over a man's house…” Here the emperor paused for dramatic effect and removed his straw hat, placed it over his heart, and bent his head as if in respectful prayer. “…he will be the next to die.” Poor Willie and Alexander looked terrified. I'm sure this pleased the emperor very much.

I did not want to watch this ridiculous spectacle any longer, so I headed into Jamestown for a walk.

When I returned to the Briars, I found Jane downstairs, all dressed for the party. My parents had decided not to attend. My older sister had pleaded tearfully with them—Jane's crocodile tears never failed to work their magic on my parents—not to “chaperone” her, and they had given in to her wishes. I wondered if they knew just how badly Jane was in need of parental supervision.

“Are you sure you won't change your mind, Betsy?” my mother asked me. “Admiral Cockburn will be so disappointed not to see you there.”

I found it difficult to believe that the admiral
would recall that he'd invited me, much less notice my absence.

“Yes, Mother,” I said. “I'm sure.” My father patted me on the head as if I were Tom Pipes. Jane gathered up her wrap and purse and prepared to leave for the party.

Oh, the tragedy of it all! I was missing the party—and missing what would probably be my one and only chance to see Ensign Carstairs again. He was expecting me, I reasoned.
He'll think I'm snubbing him!
But, of course, I could never tell him the truth. What was I to say? That the emperor absconded with my dress and I had only an infant's monstrosity to wear in its place? He'd never take me seriously again!

“Well, I'm off!” Jane said, like an obnoxiously self-absorbed princess from some country I'd never like to visit.

“Have a good time, dear,” my mother called after her. “Don't be home too late!”

Too late for what?
I couldn't help thinking. My parents were already too late to preserve Jane's maidenhead.

Miserable beyond words, I shuffled my way upstairs. When I opened the door to my room, I was enraged to see that Jane had left one of her dresses on
my bed again. How could I properly flop down in dejection with her stupid dress there?

I reached to pick it up. But, to my astonishment, it wasn't Jane's dress; it was mine. My new ball gown! Eagerly, I unfolded it. Yes, it was good as new. How had it gotten here?

Just then I heard something hit the floor. A heavy object had fallen out of the folds of the dress. I bent to pick it up.
Hello, what's this?
A necklace! With diamonds and sapphires!

There was a note pinned to the peplum of my dress.

I was stunned. The emperor's generosity almost made up for his bad behavior. Almost.

With trembling hands, I held the necklace up to my neck and examined myself in the looking glass. Imagine! Of all the girls in the world, he had chosen me to wear the jewels of the empress of France!

I never dressed so fast as I did that night. In a flash I ran downstairs in my bare feet.

“Mother! Please do my hair for me? I'm going to the party after all.”

“Well,” my father replied for her, “I knew you'd come to your senses.”

Mother obliged me by putting my hair up in a bun.

“Hold still, Betsy!” she said as she put in the pins. “You'll get stuck!”

I jiggled nervously, like an organ-grinder's monkey. I was worried about the time. If I didn't get to the party soon, perhaps Carstairs would give up and go home.

As Mother worked on my hair, I had time to wonder again: How had my dress managed to end up on my bed? Who brought it there? The emperor was not permitted to come and go as he pleased.

“Mother, did anyone stop by the house this evening?”

“No,” she said. “Why?” I looked at my father questioningly, and he shook his head. Neither had seen anyone come in—and Jane would have mentioned it if we'd had any visitors.

“No reason,” I answered. I did not want to get anyone in trouble. But the matter of how Bonaparte had managed to smuggle my dress to me would forever remain a mystery. To my eternal frustration, he always refused to tell me.

My parents were impressed by the appearance I made in my new dress. Of course, I hid the necklace in the palm of my hand so they wouldn't question me about it. I bade them a hurried good-bye and went to the party.

Plantation House, dark for so many years, was lit up like a big, beautiful birthday cake. When I entered the crowded ballroom, I was swept away by beauty and music and light, and over by the piano—oh, joy of joys!—Carstairs was there, as I had hoped. He'd waited for me! Carstairs held out his arm—bowing slightly in his crisp, handsome dress uniform—and we danced and danced till late into the night. He ignored poor Jane and all the rest—even girls prettier than I, which I confess was most of them. I felt like Joséphine herself!

Sometime before the first waltz and the last quadrille, Carstairs took me outside, led me behind a column on the porch, and…

Well, some things are just too sacred to expose to the prying eyes of one's readers. Suffice it to say that my first brush with romance led me to conclude that no girl had ever been kissed with such total devotion, such complete capitulation, such passionate resolution.

“May I call on you sometime?” Carstairs asked as we parted.

I didn't reply. I was drifting, flying, careening, too overwhelmed to think clearly. I stared at him, feeling besieged by my own capabilities.

“If you don't say yes, I shall have to kiss you again,” Carstairs joked.

“Oh,” I said. “Please do!”

“Call on you?”

“No—kiss me!” I said, pulling him near to me.

“Not now, little one,” he said, taking a step backward. I pouted, a bit put out that he had called me “little.” “We shall save that for the next time we meet. I would not want to forget myself with you.”

We parted, our hands hanging on until the last. First wrists, then palms, then knuckles, until our fingertips only touched like God giving Adam the spark of divine life in the painting by Michelangelo.

I floated back to the Briars, living all the while in a glorious, golden land within myself—a place of peace and freedom and autonomy.

As I drifted home, I took one last glance back at the spot that for me would forever have historical significance. The party lanterns hanging outside Plantation House waltzed prettily in the breeze. Faded music and laughter from the house reached my ears like a distant dream.

And then, much closer, I heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. I looked up.

It was the emperor, sitting on the Pavilion veranda. He seemed to be scowling at me.

I curtsied to him. Odd, I thought, that he'd be outside so late.

“Good evening, monsieur.”

I suspect he was a bit taken aback by my unusually formal behavior toward him, but he did not say so.

“Your
maman,
she wanted you home early,” Bonaparte scolded me lightly, and I had the strangest feeling that he had been watching me all evening.

“It is early!” I replied, spinning in dizzy pirouettes. “I doubt it is more than an hour into the day!”

He clucked at me with the hint of a smile. I smiled back.

The emperor did not know quite what to make of me.

“Did you drink any port?” he asked me, uneasy.

“They don't serve port at parties!” I flopped down in a chair next to him.

“Well, not to the children, perhaps,” he replied.

To the children! Offended, I got up to leave, but his voice stopped me.

“Did you—,” the emperor began, hesitant. I turned back to face him. “Did you dance with anyone?”

I determined not to make his task easy for him. After all, what business was this of his? Standing up, I danced in dreamy circles about the lawn.

“Ah, oui,”
the emperor said, sadly humorous. “I see.”

I could not know what he was thinking just then. But now that, as I write these words, I am no longer young, I can guess that he was feeling rather old.

The emperor yawned. Dizzy from my spinning, I nearly landed in a heap on the grass. I glanced toward Plantation House, with its brilliant rocking lanterns.

“Look at them!” I said, pointing. “Like someone caught the fireflies and put them in jars! Like someone caught stars!”

“The stars are in jars!” Bonaparte sang, imitating me. “The stars are in jars!”

“Don't make fun of me,” I said.

The emperor nodded.

“And don't sing,” I added.

He shrugged. I ignored him and stood up. I did my pirouettes. He watched me dance.

“Betsy,” he said with intensity, “you look very…” I
glanced up at him expectantly. He seemed to recover his reserve. “…appropriate tonight.”

I can't say I wasn't disappointed. He had led me to expect some sort of daring compliment. My face showed my displeasure.

Still, I sat down next to him again. We were silent, awkward with each other as never before.

“Licorice?” he said, offering me some from his tin.

I shook my head. I looked toward Jamestown, its lights twinkling in the distance. The clouds above it drifted apart, revealing the same glorious golden moon I'd seen the night Huff had died. But even the sad and painful memories revived by that sight could not ruin the glory of this moment. Oh, how I hoped Huff, wherever he was, would forgive me for feeling so happy!

“There's never been a night—not ever! So bright!” I exulted.

“Garlands of light,” Bonaparte said. He appeared to be lost in a dream of his own. “Diadems of light. The trees, the city, ablaze with light.”

“Yes!” I said, surprised that he, too, understood the specialness of this night.

“The Great Silver Star over Place de la Concorde,”
he continued. “Twenty-two steps, up—up—to the throne of the Golden Bees.”

Puzzled, I turned to face him. It was clear he was not speaking of this night, but of another, long ago. I listened intently as he wove his magic spell.

“Fireworks!” he said, waving his hands in the air. “First blue, then white, then red—exploding across the night! Ka-boom! Ka-boom! Ka-boom-boom! One thousand singers, one thousand dancers—and all of France crying,
‘Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!'
”

The emperor floated back down to earth from the heights to which the crowd had raised him. Slowly, he became aware of my presence once more.

I looked at him, thinking, wondering.

“That—,” he explained, “that was the brightest night, my young one. The coronation—Notre Dame, Pope Pius VII, the crown of Charlemagne!” Here he spoke softly, enmeshed in more tender memories. “And Joséphine—sweet and matchless Joséphine…” He leaned way back in his chair and sighed. “That night, we danced; I held her in my arms. The crowd stepped back, gave us room. The empress!”

As he spoke, I saw her in my mind's eye—and saw myself as she. I, the empress! I, Joséphine. Dancing in the arms of Napoleon the Great, who, for that one
special night, had a grace on the dance floor that he had never exhibited before—or since. After all, it was only a dream. Why spoil it with his clumsiness?

“I remember the feel—the silk of her dress against my arm,” Bonaparte continued, brushing his hand lightly across his wrist. “The feel of Joséphine! Her perfume…” He sniffed the air and sighed with ecstasy. “Jasmine as she moved. Sandalwood when she stood still. The cape trimmed with ermine—soft; not as soft as that sweet skin. The crown, her diamonds, fires like her eyes. No, not as bright! Not as bright…”