Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) Read Online Free

excelled in at school.
    â€œ Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” I said.
    He looked me over from head to toe as if I were a heifer he was thinking of purchasing at market. He seemed to take particular note of my bare feet and ragged nightgown.
    â€œHmmfftt!” he said—that was all. Then he waved the back of his small, white, plump hand at me, as if he were shooing flies.
    Apparently, I was being dismissed from his presence. More than happy to oblige him, I ran up the stairs three at a time and then into my bedroom. I shut the door behind me. Finally!—a chance to think. I paced up and down the creaky wooden floorboards.
    The first thing to do, I reasoned, was to change into my day clothes. After all, assuming Bonaparte hadn’t done away with my parents, I was still in danger of their punishing me should they discover I’d been out all night. Forgoing the scratchy petticoats my mother always pleaded with me to wear, I slippeddirectly into my only clean frock: a frilly pink cotton nonsense that Jane had outgrown and handed down to me. How I hated it!
    One glance in the looking glass told me that I ought to try to make some sense of my hair. My pale golden curls stood out at odd angles like celery roots. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the faintest idea what to do about it. Jane or one of the older girls at Hawthorne had always arranged my hair for me. “You’re so helpless, Betsy!”—or was it “hopeless”?—Jane often said to me. But I could find better things to do with my time than fussing with curling irons.
    I shook my head like a wet spaniel until a few pieces of hay fluttered to the floor. Then I pinned all my hair in a pile on top of my head. Good enough, I thought, and headed for the door. I was about to go downstairs but thought better of it. I realized it would be best if I learned more of what was going on at the Briars before I made my presence known. Taking care not to get soot on my frock, I removed the screen from the fireplace and climbed inside. By the time I was four years old, I’d made the happy discovery that the chimney led directly from the library to my bedroom and that conversations in one room could be heard distinctly in the other. I listened.
    The first thing I heard was a sound as familiar to me as the plaintive wail of St. Helena’s seagulls. My mother was weeping. This in itself was not cause for alarm—she cried over everything and nothing. But it spurred my curiosity. There was also an undercurrent of rapping noises, occurring in short bursts at frequent intervals, like percussive accompaniment to the melodic theme of tears. This I recognized as my father nervously rapping his pipe against the fireplace to empty it of old tobacco. He always did this when my mother wept, probably because he felt bewildered by it and inadequate to the task of comforting her.
    â€œHear him out, my dear. Hear him out,” I heard my father say, clearly discomfited.
    Then a man—of fine old British stock, I judged by his manner of speech—joined the conversation. He cleared his throat, as if rather more out of uneasiness than any trace of influenza.
    â€œMay I offer you my sincere apologies, Mrs. Balcombe, for—for causing you such discomfort. I’m sure I handled the situation rather badly.”
    â€œNot at all, Admiral,” I heard my father say. “Not at all.”
    So, the man was an admiral. The one from the Northumberland, no doubt.
    At this point my mother said something, but as she still had tears in her voice, I could not make it out. In any case, the admiral replied, “It would only be for a few months. Until we can find a proper place for him elsewhere on St. Helena.”
    At this, I began to suspect the nature of the proposal the admiral must have made to my parents.
    â€œBonaparte has been known to vanquish entire nations in less time, Admiral,” my father said sternly.
    â€œI assure you, Balcombe, I