The Last Love

Thomas B. Costain

• Publisher: Friedland Books
• Year: 2018
• Topic: History
• eBook ISBN:
  9781789120882
• Subtopic: British History
• Index: History

A FASCINATING NOVEL DRAWN FROM THE LIVING FABRIC OF HISTORY…
THE MASTER OF THE HISTORICAL NOVEL
Cutting a colorful swath through the misty past, Thomas B. Costain weaves a charming, bittersweet tale of a defeated hero, a remote island exile, and a lovely young girl who enriches the great man's final years.
THE LAST LOVE begins as Napoleon, defeated and a prisoner, arrives at the island of St. Helena to begin his exile. But while Longwood—a broken-down, rat-infested farmhouse—is being readied for the captive hero and his entourage, he stays at an Englishman's country mansion, where he meets lovely young Betsy Balcombe—high-spirited, outspoken, and the only French-speaking member of the family. Betsy acts as interpreter for the hero, and through this inspired rendering of their great friendship, this colorful conqueror emerges as a compelling human figure...an extraordinary man and a transcendent genius. Here is a stirring narrative of magnificent tenderness and understanding, the moving story of the great man—and
THE LAST LOVE
"Absorbing...Costain's skill at giving intimate insights into a great historical character has never been better shown. Betsy...should certainly take her place as one of literature's charming feminine characters, if not a newly revealed flower of history..."—Christian Science Monitor
"Costain paints a tremendous canvas filled with warm color and life...As those know who have read his many vigorous recreations of the past, Costain has a magnificent talent for breathing life into history..."—Chicago Sunday Tribune

BOOK THREE—THE TWILIGHT FALLS

Chapter One

1

While Betsy lived in comparative seclusion, poring earnestly over books and learning to ride, and gaining in height as well as in pulchritude, the English Government had made a significant move with reference to the presence of Napoleon at St. Helena. Sir Robert Wilson, that most outspoken of English lance-splinterers, had risen in the House of Commons and denounced the Cabinet for keeping the ex-emperor in a Rat Palace, and Lord Bathurst had found it necessary to enter a defense in the House of Lords. The Lords, needless to state, had voted to support him; but in the meantime the liberal press had seen in this issue a great round political drum and had begun to make it resound in the ears of an attentive nationwide audience. The government, in spite of Bathurst’s protests, no doubt, had announced that as much as fifty thousand pounds would be spent forthwith to provide a more suitable house for the Captive.

The architects of the ordinance had come forward with an original plan. All the materials for the new Napoleonic residence would be prepared in England. The beams for the ceilings, the paneling for the walls, the oak for the floors, the frames for the doors and windows, would be designed and measured and carved in England and then sent out over the South Atlantic in readiness for erection. Necessarily it would be a frame structure but the plans were for a decidedly handsome one; two stories in height, wide wings, fourteen windows no less across the front, the ceilings high, the drawing room thirty-eight feet by twenty instead of the meager little box at the Rat Palace. The furnishings were to be on the very verge of elegance. Antique lamps were to hang from the ceilings, the mantels to be of bronze, the halls equipped with niches for statuary. The dining room was to be capable of seating fourteen for dinner.

Every man on the island capable of lending a pair of skilled hands or a willing back had been pressed into service. Betsy watched the progress of events with wide-eyed attention. Each day she journeyed to the highest spot on the surrounding terrain from which she would catch a glimpse of the left wing setting the constructural pace for the rest of the building. Often she would ride as close as she dared to the sentry line and watch what was going on from there.

The workmen became accustomed to her presence and frequently they would join with the sentries in discussing things with her. “Nah, young lady,” they would say, “this’ll be something for the hull island to be proud of, this will.” The soldiers, who had tramped the streets of London and glimpsed the architectural beauties of cathedral towns as well as the family glorification of baronial mansions, were less appreciative. They would shake their heads over the structure they were guarding. “Rully, miss,” they would say, “you should see Blenum or cast an eye on ‘Ampstead Court. Now there ye get somethin’ worthwhile, ye do.”

Her concern was due to a depth of affection which she found surprising in herself. She wanted Napoleon to be comfortable, to have a home which would offer some shreds of the dignity to which he had been accustomed in the days of his glory. “Here he will have light rooms,” she would think. “The air will be fresh. There will be none of the reek of the stables. He will be able to linger over his meals instead of rushing through them because of rats running over his feet.” Sometimes she speculated on the probability that the emperor would begin to entertain more guests. “He needs new people to talk to instead of that same dull lot. He may become gay again instead of being so morose most of the time.” The latent instinct of the householder began to show itself. “Light hangings, I think. In most of the rooms at least. He ought to have canterburies in every room. Then he could keep his papers and books and maps in better order. He ought to have paintings, not just those portraits of his silly unfaithful wife. Why shouldn’t he get rid of some of these servants who have nothing to do but stand around and gape? He could have a few musicians instead. There should always be music at his meals.”

One thing bothered her seriously, the iron fence which had been put up around the new house. “He’ll think it’s done deliberately to remind him he’s a prisoner,” she thought. “What other purpose can it serve? It’s too low to prevent anyone from getting away or to keep intruders out. That dreadful fence may spoil everything for him.”

2

A few days after the lifting of the ban, she rode over to look more closely at the mansion stretching across a substantial part of the landscape. Tying Monty to a miserable scrub tree just outside the boundary line (for the peak of the plateau where the house stood offering nothing in the way of real trees or indeed shade of any kind), she approached closer than she had ever attempted before. Her application to Plantation House for a permit had come back with a peremptory No! scratched across the face of it, but, as far as she could see, the sentries had gravitated close to Longwood and no sound came from the building itself. She looked up at the completed roof of the east wing and the tall chimneys sprouting in all parts.

“I think,” she said to herself, “I’ll risk a peek inside for once.”

The front door was open and she walked into a handsome hall which cut the interior into even halves. With the first few steps she took, her heels created a serious clatter in the empty interior, so she made her way into the drawing room on tiptoe. Equal caution was used in her progress through the beautifully proportioned library, after which she decided to take a look as well at the main bedroom suite. She had stepped inside before she made a disconcerting discovery. The dressing room where, presumably, Napoleon would spend his future mornings in his dimity lounging robe, was occupied. Three officers in full regimentals were chatting at one of the windows, with only their backs visible. At a window on the other side, which commanded a view of Longwood, a bent figure was watching what went on there through a telescope. Her first indiscreet step caused the back of the watcher to snap up immediately into sight above the substantial stretch of blue cloth which he had been displaying below his belt. It was Sir Hudson Lowe.

At the same instant the three officers faced about. “Gad!” ejaculated one of them, twirling the ends of his mustache with both hands. The others just stared.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the governor.

“I—I wanted to see inside, Your Excellency,” said Betsy.

“Have you a permit?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“Ha! You must be the Balcombe girl.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The dark brows drew down like thunderclouds. “Did you not receive your application back? Stamped no?”

Betsy nodded. “Yes. But—but I had no intention of going to Longwood. I just wanted to have a look inside the new house.”

“Are you aware,” demanded the governor, “that you have broken the law?”

“Oh, no, not the law, Your Excellency. I am not carrying any communications or—or aiding and abetting. Isn’t it just a regulation?”

“I don’t need any interpretations from you as to what is the law and what isn’t!” declared Sir Hudson Lowe, his voice rising to match the thunder note of his brows. “I am telling you that by coming here you have broken the rules I laid down to prevent improper communications with the prisoner. You must leave at once. I shall discuss this with your father later.”

“But, please, you must not blame Papa—”

“I need no instructions from you as to what I must not do!” cried Lowe, losing his temper completely. “Now, go, go! Go to your home, do you hear? And never come back!”

After Betsy had left the room, the governor remained silent for several moments, his brow still red with annoyance, his eyes burning angrily. “Such impertinence!” he muttered, finally. He singled out the officer who had spoken. “Challoner, what do you think of this girl?”

“What—what do I think of her, sir?”

“Yes, that’s what I asked you. What was your impression of her?”

“Well, sir, she’s a bit of a beauty, isn’t she?”

“Is that all you noticed? Bates-Batwick,” turning to one of the others, “did you notice anything about her—beside what this idiot of a Challoner calls her good looks?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“What else?”

“Well, sir, I—I don’t know just how to put it.”

“You thought her beautiful too?”

“Well, yes, sir. In a sense, sir.”

“Have I nothing but simpletons on my staff? Scrimpson, you don’t look as much carried away as these two donkeys. Get to horse and follow the girl. I want to be sure she goes straight home. And stays there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The road swung in closer to Longwood before joining the Jamestown road at Hutt’s Gate. Betsy, riding by, saw a familiar head above the fence with which enclosed the tiny garden. Knowing that she must not check her speed for as much as a second, she whistled the first bars of “Lillibulero.” The emperor had actually been at work with a spade. He straightened up to his full height and waved to her exuberantly, expecting she would turn in. But Betsy had observed over her shoulder the oncoming Scrimpson and so she shook her head and rode off in the direction of the Briars.

3

That evening Betsy told her father what had happened and he listened gravely. “Don’t think I’m afraid of anything he might do,” he said. “He’s waiting for a chance to get rid of us, you know. We wouldn’t starve if he did and perhaps it would be better all around if we got away from this dreary island. But, please, child, don’t do anything more to stir him up. We don’t want to provide him with any kind of case against us.”

“But did I say anything very wrong?”

“It was a mistake to say anything. Or to go there in the first place. He dislikes us because he knows we are fond of Napoleon and that Napoleon likes us. Don’t provide him with anymore grounds.”

Later he began to ask questions, as he sipped his port, about the interior of New Longwood, not having been inside himself. When Betsy told him all she knew, he smiled rather grimly.

“It seems a fine place,” he said. “Rather a pity, you know.”

“Papa! What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s a pity that Napoleon will never live in it.”

Betsy looked deeply disturbed. “You can’t mean that you think he will die before it’s ready for him?”

“No, no. He’s looking much better lately. Finding that Sanctorious did him a world of good. He’s nicely down in weight and his color is better. No, child, there’s another reason. Why do you suppose the government is spending s...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• ACKNOWLEDGMENT
• BOOK ONE-A GUEST IN THE HOUSE
• BOOK TWO-BETSY GROWS UP
• BOOK THREE-THE TWILIGHT FALLS
• POSTSCRIPT
• REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER