The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (14 page)

AFTER NEARLY TWO months of social engagements and many unsuccessful appeals to Gilbert Stuart, Jerome and Betsy returned to Baltimore. They arrived at Jerome’s rented town house late at night and went straight to bed. The next morning, as soon as she finished her breakfast, Betsy walked from their house down the street to her childhood home. She and her mother had never been separated for more than three weeks, and Betsy wanted desperately to see her.

Finding Dorcas in her banister-back chair in the drawing room, Betsy longed to kneel before her mother and embrace her, but she admonished herself that she was a married woman now who must act with decorum. She bent to kiss her mother’s cheek and then sat on the sofa. “Aunt Margaret and Aunt Nancy send their love.”

Dorcas smiled. “I miss them. I know that Samuel’s service to the country is important, but it is hard that families must be separated for such a large part of the year.”

Gazing at her mother’s face, Betsy saw that she was pale with dark circles beneath her eyes. Perhaps she was overworked now that Betsy was no longer at home to assist her. “Mother, are you ill? You look very tired.”

“I am not sick.” Dorcas turned red. “I believe I am with child again.”

“I see,” Betsy whispered and gripped her hands tightly in her lap to keep from betraying the resentment she felt at the news. She could not help but think that as a three-month’s bride, she should be the one to make such a blushing announcement, even if it was better for her not to conceive while her marriage was in doubt. “What did Father say?”

“Oh, he grumbled as he always does about how crowded the house is, but I pointed out that with you married, the number of people living here will remain the same.”

Betsy longed to respond tartly that if her father was concerned about having too large a family, he should learn to control his carnal appetites. Then a distasteful idea occurred to her. If her brothers had not forced their father to give up his mistress, he might have taken his satisfaction with her and spared his wife this pregnancy.

Shocked by her thoughts, Betsy cleared her throat. “Is there anything I can do to help prepare for the child?”

ONE AFTERNOON AT the beginning of April, as Betsy sat sewing with her mother in the Patterson drawing room, Jerome came looking for her. “I have had a letter from France.”

Betsy dropped her work in her lap. “From your family?”

“No, from Minister of the Navy Decrès. He says that Napoleon orders me to return to France on the first available frigate.” Jerome sat beside her and handed her the letter.

Betsy scanned the page but could not find what she was looking for. “It says nothing about our marriage?”

“No, Elisa. Lieutenant Meyronnet, who delivered this, said that when he left France in January, my family still knew nothing of our nuptials.”

“I see.” She forced herself to read the letter from beginning to end. It suggested that Jerome return on the
Poursuivante,
which he could no longer do. “Do you think your brother is angry with you for staying in the United States so long?”

“No. Meyronnet said that Napoleon thinks I acted wisely in not traveling on a merchant vessel that could easily be boarded. But with war heating up, he wants me to return as soon as possible and resume my duty to France.”

Handing back the letter, she asked, “What are we to do? You cannot ignore this directive.”

“I swore a sacred oath to your father not to take you to France as long as our marriage is in question. We cannot go there until we receive my mother’s consent.”

“Then you will be guilty of desertion, and when you do return to France, you will be liable to imprisonment. Or even hanging.”

Jerome laughed. “The admiralty would not dare to hang me. No, Napoleon will rage at me as he has done many times, but I will win him over in the end.”

Dorcas said, “Jerome, my daughter is right. This is a more serious offense than any boyish prank you may have committed before. To defy the First Consul will not induce him to look with favor upon your wife, whom he will certainly blame for your defection.”

Betsy looked up in surprise at her mother’s astute observation, but then she realized that Dorcas was speaking from long experience as the wife of an authoritarian man. Telling herself not to give way to fear, Betsy raised her chin. Jerome was her husband now, and it was her duty to help his career. In the long run, winning Napoleon’s favor would benefit them both. “Perhaps we should go to France no matter what you promised my father.”

Jerome scanned the letter again. “Since they did not know of our marriage, there is nothing in these orders to prevent you from traveling with me.”

“Will the captain allow me aboard a warship?”

His eyes flashed. “I will order him to do so as the First Consul’s brother.”

Glancing toward her mother, Betsy saw that Dorcas was worried, yet Betsy had made up her mind. “How long do you think it will be before another frigate docks in Baltimore Harbor?”

“There is no way to know. I think we would do better to travel to New York and see if any French ships have landed there.” Jerome smiled impishly. “While we wait, I will show you the sights of that great city.”

Betsy laughed, her anxiety eased. The news she found so troublesome had not dampened Jerome’s irrepressible pursuit of amusement in the slightest. “All right, let us go to New York.”

XI

B
EFORE leaving Baltimore, Jerome wrote to Victor du Pont, an émigré businessman he had met on his previous trip to New York. Jerome announced their upcoming visit and asked du Pont to recommend a house that he and Betsy might rent during their stay.

Because they were in no special hurry, on their third day out Jerome and Betsy stopped in Philadelphia to visit some friends of the Pattersons. Then they set out across New Jersey. They were traveling in the new coach-and-six Jerome had purchased because he felt it was the only vehicle impressive enough to suit the Bonaparte dignity. Jerome’s physician and secretary followed in a rented curricle—an open, two-wheeled chaise—while Lieutenant Meyronnet accompanied them on horseback, and the servants traveled by public coach. The Bonapartes arrived at the du Ponts’ three-story town house the second week of April. Their companions took rooms in an inn.

The du Ponts lived in Greenwich Village, just north of New York. The city was growing increasingly crowded, causing epidemics of diseases like cholera to occur more frequently, so in recent years, wealthy families had begun moving to communities just beyond the city limits. Greenwich Village still had a rural character, but because of the exodus, more mansions and town houses were going up all the time.

The du Ponts, both of whom were in their mid-thirties, greeted Jerome and Betsy in their front hall. Victor du Pont had a cleft chin, kindly eyes, and heavy eyebrows. He took both of Jerome’s hands and welcomed him enthusiastically in French. Then du Pont and his wife greeted Betsy in English.
“Je suis enchantée de faire votre connaisance,”
she replied, earning a warm smile from her hostess. Madame du Pont had coppery ringlets piled on top of her head and blue eyes in a plump face.

After they exchanged a few more remarks, Madame du Pont turned to Jerome. “Your wife is charming, Monsieur Bonaparte. I can see why you were so distressed by your separation when last we met.”

“Was he very upset?” Betsy asked.

Madame du Pont laughed. “Oh, Madame Bonaparte, I have never seen a young man so stricken. I thought that I was watching a tragedy by Racine.”

“Ma chérie,
I told you not to doubt me,” Jerome said. To Madame du Pont, he added, “I am afraid that my wife was made a skeptic at a very tender age. When she was a girl, she memorized all of La Rochefoucauld’s
Maxims.”

“Heavens, such a cynical man!” Placing one hand upon her bosom, Madame du Pont turned to Betsy. “What possessed your mama to allow you to undertake such an unsuitable project?”

“My mother had so many children to supervise that she was happy to allow anything that would occupy me.”

“Come, why are we standing in the hall?” Du Pont ushered his guests into the parlor, which was furnished with pieces that Betsy was certain had been imported from France. The chairs and tables were carved in classical forms and embellished with gilt, and hieroglyphics inspired by Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign decorated one chest.

“Bonaparte, tomorrow I will take you to view a house that I think will suit your purpose. It is quite nearby. When I told the owner, Monsieur Magnitot, that you were uncertain how long you would need it, he agreed to flexible terms.”

“Thank you, Monsieur, for taking so much trouble on our behalf. When I return to Paris, I will make sure that my brother knows how much assistance you have provided.”

Du Pont flushed, but Betsy could not tell if it were with pleasure or embarrassment. “At week’s end, we are hosting a formal ball to honor you and your bride.”

“That sounds delightful,” Betsy said.

THE NEXT DAY Victor du Pont took them to see a narrow, three-story town house on Washington Street a block east of the river. The raised first floor had two mullioned windows and an off-center blue door flanked by ornamental columns. At street level, a plain wooden door allowed horses to be led directly to the back yard where the carriage house stood.

Jerome liked it, particularly because of the ease with which he could go riding. After he signed the lease, they moved in with their servants and Jerome’s three companions. Betsy disliked the idea of living with such a large retinue when they were so newly married, but she made no protest. She told herself she would have to grow accustomed to having an entourage of royal proportions if they were to live at Napoleon’s court.

Because the house was let completely furnished and their residence would be temporary, they made only one change to the décor. Jerome took down the gloomy portrait hanging over the fireplace in their private sitting room and hung a sword in its place. When he was fifteen, he had begged to take part in the Italy campaign, but Napoleon declined his request. When a victorious Napoleon returned to Paris, Jerome refused to speak to him until he agreed to give up the sword he had carried during his victory over the Austrians at Marengo. The narrow gold-encrusted saber, curved like the scimitars Napoleon had seen in Egypt, was Jerome’s most cherished possession.

After they moved in, Jerome inquired whether any French frigates were in the harbor. Nothing was there at the moment, but he learned that members of the fleet often docked in New York for supplies or repairs. “We might as well enjoy ourselves while we wait,” he told Betsy on his return to the house.

Their first week in New York, Jerome took her to see a musical drama at the New Theatre, a three-story building with a disappointingly plain exterior. The interior, however, was as splendid as Betsy could wish, with a crystal chandelier hanging from the center of a domed ceiling and three tiers of boxes decorated in blue and gold. Jerome obtained a box for them in the lowest tier.

The play,
The Wife of Two Husbands,
portrayed a countess who received word that her first husband—a rogue who had charmed her into eloping and then destroyed her love through abuse and criminality—was not dead as she had been told. He had recently escaped from prison and threatened to ruin her happy second marriage to the count.

At the first intermission, Betsy opened her fan and waved it languidly. “Are all dramas as contrived as this? Upon my word, I never heard so convoluted a story.”

“Do not feign indifference, Elisa. I saw you wiping away tears.”

She laughed that he had seen through her façade of jaded sophistication. “It was because of Eugenia’s song about pining for her love. The lyrics reminded me of when I was exiled to Virginia and had no way of knowing if I would ever see you again. It was such a cruel time.”

Jerome raised her hand and kissed it.
“Ma chère petite femme, je ne te quitterai jamais.”

She leaned close and whispered, “I know you would not leave me willingly. But it seems an odd circumstance that you would bring me to see a play about a woman who learns that her marriage is invalid.”

“Elisa!” Jerome’s tone was aggrieved. “This performance—” He gestured broadly to the stage. “Is meant to amuse you. If it causes you distress, then by all means let us go.”

Betsy shut her fan and laid it across his chest. “No, I do not wish to leave. Forgive me for being out of temper.” To change the subject, she leaned forward and surveyed the audience below. Pointing with her folded-up fan, she whispered, “Look at that woman in the pale blue gown with the pleated hem. I thought that style had gone out of fashion. I must say, I don’t see a woman here whose clothes rival the wardrobe you gave me.”

“More importantly, my love, none of them can rival you for beauty.”

Her good humor restored, Betsy settled back in her seat. As the second act began, she imagined that she was already in Paris watching plays that were far more sophisticated than this production. How wonderful life would be when she and Jerome were established at court.

SATURDAY WAS THE night of the du Ponts’ ball. Because it was given in their honor, Betsy and Jerome stood for a long time in a hallway outside the reception room meeting émigrés, American businessmen, and New York dignitaries. The last two days, the weather had been hot, so Betsy fanned herself between introductions. Several of the French guests remarked on her resemblance to Pauline Bonaparte, and Betsy grew curious to meet her sister-in-law.

When they were finally able to enter the reception hall where the dancing was taking place, Betsy immediately noticed how warm it was. Even though the room was large and had three sets of double doors open at the far end, it was packed with a swarm of people. Candle smoke and human sweat tainted the atmosphere.

Jerome was impatient to dance. As they attached themselves to the end of two lines doing a contradanse, he said, “You are the most elegant woman here, Elisa. Did I tell you that Madame du Pont thinks you are as lovely as an angel?”

“No.” Betsy grinned. “Do you wish I were an angel, Jerome?”

“Mon dieu, non!
I prefer you as flesh and blood, my love.”

As the guests of honor, they had to partner with other people after their first turn together. Betsy danced without ceasing for more than an hour, making small talk with a variety of men she had never met before that night. Even in her lightweight dress, she found herself perspiring and, at times, struggling to catch her breath. When the musicians finally took a break, Jerome came to find her. “Elisa, your face is so red. Are you well?”

Betsy fanned herself. “The air is very close. I had no idea the du Ponts were going to ask so many people.”

“Come.” He pulled her off the dance floor to a side gallery where several middle-aged women sat on delicate gilt chairs. Betsy was about to protest against joining such staid company when she realized that Jerome was still moving. Reaching their destination took several minutes because many people stopped them to speak. Finally, after politely breaking off their fourth conversation, they arrived at the open doors in the back.

Jerome escorted Betsy onto a deserted balcony overlooking a rear courtyard garden. Two torches extended from brackets in the wall, and flanking the three sets of doors were potted evergreens. Leading Betsy around the shrub at the far right, Jerome showed her to a small stone bench in a secluded corner. “Rest here. I will be back in a few moments with lemonade. Or would you prefer champagne?”

“I am very thirsty. Lemonade might be best.”

She sat fanning herself. Stars twinkled in the dark sky overhead, and Betsy searched for a meteor so she could make a wish.
What a wonderful night we are having,
she thought. Being admired by so many émigrés gave her a taste of what life might be like when they reached Napoleon’s court. She felt more certain than ever that she and Jerome were going to be the most brilliant young couple in Paris.

Hearing footsteps come onto the balcony, Betsy closed her fan, brushed back a wisp of hair, and prepared to greet her husband. Instead, she heard a strange man’s voice, speaking English with an American accent, from the vicinity of the balustrade beyond the potted fir. “Have you ever seen such a crush? There must be a hundred people here.”

“At least,” answered a second man, a New Englander by his speech. Betsy smelled the leafy aroma of burning tobacco. “I wonder why the du Ponts are incurring so much expense for a scapegrace like young Bonaparte. I heard that Victor paid the couple’s rent and even loaned Bonaparte several thousand dollars.”

Stunned, Betsy remained very still as the other man replied, “There is no surprise in that. Du Pont makes his living supplying French troops. He must think that if he keeps the younger brother happy, the First Consul will favor his bids.”

“Then he is a fool. From what my European friends tell me, Boney is an iron-hard man who will not be swayed by such fripperies.” A pause occurred, which Betsy attributed to the men puffing their cigars. Then the New Englander said, “I tell you what, if Jerome Bonaparte is hard up for money, I would gladly pay a hundred dollars to dance with his pretty wife and take a long gander at those luscious bubbies.”

The other man laughed coarsely. “No need to pay, Bill. She gives away the view.”

A wave of burning shame swept over Betsy. Realizing with alarm that her husband had been gone long enough to fetch her drink, she rose. She had to stop this malicious talk before Jerome arrived, or he would be likely to issue the men a challenge. Although her legs were trembling, she forced herself to walk past the obstructing evergreen, where she found two merchants she had met earlier. “Gentlemen, I believe you wished to see me?”

The one nearest to Betsy, a portly middle-aged man in a cheap suit, whirled around and said, “Damn!”

The other man, about thirty and fashionably dressed, stammered, “Madame Bonaparte, I—I—Please forgive us. We had no idea that you were so near.”

“Your comments would not be acceptable were I on the moon, sir.”

“No, no, you are right. I do not know what to say.”

She lifted her chin and gave him a cutting stare. “I suggest you rejoin the other guests before my husband returns, because I warn you that he does not suffer insults to his honor lightly. Especially when made by grubby tradesmen like yourselves.”

The younger man tossed his cigar to the lawn below and hurried away, but the older one took a last leisurely puff. “Grubby tradesman, eh? You are nothing but a merchant’s daughter yourself. But of course, you have since married a Bonaparte, and we all know how highly that family is esteemed.” He made a mocking bow. Then he snuffed his cigar in a nearby pot and left.

As soon as Betsy was alone, her tremors increased and she grasped the balustrade for support. Gazing at the dark garden below, she tried to dismiss the men as odious nobodies. She did not know which was more upsetting, their comments about her appearance or their assumption that Jerome was sponging off their host. Surely, the remarks about money were merely speculative gossip.

Yet, as she recovered from the shock of the encounter, Betsy began to wonder if Jerome was deceiving her about his sources of income. She had to admit that he had a record of being financially reckless. Betsy also knew that few men would tolerate their wife’s interference in money matters—and Jerome with his Corsican pride was not likely to be one of them. All she could do was to steer him gently to be more moderate in their outlays.