The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (15 page)

She sighed and then heard Jerome say her name. As he came onto the balcony and handed her a cup of lemonade, he said, “Why are you standing here? I thought you were going to rest.”

“I was looking at the stars and wondering what they will be like during our voyage to France. Will they be much brighter than this?”

“Oh, yes, wait until you see the wonder of the night sky over the Atlantic.”

“Something to look forward to,” she murmured.

Jerome tilted up her chin. “I cannot wait to see the starlight reflected in that luminous gaze of yours.” As she met his glance, Betsy felt tears pooling in her eyes. Jerome frowned. “Elisa, are you crying?”

“It is nothing. I am just happy to be with you.”

He seized her hand, drew her back into the shadows, and kissed her.

A FEW WEEKS passed without the opportunity to sail. One morning, as Jerome and Betsy sat at breakfast in their private sitting room, Jerome’s manservant came to announce a visitor. “Monsieur du Pont is downstairs, sir. He insists on seeing you.”

“Show him up.”

As soon as the servant left, Betsy stood and fastened her wrapper more tightly over her chemise. “I wish I were dressed.”

Jerome shrugged. “You will not be the first woman he has seen in
déshabillé.”

A minute later, the servant ushered Victor du Pont into the room. He bowed. “Forgive me for disturbing you at such an unseemly hour. I would not have presumed if it were not urgent.”

“Please, have a seat,” Betsy said.

“Thank you.” He took a chair but perched on the edge. “I heard upsetting news from an associate just arrived on a merchant ship from France, and I did not want you to read it in the newspaper. In March, there was another plot to assassinate the First Consul.”

“Another?”

“Elisa, hush,” Jerome said in a tone of command unlike anything she had ever heard him use. “Du Pont, is my brother safe?”

“Yes. They discovered the scheme before the plotters were able to act.”

“Thank God for that!”

“But there is more. The First Consul received information that the Duc d’Enghien was involved.” Glancing at Betsy, du Pont explained, “Enghien was a prince of the blood of the House of Bourbon.”

“Was?” Jerome asked.

“Yes,” du Pont said, nodding emphatically. “As I said, rumor implicated him in the plot, but there was little evidence. Even so, the First Consul sent dragoons into Baden to arrest him. They brought him back to France, where he was immediately tried and executed.”

“Good!”

“That is not all, is it?” Betsy asked, seeing the anxiety on du Pont’s face.

“No. All of Europe is in an uproar over the insult to Baden and the haste with which the execution was carried out. They are calling it judicial murder akin to the Reign of Terror.”

“That is absurd. My brother did only what was necessary to protect himself.”

Betsy and du Pont exchanged an uneasy glance, and she said, “No one is denying Napoleon’s right to defend himself. The only question is the method. To invade another nation and extract one of its residents could be considered grounds for war.”

“So can plots of assassination!” Jerome exclaimed, shoving his plate away.

“Yes, of course, but he should have found a way to take legal action against the plotters.” Betsy thought of an example to help him understand. “You have heard my father complain of the way the British navy impresses our sailors into its service. It shows that Britain does not respect our sovereignty as a country. Napoleon’s action demonstrates the same disrespect for Baden.”

“Elisa, are you siding with my brother’s enemies?”

“No, of course not,” she answered, keeping her voice calm in the face of her husband’s fury. “I was trying to explain why the other rulers of Europe are shocked. Has the First Consul never spoken of the need to understand how one’s foes are thinking?”

Jerome was speechless a moment, and then he laughed without mirth. To du Pont, he said, “Do you see why I love her? Beneath that angelic face is a mind that seeks to emulate the greatest strategist in Europe.” He stood and kissed the top of her head. “You are adorable.”

Irritated by his condescension, Betsy remained silent.

Jerome crossed to a cabinet on the other side of the room and poured a brandy. “This news makes it even more imperative that we get to France. My brother will need the support of all his family.”

“With luck, a frigate will arrive before long,” du Pont said.

After tossing back his drink, Jerome said, “With luck. Thank you for coming. It was good of you to see that I did not learn the story from a hostile source.”

“It was the least I could do.” Rising, du Pont bowed to Betsy again. “Madame Bonaparte.” Then he took his leave.

Once they were alone, Betsy asked Jerome, “What did he mean by saying this was ‘another’ plot to assassinate Napoleon?”

“On Christmas Eve three years ago, a group of conspirators exploded an infernal machine in the street, hoping to catch Napoleon on the way to the opera. My brother and Josephine narrowly escaped, but many bystanders died.”

“How horrible! What do they hope to gain from such violence?”

“The overthrow of the Consulate, of course.” Jerome poured another half measure of brandy and drank it.

“But could they not wait and oppose him at the next election—” Betsy fell silent as she realized the error in her thinking. The Constitution passed in 1802 had made Napoleon First Consul for life. For him, there would be no more elections. For an instant, Betsy recalled how scornfully her brother William had dismissed the idea that France could still call itself a republic. The French people had no recourse against abuse of power except to resort to violence.
But Napoleon is not a tyrant,
she reminded herself.

She saw that Jerome was frowning at her prolonged silence, so she said, “What you are telling me is that without your brother at the helm, the current government will founder and the Bourbons may return.”

Jerome nodded. “Precisely. That, no doubt, is why Enghien was involved.”

To Betsy, it was clear where her allegiance lay. She crossed to Jerome and hugged him. “I am so sorry. It must be vexing to be so far from your family when Napoleon is in danger.”

Jerome stroked her hair. “We must go to Paris as soon as possible.”

WEEKS PASSED WITHOUT a French warship arriving in New York.

Toward the end of May, as Betsy and Jerome sat at breakfast, they received an urgent letter from William Patterson: “Betsy, I have news from your brother Robert, but I dare not trust it to the mails. Come home at once.”

They hastily packed, wrote the necessary letters to cancel their engagements, and set off for Maryland.

Even with a good carriage, the journey from New York to Baltimore took four days. The highway just outside New York was tolerable, but once they crossed into New Jersey, the roads were in notoriously poor repair—so bad that two years earlier a newspaper had declared them the worst on the eastern seaboard. The poor time they made the first two days irritated Jerome so much that he swore at every minor annoyance. Betsy kept silent in spite of sharing his vexation. She suspected that on his own, Jerome would have gone on through the night, but he would not subject her to the discomfort of continuous traveling.

South of Philadelphia, the roads improved again, and their carriage progressed more swiftly. Even so, Betsy chafed at the length of the trip. While she appreciated her father’s discretion, given how frequently mail was opened and read in transit, she was desperate to know how the Bonapartes had reacted to her marriage. For the entirety of the journey, her curiosity was an itch akin to the torment she had suffered as a child whenever she got chigger bites from walking in wet summer grass on her family’s country estates.

They reached Baltimore in the late evening of the fourth day and went straight to the Patterson house, where they found her parents in the drawing room. Betsy immediately asked her father, “What does Robert say?”

Patterson crossed to his desk, unlocked the top drawer, and pulled out a sheet of paper. “He wrote the day after arriving in France and seeing the American minister. Mr. Livingston has already spoken to the First Consul and your other brothers, Jerome, assuring them that you have made a respectable alliance, but the situation remains precarious.” He handed his daughter the letter and pointed to a particular paragraph. “Read that aloud.”

After biting her lip, Betsy complied. “Bonaparte is of a very irritable temper, and as he is at present highly incensed with his brother, he might, were Jerome here, take some violent measures with him.”

Overcome by this pessimistic assessment, Betsy sank onto her father’s wingback chair before continuing.

Still, Mr. Livingston thinks the First Consul will after awhile become better satisfied with the union; and as he has by his conduct hitherto uniformly endeavored to impress on the world the highest idea of his moral character, he will not lightly, in this present affair, do anything to impeach or bring that character into question.

“See, Elisa! All will be well. We just have to be patient to allow the volcano of my brother’s temper to stop erupting, and calm to be restored.”

Despite her anxiety, Betsy smiled at his colorful metaphor before reading further.

When the account of Mr. Jerome Bonaparte’s intentions first reached the consular ear, the First Consul had determined to recall him instantly. Since the marriage has taken place, I believe it is his intention Jerome should remain in America for some time. Mr. Joseph Bonaparte has consulted Mr. Livingston respecting the most eligible place for Jerome to reside.

Betsy turned to her husband. “But we do not want to live in America. Why does your oldest brother try to order our lives without consulting us?”

William Patterson answered instead of Jerome. “I believe this scheme is proposed on the possibility that we will prove unable to reconcile the First Consul to your marriage. However, if you continue reading, you will see that Robert describes more than one contingency.”

Returning to the letter, Betsy skimmed a long passage that discussed how much money would be required for Jerome to live in a style appropriate to his rank, and then she read aloud, “For the present, it will be much better the parties should remain in America; but should he be directed to return, I am of the opinion she ought to accompany him.”

Betsy decided not to read the next sentence aloud because it expressed Robert’s fear that Jerome’s affections might diminish if he returned alone.

She handed the letter back to her father. “Jerome has already been ordered by Minister of the Navy Decrès to return to France as soon as possible, so I think this idea of settling in America is an impossibility.”

“I am not certain I share that opinion. Jerome, you know your brother’s temper. Is he likely to recover from his displeasure at your marriage?”

Watching her husband closely, Betsy could see a glib assurance rise to his lips, but he took one look at his father-in-law’s grim expression and refrained from uttering it. “I cannot say. At times, Napoleon can be obdurate in demanding that the rest of us yield to his point of view, while at others, he punishes us for a while and then forgives. But I can be as unyielding as he, and I will never consent to give up Elisa. Once he sees my determination, he will have to receive us to preserve the family peace. And I feel certain that the moment he meets Elisa, her beauty and excellent character will overcome any reservations.”

Patterson frowned. “I hope so. I pray God you do not both end up in a French prison.”

XII

B
ETSY and Jerome had been in Baltimore only three days when Lieutenant Meyronnet arrived, dust covered and weary, after traveling on horseback at breakneck pace from New York. He said that two 40-gun French frigates, the
Cybèle
and the
Didon,
had arrived shortly after the Bonapartes departed the city, and their captains had orders to take Jerome back to France.

Before leaving for New York, Jerome went to Washington to ask Minister Pichon for traveling money. When he returned three days later, his face was a storm of resentment. “Pichon has been forbidden to advance me more funds. He told me to borrow from your father.”

Betsy made no answer since they both knew that petitioning William Patterson would be useless. Watching Jerome pace before the unlit fireplace in the parlor, she sensed that something more was bothering him. “What else did Pichon say?”

Jerome stopped pacing and shot her an anguished look. “Elisa, Napoleon has decreed that you must not come to France. In the dispatch Minister Dècres sent Pichon, he called you ‘the young person to whom Citizen Jerome has connected himself’ rather than my wife. If you try to land in Europe, you will be sent immediately back to the United States.”

Betsy’s stomach contracted with alarm. “Is the First Consul so powerful that he can control an entire continent?”

“Of course not. He means to frighten us with his bluster.”

“But he clearly intends to effect our separation in the hope that you will forget me.”

Jerome pounded his right fist into his other hand. “If he thinks I will meekly abandon my wife, then he little knows me. I am no longer a boy to be chastised by my brother. I am a man who must fulfill my sacred duty to you.”

Hearing that impassioned speech, Betsy could not help but question whether it expressed his true character or simply what Jerome imagined himself to be. She had lately begun to wonder if he was secretly regretting their marriage. “What do you propose?”

“We will go to New York, and I will speak to this Captain Brouard who sent Meyronnet to fetch me. I will make him understand that he must take you or I will not go.”

Betsy stared at the floor as she tried to foresee the difficult course ahead of them. “What if he forces you to leave me by holding you prisoner aboard the ship?”

“He would not dare.”

She looked up at him. “But Napoleon would. When we reach France, how do you imagine your brother will respond? Is he not likely to imprison you for your defiance?”

“I would gladly suffer a brief imprisonment to demonstrate my resolve, Elisa, but I doubt it will come to that. As I told you before, it is not Napoleon’s place to approve our marriage. All we need do is speak to my mother apart from my brother’s influence.”

Even though he had given the reassurance she sought, Betsy pushed him a little further. “So you have said many times, but why should your mother favor your wishes over Napoleon’s? He is the one who has won prestige for your family.”

Jerome smiled. “Because I am more like my father than any of my brothers, and she has always seen me as the compensation God gave her for that loss.”

Betsy shivered in repugnance at his answer. “How can you be so unfeeling as to use your mother’s sorrow against her?”

“Would you rather I allow my brother to inflict an equally bitter sorrow upon us?”

“No.” Despite her efforts to remain calm, she began to weep. “Why does Napoleon bear such a grudge against me? Am I so inferior that it is an insult to have me as a sister-in-law?”

“Elisa, it is nothing to do with you.” Jerome knelt before her to wipe away her tears. “He is angry because I did not play the good soldier but rather dared to choose my own fate.”

“And do you regret that choice?”

“No, I will never regret you as long as I live.”

WHILE JEROME MADE arrangements to give up the Baltimore house and return to New York, Betsy went to tell her parents of their plans. Her father’s response surprised her: “If you have room in your carriage, I should like to accompany you.”

“You are welcome to join us, Father, but why would you take time away from business?”

Patterson glowered at the question, yet his answer revealed a tender concern. “Jerome might be confident that his determination will carry the day, but I am not so sure. I foresee that he may be forced to sail to France without you, and I could not rest easy knowing that you might be abandoned in a strange city without a protector.”

Betsy wanted to rush across the room to hug him, but such displays of affection had never been their custom. Instead, she said, “I thank you for your consideration, sir, and welcome your companionship.”

THEY REACHED NEW York on June 12. After taking Betsy and her father to the Washington Street house, Jerome went immediately to report to the captains of the two frigates. When he returned home, he told Betsy, “You need to put on an evening gown, my love. I invited the captains to attend the theater with us tonight.”

William Patterson, who sat at the desk in the drawing room writing to his wife, looked up. “Jerome, this is no time for frivolity!”

“Father, you misjudge him. The officers have been several weeks at sea and no doubt will appreciate the entertainment. Such a gesture may help win them to our side.”

“I suppose you know best,” Patterson answered and returned to his letter.

That evening at the theater, both officers behaved gallantly toward Betsy, and neither expressed qualms about her accompanying her husband. During the interval, they gave Jerome the latest information about the naval war. Then after the play, as the four sat over supper in the private room of a tavern, Captain Brouard told them astonishing news.

After the last assassination attempt, the public had demanded that Napoleon become emperor of France with the office becoming hereditary. Ensuring that his title could pass to his heirs was seen as the only way to preserve the government from royalist plots to overthrow it. The frigates had departed from Brest before the Senate made its official proclamation, but both captains felt sure the change of government had taken place while they were at sea.

If what the officers said was true, then Betsy immediately understood why Napoleon was displeased with his youngest brother’s impetuous marriage to an unknown American. Jerome was in the imperial line of succession now.

At the end of the evening, the Bonapartes made arrangements to board the
Didon
the next day. Captain Brouard wanted to weigh anchor before the week was out.

Neither Betsy nor Jerome slept that night because they were so taken up with packing and discussing the prospect of becoming royalty. When Betsy expressed doubt that Napoleon would accept her in that role, Jerome said, “Do not esteem yourself so lightly. You have more charm and grace than any princess of the blood. Now that we know the reason for Napoleon’s disapprobation, I am certain we will overcome it. Once he meets you, he must see what an ornament you will be at court.”

Betsy, who had been gathering the personal items scattered about the sitting room, placed a stack of books, stationery, and loose embroidery floss on the table. Her arms, freed of their load, began to tremble, and she clasped her hands together so Jerome would not see her anxiety. “But I fear he objects for reasons of state. As an unmarried brother, you could be used to forge a political alliance. Fettered with an American wife, you have not the same utility.”

“Do you think I have any interest in marrying a fat, homely princess?” He took down the sword of Marengo and its scabbard. “Elisa, surely you know me better than that. If Napoleon could marry for love, why should I not do the same?”

Jerome carried the sword to the table where he wrapped it in a protective cloth.
“Sainte Mère,
that gives me an idea. We must enlist Josephine on our side. She and I have always got on very well, and if she pleads our cause, perhaps Napoleon will relent.”

“Perhaps,” Betsy said doubtfully. It seemed to her that if Josephine were disposed to intercede on their behalf, she would have already done so.

Then Betsy went into their bedroom, brushing Jerome’s arm as she passed for the comfort of physical contact. As she checked that all her jewels were in their casket, she tried to lift her spirits by telling herself that Providence had smiled on them by making Captain Brouard amenable to her passage aboard his ship. Surely fate was still on their side. She reminded herself of Odette’s words from so long ago: “When you entered a room full of people, they bowed like you were a princess.” As a child, Betsy had wondered how a Baltimore girl could become royalty. Now she had the answer. Not only had she connected herself to the most powerful family in Europe, but her husband might soon attain the rank of prince.

PATTERSON ACCOMPANIED THEM to the harbor the next day. Because their decision to sail was so precipitous, he had agreed to remain in New York until he was certain of their safe departure and then close the house and return the keys to Monsieur Magnitot.

They stood on a dock on the Manhattan side of the East River, watching their trunks being rowed out to the
Didon,
a 160-foot frigate with three square-rigged masts. The ship was painted black except for the gun deck, which was mustard yellow. Jerome pointed out the windows across the broad stern. “Those belong to the captain’s quarters.” Then he shaded his eyes and walked further down the dock to watch the ship’s boat return for them.

Betsy turned to her father. “It would seem there was little need for you to take this journey, but I confess that I am grateful to have you here so I can say farewell. Give Mother my best love. I do not know when I am likely to see either of you again.”

Patterson bent down to speak in a voice only she could hear. “I hope that you have chosen well, Elizabeth. Jerome’s devotion appears unquestioned, but I fear that he will find it hard going to defy his brother.” He pressed a sealed document into her hand. “These are the names of my bankers in Europe. If you find yourself in trouble, contact one of these men. I have already sent them the authority to release funds should you need assistance to return home.”

Tears pricked her eyes, and all she could do was nod. Jerome called that it was time to leave. Impulsively, Betsy hugged her father and was gratified to feel his arms enclose her. Then she crossed to the end of the dock, where Jerome helped her into a waiting rowboat.

ONCE THEY BOARDED the ship, Captain Brouard told them that they would be given the quarters that belonged to the ship’s second-in-command. He ordered a seaman to lead them to their cabin and then turned away to speak to another officer.

The sailor went down the ship’s ladder first, followed by Jerome, who stationed himself at the base to prevent any common seamen from catching a glimpse of his wife’s limbs as she descended in her gown. When Betsy reached the bottom, she found herself in an open deck that had dozens of massive cannons pointing toward the gun ports on each side of the ship.

“Venez.”
The sailor led them halfway down the central aisle to another ladder that they descended to the berth deck. This time Betsy found herself in a space filled with iron supports, which Jerome told her bore the weight of the cannons above them, and a web of hammocks strung so that they filled every available space. The smell of stale sweat was so overpowering that Betsy held a handkerchief to her nose.

They followed the sailor down a narrow path between hammocks, past a partition, and into a corridor that ran between cabins.
“Voilà,”
the sailor said, pointing to a door. Then, after touching his cap in a gesture of respect to Jerome and swiftly running his gaze over Betsy’s figure, he hurried away.

As Jerome opened the door, he warned Betsy that it had a raised sill. She carefully stepped into a cramped closet of a room with a single bunk, small writing desk and chair, and washstand. A whale-oil lamp was mounted to a bracket on the wall. Although her father earned much of his fortune through shipping, Betsy had never been on a vessel before and was shocked by the tight spaces and the pervasive odors of pine tar, mildew, and worse.

Jerome ducked to enter the low door. Straightening again, he laughed when he saw Betsy’s expression. “Oh, my poor Elisa. You did not expect anything so Spartan, did you?”

He took her into his arms and kissed her. “A frigate was never meant to house such a fine lady as you.”

They ate supper in the wardroom that evening, and as they dined on beef, fresh bread, fruit, and cheese, the officers teased Betsy that she was lucky they had just victualed the ship. “If we had been at sea for many weeks, we would have had to serve you ship’s biscuit riddled with weevil worms.”

At the end of the meal, when the Bonapartes rose from the table, Captain Brouard told Jerome that he was sending a pilot boat out the next day to see if the coastal waters were clear.

“An excellent precaution.” Jerome answered.

“What did the captain mean?” Betsy asked Jerome once they were alone in their cabin.

He knelt on the bunk to open their porthole and get some fresh air. “My sojourn in the United States is no secret, Elisa. For weeks the New York newspapers have been publishing accounts of our plans to sail.”

“And the British would like nothing better than to capture Napoleon’s brother,” she said with a shudder.

Her frightened tone caused him to turn and peer at her.
“Sois tranquille.
You are in experienced hands. If we should be attacked during our journey, I will place you in the most protected part of the ship, and if the worst happens and we are forced to surrender, you will be sent to your family. Not even the British would use a woman as political hostage.”

Betsy went into his arms. “That would be little comfort to me if you were made prisoner. I would rather share your fate.”

“I would never allow that.” He stroked her hair. “But have no fear. The
Didon
is our navy’s fastest frigate.”

The next afternoon as they waited for news, Jerome gave Betsy a tour of the main deck of the ship, showing her the enormous ship’s wheel, the compass, the bell, the masts, and the rigging. As he explained the various sails and their uses, he noticed the pilot boat returning from its scouting mission. They waited impatiently as the boat’s skipper made his report. Finally, the captain summoned them to his stateroom.