The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (23 page)

“No, I have spent far too much time in that stinking cabin.”

After more than an hour, Betsy saw a carriage drive onto the pier where the ship’s boat was waiting. Her brother and an older man alighted and climbed down into the boat, which then rowed toward the
Erin.
The carriage remained where it was. As Betsy waited for William to reach the ship, she noticed people collecting around the coach. “How odd. Why do you think a crowd is gathering?”

“I cannot imagine. It looks an ordinary enough vehicle.”

Eliza went to ask the captain to have their trunks carried up on deck. Then the two women watched as the crowd continued to grow, some shoving to get near the carriage and some gazing toward their ship. Feeling uneasy, Betsy remembered the parties she and Jerome had attended in Washington; people had gathered in the street so they could peer through open windows at Napoleon’s brother and his scantily clad wife. “This makes me wary,” she told Eliza.

“What do you think may be happening?”

Before Betsy could answer, the boat arrived, and William and a slight, bald man climbed aboard the ship. “This is Mr. Skeffington, our father’s agent in Dover. Mr. Skeffington, this is my sister, Madame Bonaparte, and her companion, Mrs. Anderson.”

They murmured greetings, and then William said, “Skeffington helped me find a set of rooms in a comfortable inn. Betsy, we will take your trunk with us, and then I will send back for the other trunks and the servants.”

To spare Betsy from climbing the ladder again, Eliza went below deck to check that no stray articles remained in their cabins. After she left, Betsy said, “William, I should have spoken earlier, but these last few weeks have been too tumultuous to allow for looking ahead. I do not trust Dr. Garnier or want him to deliver my child. Can you find some pretext to send him away?”

William frowned. “I confess that I also distrust him. He is markedly less respectful toward you when you are absent than he is to your face. But what excuse can we give?”

“Captain Stephenson has to sail back to Amsterdam to deliver part of his cargo. We could say that we must send Garnier to tell Jerome what happened when we tried to land because we dare not commit such a message to the mails.”

William smiled ruefully. “Garnier will not like it, but I will convince him to respect our wishes.”

“Thank you, that takes a great weight off my mind.”

He went below deck. Ignoring Skeffington, Betsy leaned against the railing and watched the seamen load her trunk onto the cargo sling, swing it over the side, and lower it into the boat. A few minutes later, Dr. Garnier approached her. “Madame Bonaparte, I must protest this new plan. Your husband specially charged me with the safe delivery of his child.”

Exasperation drove Betsy to the verge of tears. “Dr. Garnier, I must get word to my husband by someone he trusts. Mr. Bonaparte must be told that his brother’s anger is so severe that it extends to the use of violence. If indeed, he has not already learned so firsthand.” With that reference to Jerome’s peril, she began to weep openly.

William bustled up to them. “Doctor, I begged you not to upset my sister. Can you not ease her mind by agreeing to our request?”

“Of course, I—”

Seeing that the sling had returned from the boat, William started to lead Betsy toward it, but she turned back to Garnier. “Please, give Mr. Bonaparte my love and explain why it was necessary for us to come here despite my misgivings. Tell him his child and I live for his return. Nothing else matters. Do you understand me? Nothing.”

Dr. Garnier stared at her a moment and then nodded.

Betsy turned away, and William helped her onto the sling. “Hold these ropes tightly. The crew has assured me they will treat you as delicately as a basket of eggs.”

The contraption reminded Betsy of the swing her older brothers had rigged for her on a tree at Springfield when she was a girl. At any other time, she might have enjoyed the flying sensation of being suspended over water and lowered into the boat, but in her present condition, the experience left her queasy. After she was settled, she clung to the gunnel and tried not to be sick when the boat rocked as Eliza, William, and Skeffington dropped into it.

Betsy leaned against Eliza and closed her eyes as they were rowed ashore. Once there, she climbed the ladder to the pier with her brother giving her a hand from above. When she was standing on the weather-beaten planking, she was shocked by the size of the waiting crowd. A small contingent of British soldiers stood at attention and pointed their bayonetted rifles over the spectators’ heads to keep them away from the carriage.

“My God, William, what is this?”

“When getting the passports, I was required to report your identity and the reason for our journey. It would seem the news has traveled swiftly.”

As they walked to the carriage, the mass of people surged forward. Betsy halted, smiled to placate the crowd, and gave what semblance of a curtsy she could with her off-balance figure. A sharp-faced man at the front shouted, “Madame Bonaparte, may I ask you questions?”

Seeing that he held a notebook and pencil, Betsy cried, “No, sir, I beg you.” Mr. Skeffington stepped between her and the crowd and handed her into the carriage. Then Eliza and the two men climbed inside.

As William shut the carriage door, a voice from outside shouted, “Never fear, little lady. Our gallant lads will crush Boney for you!”

“How can they possibly think that is what I want?” Betsy murmured.

WILLIAM HAD BOOKED rooms in a historic inn built in the late 1400s. As at the harbor, a crowd loitered in the street to witness their arrival. At the sight of them, Betsy thought back to her girlhood fantasies of being a princess, stepping out of a gilded carriage to be cheered by adoring subjects; the reality of her arrival in England felt like a perversion of that lifelong dream. The faces in this mob displayed no love but only raw inquisitiveness.

Over their heads, Betsy could see that the building was three stories high and made of brick, with the second story overhanging the first story by several feet, and the third story jutting out over the second. The top two floors were whitewashed, and each floor had a pair of mullioned windows.

After insisting that the carriage pull as close to the door as possible, William and Skeffington climbed out first. Betsy heard the Englishman shout in his reedy voice, “Have some decency, and make way for the ladies!” Then William beckoned to her. As she took his hand and alighted, Betsy smiled to appease the avid curiosity in the strange faces surrounding her. William hurried her through a wide black door in the center of a dirty brick wall. Betsy hoped to find relief from the onlookers once she was inside, but people had also gathered in the common room and stood on the stairs leading to the bedchambers.

The innkeeper, a burly man with a broad chest, went up before them, shouting, “Make way! This is not a circus.”

As she climbed the stairs, Betsy heard exclamations of sympathy rising from below:
Look how tired the poor mite is and in a family way too. They say French warships chased her out of Holland.
The expressions of concern made her want to weep, but by fixing a tight smile upon her face, she managed to control her emotions until she reached her room.

After Skeffington left them, Betsy, William, and Eliza gathered in the parlor between the bedrooms of the two women. The innkeeper’s lad carried up Betsy’s trunk, and then William shut the door and leaned against it. “I am sorry, Betsy, that we could not use your incognito.”

Betsy shrugged and lowered herself into a chair. “I daresay the truth would have come out anyway. No doubt the British have a spy network, just as Napoleon does.” Gazing around the room at the beamed ceiling, smoke-blackened hearth, and heavy oak furniture, she felt as if she had been transported back to the time of Henry VIII and shuddered to think of that wife-murdering monarch. Shifting a cushion behind her to ease her back, she leaned her head against her chair and closed her eyes. A few minutes later, a knock sounded upon their door.

Their visitor was the innkeeper’s wife, who brought them a supper of pea soup, roasted chicken, bread, cheese, and ale. “Thank you,” Betsy said as the woman laid the table.

Their hostess stepped back to check that everything was in place. She was in her forties with faded ginger hair. Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned to Betsy. “Is it true, ma’am, that you are married to the French emperor’s brother?”

Betsy sat up straighter. “Yes. I hope that will not compromise me in your eyes.”

“No, ma’am.” The woman smiled, showing a gap between her teeth. “No Englishman would blame a lady for her brother-in-law’s crimes. Anyway, we look on Americans as being quite our cousins.”

Betsy felt tears flood her eyes.

Seeing her distress, the innkeeper’s wife said, “Never fear, ma’am. If you have faith, I am sure God will look after you.” Then she curtsied and left the room.

XVII

T
HE next morning at breakfast, a letter arrived for Betsy. After reading it, she tossed the page down. “Mr. Skeffington begs leave to bring some people to meet me. Lady Augusta Forbes, wife of the officer overseeing the defense of Dover, and General John Hope, half-brother to the Earl of Hopetoun. These English act as though I am come here for their amusement.”

Picking up the sheet, William read it for himself. “Do not judge Skeffington so harshly. He also offers to help in any way possible.”

Eliza refilled Betsy’s cup. “You need not meet these people if you don’t wish to.”

“You do not know my father. After the money he laid out for this voyage, he will want me to be gracious to his associate.”

William cleared his throat. “I do not think he would require such exertions in your present condition. You know how highly he prizes female modesty.”

Stung by the reminder that she often failed to meet their father’s standards, Betsy grew obstinate. “Perhaps, but I will receive Mr. Skeffington’s friends all the same so that no one may rebuke me later.”

She rested in bed most of that day, and by evening she felt a lessening of the nervous fatigue that had afflicted her since Texel. The improvement in her spirits proved to be short-lived. The innkeeper sent up the previous day’s
London Times
at supper, and seeing William scowl as he had scanned the front page, Betsy demanded to know what it said.

He showed her a paragraph reporting the arrival of the
Erin
and the identities of everyone in their party. It described Betsy’s beauty and added that she appeared to be “far advanced in a situation to increase the number of Imperial relatives.”

“I feared this would happen,” Betsy complained. “Now the emperor will certainly know that I have come to England. Jerome told me he pores over the English papers to keep abreast of what they say about him.”

“What else could we do? After the disaster that ensued when Jerome sent us to Amsterdam—”

“How can you blame him?”

William wiped his lips with a napkin before answering, “I do not. I believe him to be as much a victim of Napoleon’s machinations as we are.”

“I tell you, no good will come of our having fled here!” Betsy pushed on the table to ease herself to a standing position. “I almost wish we had gone to the bottom instead.”

Eliza circled the table and hugged Betsy. “You will not feel that way once your child is born. Believe me that once the baby is in your arms, you will be willing to risk everything for him.”

The sharp longing in her friend’s voice sliced through Betsy’s agitation. “Oh, Eliza, how you must miss your daughter. You left her to be with me, and all I seem to do is rage at you.”

“Hardly that. Besides, we who love you comprehend that your emotions are in turmoil because of the cruelty you have suffered.”

Observing that Eliza had avoided the tender subject of her daughter, Betsy said, “Please forgive my thoughtlessness. I will try to keep in mind all you have sacrificed for me.”

THE NEXT DAY’S visit deepened Betsy’s disquiet about being in England. Lady Augusta and General Hope were polite and claimed to feel concern for her because of the former close association of their two countries. Betsy sensed, however, that beneath their expressions of solicitude, they saw her not as an individual woman whose heart bled for her absent husband, but merely as a symbol that confirmed Napoleon’s tyranny.

After they left, Betsy said to Eliza, “You see, I am nothing more than a
cause célèbre
they can use to incite public feeling against the emperor.”

“I thought they were kind to offer support in your time of difficulty.”

“Ah, but ‘we all have sufficient strength to support the misfortunes of others,’” Betsy said, quoting La Rochefoucauld. “It costs them little to murmur, ‘You poor abused thing,’ particularly when they can exploit my situation for their own ends. I begin to understand why Napoleon hates the English.”

William reentered the parlor after escorting their guests downstairs. “Betsy, I fail to understand you. How can you of all people defend the emperor?”

She rested her clasped hands atop her protruding abdomen. “I may disagree with what my brother-in-law has done, and I may despise the way he reduces Jerome to a pawn in his stratagems, but I believe he makes his decisions for reasons of state. None of us can know the immense burden he carries in defending France. Therefore, his actions, though detrimental to me, are more defensible than the insincere flattery of the gentry that called this morning.”

Having no wish to argue further, she went to fetch her workbasket. Because she had been so sick during their voyages, she had accomplished very little sewing for her baby. As she exited the parlor, she overheard Eliza say, “Have patience, William. She must defend Napoleon because she still hopes to gain his favor.”

“That is a fool’s hope. The emperor has already shown his implacable resentment. What could possibly induce him to change his opposition to the marriage?”

“Jerome. If he places the emperor in his debt with some deed of glory, they might still be reunited.”

Hiding behind her bedroom door, Betsy heard her brother sigh. “You little know my brother-in-law if you think he has the fortitude to accomplish such a plan.”

THE NEXT DAY Betsy had further reason to curse the English papers. On May 21, the
London Times
published another story about her:

The beautiful wife of Jerome Bonaparte, after being refused admittance into every port in Europe where the French influence degrades and dishonors humanity, has landed, with a part of her family, at Dover, in a state of pregnancy, under the protection of a great and generous people. This interesting lady, who has been the victim of imposture and ambition, will here receive all the rights of hospitality…. The contemptible Jerome was, for form’s sake, made a prisoner at Lisbon. His treachery toward this lovely Unfortunate, will procure him an early pardon, and a Highness-ship from the Imperial Swindler his brother.

After reading the article aloud, Betsy slapped the paper on the table. “Now do you see what I mean? Jerome has done nothing to deserve the epithet
contemptible.
And what cause do they have for giving Napoleon the label
Imperial Swindler?”

“Perhaps the thousands of French troops massed on the other side of the Channel waiting to invade England?” William asked dryly.

“Do you forget that British troops previously violated French soil in an effort to overthrow the republican government established by the Revolution?”

William picked up the silver tongs and dropped three small clumps of sugar in his tea. “What has that to do with the topic under discussion? The day Napoleon became emperor, he ended any hopes of a lasting republic in France.”

“He was forced to do that by foreign-sponsored plots to assassinate him!” she cried, frustrated by her brother’s refusal to admit that Napoleon had any justification for his actions.

William looked up, his teacup in hand. “Betsy, why are you become the emperor’s mouthpiece? You could shout these opinions from the rooftops of London, and it would not alter his refusal to recognize your marriage.”

As tears coursed down her face, Betsy inwardly cursed the way her emotions had grown so ungovernable. “Perhaps not, but if I am quoted saying one word against him—whether the attribution is accurate or no—it will destroy my hopes of reuniting with Jerome.”

“Then perhaps we should find a less public place for you to await your confinement.”

TWO DAYS LATER their brother Robert turned up at their inn without advance word.

“Bobby!” Betsy cried when he came through the door. She flung down her sewing and struggled to push herself up from her armchair.

“Little Goose,” he said, crossing the room and clasping her hands. Then he smiled. “I had not realized that you had grown into quite such a stuffed goose.”

Blushing, Betsy ducked her head.

“Let me order tea,” Eliza said, rising. “You will want to hold a family conference.”

“I would like you to take part. You know all my deepest concerns.”

Eliza nodded and went to tell Betsy’s maid Jenny to request tea from the landlady.

Turning back to her brother, Betsy said, “Have you any news of Jerome?”

“Yes, I found letters waiting for you when I reached Amsterdam. And I saw Le Camus.”

“Then Jerome is not in prison?”

“No.” Robert glanced at William, who was standing beside the table where he had been working on correspondence. Seeing his hesitation, Betsy cried, “Do you have bad news? Has he repudiated me?”

“No, at least I do not believe so. He seems to be playing a double game, espousing the repentance that Napoleon requires, yet secretly hoping to be reconciled with you in time.”

“Is that all? Jerome warned me he might adopt that course.”

Relieved, Betsy took a seat at the table, while William hastily cleared away his papers, packed them in a satchel, and placed it near the door.

“May I see Jerome’s letters?” Betsy asked.

“Of course, forgive me.” Robert pulled them from the inner pocket of his coat.

Betsy broke open the seals and scanned the pages hastily. Jerome had written both letters while he was on the road to Milan. She heard her brothers holding a whispered conversation by the fireplace and Eliza returning to the room, but Betsy paid no attention to them as she began to read the letters in earnest. The letter dated April 19 filled a page. In it, Jerome repeated his plan to do anything he could to appease Napoleon. He promised that once he had done his duty, they would withdraw, if necessary, to some “little corner of the world” where they could live in peace. Then he closed by declaring that he had complete confidence in her love and swearing that they would soon be reunited.

Feeling much happier, Betsy turned to the second letter, dated May 3. It was only a few lines but reminded her that Jerome planned to return to her between the first and fifteenth of June. With a spurt of joy, she realized that the first was only a week away.

Betsy pressed the letters to her breast and smiled at her brothers. “Jerome’s intentions have not changed. He is doing his duty to the emperor in the hope that all will be well, but if not, Jerome will return to me so that we can retire somewhere beyond the imperial reach.”

Robert frowned. “I take it that he had not yet seen the emperor when he wrote those?”

“No, he was still journeying toward Milan.”

Gesturing for William to follow, Robert crossed to the table. When they were all seated, Robert said, “I told you that I saw Le Camus. Jerome sent him with a message.”

Robert reached into his inner pocket for a wallet and extracted a folded paper. “When they arrived at Milan, the emperor refused to receive Jerome and sent him a formal directive instead. Le Camus would not allow me to keep the emperor’s letter, but he did allow me to copy it.” He handed it to Betsy.

There are no faults that you have committed which may not be effaced in my eyes by a sincere repentance. Your marriage is null both in a religious and legal point of view. I will never acknowledge it. Write to Miss Patterson to return to the United States; and tell her it is not possible to give things another turn. On condition of her going to America, I will allow her a pension during her life of 60,000 francs per year, provided she does not take the name of my family.

As she reached the end of that directive, Betsy felt the same harrowing shock she had experienced when she hit the cold saltwater after jumping from the shipwreck. “Did Le Camus claim that these were Jerome’s instructions to me?”

“He did not go so far as to say that, but I think he wished to convey that impression. However, I do not believe Jerome would dismiss you so callously. I suspect he sent Le Camus to Amsterdam with the sole purpose of making sure we apprehend his difficulties, but the secretary took it upon himself to persuade me that you should relinquish your claims.”

“Le Camus is no secretary,” Betsy retorted. “He is little more than a panderer.”

William huffed as if to rebuke her, but Robert spoke first. “The salient point is that we now know the emperor means to cast doubt on the religious nature of your marriage as well as its standing in civil law. And he objects to your using the Bonaparte name.”

“I already knew that from Sérurier, but they cannot prevent me from doing so. Were I to revert to Miss Patterson, my child would be called a bastard. If Napoleon thinks that I would subject his brother’s legitimate heir to disgrace for a mere 60,000 francs—what is that, $12,000 a year?—then he has little idea of my mettle.”

“I agree that you should not accept the pension while there is hope of reconciliation, nor can you resume your maiden name.”

While there is hope of reconciliation?
Betsy looked at her brother sharply, wondering if he had reason to doubt that Jerome intended to return to her.

A rapping sound interrupted them, and Eliza rose to open the door. After the landlady laid the tray upon the table and departed, Eliza poured their tea. “So if I understand the discussion aright, you are all agreed to wait for more direct word from Jerome.”

“Yes,” Betsy answered before either of her brothers. “You know as well as any of us what reason I have not to trust Le Camus.”

Raising her eyebrows expressively, Eliza nodded but did not comment, and Betsy let the subject drop. She did not think it would improve her brothers’ view of the situation to learn the exact nature of the services Le Camus had rendered Jerome before their marriage.

William then explained their idea to remove to London so Betsy’s comings and goings might be less noticed. Approving of the plan, Robert offered to write to James Monroe, the U.S. Minister to the Court of St. James, to ask his advice about neighborhoods.

THEY MOVED TO a hotel in the Mayfair district in late May. As their carriage drove through the main London streets—crowded with closed coaches, open chaises, sedan chairs, horseback riders, and pedestrians—Betsy stared out the window feeling as rustic as the settler’s wife she had met on the way to Niagara. During her stay in New York, she had thought it an immense city with its population of 60,000, but London had some 800,000 people, making it so much larger as to be incomprehensible.