The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (29 page)

By mid-February, the gossips of Washington had ceased to discuss Louis and Clark, whose adventures had grown stale through too much exposure to overheated political air, and now talked about nothing but the treason charges against the former vice-president, Aaron Burr. The government claimed that Burr had been raising troops to invade Mexico and set himself up as ruler—and possibly seize part of the western territory of the United States.

“He sees himself as another Napoleon and hoped to build an empire just as the Corsican upstart has,” was the common opinion.

Whenever such remarks were made within Betsy’s hearing, she refuted the comparison. “Burr is eaten alive by ambition, but if you think the French emperor acts from vainglory, then you misapprehend his motives. His original purpose was to protect the republic established by the Revolution, and when the monarchs of Europe persisted in attacking France, he took only what measures were necessary to ensure his country’s survival.”

Her explanations usually met with scorn: “How can you defend Napoleon after what he has done to you?”

Betsy would shrug away such remarks. “The fact that he is willing to put the affairs of state above the desires of his brother proves how important France is to him.”

William Patterson came to Washington in mid-March bearing an invitation to dine with Turreau. During the ride to the ambassador’s house, Patterson said, “Elizabeth, leave the conversation to me. Do not importune General Turreau for news of Jerome or betray irritation when he calls you Miss Patterson. A man like that has little patience with impertinent girls.”

Then you are much alike,
Betsy thought and turned to gaze out the window.

When General Turreau received them, his wife was nowhere in evidence. Betsy could not help but wonder if Madame Turreau was nursing bruises in another part of the house.

During the first two courses, the men discussed Napoleon’s recently instituted Continental System, an attempt to impose a trade embargo on Britain. Betsy chafed under the silence her father had forced upon her. She could not understand why he was letting half the evening go by without raising the question that had brought them there. General Turreau himself finally introduced the topic indirectly. “May I inquire, Mr. Patterson, after the status of Jerome Bonaparte’s horses? Are you still keeping them?”

This reference to the carriage horses her father had been stabling for Jerome startled Betsy so much that she blurted, “Why do you ask?”

Her father frowned at her. “General Turreau wrote me after your departure for Lisbon, asking if he could buy the horses. As you know, they are exceptionally fine animals.” He turned to their host. “Yes, I have them. I have not received any instructions from Mr. Bonaparte regarding their disposition.”

Turreau paused to drink some wine. “You need not wait any longer. I have it on the best authority that his imperial highness, Prince Jerome, will not return to this country.”

Betsy gasped. “Prince Jerome? He has been made a prince?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Turreau said, turning his hooded gaze upon her.

Nausea swept over Betsy, followed by chills. She knew all too well what conditions Jerome must have met to be elevated to imperial rank. Lowering her eyes, she whispered, “Then he is in Europe now.”

“I believe he is fighting in Prussia, Mademoiselle. He supports the emperor in all things, as a good brother should.”

Betsy did not answer but instead steeled herself not to cry. In her reticule was the miniature of Bo, which she had considered asking Turreau to send to Jerome. Now she realized that she could not possibly entrust such a treasure to this heartless official.

For the rest of the meal, she remained silent and sipped wine to dull her pain, yet she could not refrain from tormenting herself with remembered phrases from Jerome’s letters. How could he have given in after swearing that titles meant nothing without her? She should have known that the more fervent his vows, the less truthful they were.

By the time her father announced they should leave, Betsy had sunk into such a state of misery that all she wanted was to find a dark place where she could weep. She rose, pulled on her gloves, and said good-bye to Turreau without meeting his eyes.

“Mademoiselle Patterson,” he said so respectfully that she looked up in surprise. “Allow me to observe that you have handled your loss with unfailing public grace. I intend to inform the emperor of your excellent conduct, and I am sure he would wish me to express his admiration that you have endured your hardships with a soldier’s courage. From warriors such as ourselves, there is no higher praise.” Turreau bowed over Betsy’s hand before escorting her to the door.

As her father handed her into the carriage, Betsy mused over Turreau’s compliments. She found it gratifying to have him acknowledge her fortitude, but she would much rather have Jerome back. Still, she wondered if the praise might improve her father’s opinion of her.

Patterson settled into the seat opposite. “This puts an end to any possible hope, Elizabeth. Jerome has abandoned you.”

Even though she had been telling herself the same thing, Betsy roused herself to refute the assertion. “We do not know that. His plan all along was to win enough glory to compel Napoleon to allow our reunion. Perhaps this new rank means that he has won great renown and is on the verge of achieving that end.”

Betsy could not see her father’s expression in the dim carriage, but she could hear the anger in his voice. “How can you believe that anything Jerome could do would deflect Napoleon from his plan? The emperor has a will of iron, and Jerome is merely a spoiled, willful boy.”

With tears in her eyes, Betsy said, “He has been at war nearly two years. I think we may safely assume that such experiences have matured him.”

“Bah! He sends pretty letters and expensive presents instead of taking responsibility for you and your son. In my view, Jerome Bonaparte has not matured one jot.”

DISTRAUGHT OVER TURREAU’S news, Betsy returned to Baltimore with her father. Winter passed into spring and spring passed into summer, but still no word arrived from Jerome. The war between Napoleon and the Fourth Coalition continued with an inconclusive battle at Eylau in East Prussia and then a decisive victory against the Russians at Friedland. Betsy searched the papers for any mention of Jerome but never saw his name, and the faintly glowing ember of hope that he might achieve enough glory to command his brother’s gratitude died away to cold ash.

One day, William Patterson approached Betsy as she sat reading to Bo. “I have decided to absolve Jerome of his remaining debt.”

Astonished, Betsy placed a ribbon as a placeholder in the book. “Thank you, Father. What prompted this generosity?”

“I sold Jerome’s horses and carriage, and I am using the furniture and plate he left to stock my house at Cold Stream.”

Betsy’s gratitude instantly curdled. Moving Bo off her lap, she stood up to confront her father. “You had no right to appropriate either horses or furnishings. Jerome left them so that I could have a household of my own.”

“Elizabeth, we have discussed this. You cannot afford your own establishment. You may fight me on this if you like, but any court in the land would uphold my claim.”

Too enraged to speak, Betsy stood with clenched fists as her father patted Bo’s head and left the room. She felt as helpless as she had the day the warship fired upon her at Texel.

Behind her, Bo crawled to the end of the sofa and grabbed his book from the table. “Story, Mama. Story.”

Betsy turned to her son, who was gazing at her with a look of anticipation. She reminded herself that for his sake, even more than her own, she had to find a way to support herself. It would take money to secure the education and future she had in mind for him. “All right.” She forced herself to smile. “Mama will read your story.”

As news spread of Jerome’s new title, the gossips of Baltimore renewed their attacks on Betsy, delighting in the overthrow of her ambitions. Most people did not confront her directly but instead slyly reported what “other people” had said. Some acquaintances, however, could not resist trying to put her in her place. At a garden party in June, as Betsy stood on the lawn eating strawberries and cream with her cousin Smith Nicholas, a young woman named Sally Howard approached them.

Miss Howard interrupted Smith as he expressed regret over Betsy’s difficulties. “I do not pity her. She scorned Baltimore as being beneath her. Now she is forced to live here, why should we offer her condolences for being brought down to her proper level?”

The people standing nearby grew silent as they waited for Betsy’s retort. She took her time, first handing her empty strawberry bowl to Smith and then smiling at the girl, whose cheeks turned blotchy red in the bright afternoon sun. “Your opinion does not surprise me, Miss Howard. I have always heard that venomous snakes cannot comprehend why birds should wish to soar above the swamp.”

By the time July came, Betsy was glad to escape Baltimore and remove to Springfield. Physical exertion seemed to be the only way to quell the exhausting worry that plagued her. To distract herself, she spent hours playing with Bo and Mary Ann under the trees and helping her mother tend the flower gardens. On Bo’s birthday, Betsy made her two-year-old son ecstatically happy by mounting the tamest mare on the plantation, holding the child tightly in front of her, and walking the horse around the paddock.

In August, a stranger rode up the long drive to the house and asked to see Madame Bonaparte. When Betsy entered the drawing room, she saw her mother sitting with a man who had dark pockmarked skin, familiar eyes, and one gold earring. He stood, bowed, and said in a Creole accent, “Madame, I am Auguste Le Camus, brother of Prince Jerome’s secretary. I am on my way to Europe and was instructed to see if you have any messages for his highness.”

“Oh.” In her astonishment, Betsy stopped breathing and had to press her hands against her abdomen to expel the air locked within her lungs. “Is my husband well?”

“I have not seen him, Madame. The communication came from my brother.”

“Oh,” she said again, feeling forlorn after the sudden spike and subsequent plunge of hope. Remembering all the unsent letters in her bedroom, Betsy realized that they were no longer appropriate for a man who had not written her in thirteen months. The anguish of the last year welled up inside her. Then she calmed herself with the thought that she could finally send Jerome the miniature of their son. “Will you wait while I write a letter?”

“Yes, of course. That is why I have come.”

She nodded and said, “Mother, would you serve Monsieur Le Camus refreshments? And ask Jenny to bring Bo here. I am sure Prince Jerome would like a first-hand account of his son.”

“I will fetch him myself.” Dorcas left the room.

Betsy sat at the desk, took out paper, and stared at the blank page. What could she possibly say? Her battered heart longed to make recriminations, but that might alienate Jerome. Minutes passed without bringing clarity. Sharpening a quill as she pondered various openings, Betsy heard her mother reenter the room and introduce Le Camus to Bo as his papa’s friend.

“I wide horses,” the little boy announced as he stood on the carpet before the visitor.

“Do you? Your papa will be proud to hear that.”

Listening to her son chatter easily with this stranger, Betsy felt her own anxieties subside and determination take their place. She would write Jerome a simple, dignified message and trust the image of their son to do the rest.

My dearest husband,

Congratulations on your elevation to the rank of imperial prince. Your son and I are well. We love you and miss you more than I can say. I beg that you will write to me and tell me your intentions for our future.

She folded up the letter and sealed it, and then went to join her guest.

AFTER SENDING THE letter and miniature with Le Camus, Betsy warned herself not to expect an answer for several months. The family returned to Baltimore in September, and she kept busy with household chores and teaching her son the names of animals, shapes, and colors.

One morning in late September as Betsy and her mother sewed and the youngest children played, Edward burst into the room. “Joseph has written from France.”

When Betsy looked up from her mending, her brother blurted, “Jerome has remarried. Napoleon wed him to Princess Catharine of Württemberg, and together they have been made king and queen of the newly created state of Westphalia.”

As Betsy stared at him, the ticking of the mantel clock grew unbearably loud until it sounded like an army marching in her head. In the midst of the tumult, she recalled Jerome saying scornfully, “Do you think I have any interest in marrying a fat, homely princess?”

At the memory, Betsy doubled over her lap and sobbed until her mother came and shook her. “Stop this at once. You are frightening your son.”

Betsy lifted her head to look for him. Bo was sitting on the Turkish carpet, sucking his fist and wailing as he watched her with fearful eyes. She pushed herself from her chair, ignoring the sewing that fell to the floor, and knelt by him.

“Shhh, Bo, don’t cry. Mama is here, and everything is all right.” Betsy pulled him into her arms. “I don’t know how, but I promise I will make everything turn out all right.”

XXIII

T
HE night after Betsy learned about Jerome’s remarriage, she dreamed that he came to her bearing the sword from Marengo. “Allow me to cut out your heart and take it to Europe. I need a memento of my dear little wife.”

She woke crying hysterically. As she tried to regain control of her ragged breathing, her mother entered the room. “I heard you cry out. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mother. It was only a bad dream.”

Over the next few weeks, Betsy’s shocked disbelief turned to unwilling acceptance and even, strangely enough, she thought, a grudging relief. All the waiting, uncertainty, and agitation had gone, and in their place came the knowledge that no one was going to rescue her from her dependent position in her father’s house. She would have to do that herself.

For a short time, Betsy considered trying to write something for publication. She rejected the idea, however, because Eliza’s example demonstrated that opposition plagued any woman who pursued a literary career. Ever since her paper began to publish sarcastic critiques of local culture, invective had rained down on Eliza, and the abuse intensified after she dared to translate and publish a French novel about adultery.

Betsy decided that, even if things had been going smoothly for her friend, writing was not for her. The only story she had that people might buy was the tale of her ill-fated marriage, and she had not yet sunk so low as to profit from being a victim.

She dreaded being an object of pity so much that she refused most invitations that autumn. Instead of going to parties, she stayed home brooding over the past four years and wondering what she could have done differently.

The only good turn of events was that, in September, Robert Gilmor persuaded Gilbert Stuart to give up her portrait at last. When she heard the news, Betsy wrote to Gilmor:

Sir—I entreat you to accept my acknowledgments for your successful application to Stuart for the portrait—an act as flattering to me as it is pleasing, and which augments, if possible, the sentiments of regard by which I have ever been actuated toward you. Stuart has hitherto remained inexorable to all our solicitations, and his prompt acquiescence in your demand affords a proof of the estimation in which you are held by this distinguished artist.

Once the portrait was in her possession, Betsy found herself gazing at it often—even though it pained her to see its expression of bright joy. How had she and Jerome traveled from such happiness to this total ruin?

One evening after Bo was asleep, as Betsy sat on her bed looking through Jerome’s letters, her mother came to find her. Standing by one of the posts at the foot of the bed, Dorcas gazed at her daughter with a troubled expression. “I worry about you. It does you no good to keep rereading old correspondence.”

Betsy shook her head. “I knew Jerome was weak. I knew he was sometimes lax about the truth. But I never thought he would cease to love me.”

Dorcas sat on the bed and removed the box of letters from her daughter’s lap. “What makes you think he has?”

“How can you ask? He has married another woman. Even if he does not love his—” Betsy could not bring herself to use the term
wife.
“Even if he still loves me better than this princess, he clearly loves rank more.”

“If neither of you cared about rank, you would hardly be in this predicament. You would have made your life here in the United States.”

Stabbed by her mother’s words, Betsy cried, “So you agree with the gossips that I deserve my fate.”

“No, my darling girl. But I think that in your grief, you overlook the most likely explanation for what Jerome did.” She picked up a red ribbon that Betsy had taken from the packet of letters. Smoothing the crushed satin, Dorcas said, “I have heard you say time and again that Napoleon acts for reasons of state. Is it not possible he finally convinced Jerome that the survival of France depends on this match?”

“To do so would require only a sufficient promise of luxury.”

“That is your bitterness talking. If all Jerome cared about were such things, he would have repudiated you long ago.”

Betsy snatched the ribbon from her mother and tied it in knots. “Why could he not write and tell me himself that he was going to marry?”

“Oh, my dear. Some men cannot bear to acknowledge the wounds they inflict, as though to talk of a sin does more hurt than the transgression itself.”

“Are you speaking about Jerome now or Father?”

Her mother flushed. “Both, I suppose. And of you, too, and the need to forgive Jerome.”

“Forgive him! I cannot.”

“It will not be easy, but you must.” Dorcas gazed at Betsy with the same look she used to reprimand her young children. “You are wounded now, but you are strong, and you will find a way to carry on for Bo’s sake. Jerome has the much harder task. For the rest of his life, he must live with the knowledge that he failed the two people he loved most.”

“I hope it burns him like fire.”

Dorcas cried, “Do you wish to destroy your son?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then, you have told him every day that he is a Bonaparte prince as though that were the most wonderful thing in the world. If you make him believe his Bonaparte father is a bad man, you will undermine his happiness irreparably.”

Lowering her gaze, Betsy pictured her son’s bright-eyed, pink-cheeked face. “I do not want Bo to hate Jerome. I hope he might be accepted into his father’s family someday.” She sighed. “I doubt I can ever forgive Jerome, but I will guard my tongue when I speak of him.”

Her mother took her hand. “Try to forgive him, Betsy. I would hate to see my beautiful girl become a bitter woman.”

It upset Betsy to think of disappointing her mother, yet she could not imagine getting over her fury at being left behind like a stray dog. Besides, she would need all her hardness to fight for Bo’s future. “This is not an instance in which I can meekly turn the other cheek.”

Her mother patted her hand and rose. “Perhaps it was too soon for me to say these things. At least, promise me to think over what I have said today.”

ON NOVEMBER 1, William Patterson turned fifty-five. To celebrate the occasion, Dorcas hosted an open house and invited friends and relatives to call. For a week ahead of time, she and Betsy supervised the cleaning of their home and the preparation of desserts: gingerbread, lemon custard, fruitcake, and the raisin-nut cookies called Maryland rocks.

The family spent Sunday in the drawing room where they could receive visitors. To keep the children occupied, Edward sat on the floor with George, Henry, and Octavius, teaching them to set up wooden soldiers in a battle formation Jerome had taught him years before. As Betsy watched that poignant reminder of her husband, Bo scrambled down from her lap and inched toward his uncles. Edward smiled at him. “Do you want to play too?”

Tucking Bo next to his side, Edward handed him a wooden figure, which Bo clutched with both hands. Edward directed George to adjust one line of soldiers, then told his nephew, “Your papa taught us this. This is how your uncle Napoleon wages war.”

Tears flooded Betsy’s eyes, and she hurried to the front windows so her son would not see her cry. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass and looked at the dreary November sky above the town houses across the way. The memory came to Betsy, painful in its sweetness, of the November day four years before when she sensed Jerome’s presence in the street below even though she had believed him to be in New York. Counting back through time, she realized that they had lived together sixteen months and nearly twice that amount of time had passed since Napoleon separated them. Now that Jerome was a king, would she ever see him again?

Her reverie was broken when her father approached and handed her a glass of Madeira. Raising his own glass to her, he said, “Good health.”

Surprised by the gesture, Betsy felt an upsurge of hope that he wanted to start their relationship anew, free of recrimination. As she searched his face, he added, “It is time for you to stop looking to the past and start thinking of your future.”

“What future? I am like a fly wrapped in spider’s silk and left forgotten on the web,” she retorted and took a sip of Madeira; it was the delicate, light golden variety called Rainwater that was favored in Baltimore.

Patterson sighed. “My dearest Betsy, you could have a good life. It only needs for you to cut the cords to the past.”

Gazing out at the gloom, Betsy said, “I fail to see how. As you have pointed out often, I have no means of support, so my son and I must live on your charity.”

Her father lowered his voice. “Not if you marry again.”

Shocked, Betsy turned on him. “I believe they call that bigamy, sir.”

Patterson continued speaking softly so that only she could hear. “I know you do not accept the decision of the French court, but you could have your marriage annulled here.”

“Why would I do that when I have fought these last four years to get it recognized?”

“So that you can put this unfortunate episode behind you and build a new life. There are men in Baltimore who would be eager to court you if you were free.”

“You mean, they would not consider me tainted goods? How generous.”

“Your experience with Bonaparte has made you understandably bitter,” Patterson said, his voice oily with satisfaction that she was finally disenchanted with Jerome. “It would make me happy to see you settled with a good man who would provide for you and be a steadying influence upon your son. I am fond of the boy and would like to see him raised by a responsible man of upright character. It would be best for all concerned.”

Betsy went cold as she realized that her father wanted Bo to grow up to be a solid American merchant like himself. “I do not agree.”

Just then they heard the sound of new arrivals in the hall. Patterson gave her a look that said he had not finished with this topic before going to greet his guests.

Betsy turned to gaze at Bo, who sat on Edward’s lap watching George and Henry conduct a mock battle between opposing lines of wooden soldiers. As far as she could tell, there was no way to win the contest. George moved a soldier forward and knocked down one of Henry’s men, and then Henry retaliated, keeping their forces even. What seemed to give the game zest was that each time one of them struck down an opponent, Bo would giggle, prompting his uncles to use even more flamboyant gestures for their next “kill” to make him laugh harder.

As the last soldier was laid low, Robert and Marianne entered the room followed by Patterson. Betsy’s heart clutched with uneasiness as Bo cried out, “Grampa!”

“Oh, look at the little love! Betsy, he has grown so big.” Marianne came around the drawing room table to give Betsy a kiss.

“How are you?” Betsy asked, setting her wineglass on the table.

“I am well.” Marianne peered into Betsy’s face. “How are you? Your cheeks are very red.”

Seeing that her father was talking to Robert and William Jr., Betsy gave Marianne a whispered summary of the conversation that had just taken place.

“Oh.” Marianne glanced back at her father-in-law, while she fingered her gold bracelet. “I am sure he meant it for the best.”

“Hardly,” Betsy replied, refilling her wineglass from the decanter and then pouring Madeira for Marianne. “He merely wants to relieve himself of the financial burden that my son and I have become.”

“Surely not. But—“ Marianne bit her lip. “It occurs to me that if you had accepted the pension the emperor offered, then you would be able to set up your own household.”

Betsy’s anger at her father overflowed onto this sister-in-law, who was so secure in her possession of a steady husband and generous family. “It came with impossible conditions.” Then she caught sight of Bo running across the room and holding up his arms to his grandfather. Patterson smiled, lifted the boy, and held him on his hip.

I have to find a way to move out of here,
Betsy told herself.

TEN DAYS LATER, Betsy’s nine-year-old sister Caroline came home from school with influenza, and the disease spread to all the young children in the house. Betsy moved Bo from the nursery and installed him in her bed. For the next four days, she slept in a nearby chair and nursed her son by bathing his forehead with damp cloths, propping him up when coughing spasms seized him, and coaxing him to swallow spoonfuls of broth. After thirty-six hours, his fever broke, but Betsy would not allow him to get up until she was certain he was fully recovered. Instead, she read to him by the hour to keep him quiet.

In the nursery down the corridor, Dorcas, Mammy Sue, and Margaret nursed the five youngest Pattersons. The sounds of coughing, retching, and feeble complaints filled the second floor of the house. Whenever Betsy and Dorcas passed in the hall, Betsy worried over her mother’s fatigue. The lines in Dorcas’s face were deeply etched, her skin had taken on the brittle quality of paper, and shadows as dark as bruises lurked beneath her eyes.

Like Bo, the three boys recovered easily, but the girls did not. A persistent cough settled in Caroline’s lungs and, after briefly improving, Mary Ann relapsed and grew delirious. Early in the morning of November 17, she died. Instead of wailing as she had when she lost Gussie, Dorcas fell silent. She was a grim figure at her youngest daughter’s funeral, refusing to be comforted when older women from church told her that she was fortunate to have so many children still living.

For her part, Betsy thanked God fervently that He had not taken Bo. At the graveside, as she stood listening to the cawing of crows perched on marble headstones, she could not help but reflect on the strange coincidence that Mary Ann Jeromia should leave this world so soon after her namesake had abandoned his family. One by one, even the most tenuous links to Jerome were being torn from her. “Please, God,” she whispered, “do not let anything happen to my son.”

IN LATE NOVEMBER, Betsy received a letter from a woman she had never met, a letter that astonished her with its presumption. The writer, Anna Kuhn, had just returned to New York from France, where she had dined with Jerome often: