The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (32 page)

“Mama?” Instantly, anxiety clouded his cheerful countenance. “Are you crying?”

Betsy forced herself to smile. “It is nothing. I have a headache.”

Bo slid down from his grandfather’s lap and clambered up on the sofa. “I can make it better,” he said and kissed her forehead, mimicking the gesture she used when he felt unwell.

“Yes, much better.” As Betsy pulled Bo into a hug, she met her father’s gaze over her son’s blond head. In this at least, they were united, even if their ultimate hopes for Bo were at cross-purposes. Neither of them wanted this precious boy to be taken from them.

IN HIS LETTER, Le Camus had said that Jerome expected him to take the child with him when he returned to Europe. Betsy replied that her son was too young to travel without his mother, and as she was still barred from France, it was impossible for Bo to make the voyage.

Betsy then attempted several letters to Jerome, beseeching him not to demand such a sacrifice. In her first draft, she tried to stir the embers of his love by describing her devastation at the thought of losing their child, her “only happiness” since her separation from him. She wrote a more formal version in which she appealed to Jerome’s vanity by addressing him as “sire” and “your Majesty,” but she could not bear to humble herself to the man she had once teased in bed. In the end, she sent Jerome no reply at all.

Finally, Betsy wrote to James Monroe, who had been so helpful to her in England and had recently returned to the United States. She apologized for intruding upon his time, thanked him for his past counsel, and described her problem. Betsy asserted that her only concern was for the safety and wellbeing of her child, and she swore that she would suffer any privation necessary for his best interests.

As she waited for an answer, death again struck her family. In October, William Jr. was working on the docks inspecting the Patterson ships that were rotting from lack of use. Four days later, he came down with yellow fever, making him a late victim of the epidemic that had plagued the Fells Point neighborhood since summer. He died on October 20, leaving his wife Nancy and an infant son. In the days that followed, Betsy did all she could to comfort her mother, but at night when she was alone, she wept as she remembered how William had protected her during the terrible time at Texel.

Two days after the funeral, Betsy found her mother in the nursery gazing at Bo as he napped. When Betsy spoke her name, Dorcas whirled on her with eyes that burned with the madness of grief. “You must not lose your son. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mother,” Betsy said, gently leading her from the room. “Father and I are doing everything we can.”

Finally, three weeks after she wrote to Monroe, Betsy received his reply. The statesman explained that he had followed her history with great sympathy and regret that he had not been able to alleviate her situation: “To the present period your conduct has been distinguished by the utmost degree of prudence and delicacy.”

In response to her fears, he pointed out that Napoleon’s fame had already suffered because of his treatment of her and that if any calamity should happen to the child in his care, his reputation would be irreparably damaged. Therefore, Monroe assured Betsy that he believed both Jerome and the emperor would do their best to guard the boy’s safety.

It is not therefore from either of them that I should apprehend any danger to the child. If his situation should expose him to any I should expect it from another quarter. The wife of Jerome, or some of her connections might not see this infant received under the protection of his father with pleasure. She may have children, and he might be thought in their way. Such things often happen in courts.

Laying down the letter, Betsy immediately thought of King Richard III, rumored to have killed his young nephews to gain the throne of England. Queen Catharine had powerful relatives; her cousin was the Russian tsar. Yes, it was possible that her family might see Bo as a threat to their interests.

If only Napoleon will grant my request for a pension,
she thought,
I can keep Bo here where he will be safe from such plots. If I can obtain a good education for him, there will be time enough for him to claim his place at court when he is a man and able to defend himself.

NEAR THE END of the year, Betsy received another letter from Jerome. Napoleon had told him of her desire for a pension—Betsy rejoiced to learn that the emperor was considering her request—and Jerome was furious that she would seek assistance from his older brother.

Indignantly, Jerome wrote that he had been planning to give Betsy and their son the principality of Schmalkalden, which lay within Westphalia thirty leagues from his capital. She and Bo were to have the titles of princess and prince, and an income of 200,000 francs a year.

I was expecting my son, yes, Elisa, and you too, and a noble existence, and one worthy of the objects of my most tender affection, was planned for you and still awaits you. Then, at least, I shall see my son from time to time, and I promise to his mother, to Elisa, to my most loving friend, to leave her son with her until his twelfth year in the principality which I have chosen for him, and that the only sacrifice I ask of her is to let me enjoy a visit from my son once or twice a month.

After finishing the letter, Betsy felt confused. Could this have been Jerome’s intention all along? If so, why had he not said so previously?

Rereading the letter, she saw that Jerome promised her a beautiful home, and she immediately envisioned a small jewel-like palace where she could receive scholars, writers, and aristocrats in her glittering salon. Bo would have the finest tutors and someday inherit his father’s throne, and everyone would praise her for how wisely she had raised him.

And Jerome would be only thirty leagues away. Surely there would be times when, to escape the burdens of kingship, he might ride to Schmalkalden to visit the woman who had known him as a carefree youth. Betsy imagined the sound of horses in the courtyard, a stealthy midnight knock at the door, and an intimate supper with too much wine. Then she would be in Jerome’s arms again.

As swiftly as the bewitching scenario played out in her mind came the burning heat of shame. They would never be able to keep such assignations secret, and within a short time, all Europe would hear that she had become Jerome’s mistress. She knew him too well not to feel certain that he would attempt to seduce her, and she knew herself too, remembering all the times that her passion for him had betrayed her better judgment.

Betsy rose and paced before the hearth as she tried to compose a blistering reply. As she did, her mother entered the room.

“What on earth ails you? You are as restless as a sparrow with a hawk overhead.”

“Jerome has written again, and this letter is more insulting than the last.” She handed over the page and waited impatiently for her mother to read it.

Moments later, Dorcas looked up. “I do not understand your anger. With this offer, he makes an effort to provide for you and Bo.”

“Mother, if you think that, you think wrongly. Jerome’s intentions are not nearly so noble. Once I am beholden to him, he will insinuate his way back into my bed.”

“My dear, he says nothing to indicate such a desire.”

Betsy stared at her mother, astonished that she could be so naïve. “I know Jerome too well not to feel certain what would happen. And once we were intimate again, I would be reduced to the status the emperor always assigned to me, that of a whore.”

“Betsy!”

Ignoring her mother’s scandalized outcry, Betsy said, “I will not allow him to cheapen me. I was his one true wife and I will not accept any lower rank.”

As she spoke, the words she needed to respond to Jerome arranged themselves in her mind. Betsy crossed to her father’s desk, took out a sheet of paper, and, without bothering to sit down, wrote.

Sir, I cannot accept your offer of the principality of Schmalkalden. Westphalia is not big enough for two queens. Nor do I feel any remorse at having requested the aid of the emperor. I petitioned his imperial majesty because I would rather be sheltered by an eagle than dangled from the bill of a goose.

Elizabeth

XXV

B
ETSY realized that her letter to Jerome might end any possibility of receiving assistance from him, but she did not regret sending the stinging rebuke. She had trusted Jerome too long, clinging to his glib assurances for months after all evidence pointed to his defection. While not blind to his weaknesses, she had allowed herself to hope that his love for her and pain at their separation would mature the pleasure-loving boy into a responsible man, just as she had been forced to grow up in ways she never expected.

For Betsy knew she had changed. When she caught sight of herself in a mirror, she no longer saw the girlish charm of the Stuart portrait; she was still a lovely woman, but one with a determined set to her jaw and a hard glitter in her eyes. She had long since ceased to be the romantic young woman who declared that she would rather be married to Jerome Bonaparte for an hour than any other man for a lifetime. That girl, so certain that beauty and cleverness would win her a crown, had learned that the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. By marrying into a ruling family, she had subjected herself to inexorable forces that reduced human beings to hostages whose value had little to do with their personal merit. Only someone with the titanic gifts of a Napoleon could subdue such forces and place them under his command.

Yet Betsy was not entirely reconciled to her fate. Even if she could not be a queen, she could fight to make her son a prince. Bo was proving to be a bright, tenderhearted boy, and she did not intend to spoil him as Letizia Bonaparte had indulged Jerome. Betsy would raise him to appreciate his heritage, to gain the best possible education, and to make a suitable marriage to a woman of high birth. If Bo did not inherit his father’s throne, she would at least make sure that he found a place among European nobility. The world would see that her son’s abilities far outstripped those of his wastrel father, and thus she would show the Bonapartes they were wrong to esteem her so lightly.

BECAUSE HER MOTHER was despondent over William’s death, Betsy delayed her annual trip to Washington. Then in March 1809, General Turreau wrote Betsy asking her to call at the French embassy at her earliest convenience. After assuring herself that her mother was ready to resume running the household, Betsy left for the capital.

Turreau’s office had a martial character with swords, pistols, and military flags hanging on every wall. When Betsy and her aunt were seated before Turreau’s desk, the general handed Betsy an official communication that the emperor had sent him by way of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Monsieur de Champagny:

I have read Miss Patterson’s letter. Reply to Turreau to inform her that I shall receive her child with pleasure, and that I will charge myself with him, if she will send him to France; that, as to herself, whatever she wishes will be granted her; that she can count on my esteem and my desire to be agreeable to her; that when I refused to recognize her, I was led to it by high political considerations; that, apart from that, I am resolved to secure to her son the destiny she may desire.

Betsy was so overcome by the news that she pressed a hand against her chest and made herself breathe deeply. Could this be the realization of her dreams at last? It hardly seemed possible. After several seconds, she said, “General Turreau, please convey my gratitude to the emperor for his gracious answer.”

Then she explained that her son was too young to travel without her. She very much desired to live in Europe, preferably Paris, but was willing to settle wherever the emperor thought best. Betsy also reminded Turreau that to use her maiden name would injure her reputation, as much in Europe as in the United States.

Turreau toyed with his mustache. “Then you would rather receive a title than a large income?”

Sensing a trap, Betsy paused. She took out a perfume-scented handkerchief, dabbed her upper lip, and said carefully, “If I am to have a title, I must have sufficient income to live in a manner befitting my rank.”

Turreau nodded. “I think that you should write all these things to the emperor, and I will forward the letter to him. Then we shall have to wait for his reply.”

“Oh.” Betsy’s elation shriveled. “You do not feel authorized to set up a pension for the amount his imperial majesty previously named?”

“No, Mademoiselle. Concerning matters in which the emperor has taken such a personal interest, it is necessary to wait for his explicit orders.”

She nodded. “Allow me a few days to compose an appropriate letter.”

THE NEXT DAY, Betsy called on Dolley Madison, whose husband had just been inaugurated president. Betsy wanted to provide her friend with the latest news about Dolley’s son from her first marriage. Payne Todd was attending a boarding school near Baltimore, and Betsy sometimes visited the boy for her friend. After Dolley gleaned all the details she could about her child, she asked what the Pattersons thought of President Jefferson’s decision to repeal the Embargo Act before he left office and replace it with the Non-Intercourse Act that banned exports only to British and French ports.

Betsy toyed with her gloves as she mentally translated her father’s caustic response into something suitably tactful. “My father thinks the government should not interfere with trade at all. He says it only hurts American merchants.”

Dolley nodded. “Mr. Madison has the power to lift the ban for either Britain or France if they agree to stop harassing our shipping. But he has been in office too brief a time to begin negotiations with either General Turreau or the British minister, the Honorable David Erskine.”

Betsy looked up in surprise. “The same David Erskine who married Frances Cadwalader?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I know his wife. She was very kind to me when I was in London. I must write to her.”

FRANCES ERSKINE RESPONDED to Betsy’s note by calling on her. Betsy presented her guest to her aunts, who then withdrew from the drawing room so the two young women could become reacquainted. As Betsy poured tea from her aunt’s silver tea service, she said, “You must be glad to be back in the United States so that you can see your family again.”

Lady Erskine put sugar in her cup and stirred. “I am happy for my sons and daughters to know their American grandparents, but truly, my children find life here rather strange. They are so accustomed to thinking of themselves as English.”

Betsy sighed. “I would like to raise my son in Europe—if only I can conclude the necessary arrangements with the emperor.” When Lady Erskine tilted her head quizzically, Betsy explained her request for a pension and Napoleon’s promise to provide for her and Bo.

Lady Erskine sipped her tea and then set her cup and saucer on the mahogany table between them. “I am astonished. I did not think that he would be so willing to make amends for the harm he has done you.”

Her words evoked the memory of their previous conversations in London and the anguish Betsy had felt as she prayed that Jerome would return to her before the birth of their child. She sighed. “Nothing can entirely make amends for that, but the emperor assures me that he did not act from personal hostility but rather because of policy considerations.”

Lowering her gaze, Lady Erskine adjusted the ruffle on her three-quarter sleeve. “Perhaps it would be judicious for us to avoid debating the merits of Bonaparte’s policies.”

“Of course.” Betsy passed her the plate of watercress sandwiches and changed the subject, “You will be glad to hear that my son is nearly four years old and very healthy. I don’t know if I ever properly thanked you for all you did when I was in England. You were of great help to me during that trying time.”

Lady Erskine smiled. “Think nothing of it. I was more than happy to assist you in my own small way.”

After her visitor left, Betsy worried that their difference of opinion about Napoleon might have placed a strain on their friendship. The following week, however, Lady Erskine invited Betsy to a small family supper.

When Betsy arrived at the Erskine house, she met Frances Erskine’s older brother Thomas and his wife Mary. Thomas Cadwalader had a hawk’s nose and eyes that narrowed when he paused to think. Betsy deemed him a cautious man—a good attribute for someone who worked as a lawyer but one that surprised her because Lady Erskine had confided during their earlier acquaintance that Thomas and his wife had been forced to elope because of an unresolved feud between their families.

Perhaps because Mary Cadwalader knew how it felt to face marital opposition, she smiled sympathetically at Betsy. “I am happy to meet you at last, Madame Bonaparte.”

“The feeling is mutual, Mrs. Cadwalader,” Betsy replied.

Then Lady Erskine presented Betsy to her other guest, a thirty-year-old Englishman named Charles Oakeley, who had just arrived in Washington to be secretary to the British legation. Oakeley had light brown hair, dark eyes, and a long, pointed nose in an otherwise handsome face. His clothes were well tailored but conservative in hue: a high-collared shirt, white cravat, mustard waistcoat, black tailcoat, and buff pantaloons.

Once they were at the table with a first course of oxtail soup before them, Betsy asked, “Have you been in this country before, Mr. Oakeley?”

“No, Madame Bonaparte. I spent the last few years in Munich and Stockholm.”

“I fear you will find our summers much hotter than you have ever experienced.”

Oakeley laughed. “I am sure the climate here is warmer than northern Europe, but I grew up in Madras, India, and I do not think you can top that climate for heat.”

“Really! I have never met anyone who lived in India.” Betsy took her last spoonful of soup and rested her spoon on the charger beneath the bowl. “Why was your family there, Mr. Oakeley?”

“My father was the colonial governor.”

She sipped her wine. “I do wish you would tell me about it. I have traveled so little.”

Oakeley nodded. For the next hour, he described the colonial city where he grew up: the high-walled Fort of St. George on the Bay of Bengal, the white-pillared government house where his father worked, the pyramid-shaped Hindu temples with hundreds of brightly painted idols perched on the outer walls, and lush gardens that produced more fruit than Eden itself: coconuts, mangoes, oranges, pineapples, and plantains. His family’s house had large airy rooms with white walls, heavy furniture of tropical wood, and slatted doors that opened to admit the sea air. From their terrace, they enjoyed a sweeping view of the bay, dotted with wooden boats from which dark-skinned men fished by throwing crude spears into the water.

Betsy found Oakeley’s stories so fascinating that she forgot to respond with the coolness needed to keep him at bay. By the end of the evening, he was gazing at her with a disturbing mix of admiration and hope.

They saw each other often that spring at the President’s Mansion. Under Mrs. Madison’s direction, Benjamin Latrobe had transformed the oval drawing room into a blazingly colorful salon that was the talk of Washington. Latrobe had repainted the walls sunflower yellow, highlighted moldings with strips of pink wallpaper printed with white and dark green leaves, hung crimson velvet curtains with gold tassels, and laid a carpet with a red, blue, and gold arabesque pattern. Dolley Madison held open houses every Wednesday in the lavishly decorated room. So many people attended—sometimes as many as 400 in a day—that the regular event became known as Mrs. Madison’s “crush or squeeze.”

At these receptions, Oakeley made sure Betsy had a chair, fetched her dishes of ice cream, and stood beside her relating stories about other lands. His manner was polished and urbane, and he displayed little vanity, even though Frances Erskine had said he was marked for a brilliant career and would someday be a baronet. The gossips of Washington hinted that he had indulged in a scandalous affair at his last posting, but his behavior toward Betsy remained circumspect. He was a considerate, engaging man who appeared to be smitten with her, yet he refrained from declaring his feelings.

When the time came for Betsy to return to Baltimore at the end of April, she felt regret at leaving such an amiable companion. However, Charles Oakeley had recently begun to pay her pointed compliments, and she feared he was building to a declaration. Resolutely, she packed her trunk and returned with Bo to South Street.

IN MAY, BETSY decided to have Bo baptized as a Catholic. Her parents protested her choice to go outside the Presbyterian Church, but she was adamant. “Catholicism is the religion of kings, and being raised in the Church may help him claim his birthright.”

After she finalized arrangements with the priest at St. Peter’s Church, she received a note from Bishop Carroll requesting that she wait until he could attend the baptism of the “perhaps future prince.” Betsy happily complied and responded by asking him to be Bo’s godfather.

Before the event, Dorcas explained the religious significance to the almost-four-year-old boy in terms he could understand, and Betsy instructed him on how to behave during the service. To help him appreciate the gravity of the occasion, Betsy allowed him to be “breeched,” to graduate to pantaloons and a jacket from the gowns that young children of both sexes wore. The morning of big event, Betsy brushed his forelock so that it swept upward, dabbed it with pomade to hold it in place, and told him how handsome he looked. Between the influence of the pre-baptismal instruction and the heady honor of wearing his first suit, Bo remained wide-eyed and solemn during the ritual.

That June, President Madison announced that he and David Erskine had reached an agreement that would allow trade with Britain to resume, which gave the Patterson family yet another reason to celebrate. For weeks, Betsy’s father and brother Edward worked late hours arranging for their ships to sail with the long-delayed cargoes. With improved business prospects, Patterson grew less grim and even spoke pleasantly to Betsy one day when he came home to find her teaching Bo to count to 100: “He seems to have your aptitude with numbers.”

That summer, the newspapers reported that Napoleon was at war on two fronts. To the southwest, he was locked in the Peninsular War in Spain, which had begun the year before as a revolt against French occupation and the imposed kingship of Napoleon’s brother Joseph. To the east, Austria—still simmering about the territory it lost after Austerlitz—had attacked French forces in Bavaria. For Betsy, those battles meant that Napoleon was once again too preoccupied to consider her most recent letter.