The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (33 page)

Eliza, Marianne, and a friend in Philadelphia all told Betsy that rumors were swirling up and down the Atlantic seaboard that the emperor planned to make her a duchess. A year had passed since Betsy first wrote Napoleon, and sometimes she was so impatient for an answer that she walked Bo to the harbor to work off her feverish energy. The little boy loved the waterfront where he could wave to sailors and fishermen, but his mother stared at the ships and thought only of sailing away from the dull provincial town where she was stranded.

In the midst of her frustration, Betsy received a letter from Charles Oakeley saying that he had business in Baltimore and would like to call. Impulsively, she invited him to dinner.

“Who is this man?” her father asked. “Another suitor?”

“Well—” Betsy felt herself blushing. “He is a secretary to the British legation. I met him at the Erskines’ home, and we saw each other at parties throughout the spring. He was a very attentive friend.”

“Friend?” Patterson’s voice curled with skepticism. “Is he a respectable man?”

“Very. His father is a baronet and the former governor of Madras.”

“I see.” Patterson looked at Betsy musingly.

Her eagerness to see Oakeley surprised Betsy. She enjoyed his company and found him attractive, but he stirred none of the desire she had felt for Jerome. Sometimes she wondered if she was still capable of loving any man. In spite of those doubts, Betsy worked with her mother to treat Oakeley to Maryland specialties such as crab cakes and wild turkey stuffed with oysters.

The day of his visit, Betsy dressed in a gown of azure silk shot with silver. Shortly before Oakeley was supposed to call, she seated herself on the sofa with Bo. When her parents entered the drawing room, Patterson asked, “Why is Bo here instead of in the nursery?”

“Because I think it time for Mr. Oakeley to become acquainted with my son.”

A knock sounded upon the front door. The housekeeper showed Charles Oakeley into the drawing room, and Betsy introduced him to her parents. Then she gestured for Bo to stand in front of her. Placing her hands on the boy’s shoulders, she said, “This is my son, Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Hello.” Oakeley squatted down to look in the boy’s face. “How old are you, Jerome?”

“I am four.”

“Ah, that means you are no longer a baby. I come from a very large family, and I have two brothers not much older than you.”

“Do you, sir? What are their names?”

Oakeley smiled at Bo’s oddly adultlike speech. “Cornwallis and Frederic. Cornwallis was named after a British general.”

“I know. My uncles told me he lost the Revolutionary War.”

Oakeley laughed. “Yes, but that is not why my brother is named for him. Cornwallis was also the governor-general of India, and my family knew him there.”

He rose and patted Bo’s head. To Betsy, he said, “You have a delightfully precocious son. You must spend a great deal of time with him.”

“Thank you. I believe he has a great destiny, and I am determined to prepare him for it.”

Betsy excused herself to take Bo upstairs. When she returned a few minutes later, Oakeley and her father were talking about the recent agreement reached between President Madison and Minister Erskine. The discussion about commerce continued all during dinner, with her father asking many questions about the East India Company.

After dinner, as they sat in the drawing room drinking coffee, the conversation grew more heated. Patterson railed against the British practice of impressment, while Oakeley skillfully avoided expressing an opinion. Betsy finally intervened, “Father, Mr. Oakeley is not authorized to speak upon this matter. Please, do not tax him about it anymore.”

Patterson flushed. “Forgive me, sir. I have no wish to be rude to a guest.”

Oakeley left them late that evening without having spent a moment alone with Betsy, and she found herself regretting the lost opportunity to talk to him. During the last two months, she had missed him more than she cared to admit.

That night, she lay awake analyzing her feelings. Charles Oakeley was an amiable man with good prospects, and his behavior with Bo had pleased her. If Betsy had never met Jerome, she might consider him an eligible suitor, but to think of marrying him now was absurd. To ally herself with a member of the British diplomatic corps would turn Napoleon against her forever. She might be willing to lose the emperor’s favor if only her own future was at stake, but what about her son? He could never inherit a stepfather’s title, so he would lose all chance at noble rank if she married Oakeley. She would be destroying her boy’s future for the sake of a match that, while a pleasant prospect, promised neither great passion nor exalted status. No, she could not sacrifice her son to gain so little.

Despite having reached that decision, she received Oakeley when he came to Baltimore in two weeks and again ten days after that. By then, Washington was embroiled in a diplomatic crisis. The British foreign secretary in London, George Canning, was furious with the concessions Erskine had made to President Madison, and Canning not only repudiated the agreement but also recalled Erskine to England. On August 9, President Madison once again prohibited trade with Britain.

At first, Betsy assumed that these events would occupy Charles Oakeley and stop his visits to her, but she was wrong. With Minister Erskine gone and his successor not yet arrived, Oakeley began to make the trip from Washington to Baltimore at least once a week.

In late August, her father asked to speak to her privately, so Betsy went next door to his counting house. She sat in front of his desk and, as she waited for him to finish the letter he was writing, picked up the bronze stamp he used to put wax seals on his correspondence. Patterson’s seal was simple, just his entwined initials. Betsy wondered if, when the emperor gave her a title, she would be able to use a crest.

After signing his letter and blotting it, Patterson said, “Oakeley wants to make you an offer of marriage and has written to ask my blessing.”

“Your blessing?” Betsy could not stop herself from laughing. “Is it the custom now to seek permission from the father of a woman who has already been married?”

“It is when that woman is living as a dependent in her father’s house. Oakeley is being respectful. You might learn a lesson from him.”

Betsy sobered. “I thought I had made it perfectly plain that I have no wish to remarry.”

“You cannot remain single the rest of your life. I would rather see you marry an American, but if you must have a European, Oakeley is better than most. He has made a good start in life and will inherit a title. Does he not offer everything you have always wanted?”

“You cannot be serious. I was married to a prince. How could I stoop to marrying a baronet?”

“Stoop? If anyone is doing the stooping, it is Oakeley. You offer him nothing but a pretty face, which will fade soon enough, and a lively disposition along with the opprobrium of being a cast-off woman and the burden of raising a son who is not his.”

Stung, Betsy retorted, “There is no shame in my situation. All the world knows that Jerome’s desertion was due to political circumstances, not from any fault he found in me. As for Bo, the emperor will renege on his promises to secure my son’s future if I marry an Englishman. How can you urge me to take a step that will ruin your grandson’s prospects?”

“And how can you be so foolhardy as to trust anything that madman says?”

“Father, we have never agreed about the Bonapartes, and I daresay we never will. But I expect Napoleon to grant me a pension any day.”

Leaning back in his chair, Patterson folded his arms. “I declare, there are times when I think you mad. An honorable man wishes to provide for you and your son, and you would throw that away for the empty promises of the blackguard who caused your troubles.”

“Nevertheless, that is my decision. What answer do you plan to send Mr. Oakeley?”

“That he has my blessing but that I cannot vouch for your answer.”

She rose. “Fair enough. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Charles Oakeley called on Betsy at her parents’ home. She welcomed him into the drawing room and invited him to take her father’s wingback chair, while she sat across from him on the sofa.

Instead of settling back in his seat, Oakeley placed his hands on his knees and cleared his throat. Then he rose and paced in front of the fireplace. “Madame Bonaparte, surely you must know what I wish to say. I believe your father informed you that I wrote to him last week.”

Gazing at her lap, Betsy said, “I beg you not to speak of it, Mr. Oakeley. Such a discussion may injure us both.”

Oakeley ceased pacing, and Betsy raised her eyes just enough to see that he had halted in front of the fireplace with his back to her. She craned her neck to see what had arrested his attention. At first, she thought he was gazing at the portrait of her and her mother but then realized that the angle of his head was wrong. He was staring at the miniature of Jerome that she kept upon the mantel. “Of course,” he murmured. “Your heart still belongs to him.”

“No!” Betsy exclaimed. Even though she had no desire to give Charles Oakeley false hope, she would not insult him with a lie. “I display that to remind my son that he has a father. It is only for Bo’s sake that I can endure looking at it.”

Oakeley crossed the room in three strides and sat beside her. He seized her hand. “Oh, Madame Bonaparte. My dear Elizabeth. You will let me call you Elizabeth?”

“No, Mr. Oakeley.” She tugged to free herself, but he would not relinquish his grip, so Betsy let their clasped hands lie in her lap. Sitting beside him, she grew self-conscious of her breathing. She could
feel
how close Oakeley’s trousered thigh was to hers, protected only by a flimsy gown. The flame of desire began to flicker within her, and a vivid image of Oakeley embracing her seized Betsy’s imagination. She wondered whether, if she swayed toward him, he would kiss her. Then she might know if she was able to feel passion again.

Stiffening, she told herself to remain true to her purpose. Betsy forced herself to picture her little boy’s face and then swallowed hard. “Mr. Oakeley, I am honored by your attentions, but I have no plans to remarry. I have devoted my life to my son and his future.”

“Why should that prevent you from forming a new attachment? I could help you raise your son. We have fine schools in England, and I would provide him with the very best education.” He smiled. “And I know how he loves to ride. I would give him a pony and, when he is older, teach him to hunt.”

For an instant, Betsy could envision her horse-mad boy riding exuberantly across the English countryside. Then she shook her head. “But what of his future? What about when he reaches manhood? His uncle, the emperor, can award him a title and a place at court. Those are things you cannot offer him, no matter how much affection you come to feel.”

Sighing, Oakeley released her hand. “No, I cannot. But are you so very certain that Napoleon will keep his word?”

“He has given me his promise in writing.”

Oakeley narrowed his eyes. “My country will never cease to oppose him. If the Fifth Coalition does not defeat him, we will form a sixth and, if necessary, a seventh. The might of the British Empire is committed to defeating Bonaparte, and we will accomplish it in time.”

That reminder that Oakeley represented Napoleon’s enemies hardened Betsy’s resolve. “How could I wish for anything so opposed to my son’s interests?”

“Could you not find a new way to define his interests? It is true that when I inherit my father’s title, I cannot pass it on to your son, but I will help him any other way I can. I could launch him in a diplomatic career. Or a career in politics if he prefers.” Betsy shook her head again, and Oakeley continued in a rush, “There is something else you may not have considered. If we have a son of our own, he will one day be a baronet. Would that not please you?”

Betsy gazed at him in consternation as she contemplated bearing another child and dividing the love she felt for Bo. “I cannot imagine such a thing.”

Oakeley knelt before her. “I love you, and I cannot imagine my future without you.”

“Please, do not press me any further. I cannot give you the answer you want.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Then do not give me any answer at all. Please, think about everything I have said and see if you cannot change your mind.”

After a long moment, Betsy nodded. “I will consider it.”

OVER THE NEXT few weeks, Betsy felt pressed on all sides. Charles Oakeley continued to visit her, and his eyes pled his suit even as he honored her request not to pressure her for an answer.

General Turreau stopped at South Street on his way back to Washington in September and demanded an explanation of the rumors that Betsy planned to marry an Englishman. She explained her predicament and swore that it was not her intention to marry
anyone.

Turreau frowned. “Are you sure this is not a British plot to gain control of the boy?”

“I do not think so, sir.”

“If you are lying, it will do you no good. The emperor will not consider himself bound by any agreement based on falsehood.”

She held out her open palms. “I swear to you,
mon général,
I am telling the truth. My father is pressuring me to marry, but this is not what I want.”

He stood abruptly. “I will see what I can do.”

In mid-September, Aunt Margaret wrote her:

Everyone is gossiping about the poor man. Francis James Jackson, the new minister from Britain, is furious. He ordered Oakeley to return to England with important dispatches, and the secretary balked. You must either accept him or refuse to see him again. He is destroying his career over you.

Betsy turned to her mother. “What am I to do? I turned him down, but he will not accept my answer.”

“Then you will have to be rude. You cannot allow this situation to continue.”

The following week, a newspaper report drove Charles Oakeley temporarily from Betsy’s mind. Earlier that summer Jerome’s kingdom had come under attack by the Duke of Brunswick, whose lands Napoleon had seized and annexed to Westphalia. Brunswick sought revenge by leading an army of exiles, dressed in black and wearing the emblem of a death’s head, to recapture his duchy. The Black Legion won its first battle and then fought again at Oelper, losing this time to a new contingent of Westphalians. However, the victorious commander failed to pursue the retreating army, allowing it to flee to England. The general whose incompetence allowed Brunswick to escape was none other than Jean-Jacques Reubell, Jerome’s friend who had married Henriette Pascault. According to the report, Jerome had exiled Reubell in disgrace.