The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (16 page)

“The scout brought grave news,” Brouard said. “Two British warships, a corvette and a frigate, are lying off Sandy Hook just south of the place where we must enter the lower bay.”

“A corvette is not much threat. How many guns has the frigate?” Jerome asked.

“Forty-four.”

“Then taken together, the
Cybèle
and the
Didon
outgun them.”

“Yes, but our maneuverability will be limited. I take it you have not sailed the Narrows before. We will be in single file as we pass between Staten Island and Long Island, while they will have the advantage of being in open water. And our scout saw more ships on the horizon.”

The news terrified Betsy, and she bit her lip. Jerome had a glint in his eyes that made her think he relished the idea of fighting their way free, but seeing her fear, he said, “Perhaps they have nothing to do with us. Let us wait a day or two and see what action they take.”

The next day, the captain reported that the skipper of the pilot boat had sighted two more British ships, one of them a 32-gun frigate, anchored off Sandy Point. At that, Jerome shook his head. “I cannot risk my wife’s safety on such a rash attempt at escape. We shall have to find other means of transport.”

“But you are ordered to return on my ship, sir.”

Jerome frowned. “Perhaps we can decoy the British into leaving. If Madame Bonaparte and I disembark and state publicly that we will take a merchant vessel from Baltimore, our enemy might sail south. Then we can board under cover of night and slip out of the harbor.”

“I think it unlikely they will fall for such bait, but I suppose the ruse does no harm.”

“Then are we getting off the ship?” Betsy asked.

Jerome laughed at her look of relief. “Yes, but it is only a temporary feint to deceive our enemies. Unless I miss my guess, the British have rowed scouts ashore to keep watch on us. So we will perform a little farce for their amusement.”

After dispatching Lieutenant Meyronnet for their carriage, they had their trunks rowed to the dock. Then Jerome appeared on deck, gesticulating to Captain Brouard. “No, absolutely not. I care nothing for my brother’s orders. I cannot expose my wife to such danger!”

Brouard shouted back, “I can have you arrested, sir. I am your superior officer.”

“And I am your prince! You dare not lay hands upon my person.”

Betsy hoped that no spyglass was trained upon her face because she found it very hard not to smile at their theatrics. Once she and Jerome had been rowed ashore and were closed in their carriage, she burst into giggles. “You have an unsuspected talent for drama, Jerome.”

He made a little bow and joined in her laughter.

OVER THE NEXT few weeks, daily communications went back and forth from their Greenwich Village house to the French frigates. Although the British sent two small ships south, their main force remained stationed off Sandy Hook. Frustrated by the failure of his scheme, Jerome suggested sending the
Cybèle
through the Narrows alone to engage the British ships and disable as many as possible before the faster
Didon
tried to escape. The two captains, however, refused because they were certain the plan would result in the loss of both ships.

One morning as Betsy started downstairs, she heard Jerome and his Creole secretary Alexander Le Camus in the hallway below. “The only thing for it is to leave your wife with her family and go throw yourself on the emperor’s mercy.”

Assailed by panic, Betsy grasped the railing and held her breath until she heard Jerome answer, “How can you say such a thing? I will not desert her.”

“It would be only a temporary expedient until you can convince Napoleon of the wisdom of your choice.”

“No. I promised my father-in-law that I would never do such a thing. I cannot go back on my word.”

Does that mean he would leave me if he had not made the promise?
Betsy wondered. Then she admonished herself,
I must not think such things.
She took a deep breath, called out Jerome’s name, and continued down the stairs.

Nearly three weeks passed. One morning Jerome opened a note to learn that Captain Brouard had received a dispatch from Minister of the Navy Dècres. The packet had been delayed because it was mistakenly sent to Pichon in Washington and then returned. Among the other papers was an ominous order to the French fleet:

By an act of the 11th Ventose, all the civil officers of the empire are prohibited from receiving on their registers the transcription of the act of celebration of a pretended marriage that Jerome Bonaparte has contracted in a foreign country, during the age of minority, without the consent of his mother and without previous publication in the place of his nativity.

Betsy gasped at the pronouncement, then covered her mouth with her hand. Were all of her dreams of becoming royalty nothing more than a castle in the air, an insubstantial structure that could be demolished by a few strokes of Napoleon’s pen? Was she still in danger of being disgraced as a woman who had never been legally married?

As Jerome lifted his eyes from the paper, Betsy could see by his open-mouthed expression that he felt as shocked as she did.

“Que devrions-nous faire?”
she whispered, thinking that surely Jerome must have some insight into his older brother’s character that would help him form a plan.

To her disappointment, he answered,
“Je ne sais pas.”
Then he passed her a small sheet of notepaper. “Captain Brouard enclosed a message with the announcement. He has withdrawn permission for you to sail on the
Didon.”

Betsy waited for Jerome to say more, but he began to read a newspaper article that Brouard had also sent.
“Mon dieu,”
he murmured but then said no more.

Watching Jerome read the lengthy article strained Betsy’s already frayed nerves. To keep from losing her temper, she picked up the official pronouncement denying the validity of her marriage and read it for herself. Then she laid the paper down. Her husband was still frowning over the sheet of newspaper, so she said, “Jerome, we must talk. We have to come up with a plan to get around this prohibition. Clearly, we cannot rely upon the French navy to take us to France. Do you think it would be safe for you to sail aboard a merchant ship?”

He pressed his hand to his temple. “Elisa, I cannot think about that now. This article contains a very distressing story, one that is detrimental to our cause.”

“What could be worse than the emperor’s proclamation?”

“Do you recall what I told you about the crucial role my brother Lucien played in Napoleon’s career?”

“Of course, I remember.” In 1799 when Napoleon overthrew the Directory, he had faced an angry mob that denounced him as a dictator. Lucien had defused their hostility by flourishing his own sword and swearing to run Napoleon through if he ever violated the revolutionary principles of liberty, equality, and brotherhood. By that dramatic act, Lucien assured his brother’s election as First Consul. “What possible bearing does that have on our situation?”

“A few years back, Lucien fell in love with the widow of a Parisian stockbroker and made her his mistress. Last year, she bore him a son, so he married her. Napoleon did not approve the match because he wanted Lucien to make a political alliance, but Lucien refused to set Alexandrine aside. So Napoleon flew into one of his rages, forcing Lucien to flee to Italy with his wife and child.”

Betsy shivered. “And Napoleon will not forgive him?”

Jerome shook his head. “Not according to the reports. If Napoleon can cast Lucien aside, what chance do we have to placate his displeasure?”

“Then what should we do?”

He tossed the letter on the table and began to pace. “I don’t know. Perhaps nothing just yet. Perhaps—” Jerome rubbed his chin. “Perhaps the reason for the estrangement with Lucien is more than just his marriage. Lucien has antagonized Napoleon before this by accusing him of straying from republican ideals. And then there was the matter of Christine.”

“Who is Christine?”

“Lucien’s first wife. A very common woman. The illiterate daughter of his landlord.” Jerome paused to pour a brandy and then walked back to Betsy with a surprisingly cheerful expression. “Now that I think of it, Lucien’s case is much different from mine. I married a renowned beauty, the daughter of a wealthy and respected American who is the friend of President Jefferson. There is no doubt you are well suited to life at court. If only we can contrive to have Napoleon meet you, you will easily demonstrate your worth.”

Betsy shook her head in bewilderment at how swiftly Jerome’s mood had rebounded. “That brings me back to the same question. How do we travel to France?”

“I will go to the
Didon
tomorrow afternoon and make one more appeal to Brouard to let you sail.”

“But if you go on board, the captain may not allow you to disembark.”

After setting down his brandy, Jerome sat beside her on the sofa and took her hands. “Elisa, that farce we acted for the British contained the seeds of truth. I am a member of the imperial family now. No one but my brother would dare lay hands on me.”

“Are you certain?” she asked, unable to keep a tremor from her voice.

“Entirely.” He kissed her. “I do not like the idea of your sitting home worrying. Your father plans to meet with a business associate tomorrow, so you will be alone much of the day. Du Pont tells me that his wife would be delighted to see you again. I want you to call on her.”

“No, Jerome, I would not be good company.”

“But it will occupy your mind. Promise to obey my wishes.”

Wondering at Jerome’s uncharacteristic insistence, Betsy agreed to do as he asked.

GABRIELLE DU PONT received Betsy in her personal sitting room, which was furnished with a sofa upholstered in rose-striped fabric and chairs that had matching seat cushions and rams-head armrests. As the maid laid out an elaborately gilded, blue porcelain coffee service, Betsy told the older woman of all that had occurred since their last meeting.

After Betsy finished, Madame du Pont asked, “If the First Consul—or rather, the emperor—is so adamantly opposed to your marriage, would it not make sense to remain in the United States?”

Filled with revulsion for the idea, Betsy offered the first excuse that came to mind. “My husband has no profession but the navy, and as a French citizen, he would never be able to enlist in the U.S. service. I do not know how we would contrive to live.”

“Surely your father settled some money on you when you married.”

Betsy shook her head as she reached for one of the delicate almond cakes on the serving plate. “No. He does not believe in disposing of his wealth during his lifetime.”

Gabrielle du Pont blotted her lips with a napkin. “Such things are a matter of course in Europe. Your husband should have insisted on a marriage settlement. His failure to do so shows his youthful inexperience.”

“Be that as it may, we have no certain source of income unless he returns to France and takes up a position there.”

Madame du Pont refilled Betsy’s cup. “Nonsense. Look at my husband. Look at your father. Both are immigrants who became masters of their own business. Surely, Jerome Bonaparte is an enterprising enough young man to find some means to earn a living.”

Betsy poured cream in her coffee and stirred so vigorously that the spoon rang against the china. “Madame, that is not the life that either one of us desires. We want to be at court.”

“My dear, we all want many things, but we do not always get them. Would life as a merchant’s wife be so very terrible? It is, after all, the life in which you were raised.”

“I can think of nothing worse.”

Madame du Pont raised one eyebrow. “Nothing?”

Betsy sighed and conceded, “Losing my husband would be worse, of course.”

“Then why do you wish to return him to a ruler who will assuredly send him to war?”

Remembering the fire in Jerome’s eyes when he contemplated having to fight his way out of the harbor, Betsy answered, “Because it is what he desires. He admires Napoleon above all men, and I think he dreams of achieving military glory to match his brother’s.”

“A foolish dream for which women usually must pay.”

“Perhaps so, but I cannot change him, Madame.”

The older women smiled, but her eyes contained pity. “No, I suppose you are right. The world is ordered so that men have all the power, and women must adapt.”

WHEN BETSY RETURNED to the Washington Street house, she noticed immediately how silent it was. Not only was Jerome still out, but his companions and the servants were gone as well.

Wearily, she climbed the stairs to the second-floor. She entered the sitting room and removed her hat and lightweight summer gloves. Flinging them onto the table, she glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw that the sword from Marengo, which was supposed to be hanging above it, was gone.

For an instant, she thought that her recollection of the sword’s whereabouts must be mistaken. Yet she could clearly remember Jerome taking it from his trunk and hanging it back in its place of honor after they returned from the
Didon.

Despite that certainty, she went into the bedroom and flung open her husband’s trunk. The velvet in which he had wrapped the sword lay in a heap on top of his folded uniforms, the box holding a pair of pistols he had bought in Baltimore, and the leather case containing miniatures of his family.

“No!” Betsy bent over the trunk and clawed through the items it held even though she knew that Jerome would never risk harm to the sword by placing it beneath other objects.

After a few minutes of futile searching, she returned to the sitting room, where she looked under every piece of furniture and in every corner. Finding nothing, she ran downstairs and raced through the first floor.

By the time Betsy climbed back up the staircase to the sitting room, she was breathing heavily. Perspiration had soaked through her chemise, causing it to cling disagreeably to her skin—just as opprobrium would cling to her name if Jerome had abandoned her.
But that cannot be,
she thought desperately.
He loves me as I love him.
She stood in the center of the room and stared at the wall above the fireplace, willing the sword to reappear. In spite of her effort to tell herself otherwise, she knew that the weapon’s absence could mean only one thing. If the sword was gone, then so was Jerome.