The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (28 page)

She stood and gazed down at Bo. “I promise, I will not give up. No matter what your father does, I will never cease trying to obtain your rightful place. You are a prince of the house of Bonaparte, and I will fight for you ’til the day I die.”

ALTHOUGH BETSY LIKED being at Springfield where Bo could play outdoors and watch his grandfather’s horses, she felt glad when they returned to the South Street house near the harbor. She hoped that perhaps Jerome’s ship was still near the coast and he would find a way to visit her when he could evade his brother’s spies.

Margaret, George, and Caroline returned to school, while Edward joined Joseph in their father’s counting house. At home, Bo learned several new words, one of which wounded Betsy deeply. Mimicking the young uncles and aunt who were his daily companions, he began to call Dorcas
Mother.

“Do not fret,” Dorcas said when she saw Betsy’s stricken expression. “No matter what he calls me, you will always be his
Mama.”

“Yes, you are right,” Betsy smiled to reassure her mother that she felt no resentment. “But I will not have him misuse the name
Father.
He must reserve that for Jerome.”

To Betsy’s distress, September and October passed without word from her husband. Each day that the weather was fine, she walked the three-quarters of a mile around the harbor to the south shore. She climbed up Federal Hill and gazed down the Patapsco River, longing to see an approaching French frigate with a curly-haired commander pacing the deck. Betsy continued taking such walks deep into the autumn, but when the rainy, cold weather of November arrived, she stopped tormenting herself with the hope that Jerome would come.

The stomach pains that plagued her whenever she was distraught returned. While she was nursing Bo, Betsy had forced herself to take regular meals, but now that he was weaned, she barely ate. The emptiness in her stomach seemed a fitting companion for the emptiness in her heart, and she embraced the hollowness as the only fit state in which to be. As Betsy lost weight, her mother fussed at her. “You must take care of yourself. Bo needs you to be alert and strong.”

Dorcas told the housekeeper to make custards and beef tea that could be easily digested. Seeing her mother’s worry, Betsy tried to eat, but every time she took more than a few spoonfuls of food, she felt as guilty as if she had betrayed Jerome by taking another lover.

One morning in late November, Betsy came down to breakfast to find that her father had not gone to the counting house at his usual early hour. Instead he and her mother were sitting together at the end of the dining room table that was Dorcas’s usual place, a circumstance that in itself was odd enough to give Betsy a frisson of alarm. The morning newspaper was spread out before them.

As Betsy pulled out her customary chair, her mother looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “What is it?” Betsy asked. “Has something happened?”

“There is a report in the newspaper that concerns you.”

A sense of doom swooped down on Betsy. “Is it Jerome? Has he been killed in battle?”

Her father answered, “No, the news concerns your marriage. The emperor has finally had it annulled.”

“That is impossible. The pope refused.”

“Because the pope did not give him what he wanted, Napoleon used the Ecclesiastical Court at Paris.”

Betsy felt dizzy and sat down. “I don’t understand. A French ecclesiastical court cannot overrule the pope.”

Her father shook his head. “Napoleon must know that this court has no jurisdiction, but he is trying to make it appear that his opposition to your marriage has the sanction of religious authority.” He rose, handed Betsy the paper, and pointed out a paragraph he wanted her to read.

The announcement declared that their marriage was invalid because Jerome Bonaparte was a minor who did not have his mother’s consent. It went on to say that the clandestine nature of the match led to a presumption that he had been abducted. Further, it charged that the ceremony had been conducted without the presence of an authorized priest, and it forbade the parties from ever seeing each other again under penalty of law.

Betsy’s mind churned with counterarguments to those claims that she knew to be untrue. “How can they forbid my seeing Jerome?” she asked. “We committed no crime.”

As soon as the words left her lips, Betsy understood that a crime was exactly what she stood accused of—or else why the reference to abduction? Napoleon wanted the world to believe that because Jerome was a minor, she and her family had coerced him into marriage.

She gazed up at her father, not bothering to hide her hurt bewilderment. “This document implies that I was a wanton who preyed on Jerome’s innocence, when if anything is the truth, it was the opposite. Why must the emperor spread such calumny?”

“Because he seeks to convince the world that he is acting to protect his family rather than pursuing his ambition,” her father answered.

“Protect his family from what?” Again, the truth slapped Betsy in the face. “From me. Napoleon is not content to deprive me of my husband. No, he must blacken my reputation too.”

Betsy’s mother murmured in sympathy, but her father was blunt. “I do not believe he considers you at all except as an obstacle to his designs. If he could accomplish what he wished without causing you further harm, I daresay he would.” Patterson pointed at the end of the article. “Notice this declaration that you are both free to provide for yourself as you wish by marriage. That is what the emperor seeks. You must prepare to hear reports of Jerome’s second marriage soon.”

That bald statement roused Betsy. “No. He loves me.”

“Then why has he stopped writing?”

She shook her head. “I do not know. There must be a reason that we cannot discern at this distance. Why would he hold out for a year and a half, only to give in now?”

“Perhaps he is worn out with the struggle,” Dorcas said softly.

Although Betsy did not want to admit it, her mother’s words lodged themselves in her heart as the truth. She too had worn herself to the bone in the fight to preserve her marriage.

Betsy took a deep breath and lifted her chin in an effort to appear resolute. “No matter what this decree says, the pope ruled that our marriage is valid, so I am going to abide by that opinion. Until I hear otherwise from Jerome, I must assume that he is holding true to me.”

“Is his silence not proof that he has yielded to the emperor’s demands?”

“No, Father,” Betsy answered, although she felt far from sure. “It may only mean that he deems it prudent to lie low for a time. Perhaps spies have reported Jerome’s recent communications to me, and Napoleon has increased the pressure on him. If keeping a temporary silence is the only way Jerome can avoid renouncing me, then I will gladly go without a letter.”

“Is this what you believe or merely hope?”

She bit her lower lip. “I confess that, until I hear from Jerome, it is more a hope than a certainty. But as we still have no evidence that he will ever consent to give me up, we must act as though we suppose him to be possessed of honor.”

As her father took back the newspaper, he said, “Try not to fret yourself. Think about your uncle’s party tonight. That will take your mind off this new trouble.”

Betsy stared at him in incomprehension. Only after he had left for his business did she recall that Uncle Smith—who was president pro tempore of the Senate now and impressed with being third in line to the presidency—was giving a reception before his annual move to Washington. How could her father think her so frivolous as to be distracted by such an event? If the world accepted this pronouncement denying the validity of her marriage, then society would scorn her as a pitiable figure who lost her honor because of vain ambition. Betsy had stored all her dreams in the hold of a ship sailing for France, but the vessel had sunk on the reef of Napoleon’s imperial policies. Now she had very little left with which to build a future.

Rising from the table without eating, Betsy told her mother, “I cannot go tonight. How can I appear in society after receiving such news?”

“This is not a time to be alone. You should be with family.”

“No, Mother. I have no heart to make light conversation. Please make my excuses to Aunt Margaret and Uncle Smith.”

XXII

I
N autumn 1806, William Jr. returned home to marry a Baltimore girl named Nancy Gittings, while Joseph sailed east to oversee the family business concerns in Europe. Betsy was disappointed that William brought no news of her husband. She knew that once December arrived, she was unlikely to receive any letters from Jerome until spring, and the tiny flicker of hope that illuminated her days faded with the dying light of winter. By the time her third wedding anniversary passed, Betsy had begun to wish she could die. She adored her son, but she told herself that Bo was still young enough to forget her if she disappeared from his life.

Betsy longed to confide in someone who would understand her heartache, so she wrote asking Eliza Anderson to call. As they sat together over tea, Eliza told Betsy that not only was she writing articles for the journal, she had also started editing under the assumed name
Beatrice Ironside.
“It is so exhilarating. Do you recall our old complaints about the ignorant young ladies of Baltimore and how little they merit the airs they display? Now, I can publish those criticisms and perhaps better our society.”

All Betsy could do was nod; seeing her friend’s sense of purpose only deepened her despondency. Eliza added, “Forgive me for prattling about myself when I know you must be dreadfully upset about the annulment. What have you heard from Mr. Bonaparte?”

Betsy set her teacup back in its saucer but stared at it to avoid Eliza’s gaze. “I have not heard from him in months. You warned me that this would happen, but I would not listen.”

“Have you given up hope?”

“I do not know. If you were to read his letters, you would think he could never abandon me. He even risked his brother’s displeasure to send me presents. Then suddenly silence.”

“Have you written him?”

Betsy nodded. “I sent letters to the agent he told me to use, but I receive no answer. Eliza, even if he has ceased to love me, how can he give up his son?”

“Men don’t feel the same attachment to their children that we do, having borne them in our bodies.” Eliza’s tone was gentle.

Twisting her napkin into a screw, Betsy glanced at the toys on the floor where Bo and Mary Ann had played that morning. Maybe Eliza was right, but Betsy had seen for herself how much Jerome loved children. Lifting her eyes, she considered the portrait over the mantel. “Perhaps I could have a miniature made of Bo and send it to Jerome. If I cannot convince him to come to our son, then I can send our son’s likeness to him.”

Eliza set down her cup. “As long as you realize that it may not produce the effect you intend. If the emperor’s spies are as active as you say, the portrait may be intercepted.”

Betsy nodded to acknowledge the warning, yet in her heart, the dying ember of hope began to glow anew. “Even so, I deem it worth the chance. Our son is the one thing I can offer Jerome that no one else can. It may turn the scales in my balance.”

ELIZA PROVIDED THE name of Maximilien Godefroy, a French émigré who was teaching art and architecture in Baltimore. When Betsy contacted him, Godefroy claimed to be too busy for the commission—Betsy later found out that he was an ardent anti-Bonapartist—but he did refer her to a painter of miniatures.

In mid-January, Betsy’s family received a letter from Aunt Nancy, who was residing in Washington with the Smiths. She discussed the return of Captain Meriwether Lewis from his two-and-a-half year expedition to the Louisiana Territory and described the Indian artifacts and specimens of western plants and animals the explorer had brought back to Washington. Because the letter contained information of more than usual interest, William Patterson read it aloud at dinner.

After he finished, the family passed the letter around the table. When Edward handed it to Betsy, she made a show of perusing the pages, but she had little interest in the vast western territory. Even so, one sentence captured her attention: “Many dignitaries—both American and European—attended the banquet, and at least seventeen toasts were drunk to the explorers.”

European dignitaries.
Why had she not thought of that before? If she were in Washington, she could attend receptions where the French ambassador would be present. Perhaps she could gather news of Jerome. Betsy wrote the Smiths to say that she wished to visit them and hoped they could obtain invitations for her to attend events where she could hear diplomatic gossip.

Two days later she and Bo set out for Washington with Edward as their escort. Although William Patterson complained that once again Betsy was dragging one of his sons away from business, Dorcas whispered in her ear, “Never mind. Enjoy yourself.”

When they arrived at the Smith residence, Aunt Margaret and Aunt Nancy hugged Betsy and exclaimed over Bo’s growth. Then Uncle Smith drew Betsy aside and said that Dolley Madison, acting as Thomas Jefferson’s hostess, had invited them to dinner at the President’s Mansion. The French ambassador, General Louis Marie Turreau, would be there. Betsy had never met him—in 1804 when he and Pichon were trying to persuade Jerome to return to France, Turreau had refused to be introduced to her. However, for several years he had rented a summer house from her father, so she could claim a connection apart from the Bonapartes.

For the party, Betsy wore a wine-red velvet dress with a low neckline and the garnets Jerome had given her in Lisbon. Before donning the bracelet, she gazed at the word
fidelité
engraved on its clasp and wondered if he really was still faithful to her. Then she kissed the clasp as a way of willing it to be true.

When they arrived at the Presidential Mansion, Betsy noticed that the president had turned the entrance hall into a wilderness museum with mounted animals and Indian artifacts that Lewis and Clark had brought back. Although her aunt and uncle urged Betsy to examine the exhibits, she had little curiosity about them, so she walked on through to the oval drawing room where she greeted President Jefferson. He murmured that he was sorry to see her without her amiable husband and then turned her over to Dolley Madison, who led Betsy to a quiet spot away from the door. Although nearly forty, Mrs. Madison was still remarkably pretty with black hair, dark expressive eyes, and skillfully rouged cheeks. She wore a low-cut gown and a triple-stranded gold necklace.

“General Turreau is not yet arrived, but I will present you to him as soon as he comes,” Mrs. Madison said in her soft-spoken voice. “I understand there may be difficulty about introducing you as Madame Bonaparte.”

“Alas, yes. The official French view is that no marriage took place and I have no right to the name.”

Mrs. Madison squeezed her hands. “Do not worry. I know how to present you without provoking a diplomatic incident.”

When General Turreau arrived, his haughty expression sent a shiver of fear down Betsy’s spine. She remembered having heard that his troops committed massacres in the Vendée during the French Revolution. Now almost fifty, Turreau had wavy grey hair swept back from a prominent forehead, hooded eyes, and a lower face dominated by a fierce black mustache. His wife, a plain, freckled woman who hung behind him, did not greet anyone.

Mrs. Madison introduced Betsy to the ambassador: “General Turreau, I hear that you know Mr. William Patterson of Baltimore. May I present his daughter Elizabeth?”

He looked down at Betsy for a full five seconds before saying, “Mademoiselle Patterson. Enchanted.”

Betsy curtsied. As she rose, she felt her heart pounding and her palms sweating within her kid gloves. All afternoon, she had rehearsed how to entreat him for news of her husband. She hoped her French was up to the task.
“Votre excellence, General Turreau, je vous en prie, pouvez-vous donner moi quelques nouvelles de mon mari? Est-il bien?”

He replied in icy English, “I know nothing of your marriage and so cannot provide the information you seek.”

As he turned from her, Betsy boldly laid a hand on his arm.
“S’il vous plait, monsieur, vous devez savoir que je vous demande au sujet de Monsieur Jerome Bonaparte.”

Turreau brushed her aside. “Mademoiselle, I have no authority to give information about the emperor’s family to anyone unconnected with them. Good evening.”

His wife flashed Betsy a look of pity before she too walked away. Betsy glanced around and saw that almost everyone in the reception room was busy discussing the exploits of Lewis and Clark. Only Mrs. Madison had witnessed her humiliation. Pressing her lips together, Betsy went to gaze out a window and compose herself before they went in to dinner.

THE NEXT MORNING, Betsy felt so ill that if it had not been for Bo, she would have spent the day in bed. Instead, she rose and cared for her son but made only the briefest replies to her aunts when they asked about her encounter with the ambassador.

In the afternoon, Betsy settled Bo in the center of her four-poster for his nap and lay beside him. As she gazed at the checked linen bed curtains above her, she recalled the devastating night in this very room when she learned that Jerome had given a false age on their marriage license. At the time, she had believed that the worst thing that could happen would be for the irregularity in their relationship to be exposed. Now she wondered if she had missed her chance to avoid a more protracted disgrace. Perhaps she should have denounced Jerome and returned to Baltimore to try to recover from the dishonor. People sometimes remarried after such a misstep. Even Eliza was showing a renewed interest in romance with Maximilien Godefroy.

Then Betsy glanced at her son and brushed back his hair from his forehead. “But how could I wish you had never been born?” Bo was such a handsome, engaging boy. Most of all, he was her little prince, a permanent gift from the man she loved.

As she lay there daydreaming about a misty future in which Napoleon finally sent for her son, a maid knocked softly on the door and entered to say that Dolley Madison had come to call. After taking a moment to smooth the wrinkles from her gown, Betsy went downstairs.

Aunt Nancy sat in the red wingback chair usually claimed by Uncle Smith, while Dolley Madison perched on the gold, scroll-arm sofa. She rose when Betsy entered the drawing room. “My dear Madame Bonaparte, I had to come see you. Have you recovered from General Turreau’s rude behavior?”

After glancing at her aunt, whose eyes widened with curiosity, Betsy sat beside Mrs. Madison. “I had little reason to expect anything else. The official representatives of France I have met so far have refused to give even tacit acknowledgment of my claims.”

“But surely it is not necessary for their denials to be so brutal.”

Twisting the emerald ring that Jerome had sent her, Betsy said, “General Turreau treated me like a beggar. To the French government, perhaps that is all I am.”

“You must not think that. Turreau is an odious man with little sympathy for women.”

Betsy looked up in surprise. During their few meetings, she had formed the opinion that Dolley Madison liked almost everyone, not in the cloying way that Marianne professed to like people, but with genuine warmth. To hear the older woman disparage Turreau so strongly was shocking. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” Tilting her head, Mrs. Madison gave a self-conscious smile. “It has never been my habit to delve into other people’s business, but perhaps you should know certain things about the ambassador. You saw his wife. What impression did you form of her?”

“She did not seem a forceful personality.”

“In public, no, but she can be quite delightful apart from her husband. She has a pungent sense of humor.”

“Really?” Betsy asked, growing interested despite her own misery.

“Truly.” Mrs. Madison paused and fingered her gold necklace. Then she said, “She is trapped in a scandalously unhappy marriage. Her husband beats her so brutally that her screams disturb the entire neighborhood. Sometimes, he even has his secretary play the violin to cover her cries.”

Betsy shuddered. “How horrible.”

“So I think that he might have scorned you simply because of your sex and not because you committed an impropriety in asking about Mr. Bonaparte.”

“I see.” Betsy considered the possibility. “It could be. My father has said their dealings have always been cordial.”

“Then perhaps Mr. Patterson could write to ask him for information.”

“Or perhaps my father could come to Washington and meet with Turreau in person. In his own way, he is every bit as daunting as the general.”

“That might work.” Dolley Madison toyed with her necklace again. “Now may I meet your son? I have one of my own from my first marriage, and I am very partial to little boys.”

WHEN BETSY WROTE asking her father to speak to General Turreau on her behalf, he replied that he could visit Washington in March and warned her not to contact Turreau on her own but let him arrange a meeting.

In the meantime, Mrs. Madison continued to invite Betsy to the President’s Mansion. Whenever she met Turreau there, Betsy smiled, inquired after his health, and expressed her admiration of the emperor’s latest victories. For his part, the ambassador persisted in calling her
Miss Patterson
even though, to everyone else in the capital, she was
Madame Bonaparte.

Betsy found that her story had excited much interest in scandal-hungry Washington and that many politicians and diplomats, working far from their wives and families, were eager to meet the woman who had so enchanted Napoleon’s brother. At parties that winter, she found that if she stood just a few feet in front of a mirror—allowing men to gaze simultaneously at her face, semi-exposed bosom, and bare back—even the most intimidating statesman became almost helpless to turn away. Such triumphs allowed Betsy to feel she was reclaiming some of the power that Napoleon had stolen from her.

On February 6, her aunts gave a supper party for Betsy’s twenty-second birthday, and her mother sent her a box of books. The best present of all was having nineteen-month-old Bo—coaxed by his great aunts—say, “Happy Birday, Mama!” and hug her. His solid, compact body pressed against hers reminded Betsy that no matter what happened with her marriage, she still had love in her life.