The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (30 page)

You, Madam, were no less frequently the topic of our conversation. He speaks of you as the only woman he ever loved or ever shall love, says he married much against his inclination, which the Emperor his brother cruelly imposed on him, saying you and you only Madam were his lawful wife.

Betsy went upstairs to where her mother was resting in bed. After watching Dorcas sit up and read the letter, Betsy said, “It seems that your supposition about Jerome’s motives was right.”

“Yes.” Her mother gazed at her pensively. “It does not ease your pain, does it?”

“No. Mrs. Kuhn’s description makes it evident that Jerome is so busy pitying himself that he gives little thought to our wounds.”

Gazing at the miniature of Mary Ann that she had moved to her night table after the funeral, Dorcas said, “Even if he expressed regret in the most loving terms, you would still be alone with your grief.”

Betsy hugged her. “I am sorry to burden you with this when you have your own sorrow.”

As she pulled away, her mother said, “I am not so distraught that I am insensitive to your suffering. I have been thinking that perhaps you should visit the Smiths again.”

“To what purpose? I no longer hope for good news from France.”

“A change of scene and society may distract you from your troubled memories.”

“I suppose.” Betsy picked up the letter. “I do not intend to answer this. I find it very painful to have a stranger approach me on such an intimate topic.”

“Perhaps Jerome asked her to send you these assurances,” Dorcas said as she rearranged her pillow behind her so she could lean back more comfortably.

“Perhaps, but the only
assurance
I need from the King of Westphalia is the
surety
of a regular income, and he shows no sign of providing that.”

“Betsy, does it not soften your heart to know that Jerome was forced into the marriage and that he retains a tender regard for you?”

The reproof in her mother’s voice caused Betsy to lay down her cynicism. “It is a small crumb of comfort to learn that he loves me still, but it only makes his betrayal sting all the more. Napoleon understood his brother better than I did. He knew Jerome would capitulate in the end, while I continued to hope that adversity would instill in him a strength of character to justify my faith. I was sadly deceived in him, and I do not know whether to blame him or myself.”

Dorcas gave her a sharp look. “You do not blame the emperor?”

Betsy shook her head. “Not for putting the needs of the state above those of a younger brother. Jerome’s claim to be coerced has a hollow ring. One need only look at Lucien, who remains true to his wife.”

“And yet, Jerome held out for two years.”

“Two years, after he promised to be faithful till death.” Betsy stood and smoothed her skirt. “Let us not quarrel. I have long known that you are more forgiving than I am, and I honor your merciful nature even when I cannot emulate it. I expect nothing from Jerome now.”

BETSY AND BO traveled to Washington in January. Three days after their arrival, Dolley Madison visited Betsy at the Smith home. Betsy received her guest in the drawing room, and after the two women were seated together on the gold sofa, Mrs. Madison said, “I confess, Madame Bonaparte, that I missed your society when you went back to Baltimore, and I hope that during your stay we can renew what promises to be a rewarding friendship.”

“Mrs. Madison, you are too kind.”

The older woman responded with a demure, close-mouthed smile that Betsy thought must be a legacy of her Quaker childhood, yet her eyes twinkled merrily. “Not at all. I am simply glad to find someone whose companionship is so agreeable.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I would be only too pleased to deepen our acquaintance.”

Mrs. Madison clapped her hands. “Good, then that is settled. Now tell me all about your son. I am sure he must have grown like a weed since I saw him last.”

Not only was Dolley Madison’s friendship agreeable to Betsy, so were the parties she attended at the Presidential Mansion and in the homes of the Washington elite. General Turreau, whom she saw often, treated her with new respect even though he continued to call her
Mademoiselle Patterson.
Turreau’s own social position was precarious. He had repudiated his wife and sent her back to France, thus ending the violent relationship that had cast a shadow on his social standing, but people did not forget his reputation for brutality.

Washingtonians were more forgiving toward Betsy. Although the capital remained a rough city, its people had more worldly experience than Baltimoreans, and they viewed her with neither pity nor censure. Instead, as a beautiful, witty young woman with no desire to catch a husband, she was a welcome addition to a society in which the majority of legislators spent the congressional session living in cramped, all-male boarding houses.

Everyone knew Betsy’s history and understood that she believed herself to be Jerome Bonaparte’s only lawful wife. Still, she exercised more care than she had in years past. Whenever any of the men with whom she danced and dined displayed symptoms of serious regard, she showed them a miniature of Bo and reiterated her vow to dedicate her life to her son.

To further guard her reputation, Betsy avoided any behavior that might imply she was open to easing her loneliness with illicit entanglements. She chatted most often with gentlemen she judged to be safe, such as Samuel Colleton Graves, a young Englishman whose gauche manners revealed him to be a youth learning to negotiate society. At their introduction, Betsy judged that he was someone who would never presume to court her, but who might gain some polish from conversing with a more experienced woman.

The nineteen-year-old Graves had a narrow face with pale skin, small eyes, and a prematurely receding hairline he tried to disguise by brushing his brown hair forward. Although not handsome, he was a devotee of fashion. He wore a long-tailed, hunter green coat, snugly fitted buff trousers, a linen shirt with a stiff collar turned up to his ears, and an elaborately knotted black silk cravat.

He came from a prestigious family—his mother was descended from one of the original proprietors of the Carolinas, and his father, Rear Admiral Richard Graves, came from an English family known for producing admirals—yet young Graves showed none of a naval officer’s flair. Rather, he was so awkward that he reminded Betsy of eleven-year-old George, the most diffident of her brothers. Graves jumped whenever he heard loud voices, and in conversation he often paused to clear his throat nervously.

In spite of the maladroit manner that drew attention to his youth, he was well read and had made himself an expert on the history of the English monarchy. Once he discovered that stories of royalty fascinated Betsy, he took every opportunity to show off his knowledge. Betsy encouraged him in this because when Graves was talking about his favorite subject, his self-consciousness fell away.

“Our aristocracy scorns Napoleon as an upstart, but truly, I do not know how the British monarchy can lay claim to more legitimacy than the Bonapartes,” he exclaimed one evening. “The line has been broken so many times, resulting in kings with very little claim to the throne. Consider Henry Tudor, descended from an illegitimate grandson of Edward III. Yet he proved to be just what England needed at the time, a strong ruler who could end a century of civil war.”

Betsy tapped his arm with her fan. “Is it not dangerous to say such things, Mr. Graves? After all, George III’s lineage is more German than English, and some people might interpret your remarks as casting aspersions on your monarch.”

Graves blushed to his hairline. “You are right. Thank you for your wise caution.”

For his part, Graves was fascinated by the trip Betsy and Jerome had taken to Niagara and astonished by the story of the shipwreck they had survived. When Betsy described the measures Napoleon had taken to keep her from landing in Europe, his face grew red. “Madame Bonaparte, I think you are the bravest woman I have ever known.”

In late March, he begged a seat beside her during a dinner at the President’s Mansion, yet he spoke little during the first course of leek soup. Betsy knew from Dolley that the young man was leaving Washington soon, so she assumed he was silently composing his farewells. During the meat course, after refusing the butler’s offer of wine—Graves had confided in Betsy that he believed the combination of red wine and beef overheated his blood—he turned to her. “Madame Bonaparte, might I call on you at your uncle’s house tomorrow?”

Noticing how flushed he was, Betsy said quietly, “Mr. Graves, you know my social position is delicate. I cannot receive gentleman callers.”

“But with one of your aunts as chaperon?”

“I am sorry, no. There is nothing you can want to tell me that you could not say here.”

The young Englishman shot Betsy a burning look of reproach. “Surely, you would not be so cruel as to pretend ignorance of my feelings.”

“Mr. Graves, I had not the smallest idea. You do me honor, but I must remind you that my only thought in life is for my son.”

He stared at his plate. After several seconds, Graves cleared his throat and turned to her. “Your refusal is because of your son?” he whispered, “It is not because you think me—foolish?”

“No, you are a respectable, decent young man, and I feel sure you will someday find a woman worthy of you.”

“I will never love another.” Signaling to the butler, he asked for wine.

AFTER CONGRESS ENDED in March, Betsy and her son returned home. Bo was delighted to be back at South Street with the young uncles who were his playmates and the grandparents he adored. Toward Betsy, however, her father displayed more resentment than ever.

Business troubles soon worsened Patterson’s temper. The previous June, the British warship HMS
Leopard
had attacked the U.S. frigate
Chesapeake,
and British officers removed four crew members accused of deserting from the Royal Navy. In response to this violation of U.S. rights, Americans called for war, but President Jefferson instead took the peaceful route of demanding an official apology—which British diplomats declined to give.

Once diplomacy failed, the president persuaded Congress to pass the Embargo Act in December 1807. The act made it illegal for U.S. ships to leave for foreign ports. Although intended to hurt France and Britain economically and force them to stop molesting U.S. ships, the act made it impossible for Americans to export crops, raw materials, or manufactured goods. As a result, Patterson’s warehouses held goods that could not be moved, and his ships were trapped in port, where they began to rot as they lay anchored at wharves, exposed to the elements yet not maintained because manning idle vessels was too expensive.

Betsy did her best to help her mother economize by remaking many of her siblings’ clothes and helping to oversee the cooking so there would be less waste. Yet she sometimes felt that her father begrudged her every mouthful of food. The atmosphere at home grew even more frosty when a letter from Samuel Graves arrived in mid-May. He could not forget Madame Bonaparte, he wrote, and wondered if he could not do something to win her heart.

Betsy showed the letter to her mother, foolishly overlooking the fact that Dorcas would feel compelled to share the news with her husband.

That evening, William Patterson summoned Betsy to the drawing room after she put Bo to bed. She sat on the sofa, opposite her parents who sat in their usual chairs on either side of the fireplace. Her father asked, “Do you mean to tell me that you had the opportunity to make such an eligible match, and you turned him down?”

“I do not love him, Father.”

“Love!” He clenched his right hand, which rested on the arm of his chair. “It is time to consider your future and stop indulging such girlish daydreams.”

Betsy felt her anger burn. “I am thinking of the future, sir. My son would never be allowed to claim his Bonaparte heritage if his stepfather were English.”

“When will you give up this ridiculous idea that your son will be a prince?” Patterson rose and paced before the hearth. “You have learned nothing from your disastrous marriage. What would you do if I threw you out into the street? I daresay you would lose your scruples about marrying the Englishman fast enough.”

Gazing at him coolly, Betsy realized that his bluster did not scare her the way it had when she was a girl. Nothing could be as frightening as being pregnant, starving, and fired upon by one of Napoleon’s warships. “I daresay I might, but those scruples would be replaced by new ones. I would never allow my son to see a grandfather who could treat him so cruelly.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Dorcas said, half rising from her chair and then sinking back down. “Do you not realize that every time you tear at each other, I suffer the most? I love you equally.”

Betsy stood, wishing that she were taller to present a more imposing figure. “I am sorry, Mother, to wound you, but I am not a Jerome to be coerced into marriage against my will.”

Patterson glared at his daughter. “There is no question of force, Elizabeth, as you well know. Otherwise, I would never have allowed you to marry Jerome against my advice. I ask only that you consider the impact of your decisions upon your family.”

“I always do, sir. I consider my son first, then myself, then my family.” Betsy told her mother good night and left the room.

BALTIMORE SEEMED DEAD. Because of the embargo, the harbor had few arrivals or departures. Many laborers and sailors were out of work, and churchwomen who called on Dorcas spoke of spreading poverty in the city.

Betsy felt more alone than ever because Eliza was away from town. She and Maximilien Godefroy had decided to marry, but before she could wed again, Eliza needed to obtain a divorce. She was traveling in search of her errant husband to try to gain his agreement.

That summer, Betsy reached the most difficult decision of her life. Shutting herself in her bedroom, she wrote General Turreau. She began by reminding him that she once had every reason to hold the highest expectations for her future. However, the events of the intervening years had made her understand that the needs of the state were greater than those of individuals. Therefore, she yielded to the necessity that separated her forever from the man she loved and whose name she bore with pride. She sought nothing for herself but asked the general to remind the emperor of a child so worthy of his interest. Her son was still young, but soon she would need to train him for his future. Because of her lack of means, she did not know how she would provide him with the education he deserved. The emperor had once been so generous as to offer her a pension. Would he now take an interest in his nephew’s future and renew the offer?