The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (43 page)

The resentment in Bo’s face softened. “Please, Mama,” he said, but Betsy had not finished.

“I swear to you that the physical suffering I endured, although considerable, was nothing compared to the agony of missing you. If I only had sufficient income to have you with me, I would have sailed home to fetch you no matter what the physicians said.”

“But Mama, I don’t want to live in Paris.”

“You cannot know that. You have never been to Europe, so how can you be certain that the United States is better? European culture is much older and more sophisticated than ours.”

He thrust out his chin in a gesture that reminded her of Jerome. “Grandfather says it is a sign of a disordered mind not to be content in one’s own country.”

“Then why did he come here to make his fortune instead of remaining in Ireland where he was born?”

Bo’s mouth dropped open.

“Once and for all, Bo, your grandfather is not qualified to make medical diagnoses, nor is he fit to judge my morals. There are many things about his character you don’t know.”

He slumped into his chair. “I know about Matilda.”

“Indeed. And still you look to your grandfather as the arbiter of my behavior, even after learning what a hypocrite he is.”

His head shot up. “He is lonely, Mama. He has been ever since Mother died.”

“Really, Bo, I suggest that if you are going to take it upon yourself to judge your elders, then you should not be so naïve. Your grandfather has bedded every housekeeper to come into our employ since I was a girl.”

When her son shook his head, Betsy drove the point home. “If you do not believe me—since plainly your grandfather has convinced you that I am a liar—then look to your own memories. What do you think he was doing the time you found him ‘rubbing’ Mrs. Todd?”

Bo’s expression crumpled into that of a hurt little boy, and he stared at the flowering-vine-patterned rug. Betsy waited a full minute, but he said nothing.

In a gentler tone, she said, “I did not want to tell you these things, but I cannot allow him to turn you against me. As I have told you many times, you are my son, not his.”

When Bo lifted his head, Betsy saw moisture glistening on his lower lashes, but instead of giving way to tears, he said, “I missed you so much when you did not come home. I know you have given up a great deal for me, and I thought you must be tired of the sacrifice.”

“How could you think such a thing?” Betsy crossed the room, knelt before him, and smoothed back the lock of hair that hung upon his forehead. “You are everything in the world to me. I confess that I enjoyed life in Paris, but would you be happier if I had been miserable? I never for an instant stopped wishing you were with me. I love you so entirely that I would gladly sacrifice anything for you. Don’t you know that?”

Bo bent down to hug her, and his tears dripped onto her neck. “Mama, forgive me. I am so glad that you have come home. I will live anywhere you want. I will do whatever you want. Please don’t leave me again.”

Stroking his hair, Betsy murmured, “Dearest boy, I promise that nothing will ever again separate us.”

RESIGNING HERSELF TO at least a year’s stay in Baltimore, Betsy met with Aunt Nancy to review her finances. One piece of good news was learning that her father had paid Bo’s tuition while she was gone and did not want her to reimburse him. Betsy was grateful for her father’s unexpected generosity because she would need every dollar to realize her dream of educating Bo in Geneva.

She had come home to find the U.S. economy in a perilous state. The cost of the war had raised federal debt and triggered inflation. Yet the charter for the Bank of the United States had been allowed to expire, so the country had no central institution to manage its economic problems. State-chartered banks issued competing paper currencies, and some issued too many notes, which drove down their value and sent prices still higher. The knowledge that, even though she had not touched her principal, it had lost value during her absence made Betsy once again feel the victim of forces beyond her control.

In normal times, customers could exchange paper money for gold, the standard of value on which the system was based. However, federal borrowing to finance the war depleted the gold reserves, so that practice had stopped. It became impossible to be certain what currency was worth, and inflation galloped unchecked. In 1816, Congress chartered a Second Bank of the United States to regulate state banks, but by the time Betsy returned in November 1817, everyone knew that the national bank was poorly managed and nearly insolvent.

Even so, parts of the economy were booming. During the war, manufacturing gained a foothold in the United States because of the blockade, and industry continued to expand after war’s end. To capitalize on that, Betsy’s brothers Edward and Joseph had started an iron mill just outside Baltimore.

In addition, demand for American crops soared because the Napoleonic wars had disrupted European farming. Speculators bought up agricultural land, including vast tracts in the Louisiana Territory, causing land prices to double and triple. Banks eagerly loaned the money for such purchases without considering whether the spiraling values would hold once Europe’s fields began to produce again.

Gallatin had warned Betsy of the dangerous trends he saw in the economy and advised her on how to protect herself. She spent months re-evaluating her accounts, reinvesting bonds as they matured, and deciding whether to keep each of the stocks she owned. Above all, she avoided the temptation to indulge in risky speculation.

Throughout 1818, she lived quietly and did not even visit Washington. James and Dolley Madison had retired to Virginia after his presidency ended, and Betsy found that her friend’s absence diminished her interest in the capital’s social life. By remaining at home in the house her father provided rent free—embroidering, writing to European friends, and reading literature such as Byron’s poetry—she kept expenses to a minimum and managed to build up her savings. Her happiest hours came when Bo was on holiday from school. She regaled him with stories of Paris and gave him lessons in etiquette and deportment.

“Mama, I feel silly doing this,” he complained one afternoon when she made him redo a bow that he had failed to execute with the exact degree of nicety she required.

“Fudge! You will feel far sillier if a beautiful princess refuses your request to dance because you bowed like a clodhopper.”

Placing his hands on his hips, Bo stared at her in exasperation. “Why would a princess dance with me? I am just an ordinary American boy.”

“You are not. Your uncle was the emperor, and your father was a king.”

“But the Bonapartes are no longer in power.”

“Even so, they are regarded as princes.” Betsy crossed to stand directly before him even though she had to tilt her head to look into his face. “Unfortunately, your father far outspends his income and shows no sign of doing anything for you, so your future will have to depend on your own exertions. You must work hard to achieve distinction, and you must learn how to get along in fashionable society. I intend for you to have a brilliant career in diplomacy or government and one day to make a noble marriage.”

He scowled. “What if I meet a girl I like here?”

Determined to crush this defiance before it could take root, Betsy wagged her finger just below his nostrils. “Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte, listen to me and listen well. You have the charge of a great name and must never consider a match that is beneath you. Only in America are people still so foolish as to think love in a cottage a romantic notion. I am sure many an American girl will set her snares for you, so you must stay on guard. What will a hasty match produce but a large brood of children you cannot support? Men in Europe have sense enough not to marry a girl unless she brings a fortune. In your case, she must also equal your rank.”

“Mama, that is where I beg to differ. The emperor never gave us titles so I have no rank to match. Why can we not be happy as we are?”

He bent down to give Betsy an exaggerated arched-eyebrow, wide-mouthed look, but she refused to be charmed by his antics. “Because you were born for something better, and the Bonapartes deprived you of your birthright. That is the reason I endure so much trouble and anxiety on your behalf, to win back what should be yours by rights.”

Bo sighed and turned away. “All right, Mama. I will do whatever you say.”

IN EARLY 1819, the economy ground to a halt, and the United States went into its first national depression. Uncle Smith was one victim of the downturn; his business partner James Buchanan, who was charged with running the firm while Smith served in Congress, had committed fraud to buy risky stocks, and when prices dropped, the firm of Smith & Buchanan went bankrupt. Uncle Smith was cleared of wrongdoing, but he was a ruined man.

In contrast, Betsy remained financially stable because of her cautious approach. During the year leading up the depression, she had managed to increase her principal and, consequently, her income. When the economic crisis occurred, the advice from Gallatin enabled her to keep her money safe. Thus it was possible, in the summer of 1819, for Betsy and Bo to sail to the Netherlands. Betsy’s passport was in her maiden name, while Bo’s read
Edward Patterson
because his uncle had obtained it for him. Once they disembarked in Amsterdam, they traveled to the French Embassy in The Hague to obtain permission to cross France on the way to Switzerland.

The ambassador, Le Comte du Gouvernet, stared at fourteen-year-old Bo, looked at their passports a second time, and frowned at Betsy. “Madame Patterson, I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Talleyrand.”

Betsy inclined her head. “Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Then am I correct in thinking that you once had a—union with Jerome Bonaparte?”

“I was his American wife,” she said, drawing herself up and giving the man her most imperious stare.

“Then this young man is his son.”

“Yes, sir. He is traveling under the name Patterson because the French government has never recognized our right to the Bonaparte name.”

The minister handed back their passports. “I am sorry, Madame, but you cannot enter France. You will have to travel through Germany to reach your destination.”

“I do not understand. I was in France two years ago and encountered no difficulties.”

“You are not the problem, Madame. Your son bears such a strong resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte that I cannot permit him to cross the border. His presence might incite demonstrations.”

Betsy saw Bo’s eyes grow wide, but he knew enough not to speak, which pleased her. Turning back to Le Comte du Gouvernet, she said, “He is just a boy.”

“A boy who is sufficiently close to manhood that certain parties may wish to use him to achieve their own ends.”

“Then there are factions that still favor the former emperor.”

“Unfortunately yes, Madame.”

After stowing their passports in her reticule, she rose. “Thank you, Monsieur le Comte, for explaining your prohibition so thoroughly. Good day.”

Bo was silent until they were seated in their hired carriage. Turning to his mother, he said, “They are frightened of me, Mama. I did not imagine they even knew of my existence.”

With a smug smile, Betsy patted his cheek. “Now do you believe me? You are not just an ordinary American boy. You are a Bonaparte, and in Europe, that means everything.”

XXXIII

I
N Geneva, Betsy moved into a
pension
and then took her son to be enrolled in school. During their meeting with the headmaster, Bo was surprised to learn that in addition to academic subjects, he would have lessons in drawing, dancing, fencing, and horseback riding. “Are those classes important, Mama?” he whispered when the headmaster left them alone for a moment.

“They are necessary for your success in society.”

Betsy had long suspected that Bo applied himself to his studies only to please her and that, if left to his own devices, he could become as indolent as his father. Before leaving, she admonished him, “Never forget that the great name you bear comes with responsibility. I have no estate to leave you, so you must achieve wealth and distinction by your own efforts.”

“Yes, Mama.”

On her own at the
pension,
Betsy became acquainted with another American guest—the multimillionaire John Jacob Astor, who had come to Geneva to find a school for his youngest daughter. Astor was a short man with dark blond hair, drooping brown eyes, and a large pointed nose. He spoke English with a German accent, and his manners were nearly as rough as the fur trappers who had made his fortune, but Betsy liked him because they shared the traits of ambition, determination, and practicality.

After a few days, Betsy soured on her boarding house. The meals at the
pension
consisted mostly of bread, soup, and potatoes. One afternoon as she strolled with Astor down a cobblestoned street in the old section of the city, she halted before a building of timeworn stone. Beneath a broad rounded arch was a shop window that displayed trays of tempting pastries. Betsy darted inside to buy a cream bun. Returning to Astor with her purchase wrapped in white paper, she said, “These Swiss are too spiritual to suppose that their
pensionnaires
possess a vulgar appetite for meat, vegetables, tarts, or custards.”

Astor laughed. “It matters little to me since I leave at the end of this week.”

“Well, I for one cannot exist solely on a contemplation of the beautiful mountains, lake, and sunsets the Swiss rave about. I must have more substantial fare.”

After Astor left, Betsy moved into an apartment with a sitting room and three bedrooms, one each for herself, Bo, and the maid. The rent was about $60 a month, and for an additional sum, a woman catered her meals. Betsy had selected the apartment because it was within walking distance of the places she frequented—and she could not afford a carriage.

Geneva, long the center of Calvinist orthodoxy, was a sober community without the variety of cultural pursuits that characterized Paris. The town fathers had banned theatre until the 1760s, and even in 1819, plays and operas had to be performed outside the city limits. Dancing after midnight was forbidden. However, the residents were industrious, and Betsy hoped the city’s moral atmosphere would be a good influence on her son.

Despite its staid character, Geneva was a popular destination for travelers because of its spectacular alpine scenery. Her first winter there, Betsy was welcomed into the circle of highborn visitors. She met the Polish Princess Caroline Galitzin, who had a country estate at Genthod, located on the lake a few miles north of Geneva. The chateau was a two-story white house with an imposing central block and two side wings, green shutters at the windows, and dormers in the mansard roof. Princess Galitzin and Betsy became such close companions that Betsy had a bedroom in the chateau, which she was allowed to decorate to her own taste.

Betsy also became acquainted with Russian émigrés, such as the Princess Potempkin, and English aristocrats, such as the Duke of Kent’s stepson, Prince Carl. Once Betsy became established in Genevan society, she received enough invitations to balls, soirées, and dinners to stave off boredom, and men paid her as many compliments as she had received in her youth. She teased Bo that if she did not have such a big son, people would take her for a woman of twenty-five instead of thirty-five.

Although Bo did well in all his classes, his favorite activity by far was his weekly riding lesson. As spring approached, he begged his mother to buy him a mount. “If I had a horse, I could go riding whenever I wanted and you would not have to pay for lessons.”

Looking up from the linen shirt she was sewing for him, Betsy saw Bo standing before her with pleading eyes—and realized with a shock that he was almost the age Jerome had been when he bought the expensive shaving set.

“I see you have inherited your father’s false views of economy. Not only would I have to pay for the beast, but I would also have the cost of stabling and feeding him.”

Bo paced before her. “What if Grandfather bought the horse? Then you would only have to pay for the upkeep, and I am sure that would be more economical than paying for lessons.”

“I am equally sure it would not,” she said and continued sewing with tiny, precise stitches. “You would spend your time riding around the country to the neglect of your studies, which would mean the waste of all the money I spend on tuition. No, I would sooner pay for daily lessons than buy you a horse.”

“Oh.” He stopped short, and a blush covered his cheeks.

Alarmed by his sheepish expression, Betsy demanded, “What have you done? If you have offered to buy someone’s horse without my permission, I will void any such deal.”

“No, Mama.” He bit his lower lip. “I already wrote Grandfather asking for the money.”

“Your grandfather is so loath to part with cash that I doubt your plea has a prayer of success, but nevertheless, I shall write and disabuse him of the idea.”

Bo slumped into the chair across from her. “But Mama, would it not help me to learn responsibility to have the care of an animal?”

Although she knew she should keep a stern demeanor, Betsy smiled at his persistence. “Maybe when you are older.”

As her son rose to leave the room, the sight of his drooping shoulders softened Betsy’s heart. “If you truly want an animal, we might get a dog.”

Bo whirled around to face her. “Do you mean it?”

She nodded, and he rushed to hug her, nearly causing her to stab herself with her needle. “You are the dearest mama in the whole world!” he exclaimed.

Betsy made inquiries and found a local landowner with a litter of Schweizer Laufhund puppies that were ready to leave their mother. The breed was a lean, muscular hunting dog with long legs, so it would be able to run with Bo when he did go riding. The puppy had an orange-red coat with white legs and snout, and Bo named it
Le Loup,
meaning wolf, even though, as Betsy pointed out, the dog bore little resemblance to its wild cousin.

Because Bo stayed at school during the week, Betsy knew she would have to do the serious training herself. She pretended to be annoyed but secretly felt glad to have the companionship while her son was in classes. During weekend visits, she enjoyed watching Bo roll around the floor with his pup and try to teach the animal tricks.

All that spring, she walked
Le Loup
around Geneva, past the shops in the old town, along the lakefront in fine weather, and through the streets around the Cathedral St. Pierre, a mongrel building with a neoclassical temple façade and two squat towers of contrasting styles.
Le Loup
proved to be a friendly animal that would sit patiently and allow children to pet him as long as they did not pull his long ears. As Betsy and the gangly pup became a familiar sight, the taciturn Genevans began to call out,
“Quel beau chien!”
Betsy would smile and nod, pleased with herself for having chosen a handsome dog for her handsome son.

In March, John Jacob Astor wrote to Betsy from Rome on behalf of Jerome’s sister Pauline, the Princess Borghese, whom he had met there. When Pauline learned that Astor had spent time with Betsy at Geneva, she asked him to write and express her desire to see Betsy and her son in Rome. The princess was childless and wanted to leave Bo a legacy since his father could do nothing for him.

Betsy rejoiced that Jerome’s family had finally remembered her son, but she cautioned herself not to expect much. She knew from gossip that the Bonapartes lived as royalty in exile, adopting impressive titles to make up for their lost thrones. Their mother, Letizia, was a shrewd woman who had saved her money. Jerome was penniless and depended on an allowance provided by his father-in-law. Joseph lived in New Jersey on wealth he had smuggled out of Spain after his downfall—rumor claimed he had stolen the crown jewels. Pauline received an income from her husband, from whom she was separated. She was notorious for having numerous affairs and a capricious personality that easily tired of people.

Given that reputation, Betsy decided it would be foolish to upend her son’s life to gratify Pauline’s whim. Bo was doing well in school, and Betsy feared that if she were to take him to Rome, the Bonapartes’ pleasure-loving ways might counteract all her efforts to teach him industry. The specter of his turning out to be like Jerome still haunted her. On the other hand, Betsy did not want to destroy her son’s chance to know his father’s family and perhaps inherit something.

After a sleepless night, she wrote a letter expressing her appreciation of and gratitude for the princess’s interest.

My object in coming to Geneva is to procure for my son the means of education suitable to his rank, which I could not find in America, and to find a simple kind of life which would accord with the destiny I have to offer him. I have taught him to know that I have very little fortune to give him, and that his rank will depend upon his own efforts. Convinced that it is one of the greatest misfortunes to have pretensions without hopes, I have tried to remove from him false ideas of ambition, and to direct him to the cultivation of intellectual pursuits. Without perhaps possessing great talents, he is capable of arriving by his own efforts at an honorable station in society. So far I have nothing to complain of as to his application. My first desire, as it is my first duty, is to give him an especially excellent education suitable to his rank. I have found means of doing so at Geneva. I came for that purpose, and shall stay here to accomplish it. This will not prevent me from making a voyage to Italy a few months hence, for the purpose of telling you, Madame, how I am touched by the interest you have taken in my son, and of expressing to you my gratitude.

Betsy paused in her writing and decided it would be prudent to drive the point home that she would not withdraw Bo from school.

I would at the same time present my son, if I had not decided not to interrupt his education. Personal merit is the only thing worthy of his name that I can leave him. This is the reason why a good education is the first desire of my heart….

Accept, Madame, the respectful assurance and lively recognitions with which I have the honor to be your Highness’ most humble and most obedient servant,

Elizabeth Patterson.

Betsy forwarded the letter to John Jacob Astor, and a month later he replied that he had given it to the princess, who sent a friend to question him about Betsy’s situation. Astor had explained that William Patterson’s fortune was tied up in property, and Betsy received no money from him or her ex-husband. Rather, she was living frugally on what she had saved from her former pension. Not long afterward, the princess fell ill and made no more overtures, but Astor thought she might make Bo her heir in time.

In May near the end of Bo’s first year at school, Betsy’s friend Lady Morgan came to Geneva from Rome. As Betsy hung up her friend’s bonnet and shawl on a peg in the hall, she noted that Lady Morgan’s gown was fashioned in the latest style, with a lower waistline than had been popular for some years. Betsy frowned as she wondered how she could possibly adapt her own high-wasted gowns to this change in fashion.

Then, as they sat in Betsy’s sitting room taking tea, Lady Morgan said, “I met the Princess Borghese while I was in Rome. She often spoke of her desire to see you and your boy there, but she would not pledge herself to doing anything for Bo. She lives in state as though she were a queen, and her extravagance is boundless. If I were you, my dear, I would not count on her having any fortune to leave.”

Betsy sighed. “She sounds very like my ex-husband.”

Lady Morgan leaned forward with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Most of the family hate the ex-king of Westphalia and his wife. Since their dethronement, they have behaved very coldly to the other Bonapartes. I rather fear that the princess takes an interest in your son merely to put their noses out of joint.”

Refilling her friend’s teacup, Betsy said, “So we are still pawns to be employed by the Bonapartes in their own games. Even so, I cannot refuse to let the boy know them.”

“No, but you do right to postpone the encounter. You would be mad to take the child there now. They all call themselves Majesty and Highness and wait to be returned to power. Your son would adopt the most absurd ideas of his own greatness and be ruined to any useful occupation. The promises of that family are not to be depended on.”

“No one in the world knows that better than I.” Grimacing, Betsy reached for another tart. “The Bonapartes are all very affectionate in words, but without the least intention of parting with a farthing. No doubt, if they ever see their nephew, they will tell him they love him, take great interest in him, and leave me to pay his expenses. I have been careful not to breathe a syllable of these proposals to him for fear of giving him false hopes.”

Lady Morgan patted her hand sympathetically. “I am looking forward to meeting your son at last. I have heard that he is all the rage in Geneva.”

Grateful for a fresh topic, Betsy smiled. “People say he has more conversation and better manners than other children his age. Consequently he excites more attention, and I am tormented by the fear of seeing him spoiled by compliments. He is thought very handsome, but I regret that others tell him so, as it is a kind of praise which never made anyone better or happier.”

Lady Morgan lifted her cup in salute. “Once again, I think you speak from experience.”