The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (12 page)

His dark eyes widened in shock. “Elisa! A man does not discuss such things with the woman he is going to marry.”

“If
we are to marry—and that is still an open question—then we
must
have this out,” Betsy said, surprising herself with her own firmness. “I cannot live with the possibility that at any moment, more accusations will arrive to disturb our peace. Therefore, I must know at least the general extent of your dissipations.”

For an instant, Jerome glared at her, but then his shoulders slumped. “I cannot give you a number. I was young, I thought only of my own pleasure and told myself it was the woman’s duty to resist if she cared for her honor. Had I foreseen what pain my actions would cause my future wife, I would have been more circumspect. But it has never been my habit to look ahead.”

As Betsy considered his confession, she unconsciously pressed her hands together in an attitude of prayer. “You have been very irresponsible to members of my sex.”

Jerome sighed. “Yes, I see that now. But my father died soon after I was born, and I had no one to teach me how wrong I was. In the upper circles of French society, such casual affairs are very common. More so than here.”

His words stung Betsy in a way he could not guess. “They are more common here than you suppose. Just not so openly accepted. I warn you, Jerome, that I will not tolerate a repetition of such behavior. I will not be made a laughingstock.”

He stiffened. “Is it only your pride and reputation that concerns you?”

Betsy shook her head. “No. When I think of you with another woman, I feel ill. I would fight to my last breath for you, but I cannot command your fidelity. Only you can do that, and I do not feel certain that you possess the firmness of character for a lifetime of self-control.”

“Elisa, how can I convince you of my sincerity except to tell you again that I will never betray you? I swear that since the day we met, there have been no other women.”

“Not even in New York?”

“What do you mean? Has someone accused me?”

“No. I ask the question.” Betsy placed a hand over her heart. “Why, instead of remaining here to persuade my father, did you travel to New York? Was it in search of society to help you forget me?”

“Mon dieu, non!”
Jerome held out his hands, palms upward. “Do I look like a man who has forgotten you? I was seeking a way to prove to your father how much I adore you.”

“Then why go away?”

“I went to New York so I could buy you a dowry of clothing and jewelry.”

His answer so completely astonished Betsy that she stared at him open-mouthed. “You bought me presents? You thought that would persuade my father?”

“He refused to meet with me. I had to do something.”

Betsy began to laugh, covering her mouth when she saw that it offended him, yet unable to dam the wild surge of levity. Only Jerome, whose love of buying beautiful things had so angered Napoleon, could imagine that he might solve their problems by shopping. After a few minutes, she mastered herself. “That possibility never occurred to me.”

Jerome stiffened and spoke in a tight voice, “You believed I was going to parties and making love to other women? Have you so little faith in me?”

“Forgive me. You must understand that my family exiled me to the country, and the people with whom I was staying were at me day and night to forget you.”

“What did you tell them?”

His beseeching tone stripped away Betsy’s last reserve. “I told them I love you and that when I thought I might never see you again, I despaired of living.”

He bowed his head for a moment and then looked up with tear-filled eyes. “I do not deserve you. But if you can forgive me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy.”

“Jerome, I do not ask you to be a penitent. All I want is your oath that this will never happen again.”

“I swear it,” he said, crossing the room to pull her into his arms. As Betsy relaxed into his embrace, she felt convinced of the rightness of their being together.

UNABLE TO WEAKEN Betsy’s resolve, William Patterson agreed to let her marry Jerome on the condition that they wait until the family lawyer could draw up a marriage contract. Still fearing the letter writer’s prediction that Jerome would desert Betsy, Patterson wanted to provide her as much legal protection as possible.

The contract written by Mr. Dallas stipulated that if anyone cast doubt on the validity of their union, Jerome would do whatever was necessary in either the United States or France to ensure that the marriage was legal. William Patterson promised that Betsy would inherit a share of his estate equal to the legacies of his other children. Further, she was to inherit one-third of Jerome’s property upon his death while retaining control of any property of her own—and those terms were to hold if the marriage ended for any reason.

Betsy considered the contract unduly pessimistic in guarding against such possibilities, but she was so happily absorbed in preparing for her marriage that she left it to her father and Jerome to agree on the final details.

The wedding took place on Christmas Eve in the drawing room of the Patterson home, which was brilliantly lit by dozens of candles. The room held Betsy’s family and eighteen guests including the Reubells, the Smiths, Aunt Nancy, Commodore Barney, Jerome’s secretary, the mayor, and the new French vice-consul for Baltimore. Minister Pichon refused to attend, as did Jerome’s personal physical Dr. Garnier, who begged off due to a suspiciously sudden illness. Betsy’s parents chose not to invite many friends—they claimed they did not want to intrude on the holiday—but Betsy suspected that her father still resented her decision. She told herself she did not care. This night would set her on the path to achieving everything she had ever wanted.

For the ceremony, Betsy decided on the embroidered white gown she had worn the first night she danced with Jerome but with one major difference. This time beneath the gown, she wore only one thin chemise so the outline of her figure was visible in the French manner. Jerome lived up to his reputation for fashion by wearing powder in his hair, a long-tailed purple velvet coat lined with white satin, and shoes with diamond-studded buckles.

Because Jerome was Catholic, Betsy had agreed to be married under the Catholic rite, so the bishop of Baltimore—Charles Carroll’s brother John—performed the ceremony. Betsy loved the extra pomp provided by the heavy gold cross the bishop wore and his embroidered cope and miter, so much richer than the sober vestments of her own Presbyterian minister.

This time, when Betsy heard the bishop speaking in Latin, her heart filled with pride because for centuries this liturgy had been used to marry European kings. The bishop had instructed her beforehand, so when he asked in Latin if she accepted Jerome as her husband according to the rites of the Church, she answered without hesitation,
“Volo.”

Moments later, Bishop Carroll pronounced them husband and wife. After receiving the congratulations of their guests, Betsy and Jerome led the way to the wedding supper.

HOURS LATER, WHEN they were alone together in the bedroom of Jerome’s rented house, he tenderly kissed Betsy. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, then began to undress her. “I want tonight to be perfect for you.”

“It already is,” she answered as her gown fell to the floor.

She stepped out of it, and Jerome pulled her chemise over her head. Betsy blushed self-consciously, yet when she dared to look at her husband, her embarrassment faded away. The expression of delight on Jerome’s face proved that he found her desirable.

Jerome stripped off his own clothing, carried Betsy to bed, and placed her on the covers. When he knelt beside her, Betsy noticed a raised scar on his breast and, reaching out to touch it, felt something hard lodged beneath his skin. “What caused this?”

“A foolish duel with pistols when I was in the Consular Guard. Napoleon was very angry with me for risking my life.”

“As well he should have been.” Betsy lay back on the bed. Jerome kissed her, beginning sweetly and then with increasing insistence. The longing Betsy had fought for the last several weeks stirred to life, and her lower body throbbed with anticipation. Jerome cupped his hand around her left breast and squeezed it gently. Betsy gasped.

He lifted his head. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. No, I—liked it.”

Jerome chuckled and slid down her body. His tongue explored her nipples with rapid licking strokes that caused her breasts to tingle. Betsy’s face grew hot as she realized that she wanted Jerome inside her, pushing against the restless, hungry place she had never known existed until she met him.

Her kissed her on each breast and then slowly planted kisses in a line down the length of her stomach to her lower abdomen. Betsy had not expected that—it had never occurred to her that a man might put his mouth down
there
where she felt so unclean—and she tensed. Jerome must have sensed her unease because he moved up to kiss her lips again.

Then he ran his hand down her hip, slipped it between her legs, and caressed her inner thigh until she moaned. Jerome gently inserted one finger inside her and stroked the exact spot that was the locus of her desire. Betsy gripped his back and cried out, and Jerome responded by caressing her more urgently. After several minutes, he finally entered her. Betsy felt a sharp pain followed by a wave of hot pleasure as he moved back and forth inside her. Then he gave one powerful thrust and relaxed on top of Betsy. All her tension and frustration drained from her body like an outrushing tide. A moment later, Jerome whispered, “Have I pleased you?”

“Yes.” Putting her hands on each side of his head, she lifted it and kissed him.
“Je t’adore, mon mari.”

“Moi aussi, Elisa.”
He moved off her to stretch out on the bed.

Lying beside him, Betsy basked in a moment of perfect happiness. Then, as she gazed at Jerome’s face, an unwelcome thought forced itself into her mind:
He knew how to please you only because he is so practiced a lover.

She sat up and covered her breasts with her arms.

“What is it?” he asked, half rising to kiss her shoulder.

“Oh, Jerome, I wish we were the only two people in the world.”

“Tonight we are.” He drew her back down again and kissed her lips, and Betsy allowed her swelling desire to banish all thought.

IX

B
ETSY awoke reluctantly, filled with a languorous calm she was loath to disturb. Keeping her eyes closed, she rolled onto her back. A moment later, she felt chill air hit her chest as the bedcovers were drawn away. She opened her eyes and saw Jerome sitting beside her in the enclosure formed by partially closed bed curtains.

“Merry Christmas, Madame Bonaparte.”

“Merry Christmas, husband.”

Jerome laid his head between her breasts. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did until someone forced me awake.” Betsy pulled one of his curls as a rebuke.

“I could not wait any longer. Do you want your presents?”

“What presents?”

“I told you that I bought you clothing and jewelry in New York.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, glad that she had the embroidered pocketbook to give him.

With a proud grin, Jerome rose and pushed back the bed curtains. Draped over the furniture around the bedroom were everyday gowns in printed cotton and formal gowns in a variety of styles that Jerome said were the latest imports from Paris. Betsy climbed down the bed steps, pulled on her wrapper, and walked around the room gazing at gowns of satin, barred muslin, crisp lightweight silk, and even one of black lace. The one that most surprised her was made of sheer sarcenet and crepe, with tiny cap sleeves, a round neckline cut lower than anything she owned, and a back that scooped more than halfway to the waist. Fingering the delicate material, she said, “I don’t have a chemise cut to fit such a revealing gown.”

Jerome laughed. “These gowns are not worn with a chemise.”

Feeling herself blush, Betsy said, “But this fabric would display everything. Surely, you expect me to preserve some modesty.”

“Of course, Elisa. Did you not see the pantaloons?” He pointed to a stack of folded, flesh-colored garments that looked like men’s breeches.

Betsy pressed her lips together. The story about Josephine’s revealing fashions had been amusing, but she could not imagine wearing such gowns herself. “I fear you do not understand my country. A woman who dressed like this would be shunned as a trollop.”

Jerome slipped his arms around her waist. “Your respectability is unquestioned, Elisa. I chose these gowns to show the world what a charming wife I have. When we go to France, you will outshine even Josephine.”

Betsy sighed. “Of course, I will dress as you prefer when we go to Paris. My only concern is wearing such gowns here.”

“You will set the style. Before long, ladies will compete to imitate you.” When she hesitated, Jerome bent to kiss her neck. “Please, try on the gown. I will go tell the servants to prepare breakfast and then return to see how you look.”

“All right.” After he left, Betsy pulled on a pair of pantaloons, which fitted smoothly from her waist to just above her knees, and then the gown, fastening it as best she could without help. Gazing in the mirror, she felt like crying. Because the pantaloons were flesh-colored, she appeared to have on nothing at all beneath her skirt. The bodice, at least, was gathered so that folds rather than a single thickness of fabric covered her bosom, but her nipples were still visible.

Jerome entered the bedroom and gazed over her shoulder into the glass. “Exquisite. You look like the statue of a Greek goddess come to life.”

Lifting her eyes, Betsy stared at her husband in the mirror. Jerome’s face shone with admiration, and she felt an upwelling of joy at being able to inspire such love. Setting her embarrassment aside, she turned to kiss him.

THEY HONEYMOONED AT Cold Spring, one of her father’s country houses, and then returned to Baltimore. During that first month of marriage, Betsy felt like a rural cousin being tutored in a more cosmopolitan way of living. Not only did Jerome replace her wardrobe, but he also taught her far more ways of making love than just a man lying atop his wife in bed. Some of his suggestions embarrassed her, but most of the time, Betsy complied without demur—not only to ensure that Jerome would remain a contented husband but also because she came to enjoy being daring. To further please Jerome, she kept herself fresh for lovemaking by washing daily in a French bidet, a silver basin made by Napoleon’s own silversmith and set in a wooden stand.

Jerome encouraged her to enhance her charms with cosmetics and violet-scented power. He schooled her in the French etiquette of exchanging kisses on both cheeks, and one lazy afternoon, he picked up a fan and taught her the gestures French women used to flirt with their lovers. Among the jewelry he gave her were a double-stranded pearl bracelet and necklace and a pair of teardrop-shaped earrings; he said the pearls’ glow drew attention to her beautiful white throat and arms.

By the time they started attending parties again, Betsy felt secure in her ability to fascinate any man—even the jaded sophisticates of continental Europe.

AT THE END of January, Jerome decided to take Betsy to Washington, where they would stay with the Smiths. He wanted to visit President Jefferson again and to ask Pichon for more funds. To make the journey, they borrowed a coach-and-six from Joshua Barney.

Betsy looked forward to her first visit to the capital and to spending time away from her family, whose tolerance for Jerome was wearing thin. After an incident in which he offered a $500 reward for the capture of some urchins who hit Betsy with a snowball, her brothers mocked his prickly pride. And her father became angry after receiving a second anonymous warning that Jerome planned to abandon his wife. When Patterson privately showed Betsy the letter, she laughed it off. “I assure you, Father, that Jerome could no more imagine living without me than I could without him.”

The family’s concerns intensified when Jerome’s aide Lieutenant Meyronnet failed to return from France and no reply came to Jerome’s letters. Patterson feared that the First Consul meant to snub his daughter, so he decided to send Robert to Paris to make inquiries—after first obtaining letters of reference from his friends President Thomas Jefferson and Secretary of State James Madison. To Betsy, Patterson grumbled about the time and money he was expending to secure her recognition as Jerome’s wife.

Only Dorcas still displayed warm, uncomplicated affection for her son-in-law. As Betsy kissed her mother good-bye the evening before the Washington trip, she whispered in her mother’s ear, “Do not heed what Father says. I am happy with my husband.”

Dorcas hugged her tightly and whispered, “Be well.”

THE FORTY-FIVE-MILE TRIP from Baltimore to Washington was an all-day journey through much undeveloped country. Because it was winter, darkness fell long before they reached the city, and Betsy was disappointed that she could see little of the capital on their way to the Smith home.

The next day, however, Aunt Nancy took them on a carriage tour. After Congress had decided in 1790 to build the nation’s capital in a newly created federal district, President Washington commissioned civil engineer Pierre Charles L’Enfant to devise a plan. Originally from France, L’Enfant wanted to construct a city in the European style with important buildings set far apart to allow for public gardens and plazas. At the time of Betsy and Jerome’s visit, the wide spaces between public buildings were occupied by a mix of uncleared land, small plots with cabins, and recently built houses—giving the city of Washington the disconcerting appearance of a sparsely settled wilderness with a few grandiose structures set down at random. Stories abounded of Congressmen going squirrel hunting within the city or getting mired in a swamp as they drove to their quarters at night. Uncle Smith was one of the few legislators who rented a home for his family each year rather than living in a boarding house with other senators.

As the Smith carriage drove down Pennsylvania Avenue, Aunt Nancy pointed out the imposing stone Presidential Mansion. Betsy saw that it still had temporary wooden steps and overgrown grounds. At the Capitol, only the Senate wing was occupied as construction on the Representatives’ wing had barely begun. Indeed, they could hear the clang of hammer hitting stone as they passed. Aunt Nancy boasted of the city’s progress, but Jerome disparaged it to Betsy in French, contrasting all they saw with the cathedrals, palaces, and monuments of Paris.

Samuel Smith’s brother, Secretary of the Navy Robert Smith, invited the Bonapartes to their first party in Washington. Despite Jerome’s reassurance that she looked beautiful, Betsy felt qualms about the daring gown he asked her to wear, so she donned her cloak while still in their bedroom to prevent her aunts from seeing her attire before they left.

In the reception hall of the Robert Smith home, Betsy handed her cloak to a servant and turned to greet her hosts. Secretary Smith, a portly man with a heavily jowled face, blinked in surprise when he saw her. “Betsy, my dear. It has been much too long.”

“It has indeed, sir. May I present my husband, Jerome Bonaparte.”

As the men shook hands, Betsy moved to Mrs. Robert Smith, who said, “Elizabeth, you must be cold. Allow me to send upstairs for a shawl.”

Betsy raised her chin. “No, madam, I assure you that I am quite comfortable.” She introduced Jerome, and then they excused themselves and crossed the hall.

When they entered the drawing room, Betsy noticed with chagrin that people turned to gape at her. Several women moved away before the Bonapartes reached them, and some even exited the room. Then two young men who were distant cousins approached them. As Betsy introduced Jerome, she saw one of the men stare at her bosom for several moments and blush.

She glanced at Jerome, who smirked and asked the embarrassed young man if he enjoyed attending the races. A minute later, three more men joined them. The newcomers all inspected Betsy’s figure a bit too long before raising their eyes to her face. Jerome stood by her side, speaking without the slightest appearance of jealousy.

Betsy’s discomfort soon gave way to amusement that men could be such children, peeking surreptitiously at something they considered forbidden. Many of those who flocked around her that evening were married men, who presumably had seen their wives in a state of undress, and those who were single had surely seen nude statues. Yet nearly all acted as if this were their one chance in life to view the female form. Jerome remained unperturbed by the ogling, and as Betsy grew used to the attention, she began to enjoy it.

When they returned to the Samuel Smith home after the party, Aunt Margaret and Aunt Nancy insisted on speaking to Betsy alone. “I will be up in a minute,” she told Jerome and followed her aunts into the sitting room.

Aunt Nancy gestured toward a seat, but Betsy shook her head and remained standing. Aunt Margaret said, “While you are in my home, I must act in the place of my sister Dorcas. You offended every woman at the reception tonight. Several warned me that unless you consent to wear more clothes, they will not attend any future functions to which you have been invited.”

“Such a dictate is absurd. These fashions have been accepted in France for years.”

“We are not in Paris. In your eagerness to please your husband, you flout what you know of American conventions. You do yourself no favors by such behavior.”

Betsy pressed her lips together and gazed at her aunts in silence. In each face, she could trace a resemblance to her beloved mother, which made it difficult to respond defiantly. “I will consider what you have said,” she finally answered.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Betsy wondered how Jerome would react to her aunts’ ultimatum. As she entered the guest room and shut the door, she saw that he had undressed down to his shirt. He swept her up into his arms. “I was so proud of you. You were the most beautiful woman in the room, and I am certain that I was the envy of every man.”

He deposited her on the checked linen coverlet, knelt beside her, and caressed her breast. “They will all dream of you tonight, Elisa, but only I have the right to possess you.”

Smiling at him, she whispered, “Then take me, Monsieur Bonaparte.”

THEIR SOCIAL CALENDAR remained full with a card party at the Pichons’ home, supper with Secretary of the Treasury Albert Gallatin, and a ball given by the two Smith families. Betsy continued to wear her French fashions, but mindful of her aunts’ admonitions, she draped a gauzy scarf over her shoulders to make her attire seem more modest.

They were also invited to dinner at the President’s Mansion. Beforehand, Uncle Smith told Betsy that in a perverse display of neutrality, President Jefferson had invited both the French minister and the new British ambassador, despite the war between their two countries.

For the occasion, which would begin at 3:00 in the afternoon and last until late evening, Betsy wore a sheer gown bedecked with gold embroidery that would sparkle in the candlelight. This would be her first visit to the home of a head of state, and she wanted to demonstrate to Jerome that she knew how to dress for such occasions.

As the Smith carriage drove up to the north entrance, Betsy stared avidly at the details of the building and wondered how it compared to the palaces she would someday live in with Jerome. The President’s Mansion was an imposing light-grey stone structure, wide enough that eleven windows stretched across its upper story. The center block of the mansion was decorated with four Doric columns crowned by a triangular pediment. A small pediment also topped each window, but Betsy was surprised to see that they were not all the same. Rather, triangles alternated with rounded arches.

Following the Smiths, Betsy and Jerome climbed the stone steps and walked through the front door into the entrance hall, a marble-floored space that was wider than it was long. On the far side of the room, four Doric columns marked the boundary between the entryway and the central cross hall.

Servants came to take their outer garments, and after Betsy handed over her cloak, she noticed that the entrance hall was cold despite having facing fireplaces on the east and west walls. She hoped that she would not be covered in goose skin by the time she made it through the receiving line into the oval drawing room where the president stood greeting his guests. As they stepped through the central columns into the cross hall, she glanced left to see if she could catch a glimpse of the East Room—infamous as the vast unfinished space where Abigail Adams had once dried laundry. Betsy had heard that, even though it was intended to be a public reception room, the East Room was still unplastered. Just last year, Aunt Margaret had written that the first attempt at installing a ceiling in the room had collapsed. Now a piece of canvas stretched across the doorway, so Betsy could not see a thing.