The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (13 page)

When she and Jerome were presented to President Jefferson, Betsy was amused to see him in the characteristically plain dress he wore on republican principle: an old blue coat, dark corduroy breeches, dingy white hose, and run-down backless slippers. “Madame Bonaparte, allow me to welcome you to Washington. I hope your father was well when you left him.”

“He was, Mr. President, and he particularly charged me with thanking you for the very kind letter of reference that you wrote.”

“It gave me great pleasure to do whatever I could to further an alliance that will cement relations between the United States and France. As you know, I spent several years as ambassador to France and I retain great fondness for our sister republic.”

From the corner of her eye, Betsy saw a distinguished-looking man in formal diplomatic dress shoot the president a frosty glare. After Mr. Jefferson moved to another guest, Uncle Smith introduced Jerome and Betsy to the irate gentleman, who was the British ambassador Mr. Anthony Merry.

“Citizen Bonaparte.” Mr. Merry gave a curt nod. “I greet you as a fellow guest of Mr. Jefferson and not as the enemy of my country.”

Betsy answered before Jerome could, “Sir, how wise you are to know that for tonight, we must draw blades against the roast and not the person opposite.”

Merry smiled grudgingly. He then introduced them to his wife, Elizabeth Death Merry, a fiftyish woman with heavy eyebrows and a long nose in a horsy face. Despite her plain looks, Mrs. Merry was dressed as a beauty with rouge on her cheeks and a chandelier necklace of sapphires around her throat. Her blue velvet gown was cut so low that her enormous bosom, restrained only by a film of lace, threatened to pop free. As soon as they were out of earshot of the Merrys, Betsy whispered to Jerome, “Law, she displays those melons as though she were a market.”

When it came time for the meal, President Jefferson further offended his English guests by leading Betsy from the drawing room into the dining room instead of following protocol and honoring Mrs. Merry. Betsy could not resist glancing back over her shoulder to grin triumphantly at Jerome.

Unlike his two predecessors, Jefferson did not believe in seating dignitaries by rank. Instead, he left his guests free to choose their places at a round table. Betsy ended up between Monsieur Pichon and Uncle Smith, while Jerome sat opposite between Mr. Jefferson and attractive, dark-haired Dolley Madison, who acted as hostess for the widowed president.

As they ate a first course of rice soup, Betsy heard Jerome tell the president about conditions in the West Indies. Betsy amused herself first by observing that an angry flush had rendered Mrs. Merry’s rouge superfluous and second by practicing her French as she told Monsieur Pichon of her admiration for Napoleon.

Toward the end of the meat course, Betsy overheard Jerome recount the story of his buying the expensive shaving set shortly after going to live in the Tuileries. “My brother was furious with me because I was still too young to shave. I was only fifteen.”

Both Dolley Madison and President Jefferson laughed, but Betsy frowned. She knew more of Napoleon’s history than she had when Jerome first told her the tale, and one aspect of the narrative seemed wrong. She tried to catch Jerome’s eye, but he was too busy complimenting the president on his excellent French wine. As Monsieur Pichon asked her a question, Betsy decided to quiz Jerome about the discrepancy later.

SHE REMAINED QUIET during the ride back to the Smith home, not wishing to start a quarrel in front of her aunt and uncle. Besides, she was not sure of her complaint. Because France and the United States used different calendars, she might have misunderstood the details of Jerome’s story. They went up to the guest room, where Jerome took off his cloak and then helped Betsy out of hers. When he tried to kiss her, she turned her head away.

“What is wrong?”

“I must talk to you.” Betsy put a hand over her stomach, which was starting to ache with dread, and sat in a chair in the far corner. Following her, Jerome stopped next to the bed, took off his coat, and then leaned casually against the corner post as he unbuttoned his waistcoat.

“In what year did Napoleon become First Consul?”

Jerome tilted his head as he considered her question. “In the year VIII according to our Republican calendar. That would have been 1799 here.”

A rising tide of panic threatened to engulf Betsy. “And you were fifteen?”

“Yes.” He removed his waistcoat, laying it on a chair.

“Then how old are you now?”

Jerome lifted his head warily, like an animal scenting danger.

“Do not claim to be twenty-two because I will not believe you.”

He thrust out his chin. “Nineteen. My birthday was in November.”

How odd that such a simple statement could ring down disaster. Betsy shut her eyes and pressed both hands against her stomach. “Then we are not married. It was a sham.”

“Elisa, do not say that.” Jerome squatted before her and clasped her thighs.

“But you deceived me. You are under age and did not have consent, so the marriage is invalid. You lied to my father to get what you want.”

At the thought of her father, Betsy covered her face with her hands. Everyone would hear that she had been tricked into a mock marriage, and she would return to Baltimore with her reputation in tatters. Her father would never let her forget that he had warned her against Jerome, and she would spend the rest of her life enduring his rebukes. No one else would marry her now.

She lowered her hands and stared at Jerome as tears coursed down her face. “The person who wrote the anonymous letter was right. You have ruined me. I have been living with a man who is not my husband, and now I am disgraced.”

“But we are married.” He grasped her hands. “The bishop pronounced us husband and wife. No one can undo that.”

“Yes, they can! Our marriage has no standing under the law.” As she remembered more of the letter writer’s accusations, her eyes grew wide. “You did this on purpose. Now you can go back to France a free man whenever you tire of me.”

As the enormity of what he had done became clear, Betsy yanked her hands free. She pushed past him, threw herself on the bed, and sobbed, keeping her grief muffled by the bedclothes so her aunt and uncle could not hear. When Jerome laid an arm across her back, she rose up in fury. “Do not touch me. You have no right. Don’t ever touch me again.”

“But Elisa—”

“You lied!” She raised her curled hands to claw his face, then just as swiftly lowered them. Attacking him would accomplish nothing except to alert the household to their quarrel. “Why did you do it? What could you hope to gain from a sham marriage?”

A toxic brew of rage, disgust, and shame choked her, and she threw herself back down. As Jerome backed away, Betsy clutched her pillow to her chest and cried herself to sleep.

THE NEXT MORNING she awoke with dry, scratchy eyes and a pounding headache. Her neck was stiff from the way she had lain. Stretching gingerly, Betsy rubbed her shoulder as she sat up. Then she saw Jerome asleep in the chair where she had been sitting the night before, slouching with his head resting on the back and his legs stretched out before him.

The obvious discomfort of his position roused her concern for him, and Betsy swallowed back the angry words that had sprung to her lips. He looked so young and innocent. Why had she never realized that he was still a boy?

Pressing a palm to her throbbing forehead, she berated herself for not having listened to her father. What had possessed her to insist on marrying Jerome no matter what anyone said? Surely, she could have found another way to get to France. The answer came swiftly. She loved him, and she had allowed her physical passion for him to overrule all rational judgment.
I was foolish and obstinate,
she told herself,
and for those faults I must pay, but that is nothing to the fact that he lied outright.

“Jerome, wake up.” He grunted and stirred. “What are you doing there?”

He pulled himself up to a sitting position, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head. “How could I leave when you were so distraught?”

“So you slept in that chair all night?”

“I had to watch over you to make sure you were safe.”

His anxiety for her produced an upwelling of tenderness in Betsy that threatened to undermine her indignation. She scooted back to sit against the headboard and hugged her pillow before her chest. “How can you have the effrontery to pretend that you care for me?”

“I love you. That has not changed.”

“If you loved me, you never would have seduced me under false pretenses.”

“I wanted you for my wife, Elisa.”

“Do not call me that. My name is Betsy.”

Jerome flinched and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I did not mean to hurt you. I could not bear to wait two years to marry. I thought that you felt the same.”

His forlorn tone pained her. A moment earlier Betsy had thought herself cried out, but now the tears started again. “I wanted a real marriage, to be your wife for the rest of our lives.”

“But you will be.”

“Jerome Bonaparte, how can you say that? We are not married now.”

“In the eyes of God, you are my wife, and I will not allow anyone to cast aspersions on your reputation. As soon as we receive my mother’s consent, everything will be in order.”

Betsy shook her head. “You cannot promise that your mother will give her consent. If she chooses not to, then I am your whore and not your wife.”

“Never say that,” Jerome said sternly. “Never.”

“You deceived me into a sham marriage. You knew it was the only way into my bed.”

“That is not true. If all I wanted was to bed you, don’t you suppose I would have made the attempt before asking you to marry me? On the contrary, you know that I took great care not to seduce you before the wedding.”

Although Betsy wanted to retort angrily, she could not deny that Jerome spoke the truth. She lowered the pillow she held like a shield. “Then why did you do it?”

“Because from the moment I saw you, I wanted you more than anything else on earth. As my partner in life, not my mistress. And I was willing to do anything to bring about our marriage before orders from my brother forced me to leave you, my beautiful Betsy.”

“Elisa,” she whispered.

Jerome walked to the end of the bed. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

Betsy sighed. “What choice do I have? You are the only man on earth who can now make an honest woman out of me.”

“My darling Elisa, you are the finest, most honest woman who lives.” He placed one knee on the edge of the bed and looked inquiringly at her.

Smiling wanly, she nodded, and Jerome climbed onto the bed and took her in his arms.

“I do not know why I let you talk me out of my anger,” she said.

“Because you love me as much as I love you.”

She pushed back his curls. “Yes, I love you. But I am not sure that I trust you.”

“Do not say that,” he murmured and, after laying her down, began to kiss her breasts. “Fate brought us together, and from now on, I live only for you.”

Jerome eased up the skirt of her sleep-crumpled, gold-embroidered gown, and as his hand ran along her legs, Betsy felt the return of her urgent hunger for him. Her body seemed not to care that they had no right to be lovers. She groaned with pleasure as he entered her and started to move in rhythm. Moments later, Jerome shuddered and lay heavily on top of her. Stroking his hair once more, Betsy thought,
My God, what if I have a child?

X

A
S February slipped into March, signs of spring began to appear in the capital, and Betsy tried to find hope in the trill of returning songbirds and the thrust of green spears rising from newly thawed ground. On mild afternoons, she walked alone in the brick-paved courtyard garden behind her uncle’s Washington home so she could analyze her situation.

Jerome’s deceit had left her deeply shaken and vulnerable to moments of suffocating panic. Betsy knew that gossip claimed that ambition alone had motivated her marriage to Napoleon’s brother, so few people would excuse her for making such a questionable alliance. But although rank had played a part in her decision, she truly loved Jerome. Now, as she paced the garden paths attempting to find cheer in the blooming crocuses—whose purple hue reminded her of Jerome’s wedding coat—Betsy mused on her husband’s character and concluded that he was neither malicious nor intentionally dishonorable. Rather, he was a spoiled boy who thought that, if he felt something strongly, it must be so. She had known he was impulsive when she decided to marry him. She simply had not realized how far afield of propriety his rash nature would lead them.

After that terrible night, Betsy refused to dwell upon what might happen to her if the truth about Jerome’s age became known. Instead, whenever fear assailed her, she reminded herself of the way fate had brought them together and took comfort in thinking that this marriage was her destiny.

If only his mother gives her consent, all will be well. We will go to France, he will return to the navy, and with duty to perform and a regular income, he will become more responsible. Someday we will look back upon this uncertain time and laugh.

She smiled at the vision of the two of them as white-haired elders, telling their grandchildren how their great passion had led them to make what many considered a hasty, imprudent marriage, but they had been proved right in the end.

Pulling her merino shawl more tightly around her, Betsy returned to the house and went through the garden door. As she walked down the passage leading to the front staircase, she glanced into her uncle’s library and was surprised to see Jerome seated at the tall secretary. Entering the room, she said, “What are you doing?”

He looked up. “I am writing another letter to my mother.”

Betsy stood beside his chair and glanced at the paper on the secretary’s drop-down writing surface. The message was in French, so rather than translate it herself, she asked, “What are you saying?”

“I told her that I was drawn to our marriage as to a destiny that could not be avoided, and I emphasized how dear you are to me.” Jerome lifted Betsy’s hand and kissed it. “And I said that I await her approval of my marriage, without which I cannot be happy.”

Tears filled Betsy’s eyes. “Then you fear, after all, that she might withhold her consent.”

“No. Because we have not heard from her, I fear that my first letter home might have been lost. When
Maman
learns how essential you are to my happiness and how respected your family is in this country, she will eagerly give her blessing.”

“But you don’t know that the letter was lost. Your family may be withholding communication because they disapprove of your choice.”

Moving back his chair, Jerome pulled her onto his lap. “Promise me not to fret about this. If the worst should happen and they withhold their consent, I will stay in America and we will build our life here.”

“But what if your true age becomes known?”

“Who could discover such a thing? And if they did, they could never force me to give you up. I would go away with you, Elisa, into the wilderness rather than be parted.”

Putting her arms around his neck, Betsy rested her head against his for a moment. Then, kissing his cheek, she stood. “If we are caught in this attitude, we will scandalize the household.”

He laughed. “I have nearly finished my letter. Wait for me in our bedchamber, and I will join you there in a few minutes.”

A FEW DAYS later at breakfast, Jerome said, “Elisa, we have an important engagement this morning, so I want you to put on your most beautiful gown.”

“Where are we going?”

“It is a surprise.”

“Then how can I know what to wear? None of my best gowns is suitable for morning.”

“Put on the white crepe. You can wear a cloak out on the street.”

Aunt Margaret set down her cup of cocoa with a sharp click. “Jerome, Betsy cannot go out in the morning in a sheer, low-cut gown, even if she does wear a cloak over it.”

With a smile playing about his lips, Jerome went around the table to whisper in Aunt Margaret’s ear. An expression of delight replaced her frown. “Oh, I see. That is quite different.” Picking up her cup, she told Betsy, “Do as your husband asks.”

Betsy pushed her half-eaten muffin away. “You two have spoiled my appetite with your air of mystery. I will go complete my toilette. When do we have to leave?”

“Not for another hour. Our appointment is at ten.”

Borrowing Uncle Smith’s carriage, Jerome drove Betsy to a small one-story building just north of Pennsylvania Avenue, about halfway between the President’s Mansion and the unfinished Capitol. When he led her into what she took to be a shop, Betsy was intrigued to discover the room filled with paintings on easels, including several copies of the same portrait of George Washington. She looked at Jerome quizzically.

Just then a man of about fifty with receding hair and a jutting nose came from the back room. He wore a paint-stained apron. “Ah, Monsieur Bonaparte, you are punctual. As I told you, I do not know if I can accept your commission. I can scarcely complete those I have.”

“I understand, but before you refuse us, allow me to introduce my wife, Madame Bonaparte. Elisa, this is the great Gilbert Stuart.” After helping Betsy remove her cloak, Jerome nudged her toward the painter, who gazed at her with a look of greedy wonder.

Stuart peered into Betsy’s face and then slowly circled her. “By gad, Monsieur Bonaparte, you did not exaggerate.”

Stopping in front of Betsy, he reached two fingers toward her chin and said, “May I?” Without waiting for permission, he tilted her head up and stared at her features. Betsy held her breath, hardly able to believe that this famous artist was considering her.

Stuart went to a table several feet away and, picking up a small frame, held it at arm’s length and gazed through it at Betsy. Moving back and forth, he checked the front and side views. “By gad, I cannot decide which pose best captures her beauty. She has the true classic profile, but her eyes are so expressive that it would be a shame not to show them fully.”

After dropping the frame on the table, he frowned for a long moment, softly beating one fist against his thigh. Then he said, “I remember seeing a style of portrait in England that I have never dared attempt, but now I see that I must. I am going to do a triple portrait of Madame, which will feature her profile, a three-quarters view, and a front view of her face.”

“Bravo!” Jerome exclaimed. “When do you want us to come for our first sitting?”

“Right now. This is one portrait I cannot wait to start.”

FOR SEVERAL DAYS, Betsy and Jerome went to sit in Stuart’s studio. Betsy was fascinated by the artist’s workroom, which was more chaotic than she had expected. Ornate chairs, rich cloths, Greek and Chinese vases, mahogany canes, classical statues, and pedestals displaying busts were scattered about the studio. Attached to one wall was a pole from which hung several draperies that allowed the painter to choose the background color he required. Paint-splashed worktables held knives, palettes, mortars and pestles, earthenware pots of brushes, and corked bottles of liquid in varying shades of gold. Several easels stood on the floor, some empty and some with partially completed paintings. The room was full of the sharp piney smell of turpentine, and Betsy discovered that being there for more than an hour gave her a headache.

Each was having a portrait painted, so they took turns sitting for the artist. Whenever it was Betsy’s turn to pose, Jerome sat by her side holding her hand.

He nearly ruined their relationship with the artist the first day by exclaiming in surprise when Stuart used a paintbrush dipped in turpentine-thinned burnt umber paint to record the first outlines of Betsy’s head on his canvas. “The painters I have observed on the continent always make a preliminary sketch using charcoal.”

The artist tossed down his brush. “Sir, I know my own powers, and I do not need to resort to the methods of lesser talents. I would not presume to tell you how to fight a battle.”

Hearing Jerome’s sharp intake of breath, Betsy intervened. “Mr. Stuart, he meant no offense. Having seen examples of your work, we know what a master you are. My husband was merely expressing his astonished delight that we are in the hands of someone even more expert than the artists he has known at Napoleon’s palace.”

She smiled as winsomely as her anxiety would allow, and the painter picked up his brush.

They were not allowed to see either portrait until Stuart had captured their likenesses to his own satisfaction. Finally, one Friday afternoon, he let them view the works in progress. The faces on Betsy’s portrait were subtly executed and looked finished, but the throats and shoulders remained rough. Surrounding the three busts was a background of swirling masses painted in shades of burnt umber. Next to the faces, Stuart had begun to add a top layer of pale blue highlighted with lavender to give the appearance of sky. Betsy was delighted, judging that not only was the portrait an excellent likeness, but it also captured her lively personality. Jerome, however, frowned. “Her shoulders are bare. You should put clothes on each of the figures.”

“You can find a picture like that in any shop in town!”

“But the three heads are rising from a bank of clouds.”

Stuart’s eyes glinted dangerously. “They serve to emphasize her angelic beauty.”

“Then why use such dark turbulent forms?”

“To add depth to the painting, sir. When I finish the top layer, those dark values will show through as shadows in the cloudy mass.”

Again Betsy spoke to avoid a conflict. “What a fascinating process. I had no idea that was how it is done. May we see my husband’s portrait?”

“If you insist.” Stuart took her arm and led her to the other easel.

In contrast to Betsy’s portrait, Jerome’s was a conventional three-quarter view from the waist up, with the face gazing right. Betsy saw that Stuart had perfectly captured the haughty look Jerome wore whenever he was insisting upon his honor. As with her portrait, the face appeared finished, but the background and clothing—a frill-fronted shirt and a black uniform coat with gold epaulets—were still rough.

Jerome made no comment on his likeness but instead asked, “Shall we come back Monday? I should like to have these finished as soon as possible.”

“No, I have other appointments next week.”

“But, sir, you have a prior commitment to us.”

“And I have awarded you ample time. The paintings are far enough developed that I should be able to finish them at my leisure.”

Jerome stiffened, and his expression so matched the arrogant face on the portrait that Betsy would have laughed if the situation were not so tense. “At your leisure, sir? I require you to finish these portraits before taking other commissions.”

“You require?” Stuart put his hands on his hips. “You impudent little puppy. Who are you to place requirements on me? You have nothing to recommend you but your name, and that is a dubious enough calling card.”

“Do you dare to insult my family, sir?”

“Gentleman, please!” Betsy cried. “I find this needless argument most upsetting.”

Stuart made a stiff bow to Betsy. “Forgive me, Madame. I do not want to distress so charming a lady, but I must ask you both to leave.” He glared over her shoulder at Jerome. “Your husband and I have nothing more to say to one another.”

“Mr. Stuart, I beg you.” Betsy boldly laid her hand upon his arm. “Let us resolve our differences, so you may complete the work you started so brilliantly.”

Stuart glanced at Betsy’s portrait, and regret flashed upon his face. Then his expression hardened. “No. I never finish a painting once the subject has insulted me.”

“Say something,” Betsy implored Jerome, thinking that if only he would apologize, they could salvage the situation.

“Let us depart,” Jerome said and, taking her arm, led her from the studio. Once they were out on the street, he shrugged off his bad mood. “From all I hear, the man has trouble earning enough to support his family. I will give it a day or two and then send a friend with the message that I will pay extra if he finishes the commission quickly.”

DURING THEIR STAY in Washington, Jerome visited the office of Minister Pichon several times to ask for additional funds and to see if he had received a dispatch from Napoleon. There he often encountered Admiral Jean-Baptiste Willaumez, who had been in charge of the French bases at Saint-Domingue while Jerome was serving in the Caribbean.

Since October, Willaumez’s ship, the 42-gun frigate
Poursuivante,
had been docked in Baltimore, where it was being repaired from damage it had sustained in battle. All winter, both Willaumez and Pichon tried to convince Jerome that his duty required him to sail on the
Poursuivante
once its repairs were completed and it returned to France.

Betsy was not present for any of those conversations. Whenever Jerome came home, he recounted the arguments in detail and reassured her that he had reminded the officials that he was waiting for direct orders from the First Consul. Jerome grew more exasperated each time Pichon and Willaumez taxed him about the subject, and Betsy feared that his temper might cause him to cross the line of mutiny toward his superior. In her anxiety that he could be arrested, she forgot that French officials were too terrified to discipline any of Napoleon’s relatives. At the end of March, Willaumez commanded Jerome to board the
Poursuivante,
to which Jerome retorted that he took orders from no one. Instead of being clapped in the brig for insubordination, he was allowed to leave Pichon’s office with only a verbal reprimand. The admiral sailed without him.