The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (24 page)

The English capital sprawled in all directions. The Pattersons’ hired carriage drove for miles past broad green parks with towering trees, stone town houses with classical porticos and ornamental urns on the rooflines; brick churches with stained glass windows and soaring white steeples; and whole blocks of simple two-story structures with businesses below and living quarters above. Most shops had flat signs extending along the wall above their display windows. Two kinds of establishments, however, had old-fashioned hanging signs that dangled into the street. Pawnshops displayed three balls descending from a metal bar, a symbol that dated back to the Renaissance, while each tavern had a colorfully painted signboard with artwork symbolizing its distinctive name—such as the Grapes, the Red Lion, and Ye Olde Cheddar Cheese.

One thing that astonished Betsy was the number of vendors walking the streets and shouting descriptions of their wares. Within one two-minute stretch, she saw a young man carrying a brace of rabbits and calling, “Fresh country coneys”; a woman pushing a heavy cart and crying, “Hot spiced gingerbread, all hot”; and an old man with a bundle of rushes slung across his shoulder singing, “Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend, if I had money to spend, I would not call, ‘Old chairs to mend.’ ”

Pulling back from the window, Betsy exclaimed, “This city is so lively! And noisy.”

Eliza nodded in agreement, but Robert barely looked up from the newspaper he was reading as he said, “Yes, it can be damned annoying.”

Betsy sighed at her brother’s world-weary reaction. She had already noticed that, after a year traveling about Europe, conducting family business as well as working on her behalf, Robert had acquired an air of sophistication. His wealth of experience stirred Betsy’s envy. Were it not for Napoleon’s opposition to her marriage, she too could have been familiar enough with European life to remark casually as they passed St. James’s Palace, “Rumor has it that King George is having fits of madness.”

Never mind,
she told herself.
Wait until Napoleon finally accepts me as his sister-in-law.
For the remainder of the drive to their hotel, she amused herself by imagining how her brothers would have to bow to her whenever they came to the French court.

Their hotel was a four-story, brown brick building with white pilasters rising to the cornice that rimmed the flat roof. Much to Betsy’s consternation, even in the hurry-scurry of the city, she attracted attention. Reports about her continued to appear in the London journals, and knots of people gathered across the street from the hotel, hoping to glimpse the lovely American victim of Boney’s fury. The commotion had caused the recently installed prime minister, William Pitt, to place a guard outside her place of lodging.

At the beginning of June, the newspapers announced that there would be a new type of public entertainment for King George III’s June 4 birthday. The trooping of the colors, in which regiments of the British army would display their flags before the monarch, would take place on the Horse Guard Parade Ground near St. James Palace. Robert and Eliza both wanted to see it, but Betsy was afraid she would cause too much disruption if she appeared at such an event. “Please go enjoy yourselves,” she said. “I will be fine. I have several weeks to go before my child is due, and Jenny will be here if I need to send for help.”

Betsy spent much of that day sitting alone near her hotel window, positioned behind the lace curtain so she would not be visible from the street. All across the skyline, Union Jacks snapped in the breeze, and at noon, church bells tolled across the city. It seemed to Betsy that everyone in the world except her had something purposeful or celebratory to do. Now that she had a few hours alone, she could no longer ignore her inner certainty that June would certainly pass without the reunion Jerome had promised. To be sure, he could not come to her here in England, but she had hoped he would send a message about where she should meet him. Instead, the silence had grown increasingly ominous. To stave off the despondency that threatened to engulf her, Betsy began to sew another gown for her baby.

As the days passed, she came to regard the wooden divisions of her mullioned windows as the bars of a cage. Because of the crowds and her fear of appearing in newspapers, she refused to attend concerts or plays, or even to take carriage rides. Having to forego the cultural attractions she had craved for so long frustrated her, but her situation gave her little choice. She would not be the one to provide more gossip for the British newspapers to use against Napoleon. In consequence, the few times she needed to go out, she wore a veil.

Despite her withdrawal from public view, hardly a day passed without curious aristocrats sending up their cards and requesting permission to call on her. Their visits invariably left Betsy feeling like an exotic animal in a menagerie.

The only visitor who did not make her feel on display was Lady Frances Erskine, a young Pennsylvania woman who had married a British baron. A pretty twenty-four-year-old with large eyes and a fresh complexion, Lady Erskine commiserated with Betsy over her separation from Jerome. In addition, Lady Erskine suggested a reliable doctor who could deliver Betsy’s child.

“He is quite abreast of the latest ideas. My mama was shocked when she learned that he persuaded me to nurse my children, but that is what all the best doctors here advise.”

“Really!” Betsy exclaimed. “My mother used a wet nurse with all of us.”

“Mine too, but think of the filth you might be exposing your child to by entrusting him to some low creature.”

Betsy stared at the baby frock she was sewing. Although she would never discuss anything so private, she desperately missed her physical relationship with Jerome. Perhaps, if she nursed his child, it would help restore a sense of an intimate connection with him.

EVEN AFTER SEVERAL weeks, the hullabaloo over Betsy’s presence in London failed to subside. Feeling like a prisoner in her hotel, she asked her brothers to find a place to stay in one of the quieter outlying districts. After again consulting with James Monroe, Robert rented a house in the rural village of Camberwell, located south of the Thames and said to be healthy because of its mineral springs.

They moved in mid June to one of three identical, attached town houses. The buildings were each three windows wide and three stories high with basements and attics. They were constructed of yellow brick with red brick dressing above the mullioned windows, and they each had a black, six-panel door with a decorative fanlight above. Inside the house, the first floor had a parlor, dining room, and kitchen, while each of the upper two stories had four bedrooms.

The fifteenth of June passed without any word from Jerome, and Betsy spent the next day crying. Since coming to England, she had been trying to think of some way to contact her husband, from whom she had heard nothing since the letters Robert brought. She could not write Jerome directly because Napoleon’s spy network would certainly intercept any correspondence. Using either Garnier or Le Camus as intermediaries would be useless, and she did not know where Henriette and Jean-Jacques Reubell were because Henriette had ceased to write to her.

Still, Betsy did not cease her efforts. She wrote to several people who might have a chance to deliver a letter surreptitiously. One was Paul Bentalou, a French officer her family had known since he fought in the Revolutionary War. Bentalou had been Robert’s interpreter during his meetings with Jerome’s brothers Joseph and Lucien—and for providing that assistance, Napoleon had briefly imprisoned him. Despite that, Bentalou remained willing to work on their behalf. Although Betsy feared placing him in further jeopardy, she sent him a sealed letter for Jerome and begged him to use his own judgment to determine whether delivering it was safe.

Betsy sent letters through various channels to Lucien Bonaparte, who was still exiled to Italy as punishment for his own marriage. He did not answer. She also contacted James Monroe’s daughter, who was living in Paris and had gone to school with Hortense de Beauharnais, Josephine’s daughter from her first marriage. Betsy wrote to Miss Monroe and, after apologizing for the presumption, asked her to give her old schoolmate a letter to hand privately to Jerome. Since Jerome had often said how close he was to Josephine, Betsy hoped that Hortense—whom Napoleon had pressured into marriage with his unstable brother Louis—would sympathize with her plight. After two weeks, Miss Monroe wrote back that she had left the letter with Hortense but did not know if it had been passed on.

By then, the time for the birth was near. Betsy still believed that her child would one day be recognized as a member of the imperial family, so she decided to proceed as though she were being delivered of a royal heir. In addition to the doctor, she arranged for several women who lived nearby to witness the child’s birth.

On July 4, the Pattersons and Eliza Anderson had a quiet Independence Day supper in their rooms, and William and Robert made several toasts to the United States and the revolutionary heroes their family had known. Betsy’s back ached and her feet were swollen, so she felt cross and in no mood for displays of American patriotism. However, she held her tongue while the others indulged their nostalgia for their homeland.

Two days later, in the early evening, Betsy’s labor started. Eliza went with her into her bedroom and helped her into a loose gown. Robert went to fetch the doctor.

For the first hour or so, Betsy’s pains were similar to the cramps she suffered during her monthly flux, and she kept murmuring that she wished Jerome were there, perhaps not in the room with her but somewhere in the house. After a while, her labor pains increased in intensity until each one felt as though a massive force was compressing and twisting her womb, and as she pulled on the knotted sheet that Eliza had tied to the foot of the bed, Betsy screamed and called for her mother. Eventually, she grew too exhausted even to do that. As the contractions grew closer together and harder to endure, Betsy fell into an almost delirious state in which she imagined that Napoleon was inflicting the suffering upon her with his pitiless hatred for her and her child. When the time finally came to push the baby from her body, she felt as though she were trying to expel the emperor himself.

Early in the morning of July 7, she experienced one last agonizing moment of pushing and screaming and tearing of muscles, and then her body freed itself of its burden. Minutes later, a squalling red creature with wet hair was placed upon her chest. “You have a son,” the doctor said, and Betsy burst into tears. She stroked the baby’s head and whispered, “My little prince.” In that instant, she felt a rush of intensely protective love the like of which she had never known, and she laughed from exhilaration.

“What are you going to call him?” Eliza asked.

“Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte. No matter what the emperor says, the world must know who my son is.”

XVIII

O
NE afternoon a week later, Betsy sat in bed cradling the baby and singing a medieval French song she had learned as a schoolgirl:
“Sur le pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse. Sur le pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse tout en rond.”

When she finished, baby Jerome yawned, stretched out his arms, and then pulled them in to rest his fists upon his chest. He scrunched his face in a frown that made Betsy laugh. “Oh, you look so fierce. Are you trying to show Uncle Napoleon that you are just as formidable as he is?”

She kissed his forehead and smoothed his fuzzy brown hair. The love she felt for this tiny being had intensified with each passing day, but her joy in motherhood was darkened by sorrow over her separation from Jerome and uncertainty whether he knew of their son’s arrival.

“We must take you to meet Papa. He will be so proud to have a son that it will strengthen his resolve to defy the emperor.” Betsy tucked the blanket more closely around the baby and imagined a scene in which she presented him to her husband’s family, and they all exclaimed in wonder over what a Bonaparte the baby was.

A knock sounded upon her door, and Robert entered. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Betsy said, but she kept her eyes fixed on her son’s face. “Look at baby Jerome. Don’t you think he looks like Napoleon?”

“I cannot tell. All babies look alike. Is this why you sent for me?”

Betsy met her brother’s gaze. “No, but it does have a bearing on what I wish to say. A month has passed since the deadline Jerome set for his return, so I think we must go in search of him. As soon as I am well, I mean to travel to the continent with my son. He bears such a strong resemblance to the Bonapartes that he may soften their hearts in ways I cannot.”

Robert carried the chair from Betsy’s dressing table, positioned it beside her bed, and sat. “What difference do you suppose it will make to the emperor that your son looks like him? He has not questioned that Jerome is the father.”

“I know, but—” Betsy kissed the baby again. “Napoleon does not have a son, and some claim that he is incapable of fathering children. Joseph has only daughters, and Lucien’s son was born outside wedlock. That leaves only Louis’s two boys to serve as Napoleon’s heirs, and—well, rumor has it that Louis might not even be the father.”

“You should not lend so much credence to the English journals,” Robert said, referring to a recent article that repeated gossip about the Bonapartes’ amorous affairs to highlight Napoleon’s hypocrisy in rejecting the virtuous daughter of a respected American family. “You have complained often enough about their lies.”

“Even so, Louis’s boys are young and anything may happen. Napoleon needs my son to strengthen the imperial succession.”

Robert stroked the baby’s fist. “Betsy, Napoleon would never allow your son to inherit his throne.”

“He may think that now, but Jerome has got around his brother’s dictates before.” The sight of her son opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue distracted Betsy, and her heart filled with wonder over how perfect he was. Smiling at Robert, she said, “Besides, if the baby and I could meet the emperor, we might win him over.”

Robert sighed. “What do you propose? You are forbidden to enter any port under French control. Surely you do not imagine that Napoleon has lifted that ban.”

“No, but he will not be expecting this move from me. If I adopt an incognito and travel without ceremony—”

“If you were caught trying to enter the country, your ship would be fired upon as it was at Texel, and if you manage to land, you could be thrown in prison like poor Bentalou.” Robert leaned toward her with his forearm on one knee. “Think. What would then happen to your child?”

Betsy bit her lip. “Robert, I fear that Jerome may lose heart. There is no one to support him as he tries to uphold our marriage. Both Garnier and Le Camus have proven themselves my enemies, and
Madame Mère
seems unable to defy Napoleon even to please her favorite child. Jerome needs my help to remain firm.”

“Is that what you want, a husband who is incapable of playing the part of a man unless you push him to it?”

“I did not say that!” The baby squirmed, and Betsy lowered her voice. “Even if I had, it is not as though I still can choose whether to accept Jerome as my husband. Or do you too doubt the validity of my marriage?”

“No,” Robert answered wearily. “Despite certain irregularities attending it, I believe that your marriage is valid before God. But I wish your husband had taken greater care to protect you from legal questions.”

“So do I, but we cannot undo the past. The important thing now is my son. Whatever the faults of his father, I must do everything within my power to secure his heritage.”

Robert nodded. “I hope you know that, even if I do not fully agree with your plan, you have my unwavering support in anything to benefit young Jerome. Before you do anything rash, allow me to seek James Monroe’s counsel. Will you wait?”

“Yes. The doctor will not allow me to travel so soon anyway.”

BETSY WENT DOWNSTAIRS eighteen days after her son was born, even though the doctor had prescribed a month of bed rest. The baby was gaining weight and sleeping well, and she was eager to travel. Despite what her brother said, she could not shake the feeling that it was imperative to find Jerome.

Nearly two weeks passed before James Monroe answered Robert’s letter, but when he did, he advised Betsy not to go to the continent. He had made inquiries and learned that Jerome had been put in command of five ships and given the mission of sailing to Algiers to rescue 300 Christians who were enslaved there. The squadron had not yet left Genoa, but its departure was said to be imminent. Monroe also cautioned that if Betsy defied the emperor, it might rekindle Napoleon’s fury and counteract any exertions that Jerome might be making.

Although bitterly disappointed at being told to wait, Betsy was heartened to receive some concrete news. “This sounds like a worthy mission, does it not?” she asked her brothers. “Surely if Jerome accomplishes this successfully, the emperor must reward him.”

Robert and William exchanged a look, and William said, “That does not mean such a reward will be a reunion with you.”

Betsy put down the letter, which Robert had given her to read. “Why do you begrudge me what little hope I have?”

“I don’t. I simply do not want to see you subjected to further disappointment.”

The baby began to cry, so Betsy rose, but before leaving the parlor, she said, “I know you have both given up on Jerome, but I cannot. I remain certain that he loves me, and I believe that no matter how it appears, he is doing everything he can to soften his brother’s hostility.”

Robert stepped closer and laid a hand on her arm. “We do not doubt Jerome’s devotion, but as you have said, he has no one to help him stand firm. I think that even as you continue to hope, you must consider the possibility of returning home without a reconciliation.”

Shaking her head vehemently, Betsy said, “I believe the constancy of my faith in Jerome lends him strength even at a distance, and I cannot fail him in the only assistance I have to offer.” Then she went upstairs to tend to her son.

AFTER THEY RECEIVED the letter from James Monroe, the great wall of silence surrounding Jerome cracked a tiny bit, allowing snippets of news to leak out over the next few weeks.

On the last day of July, the London journals reported that in June, Jerome had held a reception on board his ship for his sister Elisa and other dignitaries. The report said that due to the exertions of Princess Elisa, Jerome was reconciled to the emperor.

The thought of Jerome indulging in an elegant shipboard banquet only a month after she, at his brother’s command, had endured starvation aboard a trapped ship caused Betsy to burst into tears. When Eliza Anderson offered sympathy, Betsy hurried away. No matter what her feelings, she was determined not to say anything that would express doubt in her husband.

The papers also reported that a battle had taken place between the British navy and the combined French and Spanish fleets in late July. As Napoleon’s ships were returning from the West Indies, British ships attacked them off Cape Finisterre, Spain. Although neither side defeated the other, the British claimed a victory because they had thwarted Napoleon’s plan to pull the bulk of their navy away from the English Channel, leaving it open to the French. Betsy did not know whether to be glad that the threat of invasion had lessened or worried that the outcome would worsen Napoleon’s temper.

Because their stay in England was lasting longer than anyone anticipated, William needed to leave to attend to their father’s business in other ports. After his departure, Betsy felt abandoned. Even though William was not her most congenial brother, he had been her protector during their peril at Texel, and she missed his quiet strength.

In early August, Betsy’s determination to stay on the east side of the Atlantic suffered an unexpected blow. Eliza received a letter informing her that one of her uncles had died and left her a legacy, and she wanted to return to Baltimore.

“But I cannot live abroad without a companion,” Betsy said, looking up from the piece of soft wool she had spread upon the table to hem into a blanket. “Can you not wait a little longer?”

Irritation flashed across Eliza’s face. “You will hardly be alone. Robertis here.”

“But what if he has to leave on business? I must have someone with me.”

Eliza grabbed the top of the chair opposite Betsy so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “I am not a servant, nor did I agree to such a lengthy exile from my daughter. When we first embarked upon this trip, you estimated that I would be in Europe a month or two at most. I have my own concerns.”

Betsy jabbed her needle into the blanket so precipitously that she pricked the index finger of the hand beneath it. After bringing the wounded finger to her mouth to suck away the blood, she said, “Believe me, if I could bring our sojourn in England to an end today, I would do so. I do not like being exiled here any more than you.”

“I know, which is why I have supported you in your difficulties. Can you not do the same for me?”

“What would you have me do? You know full well that I am powerless to change my circumstances.”

“I want you to admit that you no longer need me as companion.”

Betsy stood. “Except for you, I do not have a single friend in Europe. My brothers tire of this muddle and wish to make an end of it. Now you too want to leave me alone in my fight against Napoleon. If that is your wish, then sail back to Baltimore as soon as you can find the money to pay your own passage.”

Eliza gasped. Betsy flinched when she saw the stricken expression on her friend’s face, but her own feelings were in too much turmoil for her to apologize. She hurried from the parlor up to her bedroom, where she allowed herself to weep.

Betsy remained in her room all afternoon, but as the day passed, she grew increasingly ashamed of her thoughtless words. Yet she also remained hurt that Eliza wanted to abandon her.

In the evening, Robert returned to the house, and a few minutes later, he knocked at Betsy’s door. She hastily drew a blanket over her nursing baby and called for him to enter.

He sat on the side of the bed closest to her chair. “Eliza told me of your quarrel.”

Betsy nodded. “I responded badly. When she first mentioned the legacy, I was happy to hear of it, but when she spoke of leaving, all I could think was how much I need her here.”

“She has been a loyal companion, Betsy.”

“I know, and I am grateful.” She felt baby Jerome pull away from her nipple, so she peeked under the blanket at him. Then she said, “I just feel so alone, and the forces arrayed against me are so daunting.”

“Could you not reach some compromise?”

Betsy shifted the baby to her other breast, taking care to remain covered. “How?”

Robert, who had discreetly glanced away, looked at her again. “I think Eliza might be persuaded to stay if she knew that there would be a definite departure date.”

“How can I give her that? I have no idea myself how long I must wait for Jerome.”

“No, but if we cannot effect a speedy resolution, then it might be better for you to wait at home rather than to linger here in England.”

Betsy bit her lip. “Baltimore is so far away, and it will be much more difficult for Jerome to send for me there.”

“But it would have the advantage of removing you from the country Napoleon hates most.”

“Yes, there is that.” Betsy sighed. “I will go speak to Eliza as soon as I am finished here.”

Robert left her. Betsy removed the blanket so she could watch baby Jerome as he nursed. After several minutes, he stopped sucking, released her nipple, and relaxed back in her arms. Gazing down at his contented face, Betsy tried to imagine being separated from him for months the way Eliza had been separated from her daughter. The thought made her breasts ache. She rose carefully, placed her son in his cradle, and tucked a light blanket around him. When she felt certain that he remained asleep, Betsy went downstairs.

As soon as she entered the parlor, Eliza stood to leave. Betsy said hastily, “I am sorry. I responded selfishly earlier, and I regret it.”

Eliza turned to face her. “You cannot imagine the humiliation of dependency or the utter gall of having a friend fling the fact of your poverty in your face.”

“Forgive me. Truly, I was glad to hear about your legacy, and I regret that my first response was to refer to my inconvenience. You have assisted me greatly these last months.”

Eliza’s expression softened only a little. “I suppose I can stay until you decide what to do.”

“You would be doing me the greatest of favors,” Betsy said, grateful that her friend had yielded the point yet irritated that Eliza remained aloof. “I know it must be a hardship to be away from your daughter so long.”

At that, Eliza finally relaxed her ramrod-straight posture. “I confess that the last few weeks, having the baby in the house has sharpened my longing for my child.”

“I see.” Betsy gazed at her friend with new understanding. “So will you stay?”