The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (27 page)

The following week, shouting in the street below caused Betsy to rise from the sofa where she sat sewing and look out the window. To her astonishment, she saw her brother Joseph jump down from the driver’s seat of a wagon and gesture to two workingmen who rode in back. Joseph hurried in the house and into the drawing room. “Betsy, why did you fail to warn Father that you were expecting a shipment from England?”

“What?”

“Two crates have arrived from the London, and they are directed to you.” He pivoted and went outside again.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. The two laborers came through the doorway, set down the wooden containers—one larger than the other—and stood there awkwardly.

Joseph re-entered the room with a crowbar. He handed it to the brawnier of the two men, who pried off the lids with ease. Then the men left.

Seeing fabric in the larger crate, Betsy went to it and saw that it contained several folded garments. On top were two letters addressed to her. The first one was from a Lady Elgin, whom Jerome had asked to convey a box of presents to Betsy in London. “Your husband especially wished me to say that the only pleasure he has known since your separation was the act of selecting the most beautiful gifts for his most beloved wife.”

For an instant, Betsy was carried back to the morning after her wedding when Jerome had surprised her with a bedroom full of French fashions. Now, he was repeating the gesture to prove that his love had not diminished.

The other letter, from a Mrs. McKenzie, explained that Lady Elgin had sent the crates to her husband’s shipping firm, but by the time they arrived in London, Betsy had already sailed.

As Betsy pulled out the clothes, she saw that Parisian fashions had changed. None of these gowns were sheer. Some were of lined muslin, while others were silk in shades of rose, jonquil, and pearl grey. One was even a deep rich brown. More decoration also seemed to be in vogue. The brown evening gown had a center panel with inserts of cream-colored diamonds, while a muslin gown was embroidered with sunflowers stitched in gilt thread and further embellished with gold sequins.

After Betsy had removed the dresses, she found three hatboxes, each containing an elaborately trimmed bonnet—one of which featured a bunch of silk violets that reminded her of the nosegay Jerome had bought her in Lisbon. The crate also held fine undergarments. “This is an entire wardrobe,” she exclaimed to her mother. Excitedly, Betsy hurried to the large gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall near her father’s desk and held up a deep blue gown trimmed in exquisite Valenciennes lace.

As she examined her reflection, Joseph dug through the straw in the smaller crate and pulled out two caskets. “Come see what these contain.”

“All right.” Betsy draped the blue dress across the sofa back and knelt by him.

The smaller casket was about a foot long, eight inches wide, and eight inches high. Betsy opened it and then sat back on the floor in astonishment. The coffer contained stacks of bright gold coins. As she picked up a handful of coins and let them slip through her fingers, she began to feel breathless.

Joseph picked up two coins that had tumbled to the floor. He counted the stacks in the casket and checked the number of coins in a single stack. “There are a thousand coins.”

“How much are they worth?”

“Each one is a little less than a dollar and a half. You probably have about $1,400 here.”

“Oh.” Betsy tried to calculate what that meant, but she was too flustered.

“Does the other casket have coins too?”

“I don’t know,” Betsy answered but made no move to open it. After waiting a few seconds, Joseph flung open the lid, revealing that the casket was filled with velvet pouches. He grabbed the top one, pulled open the mouth, and looked inside.

“Jewelry,” he said in a tone of disgust

“Jewelry,” Betsy repeated as Joseph left the room.

Dorcas approached and carefully lowered herself to sit by her daughter. “Do you want me to help you look through them?”

“All right,” Betsy said, but she could not take her eyes off the bright gold. Was there enough money to rent a house? She tried to remember if she had ever heard how much her father charged for his rental properties, but her mind was awhirl.

“Oh, look!” Dorcas took out a choker of fine cameos set in filigree and linked together. A second pouch held a diamond necklace, a third held a square-cut emerald ring, and a fourth held a gold locket engraved with Napoleon’s imperial bee. “How stunning.”

After glancing inside the fifth pouch, she gave it to Betsy. “You should do this one.”

Intrigued, Betsy reached into the velvet bag and pulled out a miniature of Jerome wearing a heavily braided dark blue uniform—and a narrow moustache that reached to the corners of his mouth. “Oh, no! He looks like a pirate!” Betsy dropped the miniature in her lap. “I might not know him when he comes back.”

Dorcas gave her a one-armed hug. “Of course you will.”

They heard the front door slam, and then William Patterson strode into the room. “Joseph said that the shipment is from Jerome.”

“Yes.” Betsy placed the miniature on her palm and wondered how it would feel to kiss a mustached Jerome. Then, seeing movement to her side, she glanced up to see her father lift the casket of money.

“This will repay perhaps half the debt your husband owes me.”

“Father, you cannot take it.” Fighting against her skirts, Betsy scrambled to her feet. “Jerome sent me that money so I can set up my own household.”

“Do not be absurd. You would run through this in two months.”

“That is not fair. I have never had the chance to prove my ability to manage money. You continually complain about supporting me and Bo, so let us move out.”

Patterson tucked the casket more firmly under his arm. “And when this is gone, you will have to move back here and I would again have to pay your expenses.”

“Mr. Patterson, please don’t be so harsh.” Dorcas came to stand beside her daughter. “None of this is Betsy’s fault.”

“There I disagree with you, madam.”

“Never mind, Mother,” Betsy said in a low voice. To her father, she said, “You forget that I have furnishings in storage. My only expense will be rent and food, and I can learn to economize. I am sure Jerome intends to send for us before the money runs out.”

“That will not happen, Elizabeth. The emperor will never let you live together again. Accept your fate.”

“No, sir,” she said, lifting her chin. “The most recent letters have restored my hope. Jerome is exerting all his energies to soften Napoleon’s anger.”

Although her father shook his head, he walked to the table by the front windows and set the casket down. To Betsy’s surprise, he began to divide the coins into two portions. “I will give you half. It won’t be enough for you to indulge this foolish scheme of setting up your own household, but it will allow you to spend some money on your boy.”

“It should all be mine!”

He turned to stare at her. “Do you wish me to repeat the exercise of proving that Jerome owes me far more than this?”

“No, sir,” she said, staring at the floor to hide her resentment.

“I expect a little gratitude for the fact that I am allowing you half.”

Gratitude. For what is rightfully mine!
Betsy knew that if she expressed such thoughts, her father might change his mind, so she pushed down her anger, which felt like swallowing a sizable stone. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

After her father finished dividing the money, he swept his half into the casket and picked it up. Before leaving, he said, “Be grateful that I do not confiscate the pieces of jewelry. If you are absolutely determined to live on your own, I suggest you consider selling them and the other luxuries with which your husband has indulged you. You are not a princess, Elizabeth, and there is no reason for you to live as if you were.”

ON MAY 1, 1806, Robert and Marianne were married in Annapolis by Marianne’s great-uncle, John Carroll, the bishop who had married Betsy and Jerome. Betsy wore the gold-embroidered gown, glad to have new clothes for the occasion, but her pleasure was short-lived. The ceremony tortured her with memories of her own marriage.

After the wedding feast at the four-story brick house of Marianne’s grandfather, Bishop Carroll directed Betsy to a small sitting room attached to the guest chamber, which he occupied. They sat on ladder-back chairs drawn up to a drop-leaf mahogany table. “Madame Bonaparte, I want to speak to you about an important matter. I recently received a communication from His Holiness, Pope Pius VII. It seems the emperor wrote to him requesting an annulment of your marriage.”

Betsy could not meet his eyes. “Did he grant the emperor’s request?”

“No, he investigated the matter and concluded that he had no grounds to annul the marriage. Since I officiated at the ceremony, he thought it only proper that I should know.”

“Oh!” She lifted her head and gazed at him. He had kindly eyes and a normally firm mouth that now curved in a gentle smile. “Thank you, Bishop Carroll. That gives me hope.”

As they rose to return to the reception, he said, “I hope that you saw to your son’s baptism while you were in England.”

Betsy halted, feeling a twinge of guilt. “No, sir, I did not.”

“Did you have difficulty finding Catholic clergy to perform the rite?”

“No, I am waiting in hope that he can be baptized in Notre Dame as befits his rank.”

Sternness replaced the bishop’s genial expression, and he shook his forefinger at her. “Madam, rank has no place in this decision. You imperil your son’s soul by not having him baptized.”

“But I would like his father to be present at the ceremony.”

“Mr. Bonaparte’s absence is regrettable, but you must not delay the baptism.”

“Yes, sir.” Betsy lowered her eyes demurely, yet she remained determined to do as she liked.

XXI

I
N mid-May, a thick letter arrived from Jerome. Before Betsy curled up on the sofa to read it, she handed Bo to her mother, who sat at the drawing room table showing Henry how to write the alphabet. Opening the letter, Betsy saw that Jerome had sent it from French Guiana in northeastern South America.

My beloved wife, I have just arrived on the coast of Cayenne and, in spite of my ship being four leagues from the land, I have gone ashore to find an opportunity to get a message to you. Imagine my delight when I looked up the captain of an American schooner to find that he knew you, and had seen you and my son three days before he sailed. I must confess, my Elisa, that this is the first moment of happiness since I left you.

Betsy’s concentration was broken by the sound of crying. Glancing up, she saw Bo struggling against his grandmother’s embrace. He called, “Mama!”

She sighed. “Bring him here.”

Dorcas carried Bo to Betsy, who set him on her lap and kissed the top of his head. “Be a good boy and let Mama read.”

“Mama!” Bo said and crowed with laughter. Betsy scratched his belly with her left hand and went back to reading the letter.

It isn’t possible, my dear Elisa, that not one of all my letters has reached you. Any one of them would have removed any apprehension you might have of the fidelity of your good husband. Do you believe, my dear wife, that if I had renounced you I would be in command of one of His Majesty’s ships? For an ordinary officer, this commission that I have is good, especially at my age, but for me, who by a single word could have been and could still be anything, what kind of a job is it? Be assured, my good Elisa, that if I had wished to separate myself from you and my son who are the objects of all my affection, I should already have done so, and at the moment that I write you instead of being a subject I should have been a king.

He went on to swear that a crown meant nothing without her, and that after the war, he would rejoin her even if it meant doing without title or fortune. Then he cautioned her:

You must realize, my dear wife, how essential it is that you keep all this in the greatest secrecy, even that you have received a letter from me. Don’t tell anyone except your father and your good mother. Don’t make yourself unhappy, keep busy with the education of my son; especially make a Frenchman of him, not an American, so that the first words that he speaks will be about his father and his King, that he knows early that the great Napoleon is his uncle and that he is destined to become a prince and a statesman.

“Do you hear that, Bo? Papa wants you to know that you will be a prince. Silly Papa. I tell you that every day.”

Betsy folded the pages and tucked them under her skirt so Bo could not grab them and put them in his mouth, which he was liable to do now that he was cutting teeth.

“Was it a good letter?” her mother asked.

Betsy nodded. “Jerome met a captain from Baltimore and learned of our distress, so he went to great lengths to reassure me.”

“How much longer do you think it may be before he can send for you?”

Bo whimpered, so Betsy gave him the knuckle of her thumb to rub his sore gums upon. “He writes that we must wait for the war to end, so I fear he has given up the idea of winning a great victory that will change the emperor’s mind.”

“Perhaps Jerome has realized that the emperor cannot be swayed,” Dorcas said as she demonstrated for Henry the correct way to form some of his letters.

“Then why does he not say that our plight is hopeless?”

“Betsy.” Dorcas’s tone was one of gentle remonstrance. “You know that Jerome is not one to take an unflinching view of circumstances. Have you forgotten that he always describes himself as possessing a nature that lives on hope?”

“I know. But I cannot bear the thought of waiting for peace. France and England have already been at war fourteen years.” Bo grew restive, so Betsy bounced him on her knee.

“What else can you do? You cannot go back to Europe until he sends for you, and you cannot live on your own unless he sends you an allowance.”

“Even if he did, Father would not let me keep it.” Betsy rose and moved the increasingly fussy Bo to rest against her shoulder.

“He would never take more than enough to pay Jerome’s debts.”

As Betsy rubbed Bo’s back, she swayed rhythmically to calm him. “A more loving parent would not take even that. If my son ever lived through such danger as I was in last year, I would embrace him and thank God for his safety rather than harangue him for being a bad investment.”

Dorcas rose to face her. “Betsy, your father
was
concerned for your safety. But once you returned home—”

“Whatever fatherly affection he might have felt was consumed by his love for profit.”

“You are not being just.”

“Just? Is anything that happened to me in the last year just?” In spite of Betsy’s efforts to soothe Bo, he began to cry. “And how am I being unfair by observing rightly that Father has expressed more concern for his pocketbook than my wellbeing? He is the one who is unjust, not me.” Betsy turned sharply and carried her son from the room.

IN LATE SPRING, news reached Baltimore that Napoleon was remaking the map of Europe. In the wake of his victory at Austerlitz, he wooed several small German states away from their allegiance to Francis I, emperor of Austria and the Holy Roman Empire. Napoleon signed treaties with Bavaria, Württemberg, and Baden, recognizing their full and independent sovereignty. At the same time, he awarded the rulers of Bavaria and Württemberg the status of kings and gave them territory he had taken from Austria.

Then Napoleon made a series of appointments and political marriages that demonstrated to Betsy as nothing else what his plans must be for Jerome. In March 1806, the emperor named his brother Joseph king of Naples. Earlier in the year, Napoleon had arranged for his stepson Eugene de Beauharnais to marry the king of Bavaria’s daughter and for his adopted daughter Stephanie de Beauharnais to marry the crown prince of Baden. Napoleon also combined two smaller German states into the Grand Duchy of Berg and Cleèves, which he gave to his brother-in-law Joachim Murat. That act infuriated Betsy more than anything else. Murat might be a great field marshal, but as the son of an innkeeper, his origins were far lower than Betsy’s. Why was he good enough to be elevated royalty and not she?

Then Patterson received information from his London associate Mr. James McIlhiny that confirmed Betsy’s fears. McIlhiny passed on reports that the previous autumn Napoleon had tried to persuade the widowed Queen of Etruria to marry Jerome, but she spurned the idea, saying she would rather give up her crown.

When Betsy’s father read her that passage, her heart quailed but she kept her head high. “Mere gossip. The pope refused to annul our marriage, so Jerome cannot marry again. And just because Napoleon proposes an alliance does not mean that Jerome will acquiesce.”

As the news of political marriages trickled in from Europe, the Patterson family finalized an alliance of its own. That summer Betsy’s brother John was to marry Polly Nicholas in a ceremony at Mount Warren. Revisiting the plantation where she had been exiled during her broken engagement depressed Betsy. While Senator Nicholas, his wife, Polly, and John greeted the arriving Pattersons in the spacious marble-floored front hall, Betsy hung back, oppressed by memories of having been torn from Jerome, not once now but twice. During the last few weeks, her misery had been eased by the hope she found in Jerome’s letters. Now that she was back in this place where she had known such unhappiness, however, the ghost of her old grief came back to haunt her and filled her with such anguish that she wanted to howl. Instead, she nodded, smiled, and said hello as demurely as Polly herself.

As if the reminder of her past wretchedness was not enough, during the three-day visit, the Nicholases and their guests made several remarks to Betsy that contained just enough pity or malice to sting but not enough to justify a sharp retort. When people said, “How sad that your son has never known his father,” how could she argue?

Fortunately, the June weather was fine, so whenever the comments about Jerome grew too oppressive, Betsy excused herself to take Bo outdoors. She let him practice walking unassisted on the springy lawn where he could fall without mishap, and she took him to visit the plantation’s gardens and animal pens. Bo ate fresh-picked strawberries until his lips turned red, and he clapped at the sight of horses galloping around the paddock. Betsy led him toward the pond to see if any fish were darting to the surface. As they drew near the water, a goose rushed at them with upraised wings and angry honks, causing Bo to squeal and grasp his mother’s skirts. When she picked him up, he clung tightly to Betsy’s neck and refused to be set back down.

Once they returned to Baltimore, Betsy struggled against an overpowering gloom. When her father, brothers, and sisters went to hear the public speeches on Independence Day, she stayed home and spent the afternoon in her bedroom, ignoring the sounds of celebratory musket fire outside as she reread Jerome’s letters.

Three days later, Betsy’s parents celebrated her son’s first birthday by serving cake and giving Bo a wooden boat, but Betsy felt dejected that nothing came from her husband. She was further distressed when Bo left her side to toddle across the drawing room and lean on his grandfather’s knee. Betsy’s son wanted a father as any little boy would, and she was afraid that if Jerome did not send for them soon, Bo would look to others to fill that place.

In late July, Betsy received a letter that Jerome had mailed from Martinique. Mary Ann and Bo were upstairs napping, and her mother was teaching five-year-old Henry and four-year-old Octavius at the drawing room table, so Betsy settled on the sofa to read.

There is one thing that I must admit to you now, my Elisa, but only between us, that is that three days after your departure from Holland, the general there was given an order to receive you as the wife of the brother of the Emperor, and that your departure for England was the only cause of our separation.

Confused and hurt by the unexpected rebuke, Betsy read the letter a second time to make sure she had understood it. Then she crossed to the table where Dorcas was having her two youngest sons count aloud as she stacked toy blocks in a tower.

“Mother, please read this.”

As Dorcas took the sheet of paper, Octavius knocked the tower down. “Again!”

Dorcas held up one hand and said, “Wait,” as she scanned the brief paragraph. Then she raised troubled eyes to her oldest daughter. “Do you think this can possibly be true?”

Betsy shook her head. “I don’t see how. Robert remained in Holland several days after we left, and the authorities knew who he was because he had petitioned them while our ship lay under guard. They said nothing of this to him.”

The sound of the little boys shouting as Henry piled up blocks caused the two women to move away from the table. “Then this makes no sense.”

Betsy took back the page and stared at the bitter words. “Why, after more than a year, does he reproach me when he knows I had no choice?”

Dorcas shook her head but made no answer, and Betsy felt her hopes plummet. “It is the emperor’s doing. He has finally persuaded Jerome to blame me for our separation.”

“You do not know that.” Her mother took her arm. “He may have written this letter in a dark mood on a day when he felt isolated. That does not mean he has decided to give you up. It simply means that even Jerome has moments of despondency.”

“Oh, Mother, if he repudiates me, I do not know how I shall go on.”

IN AUGUST, THE family moved to Springfield to escape the dangers of yellow fever in the city. While in the country, Betsy received a letter from Robert, who was visiting northern cities with Marianne. He wrote that he had heard that Jerome’s squadron was touring the Atlantic off the eastern seaboard, so surely Jerome would find a way to see her.

For days afterward, Betsy was restless with anticipation. Each morning she carefully arranged her hair and put on one of her most attractive gowns. At least once a day, she walked Bo down the driveway, indulging in the fantasy that Jerome would ride up and meet them halfway to the house. She imagined how her husband would kiss her and then lift Bo into the air, exclaiming, “Elisa, he looks exactly like the emperor.”

The thought that their long separation might soon be over made her giddy enough to joke and laugh with her younger siblings. After a week, however, Betsy’s high spirits palled and she began to fear that Robert’s information was yet another false rumor. She still looked up sharply whenever she heard the clatter of hooves or the jingle of a bridle outside, but each time the sound proved to be from normal plantation business.

Finally, a letter arrived:

Just a word, my dear and beloved Elisa. I am well and filled with regret at being only 150 leagues from you without having the happiness of seeing you. I embrace you with all my heart. Kiss Napoleon for me and give my compliments to your family.

J. Bonaparte

Betsy frowned at the instruction to kiss Napoleon until she realized that Jerome must mean their son. As she read the letter a second time, its brevity and cool tone dismayed her.

She went upstairs to where Bo lay napping in the trundle bed that was pulled out from under her four-poster. He lay on his back, sleeping in only a diaper because the heat had given him a rash. His dark blond hair lay upon his forehead in damp spikes, and his sturdy legs were streaked with dirt from the walk they had taken earlier. Betsy sat in an armchair by the window and leaned her head on her hand. That Jerome could be so close and not come to her discouraged Betsy more than anything else that had happened. Either he was under constant surveillance—as he had hinted with his urgings toward secrecy—or he had finally lost heart.

“If only he had braved his brother’s displeasure to meet you,” she murmured to her child. When she remembered the ardent declarations of love in Jerome’s letters, she felt bewildered that he had not seized this opportunity to see his son. Reluctantly, she recalled how during the trip to Niagara, Jerome had spun outlandish tales seemingly to paint himself as a better man than he was. Had all the letters on which she pinned her hopes been only so much bluster?