The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (31 page)

After painstakingly translating the letter into French, she sent it to the French minister the day after Bo turned three years old.

XXIV

G
ENERAL Turreau responded by asking Betsy to call on him at the summer home he rented from her father. The move was socially risky since Turreau had cast off his wife, so Betsy asked Aunt Nancy to accompany her. In mid-July, they took a carriage to the general’s residence, where a servant led them to the drawing room. When Turreau joined them several minutes later, his eyebrows lifted at the sight of Miss Spear. Betsy, however, had not forgotten the court decree that implied she had ensnared Jerome through less-than-virtuous means, and she refused to give the Bonapartes any reason to malign her further.

Betsy and her aunt sat side by side on a sofa, so the diplomat chose a facing chair with claw feet and inlaid bellflowers on the arm supports. “I received your letter, Mademoiselle, and I shall forward your request to the emperor.” He toyed with the end of his mustache. “I must warn you that he is busy with affairs of state, so I cannot say how long he will take to reply.”

“I understand,
mon général,
but I must ask, if you would be so kind, to convey to his imperial majesty that my situation requires some urgency.”

“Urgency? Mademoiselle, your son is but three years old. There can be no urgent need to start his education.”

“No, sir, but I have a desperate need to leave my father’s house.” In a calculated show of emotion, Betsy held a handkerchief to her lips. “The embargo has hurt his business, and he wishes to rid himself of the expense of supporting us.”

General Turreau waved her concern away. “These things happen in time of war.”

“I understand.” Betsy lowered her gaze to prevent Turreau from guessing that she had set a trap for him. “But I must inform you that my father wishes me to remarry and has approved one particular suitor whose father is a British admiral. I have no stomach for this match, but if I continue to lack an income, I might not be able to hold out against my family’s pressure. In which case, the emperor’s nephew would be raised in Devonshire. As an Englishman.”

After a moment’s silence, Turreau laughed. “Mademoiselle, have you the audacity to attempt a flanking maneuver against the great Napoleon?”

Betsy shrugged to feign self-deprecation. “I do not understand you, sir.”

Turreau brought his two fists together knuckle to knuckle. “When two armies are about to meet, but one lacks the strength to survive a frontal attack, its general often makes a wide sweeping move around the side of his foe to attack a weak spot.” With his right hand, he made a curving gesture that bypassed the left fist and hit the wrist instead.

“I see.” She gazed at Turreau steadily to show that she was not ashamed of her ploy.

“Is there really an Englishman?”

“Yes, sir. I can produce his letters if you insist.”

At that, the diplomat learned forward. “You must not take the child to England. Nothing would be more certain to enrage the emperor.”

“I understand,
mon général.
That is why I presumed to use the word
urgency.”

Turreau smoothed his mustache. “I will do what I can. Now I must ask you some questions. First, it has not escaped my attention that you continue to use the name Bonaparte, which the emperor has expressly forbidden.”

“Only because it is the custom in this country. Were I to call myself Miss Patterson, I would be looked upon as a single woman with an illegitimate child. Surely, you must see how disastrous that would be for my son.”

Turreau shook his head. “The emperor will be adamant on this point.”

“Then he must give me another name to use—or perhaps a title.”

“I have heard that you are ambitious.”

“After the manner of women, yes. The emperor’s rejection of my marriage has cost me everything but my son, so I will fight for him using whatever weapons I have.” Realizing that the general would scoff at her true hopes, Betsy decided to dissimulate. “I know my child can never be a prince, but surely as the son of a Bonaparte, he deserves a life of some importance in Europe. All I ask is the means to prepare him for such a future.”

“I assure you that his imperial majesty has no desire to harm his brother’s son—or that son’s mother. But he cannot act in any way that will endanger his state.”

She nodded. “I understand,
mon général,
and I honor the emperor for his diligence as a ruler.”

Turreau then peppered her with questions: If the emperor gave her a title and an income, would she live in the European town he chose? Would she renounce her U.S. citizenship? Would she swear never to go to England? Would she promise not to marry without the emperor’s consent? Would she allow him to take charge of her son once Bo turned seven?

Most of the answers came easily to Betsy since she had long dreamed of living in Europe and truly had no desire to remarry. The question about being separated from Bo frightened her, but she told herself that she would have to send him to school in any case, and surely the emperor would allow her to visit him.

After Turreau finished interrogating her, he said, “I have no authority to put such a scheme in motion, Mademoiselle. I shall have to forward your letter and my own recommendations to Paris.”

“Of course.” Betsy rose, and Aunt Nancy followed suit. “We will not take up more of your time. Thank you for your assistance in this delicate matter.”

Turreau walked them to the front hall, where he studied Betsy in a frankly appraising way. “Mademoiselle, I now understand why we had so much difficulty persuading Prince Jerome to obey orders. You are a more formidable opponent than we realized.”

Unable to think of a suitable reply—and uncomfortable under his gaze—Betsy curtsied. Then she and her aunt left.

Once they were in the carriage, Nancy exclaimed, “I believe that old rake fancies you.”

Betsy shuddered. “Do not speak of it. The man is an ogre. If I stoop to using honeyed words with him, it is only because I must do so to achieve my ends.”

“Are you so sure that the end you seek is the right one?”

Turning to her aunt, Betsy saw that the older woman had pursed her lips, which drew unflattering attention to the lines around her mouth. “I don’t wish to quarrel, Aunt. I chose my path long ago, and I do not intend to deviate from it now. I will not see my son deprived of his rights.”

Then Betsy fell silent as she tried to calculate how long it might be before Napoleon answered.

EVEN THOUGH BETSY had insisted to Samuel Graves that she could not consider his proposal, he sent another letter to her at Springfield in August. As she carried it into a small back parlor where she could be alone, Betsy was surprised to see that it had been mailed from a place in Massachusetts where she and Jerome stayed on their journey from Niagara to Boston.

She sat on the sofa and dropped the letter unopened on her lap. The name of the village brought back such memories! The inn was one of the quaintest that she and Jerome visited—it had delftware tiles around the fireplace and blue toile bed-hangings—but the sweet décor was not what made it memorable. During that day’s stagecoach ride, Jerome had amused the other passengers with stories of their adventures at Niagara, particularly praising Betsy’s stamina and courage. She could tell from his ardent glances that he was growing aroused as he spoke, so she was not surprised that the moment they were alone in their room, he kissed her passionately. Jerome was so impatient that he would not wait for her to undress but rather hiked up her gown, bent her over the bed, and entered her from behind. Later, after they dined, he made love to her again, this time with more deliberate attention to her pleasure.

Her eyes filled with tears at the contrast between that wild joy and her present loneliness. How could Jerome have sacrificed a marriage of such passion for one of political expediency? Even after a year, she found his decision incomprehensible.

Betsy sighed, picked up the letter, and broke the seal. Graves explained that he was in New England, and remembering her account of the excursion to Niagara, he had stopped at one of the inns where she stayed and persuaded the landlord to put him in the same room.

Reading that gave Betsy a sense of uneasiness, a feeling that was compounded when she turned to the second page and discovered a love poem in which Graves described tossing and turning all night because his emotions were agitated by sleeping where she had once lain.

Betsy released the letter, which fluttered to the floor. The knowledge that the young Englishman would occupy a bed she had shared with Jerome and then lie awake imagining scenes of love sickened her. Retrieving the letter, she carried it upstairs to lock away with her other correspondence. It would not do for anyone else in her family to read it.

BECAUSE TURREAU HAD warned Betsy that Napoleon would be slow to answer, she tried not to feel any hope about each day’s post. However, an unexpected letter arrived at the South Street house in late September. Sent by Auguste Le Camus, who was in New York, it enclosed two letters from Jerome, one for Betsy and one for her father.

Betsy handed her father’s letter to Dorcas, who sat working with Octavius on his reading. Then Betsy tore open hers. Scanning the page eagerly, she learned to her horror that Jerome was writing, not to beg her forgiveness, but to ask her to give up their son:

I know in advance, my well-beloved Elisa, what it will cost you to be separated from him, but you will never be so blind to his true interest and your own, as not to consent to his departure. A brilliant destiny is reserved for him. Our son should enjoy all the advantages which his birth and his name give him the right to claim, and you cannot permit him to lose these advantages without ceasing to love him, and without making yourself responsible for his fate.

“No!” Betsy exclaimed. The air went out of the room, and her breath began to come in gasps. The murmur of Octavius reading grew abnormally loud, and Betsy felt her surroundings spin around her. As she struggled against terror, she remembered Eliza saying that her main fear in seeking a divorce was that the courts usually awarded fathers custody of any children.

“Mother! He wants Bo. He intends to take Bo!” Betsy’s words tumbled over themselves like stones in a landslide.

Dorcas crossed the room and snatched the letter from Betsy’s hand. She skimmed it before saying to Octavius, “Run, get your father. Hurry.”

Then she led Betsy to the sofa, where she made her bend over her lap so her head was by her knees. Rubbing her back, Dorcas said, “Shhh, calm yourself. It has not happened yet.”

Too desperate to remain still, Betsy sat up and wrung her hands. “Jerome will have the law on his side, so what can I do? If he takes my boy, I will have no reason to live. I swear, I will throw myself in the harbor.”

“Don’t say that. It is wicked.”

“Do you think I care?” Betsy jumped up. “Where is Bo?”

“You know he is taking a nap.” Dorcas stood and grasped her by the arm. “You will frighten him if you go up in this hysterical state.”

Betsy wrenched herself free, threw herself back on the sofa, and sobbed. As her mother tried to soothe her, William Patterson entered the room.

“What is the meaning of this tumult?”

“Jerome has written Betsy. He wants to raise the boy in Westphalia.”

Hearing those words, Betsy froze, her tears halted by a new fear—that, as a man, her father would support Jerome’s paternal rights. She watched with dread as her father read his letter from Jerome. During the wait, Dorcas shepherded Octavius from the room.

After he finished, Patterson said, “He claims that Napoleon has consented to this plan, and he urges me to persuade you.”

I will take Bo and run away,
Betsy thought.
But where can I go? Could Samuel Graves protect us if I married him and went to England?

As Betsy’s thoughts raced, her father swore. “The impudence. He writes that having his son will console him for losing you, Betsy. What of your sorrows? Jerome has attained the rank he always wanted, and now he wants to deprive you of your one comfort.”

“Then you do not think his claims outweigh mine?”

Patterson rubbed his brow. “Under the law, a father’s claims take precedence. But I cannot imagine that Jerome would leave his kingdom to contest a lawsuit here.”

She clasped her hands together. “If the emperor has authorized this plan and submits a formal request to our government—”

“I think it unlikely that Napoleon would exert himself to such an extent to satisfy Jerome. At any rate, our family is not without powerful friends, and I will do what I can to prevent such a thing. I would not wish to see the boy torn from a respectable, honest family to be raised among the dissipations of court.”

Instead of comforting Betsy, her father’s words reinforced her fear that he intended to turn Bo into a Yankee merchant. Tears pricked her eyes as she realized that she might have to sacrifice her own interests for her son’s good. “My deepest desire is for Bo to attain his rights as a Bonaparte prince,” she protested. “How can I deprive him of the advantages that are his by birth?”

“What advantage? That of being raised as a puppet king’s bastard son?”

“But he
is
a king’s son.” She stared at her father’s purple face and wondered if they would ever understand each other. “If Jerome can give our son his rightful place at court, would it not be selfish for me to put my needs ahead of his?”

Patterson tossed aside his letter. “I
am
talking about your son’s needs. What do you think will happen when Jerome’s queen gives him a legitimate heir?”

“Bo is his legitimate heir!”

“Not in the eyes of the Bonapartes. When Jerome has a son from this new marriage, he will cast the boy aside just as he did you. And there will be nothing you can do to mitigate his circumstances because they will not let you near him.”

Gazing at the Turkish carpet, Betsy had to admit the logic in her father’s words. But did they appeal to her because they were what she wanted to hear? She needed to get counsel from someone who understood the political ramifications better than they did.

As Betsy wondered whom to ask, she heard small feet pounding down the stairs. Bo burst into the drawing room and, confronted with the unexpected sight of his grandfather, shouted, “Grandpa!” He hurtled himself onto Patterson’s lap. Then, as Bo turned around and wriggled into a comfortable position, he caught sight of his mother’s face.