The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (4 page)

In response to Uncle Smith, who had brought that last bit of news, Betsy’s father said, “I, for one, welcome that humiliation to our former colonial masters.”

Uncle Smith shook his head. “Do not be so quick to applaud Bonaparte. Rumor is that he plans to create an American empire out of the Caribbean islands and the lands west of the Mississippi. And once he accomplishes that grand design, what will stop him from swallowing the United States as little more than a tasty sweet at the end of an enormous meal?”

“I admire Bonaparte!” Betsy exclaimed as she approached the sofa where the two men sat drinking tea. She handed each a plate of fruitcake. “He is the only person who has managed to bring stability to France since the Revolution.”

“Betsy, mind your manners and do not express opinions you are not qualified to hold.”

“Yes, Father,” she said with apparent meekness, but her cheeks burned from the sting of the reprimand.

In the months that followed, to Betsy’s disappointment, events seemed to prove the alarmists correct. Shortly after negotiating peace with Britain, Bonaparte sent an expedition to reconquer Saint-Domingue. Then in October 1802, Spain ceded the vast Louisiana Territory back to France. Immediately afterward, French officials closed the port of New Orleans to American shipping, leaving those Americans who lived upriver in territories along the Mississippi without a way to transport goods. To the farmers of the Northwest and merchants such as the Pattersons, that act was an outrage.

Then fate turned against Bonaparte. Yellow fever killed thousands of French soldiers on Saint-Domingue, including their commander—Napoleon’s brother-in-law General Charles Leclerc. The resulting failure to reestablish a Caribbean base fatally compromised Bonaparte’s plan for an American empire. Hostilities with Britain broke out again in May 1803. It soon became an open secret that President Jefferson had sent ministers to offer to buy New Orleans from France, which needed money for its army. Many of the Americans who had called for war when New Orleans was closed adopted a wait-and-see attitude.

IN JUNE 1803, the Pattersons retreated, as was their custom, to their Springfield estate 30 miles west of Baltimore. It was a sprawling, white, 175-foot-wide country house with pillared porches on each of the two stories. To Betsy, the best thing about being there was that the family had room to spread out and the children spent most of each day outdoors, freeing her from the need to give lessons.

Their Smith cousins came to visit in July, and Uncle Smith, who was now a U.S. senator, brought astonishing news. On Independence Day, President Jefferson publicly announced that he had purchased not just the port of New Orleans but also the entire Louisiana Territory, a move that instantly doubled the size of the United States.

Of all the listening family, only William Jr. frowned at the report. He frequently displayed a priggish turn of mind that annoyed Betsy. “But sir, does the president have the constitutional authority to make such a purchase?”

“Perhaps not. I believe even Mr. Jefferson doubts its legality. But we in Congress will pass an act to regularize it. This acquisition is too important to the future of this country.”

With the threat of French empire-building eliminated, the Pattersons could relax and enjoy the benefits of country living. Dorcas shook off her lethargy and spent time working in her flower garden, and her increased participation in family life allowed eighteen-year-old Betsy more freedom to go walking or riding through fields and woods. As a result, both women were in better spirits when they moved back to their town house in August.

The following week, Betsy convinced her parents to let Robert escort her to the races, one of the most popular events in Baltimore. The day after Betsy’s arrival home from Springfield, Henriette had paid a call to share the incredible news that Jerome Bonaparte, Napoleon’s youngest brother, was visiting their city. “I met Lieutenant Bonaparte at a soirée last night, and he asked about you! He had already heard that you are the most beautiful girl in Baltimore, and of course, I confirmed the report.”

“You are too kind,” Betsy had replied with a slight dip of the head. “Why would you praise me to such a distinguished visitor instead of trying to charm him yourself?”

The older girl waved the question away with an airy gesture. “Lieutenant Bonaparte does not interest me. I prefer one of his companions.” Henriette had gone on to say that Bonaparte traveled with an entourage of a physician, a secretary, and two aides—a ridiculously large retinue for someone of his rank. “He carries himself more like a prince than a naval lieutenant.”

“Perhaps the First Consul is preparing him for great office.”

Now as Betsy dressed for her outing, she recalled that Henriette also described Lieutenant Bonaparte as loving amusement. Perhaps, he would be at the races. Betsy felt restless with anticipation as she chose her attire, a buff silk gown that set off her auburn hair and a lightweight brown spencer. Topping off the outfit was her new leghorn hat, trimmed with pink tulle that flattered her fair complexion and a curling black ostrich feather that gave her a saucy look.

Every sort of conveyance—from small one-horse gigs and chaises to ornate coaches drawn by matched teams of four—crowded the road from town, so it took twice as long to reach the racetrack as Betsy expected. She bit her lip and fretted that they would arrive too late to enjoy the pre-race socializing, but Robert was a more experienced racegoer than she and had made certain they left in time.

When they finally arrived at the grounds, Robert and Betsy alighted from their carriage and gave the coachman orders to come back at the end of the day. Since the Revolutionary War, the sport of horse racing had grown in popularity so that, in America at least, it was no longer the “sport of kings” but was a democratic amusement enjoyed by everyone who could pay the price of admission. Robert glanced around at the mixed crowd and rubbed his chin. “Stay close by my side, Goose.”

“Do not call me that in public,” Betsy whispered.

Before finding a seat in the whitewashed wooden stands, they made their way to where Uncle Smith was talking to Commander Joshua Barney, a naval officer in his forties who had collar-length hair and dark eyes that drooped at the outer corners. Barney was famous for having captured a British ship during the Revolutionary War. He had recently returned to Baltimore from a period of service in the French navy, and today he wore a dark blue French uniform with red collar and gold epaulets. Betsy’s heart beat faster when she saw him because she had heard that Barney was Jerome Bonaparte’s host in Baltimore. However, as she scanned the people milling about the commander, she could see no sign that the officer had brought his guests.

Uncle Smith saw the two Pattersons approaching and called out, “Robert, how did you talk your father into letting you leave work?”

“Betsy wanted to attend the races, and Mother persuaded him that we both deserved a holiday.” Robert shook Commander Barney’s hand. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“And you, Robert. I hear tell that your brother John has gone to live with the Wilson Cary Nicholas family. Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. He and Senator Nicholas’s oldest daughter have an understanding.” Robert glanced toward the track. “What animals do you expect to make a good showing today?”

The men became engrossed in analyzing the horses that would run and the odds of each one winning. Bored by the talk of wagering, Betsy opened her parasol to protect her skin from the bright September sun. The Caton family was standing against the whitewashed wooden railing that enclosed the track, and fifteen-year-old Marianne was tossing her head and flirting outrageously with sixteen-year-old Lloyd Rogers as though they were old enough to be courting. Betsy clucked her disapproval. Although she hardly knew the Caton sisters, she had no liking for them. In her opinion, they were entirely too proud of their status as Charles Carroll’s granddaughters, as if they had been the ones to sign the Declaration of Independence and not he.

A gust of wind blew dust from the track. Betsy shifted her parasol and glanced to her left and then caught her breath. Walking toward her from the stables were two uniformed men she had never seen before. One was a tall man in his late twenties with brown hair and a serious expression. He wore a French army uniform of white trousers and blue jacket with red cuffs and collar, topped by a bicorn hat with the tri-color cockade. The other, much younger man was of medium height, and he wore a naval uniform embellished with so much gold braid that it bordered upon bad taste. He carried his hat under his arm, and the sun glinted off his black hair.

The two men were talking intently. Seizing the chance to look closely at the younger man, Betsy decided he must be Napoleon’s brother. He had the same deep-set eyes, long nose, and firm chin she had seen in engraved portraits of Bonaparte published in the newspapers. Yet he had a more romantic appearance than his stern older brother, perhaps because of his tousled curls or the merry look on his face. As she tried to estimate his age, he glanced in her direction.

Not wanting to be caught staring, Betsy stepped near her brother and pretended to listen to him. She strove, however, to catch the conversation between the two young men as they came up behind her. They were speaking in French and, apparently assuming that Americans could not understand the language, spoke at full volume even though their comments were far from discreet. Betsy, who had learned French from Madame Lacomb, heard one of them say, “Bonaparte, I think the young lady before us is the one whom Mlle. Pascault described, the girl called the Belle of Baltimore. Certainly, I have not seen anyone else who fits the description.”

“You must be right. My God, she is a beauty.”

Betsy raised her chin slightly and turned her head a bit to show off her profile. An instant later, she was shocked to hear, “Holy Mother, I have decided. That woman, she is my wife.”

“For the love of God, Bonaparte. You have not even met her.”

“I do not care. I shall declare to everyone I meet that she is mine and no one else’s.”

Outraged that she was being claimed like a trinket in a shop window, Betsy stiffened. As if to punctuate her humiliation, a burst of raucous laughter came from a group of working men passing on her right.

Moving her parasol to shield her face, she leaned in close to Robert and tugged his sleeve. “The crowd is becoming unruly. May we please take our place in the stands?”

He shot her a glance of concern, and Betsy let her head droop to simulate fatigue. “Of course,” Robert said instantly and turned to their uncle and Commodore Barney. “Excuse us, gentlemen. My sister wishes to find a seat.”

He took Betsy’s right arm and led her toward the stands. They had taken only a few steps when Lieutenant Bonaparte approached them.
“Mademoiselle.”

Betsy’s cheeks flamed, and she kept her gaze lowered as Robert said, “Sir, I do not know who you are or where you learned your manners, but in Baltimore, we do not accost women to whom we have not been introduced.”

“Pardonnez moi.”
Jerome bowed, sweeping his arm elegantly to one side.

“Pompous little jackanapes,” Robert muttered as he guided Betsy through the knots of people loitering before the stands. “Did you see that uniform? It looks like a costume from a comic play.”

Startled, Betsy shot her brother a sideways glance. Plays had been performed regularly in Baltimore since just after the Revolution, but such amusement was not something their Presbyterian parents condoned. “Bobby, when did you go to the theater?”

He grinned sheepishly. “When Father sent me to New York last spring. Do not tell him I did anything so frivolous.”

“Of course not.” She laughed, her spirits momentarily improved by his minor defiance.

Once she was settled in her seat, however, Betsy thought back over the encounter and squirmed beneath the hot sting of mortification. Robert was more right than he knew. Jerome Bonaparte
was
pompous and arrogant in thinking he could pluck her for his own as though she were a ripe pear hanging on the nearest tree, yet what else could she expect from someone whose station in life was so far above hers? He was, after all, related to the first man in France. Napoleon Bonaparte might be one of three consuls that headed the French government, but everyone knew that he ruled virtually alone.

You are never going to make a brilliant marriage if you act like a Puritan schoolgirl when you meet a great man,
she told herself.
Why could you not charm him?
She scanned the crowd for Jerome Bonaparte’s curly head but saw no sign of it.

THE NEXT MORNING, Betsy awoke with a headache and the certainty that something was wrong. The sound of her father slamming the front door just below her room had broken her sleep, and as she rose, she could hear Octavius screaming down the hall. She wondered what the trouble was as she dressed.

Before going downstairs, Betsy stopped by the nursery. “He is cutting more teeth,” Mammy Sue said as she walked Octavius up and down.

As Betsy turned back into the hall, Caroline rushed to her side and clutched her skirts. “You are not going away again today, are you, Betsy?”

“No,” Betsy answered, stroking the child’s hair as they descended the stairs. On the first floor, they turned down the main passage. She sighed. “I am not going anywhere.”

Betsy and Caroline entered the dining room, which was furnished with a long oval table and ten mahogany chairs that had urn-shaped splat backs and bottle-green silk cushions. Dorcas was at the foot of the table, leaning her head on one hand as she gazed down at Henry, who sat on the green crumb cloth that protected the Brussels carpet. He was hiccupping and rubbing a fist on his tear-streaked cheek, which displayed an angry red mark. Betsy noticed that Henry’s white gown—the garment that children of both sexes wore for their first three or four years of life—was spattered with splotches of ink.

“What is wrong?”

Dorcas smiled wanly at her. “While I was talking to Mammy Sue about Octavius, Henry slipped out of the nursery and ran downstairs. He climbed onto your father’s desk and overturned the inkwell onto some important papers.”