The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (44 page)

Shrugging, Betsy said, “I have had to use my wits rather than my beauty to survive the overthrow of my marriage. I wonder what my life might have been if I had been raised to depend more upon my talents.”

“It is never too late to apply yourself.”

Betsy shook her head. “All my energies are taken up with seeing that my son makes something of himself. Perhaps when he comes to manhood, I may pursue other endeavors.”

THE PRINCESS BORGHESE never answered Betsy’s letter, which disappointed but did not surprise Betsy. Economic conditions in Baltimore had taken a downturn, and she feared that her income might shrink, which would make it difficult to keep Bo at school. Therefore, she wrote Jerome and asked him to share the expenses for their son.

He replied with regrets:

My fortune is not sufficient to provide for my present family, who must be taken care of by their mother. Elisa, you know my character too well to suppose I ever thought of laying by a fortune; the little I did save, I have been cheated out of by persons I trusted.

Thinking of his loyalty to scoundrels like Le Camus, Betsy thought,
He always was a poor judge of character.

Despite these disappointments, fate seemed determined to throw her in the path of the Bonapartes and their kin. The Prince and Princess of Württemberg—Catharine’s uncle and aunt—spent a holiday in Geneva, where Betsy met them often. They thought it was a scandal that their niece and Jerome lived lavishly while failing to provide for Betsy’s son, and at their request, Betsy brought Bo to meet them. Shortly before they departed, the prince exclaimed to Betsy, “Jerome Bonaparte made a great mistake in deserting such a charming woman as you.”

In the spring of Bo’s second year at school, Jerome’s brother Joseph wrote to offer Betsy the use of his chateau in Switzerland. While grateful, Betsy had to decline because, without a carriage, she could not reside so far from town. Yet, the generous proposal gave her renewed hope that her son might yet be accepted as a legitimate Bonaparte. Madame Tousard, who often met Joseph in society, wrote to say that he seemed disposed to form a relationship with his nephew once Bo returned to the United States. Betsy did not expect Joseph to provide for her son as he had several daughters to settle, but it would help Bo’s position to be acknowledged by his uncle.

Among her titled friends, Betsy asked about marriage prospects for Bo. He was not yet sixteen, but she knew that such alliances were often settled in childhood, and she did not want to ruin his chances by neglecting to make inquiries. Her friends listened politely and made suggestions, but to Betsy’s frustration, no one offered to negotiate a match.

She repeatedly warned Bo that he was not to make a
mésalliance
and particularly not to marry an American. “I would rather that you never married at all than marry beneath your rank.”

“Yes, Mama,” he would answer. One day, after Betsy had lectured him at length on the evils of an imprudent marriage, he responded with rare insubordination. “Perhaps my ideas of a suitable marriage do not match yours. You said I could not know I preferred America until I had lived in Europe. Well, I have lived here two years and have dined with many princes and princesses, and I much prefer eating beefsteak with my grandfather on South Street.”

“That is because you are young and do not appreciate that the rank into which you were born can open many doors that others may not even approach.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Mama, I am old enough to know what I like. All I want is a quiet life on a country estate where I can raise horses.”

The fear that Bo’s decisions might render her sacrifices meaningless maddened Betsy. “And where do you propose to get the money? How many times must I tell you that I can leave you no wealth? You will need a lucrative profession to afford the life you covet, so it is only prudent to use the status that is yours by birth as a step toward success.”

Bo frowned and remained very still as he considered her words. Finally, he said, “I think I see what you mean.”

In May 1821, Betsy heard that Napoleon had died on his lonely island in the South Atlantic. She had never lost her admiration for him, and the realization that they would never meet saddened her immeasurably. The event prompted her to alter her plans. Betsy’s original idea had been for Bo to attend the academy for three years and then enroll at Harvard, but in the wake of Napoleon’s death, she decided to pull her son from school and spend the winter in Rome. Bo’s grandmother Letizia Bonaparte was in her seventies, and Pauline had been ill, so Betsy feared that one of them might die before Bo could make their acquaintance.

Betsy, Bo, and his dog departed for Rome in October 1821, which was very late in the year to cross the Alps. “This will be an adventure,” Betsy told her son, “like the excursion I took to Niagara with your father. You will remember this journey for the rest of your life.”

It took six days to travel by coach from Geneva across the Alps to Turin in northwest Italy. The carriage road twisted like a corkscrew to ascend the mountains, and once during the journey, their route was covered by snow that had drifted deeper than the horses’ bellies. If it had not been for the help of several local men with shovels, they would have had to turn back.

Near the end of the crossing, an ice storm struck as they traversed a mountain pass in the middle of the night. The road became as slick as glass, and the driver halted the coach in the lee of a rock wall to keep the horses from slipping and carrying them to their doom. Even though leather shades covered the windows, it was bitterly cold in the coach, and Betsy, Bo, and the other passengers—an American couple named the Packards—huddled beneath fur robes that the carriage company had provided. The storm did not subside until shortly before dawn, and Betsy’s fingers became so cold that she feared they might snap off like icicles.

They waited until a few hours after daylight to resume their journey in hopes that the road would become less treacherous. By midday, Betsy’s throat felt raw, and by nightfall, her head was so congested that she had difficulty breathing. During the week it took the coach to travel from Turin south through Italy, she grew sicker each day, and when they finally reached Rome, she had a deep-seated cough that left her with sore ribs and an aching diaphragm. The Packards offered to put her up in their rented house, which they had reserved ahead of time, and she gratefully accepted. While she recuperated, she sent sixteen-year-old Bo out to find inexpensive rooms they could rent.

After a week, Betsy received a note from the Princess Borghese, who had learned from a mutual acquaintance where they were staying. When Betsy wrote back asking at what hour she should visit, the princess sent her carriage to bring Betsy and Bo to her immediately.

The three-story, sixteenth-century
Palazzo Borghese
had a severe, many-windowed façade and an unusual harpsichord shape, wider at one end than the other with a side wall that bent at an angle partway along its length. As a footman led them through the public rooms toward the princess’s private apartments, Betsy saw her son blush at the sight of one sculpture—a full-sized figure of a reclining, bare-breasted Venus. Betsy decided not to mention that the model had been none other than the aunt Bo was about to meet. Instead, she informed him that the artist was Canova, a famous sculptor she had known in Paris. As they walked on, Bo continued to stare at the gilded chandeliers, painted ceilings, tapestries, paintings, and statues that ornamented the rooms. Betsy held back a smile at his awe. He was so proud of his millionaire grandfather that he had never realized how devoid of luxury the Patterson home in Baltimore really was.

When the footman showed them into the anteroom to Pauline’s boudoir, Betsy and Bo found the princess lounging on a chaise longue, in a pose very similar to the Canova statue.

Betsy curtsied and introduced her son. Then she examined the face of this woman she was said to resemble. They both had a Grecian nose and slanting eyes, but Pauline’s nose was longer and her chin slightly more pointed. The biggest difference, however, was intangible. Betsy found the other woman’s expression curiously indifferent for one with such a scandalous reputation.

“I am glad that we meet at last.” The princess’s voice, while sweet, had a light, artificial quality. With a wave of her hand, she indicated they should take seats, and then she requested that Bo move his chair close beside her.

After he complied, she gazed at him. “Mr. Astor said that you greatly resemble the late emperor. I see that he did not exaggerate.”

Bo blushed and lowered his gaze.

Placing one hand behind her head, Pauline leaned back more comfortably against the chaise and regarded her nephew through half-closed eyelids. “Which name do you prefer to use, Jerome or Napoleon?”

“In school, I use Jerome, your highness,” Bo answered, and Betsy felt relieved that he had remembered the proper form of address for his royal aunt. Surely, her son’s beautiful manners would impress the Bonapartes. He smiled and added, “But my American family call me Bo.”

Pauline scrunched up her nose in distaste. “I shall call you Jerome. How do you like to amuse yourself?”

“My favorite activity is horseback riding, your highness,”

“Ah. Perhaps something can be arranged so that you can indulge that pastime during your visit. I believe your Uncle Louis’s sons have mounts that you might be allowed to borrow.”

The visit lasted for more than an hour, with Pauline asking question after question, nearly all of them superficial. Betsy was glad her son maintained good humor under the inquisition, but she could not help but feel slighted at being so completely ignored.

The next day they were summoned to the palazzo occupied by Letizia Bonaparte, officially called
Madame Mère.
A footman led them to an ornate reception room with marble columns and a painted ceiling, and once again Bo gaped at his surroundings.
Madame Mère
stood waiting for them, still erect despite her years. She was a thin woman dressed in black with an ornate cross hanging on her breast and an elaborate white cap covering her hair. Her dark, hooded eyes bored into Betsy. “So you are the American who nearly ruined my Girolamo,” she said, using Jerome’s Italian name.

Although tempted to retort angrily, Betsy managed to say, “We believed ours was an honorable marriage, Madame. It was not my fault the emperor had other designs.”

“Perhaps not, Madame Patterson. But you cannot deny that it was a hasty, ill-conceived alliance.” Shifting her gaze to Bo, she said, “And you claim that this is his son?”

“Look at him closely, Madame. Can you honestly say you doubt it?”

When Letizia Bonaparte stepped within a few inches of Bo to peer into his face, Betsy realized that the old woman was going blind. After a moment, she murmured, “Nabulione,” and Betsy knew that she had seen the resemblance to Napoleon. The old woman patted Bo’s cheek and gestured for him to sit beside her while Betsy sat on a nearby sofa. Like her daughter the day before, she focused entirely on the boy. “Paolina tells me that you have been attending school in Geneva, my son.”

“Yes, Madame.”

The old woman frowned and fingered her cross. “It is a Protestant city, is it not?”

“That is its history, Madame, but there are Catholics in Geneva now. My mother has raised me as a Catholic because she knew that was my father’s religion.”

His grandmother nodded and smiled for the first time. “Do you work hard in school?”

“Yes, Madame.” Bo shot an amused glance at Betsy, and she knew he was thinking of her many lectures. “My mother has always impressed upon me the need to be diligent and disciplined.”

Madame Mère
nodded again. “Your uncle, the emperor, had those traits even as a boy, and they served him well. Are you interested in a military career?”

Bo shook his head. “No, Madame. I do not have any aptitude for it. My mother wishes me to pursue law or diplomacy.”

“And what do you wish to do?”

Hesitating, Bo bit his lower lip. His expression grew guarded. “I wish to be a credit to the Bonaparte name.”

Madame Mère’
s younger half-brother Cardinal Fesch entered the room and approached them. He introduced himself and sat beside Betsy. The retired cleric, still dressed in his black cassock and scarlet sash, had pure white hair, a broad face, and an aquiline nose. As Bo continued chatting with his grandmother, the cardinal quietly interviewed Betsy. He was gratified to learn she had brought up her son in the Roman church, and he expressed shock upon hearing that Jerome had contributed nothing to his oldest son’s upbringing.

At the end of the visit,
Madame Mère
told Betsy, “I must compliment you on young Jerome Napoleon. He shows unusual aplomb and common sense for such a young man.”

Betsy bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I have dedicated my life to him, Madame.”

To Bo,
Madame Mère
said, “Come to see me often while you are here, my son. And bring that dog you told me about.”

WHILE STAYING IN Rome, Betsy and her son saw most of the Bonaparte family except Joseph and Jerome. Although the Bonapartes teased Bo about his unsophisticated American frankness, they seemed to like him. Betsy, on the other hand, suspected that the family still regarded her as a woman of dubious virtue. While never overtly rude, they frequently omitted to pay her some of the more subtle courtesies considered a lady’s due.

Their ostensible hostess, the Princess Borghese, proved to be every bit as erratic as rumor painted her. During the first week of their visit, she professed to be delighted that she and Betsy were so much alike, and she impulsively gave Betsy a richly embroidered ball gown, a pink satin cape, and a bonnet. Several weeks later, without any explanation, Pauline sent a maid to demand the return of the gifts. The incident left Betsy chagrined and worried that she had offended her former sister-in-law, but at their next encounter, Pauline acted as though nothing had happened. Eventually, she returned the items to Betsy, whose pleasure in them was diminished.