The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (8 page)

“Of course, you should go if you feel you must,” she said in as cool a voice as she could manage. “If you return, then we will determine if there is a reason to continue our acquaintance.”

Jerome winced. “Have no fear that I will forget you, Elisa, or ever cease to love you. Perhaps when I return, you will be willing at last to entrust me with your happiness.”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you allow me to write to you?”

“Yes, if you gain permission from my father.”

Jerome kissed her hand one last time. “Thank you.”

He departed then, leaving Betsy dazed and wondering if she would ever see him again.

TWO DAYS LATER, Jerome left for Philadelphia. Betsy found that the ease with which he had agreed to the trip made her doubt his affection, so she warned herself not to assume that his offer of marriage still stood. Instead, she resolved to look for another path to happiness.

The afternoon following his departure, Betsy sat sewing with her mother and pondering how to protect herself if Jerome should prove fickle. Perhaps there was a way to convince her father to let her tour Europe despite the war between England and France, so she could meet other highborn suitors. As she considered the problem, two women from church came to call. Sixty-four-year-old Frances Purviance had stooped posture and arthritis-ruined fingers. Her companion, Janet Johnston Inglis, was a round-faced, bashful nineteen-year-old who had recently married their pastor. Betsy marveled that anyone her age could sacrifice her youth to a life of church work and studiously proper conversation.

Dorcas greeted the pair warmly, and the women began to describe a new charitable endeavor to help the widows of Baltimore seamen. Listening to them, Betsy kept her eyes on her sewing so they could not see her boredom. Later over tea, Mrs. Purviance recommended that Dorcas try a new medication—Samuel Lee’s Bilious Pills—and Betsy pressed her lips together to keep from saying something sarcastic. If the conversation followed its usual course, it would soon move on to talk of babies and colic remedies. God forbid that women should discuss a book or a political idea. How she hated the infinite tedium of Baltimore’s domestic life.

THE FIRST LETTER from Jerome arrived within a week. He had addressed it formally to
Ma chère mademoiselle Patterson
and then described his journey by stagecoach in detail. He had decided to use the trip as an opportunity to educate himself about her country, so he asked Commodore Barney to show him sites like Independence and Congress halls.

I wish that Napoleon, who is such an ardent disciple of republicanism, could see these sacred buildings where your country was born. The chance to visit such shrines to liberty is the one thing that makes our separation tolerable. The memory of your exquisite beauty and admirable character fills my every waking hour. I beg that when I see you again, you will finally accept my hand in marriage.

Betsy raced through the letter and then reread it slowly to analyze each nuance. As much as she wanted to be persuaded by Jerome’s words, their eloquence felt false. Her own emotions were in such turmoil that she knew she would be incapable of writing anything so glib.

You dare not trust him,
warned the skeptic in her, nurtured since childhood on La Rochefoucauld’s cynical writings.
It is time to put this episode behind you and pursue a new course.
Perhaps she had been too hasty in disparaging every potential suitor in America. Surely Maryland, Virginia, or New York contained at least one young man sophisticated enough to offer the cultured life she dreamed of living.

She refolded the letter, stored it in a casket that she kept in her bedroom, and forbade herself from running upstairs to reread it more than once a day.

AWARE THAT BALTIMORE was gossiping about the absence of her suitor, Betsy determined to act as though nothing was amiss. When the Pattersons were invited to a ball at Belvidere, the fashionable mansion of Colonel John Howard Eager, Betsy put on her second-best gown—unable to endure the white gown that had elicited Jerome’s admiration—carefully styled her hair, and put on rouge borrowed surreptitiously from Henriette.

As the carriage drew up to the columned portico of the mansion, Betsy admonished herself to affect a liveliness she did not feel. She greeted her hosts in the front reception hall, noting silently that Colonel Howard had dressed more comfortably this evening in a suit that fit his present girth. Then, as she strolled through the hall, she went out of her way to greet even casual acquaintances, and she dropped witticisms at every opportunity. When asked about Jerome, Betsy shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “I believe he is touring the Atlantic seaboard. Perhaps he is on a mission for the First Consul.”

To those who pressed the issue, she laughed. “My, how people love to make matches where none exist. Lieutenant Bonaparte was invited frequently to our home because my parents knew that he must miss his own large family.”

She danced that night with more than a dozen partners, and while the whirl of activity may have dispelled the rumors that she was pining for Jerome, it did little to dull the pain in her breast. Not a man in the ballroom had an appearance as pleasing as Jerome’s tousled black curls and laughing eyes. When her partners appeared before her in fashionably cut suits of dark green and brown, she pictured the elaborately braided uniforms that hugged Jerome’s broad shoulders and narrow waist. While the young men of Baltimore talked about commerce and hunting, she recalled stories of evenings at the Paris opera followed by gay midnight suppers. And with the slurred accent of Maryland in her ears, she longed for the melodious sounds of Jerome’s voice in their French conversations.

By the time she arrived home, Betsy was exhausted by the pretense that she was still the lively Belle of Baltimore. Throwing herself onto her bed, she wept over the arid desert in which she felt herself trapped.

JEROME WROTE BETSY every day, continuing to swear that he loved her and was eager to see her again. He also described the people he and Barney met and the places they visited; Jerome believed that a person should always see the major sights of interest when visiting a new country. As she read each missive, Betsy could hear his voice in her mind, and she found herself sniffing the paper for a hint of his cologne. Every new letter eroded her resolve to end the relationship.

After two weeks in Philadelphia, Commodore Barney took Jerome to Washington, D.C., where he met the Smiths and Nancy Spear. “Their kindness and warmth—and the beauty of your aunts—has made me miss you even more.”

While in the capital, Jerome also saw Monsieur Pichon, who urged him to return to duty. Jerome described the meeting as a joke, yet Betsy worried that the diplomat would have his way and part her from Jerome. As uncertain as she was about their future, she did not want the impersonal forces of the French government to make such a decision for her.

ONE MORNING AFTER Betsy had sat up far into the night rereading Jerome’s letters, she woke from a dream in which Jerome had crept into her room and begun kissing her, first on her mouth, then down the length of her body, drawing down her chemise as he progressed.

Waking to find herself alone, Betsy pounded the mattress and curled up on her side. Her body felt so swollen with desire that she thought she would go mad. No other gentleman had ever excited such feelings within her. She longed for Jerome to come take possession of her quickly and, if necessary, with masterful persuasion if that was what was required to banish her terrible indecision.

Betsy brought her fist to her mouth and bit the knuckle of her index finger until the pain diminished her arousal. Then she sat up and gazed at the letters strewn across the nightstand. Jerome’s repeated declarations of love echoed in her mind.

On top of the letters was the red leather volume of La Rochefoucauld’s
Maxims.
The night before, she had looked through it to settle her mind and found the saying, “In great matters we should not try so much to create opportunities as to utilize those that offer themselves.” At the time, she had taken it as a sign that she should marry Jerome despite her father’s objections. Now she snatched up the book and threw it across the room so it hit the far wall.

A minute later, a knock on the door was followed by her mother’s entrance. Dorcas was still in her wrapper but her hair was already tucked in a cap. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mother, I am fine.”

Dorcas’s glance flicked from the copy of the
Maxims
on the floor to the correspondence scattered on the bedside table to Betsy’s woeful expression. She picked up the book and sat on the edge of the bed. “I am worried about you. You hardly eat, and your temper is fitful. Do you miss Lieutenant Bonaparte so very much?”

Feeling like a child caught with a telltale smear of jam across her cheek, Betsy nodded.

“But he has written you every day. Have his letters grown cold? Do you fear that his attachment has waned?”

“No, his letters express as much devoted affection as I could wish. I worry—” Betsy fell silent as emotion constricted her throat. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself enough to say, “I have known him such a short time. I wonder if I can really be certain of his character.”

Her mother reached over to smooth the sleep-tangled curls from her daughter’s forehead. “It is impossible to know your husband completely before you enter into marriage. Even the best of men have failings that they hide from public view.”

Looking up swiftly, Betsy wondered if that was an oblique reference to her father’s infidelities. “Please be frank. What do you think of Lieutenant Bonaparte?”

Dorcas smiled. “He is a warm-hearted, generous young man who perhaps lacks the uncompromising discipline you are accustomed to in your father. Yet I think his character and station in life make him a more congenial prospect for you than a sober businessman would be.”

Impulsively, Betsy hugged her mother and spoke softly into her ear, “He has led such a worldly life. I am afraid the very qualities that make him so attractive to me also make him, well, perhaps not steady enough to marry.”

Dorcas pulled back and cupped a hand under Betsy’s chin. “Lieutenant Bonaparte loves you deeply, I am certain, and that might be enough to mature his character. But I think you may be correct in judging that he is weaker than you in some respects. You must decide whether your love for him is strong enough to try to help him overcome his weaknesses and forgive him when he fails. None of us is perfect, Betsy. You will do better if you understand that from the start.”

“Mother, I do love him. I want to marry him more than I have ever wanted anything.”

“I thought as much.” Rising, Dorcas kissed the top of Betsy’s head. “I will tell your father that you have decided on this match.”

After her mother left the room, Betsy dressed with a lighter heart than she had known in weeks. As soon as she ate breakfast, she would write to Jerome in Washington and assure him that she eagerly awaited his return.

VI

A
FEW days later Betsy sat in the nursery teaching Caroline embroidery when a maid came to find her. “Miss, you have a visitor in the drawing room.”

“All right.” Bending over her sister, Betsy said, “Caro, keep working on this until I return. I want to see how much you can accomplish.”

“I will.” Caroline frowned and tried to insert her needle at exactly the right spot in the linen.

Betsy stopped in her room to check her appearance. Then, as she descended the stairs, she heard the rare sound of her mother laughing below. Entering the drawing room, Betsy stopped short at the sight of Jerome sitting beside Dorcas on the sofa.

“Lieutenant Bonaparte! When did you return?”

He rose, and for a moment they gazed at each other with the sofa forming a barrier between them. Then Jerome said, “Last night. When I received your letter, I wanted to come right away, but Monsieur Pichon insisted that I wait until we had met with President Jefferson.” He laughed. “Not wanting to cause a diplomatic incident, I dined with him on Wednesday and traveled all day yesterday.”

Dorcas Patterson stood. “I think you two must want to be alone.”

She left the room and closed the door behind her. Then Jerome asked, “Elisa, is it true, what you wrote in your letter? That you are eager to see me again?”

“Yes,” Betsy answered simply.

Jerome hurried around the sofa to stand before her but made no move to embrace. “Dare I hope that this means you have decided to accept me?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her with surprising gentleness, then held her close. “My beloved Elisa, I was beginning to fear that I would never know this happiness. Do you truly still care for me?”

The irrepressible laughter of unexpected joy bubbled out of her, and she allowed herself to defy maidenly decorum by declaring, “I love you.”

Jerome led Betsy to the sofa, pulled her onto his lap and kissed her again and again. After several minutes, he slipped his hand beneath her fichu and caressed her left breast. His touch awakened the memory of her passionate dreams. Although Betsy wanted to give herself to him then and there, she gripped his lapels and said, “Jerome, we dare not.”

“Forgive me, my love.” He inclined his head until their foreheads touched. “You are the most captivating woman I have ever met, and I find it difficult to control myself.”

Feeling the same frustration, Betsy moaned and nearly gave in to her desire, but Jerome kissed her lightly and took her hands in his. “Be patient. I will speak with your father this afternoon. If he consents, then I shall apply for a license tomorrow and we will be married as soon as possible.”

Betsy felt far from certain that her father would agree. Leaning her head on Jerome’s shoulder, she asked, “What shall we do if he says no?”

“I think your mother favors us. Between the three of us, we will convince him.”

His characteristic optimism made Betsy laugh again, and she settled comfortably beside him on the sofa. “You are possessed of such a rosy outlook, more so than I can ever muster.”

“Then I am good for you, my love, as you are good for me.”

ONCE AGAIN WILLIAM Patterson came home early from the counting house and called his wife and daughter into the drawing room. Betsy sat on the sofa, while Dorcas sat in her usual place, the banister-back wooden chair to the left of the fireplace.

Patterson stood on the hearth at an angle to face them both. Now in his fifties, he could no longer pass for a young man. His figure had grown thick around the waist, and his once-dark hair, cropped to collar length, was threaded with grey. His complexion, however, still retained the high ruddy color of his youth in Ireland.

“Betsy, I wish that your young man would not persist in encroaching upon my business hours. What possesses him to be in such a hurry?”

“He expects to receive orders from the First Consul any day now, sir, and he wants to resolve this business before that happens.”

Shaking his head, Patterson crossed to his desk. He took some letters from a drawer and returned to stand in the same spot. “I have not been idle this last month. I used the time to make inquiries.”

“Inquiries, sir?”

“Yes, inquiries.” He slapped the papers against his left palm. “I realized that Lieutenant Bonaparte has never told us his age, so I asked your uncle Smith to question him while he was in Washington. Bonaparte told him that by French law, a man must be twenty-one before becoming a lieutenant, so at least he meets our age requirement for marriage. But I intend to write my lawyer and ask him to investigate French marriage law.”

Betsy gripped the edge of the sofa cushions. “Is that necessary? We are planning to marry in the United States.”

“Normally, nations honor the matrimonial bonds contracted in other lands, but in this case, the eminence of Lieutenant Bonaparte’s brother makes it prudent to comply with French laws as well as our own. In fact, I think it advisable for you to delay marrying until Lieutenant Bonaparte has received the First Consul’s blessing.”

“But sir, there is no time for that.”

“No time? What can you mean?” He glanced at his wife in alarm and then at Betsy. “Tell me the truth. Is there something that you have kept from your mother and me?”

Betsy realized that he feared her honor might be compromised, so she shook her head. “No, Father. I meant only that Lieutenant Bonaparte may soon be ordered back to the navy, and with France at war, who knows when he will return to Baltimore again?”

“Is that not reason enough to delay this marriage? Do you want to risk becoming a widow a few scant weeks after becoming a wife?”

Betsy lifted her head proudly. “Sir, I would rather be the wife of Jerome Bonaparte for an hour than married to any other man for a lifetime.”

Patterson again looked to his wife. “Have you nothing to say to this headstrong girl? Surely, this is not how you were taught to conduct yourself when you were her age.”

Dorcas shook her head. “As you well know, I was already a mother at her age. Times have changed. Young people now have more say in deciding their marriages than I did as a girl.”

Patterson’s cheeks turned red as he took in the unflattering implication behind her words. Before he could respond, Betsy pulled his attention back to the matter at hand. “Have you any reason to feel uneasy about Lieutenant Bonaparte apart from our haste, Father?”

He scowled at her and sat in his teal wingback chair. “Commodore Barney wrote to me last week.” As he unfolded a letter, Betsy’s heart sank, but she strove to keep her face blank. “He says that Lieutenant Bonaparte behaved correctly during their trip and showed not the slightest interest in making the acquaintance of other young women. Ah, here is the passage I want. ‘His persistence in declaring his affection for your daughter was, in fact, fatiguing to all who heard him, and I retain no doubt that he is sincerely attached to her.’ ”

After folding up the page, Patterson asked, “Betsy, are you absolutely determined to accept this man?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Very well. When he calls on me this evening, I will give him my consent.”

THE NEXT DAY, Jerome came to dine with the Pattersons. As soon as the soup was served, he announced, “I have good news. This morning, I obtained a marriage license.”

“You waste no time,” William Jr. said in a tone that made it clear he was not paying a compliment.

Jerome took a biscuit from the bread basket. “No, not in a matter as important as this. I also mailed invitations to Monsieur Pichon and the Spanish ambassador Yrujo to attend the wedding. I set the date for November 3.”

As William Patterson looked up, his heavy eyebrows came together in a way that Betsy knew meant trouble. “You presume too much, sir. Mrs. Patterson and I have not agreed to a date, and the third is out of the question. That is only five days hence.”

“But why wait? We want to have time together before duty calls me back to the navy.”

Ignoring him, Patterson glared at his eldest daughter. “Did you know of this plan?”

Betsy glanced regretfully at Jerome. “No, I did not.”

Jerome put down his biscuit and shifted in his seat to face her. “But I thought we agreed that we would marry as soon as possible.”

“We did, but five days is not enough time. I need to prepare to leave my home.”

“Oh, I see.” He sounded chastened. “Forgive me, I should have consulted you.”

“You should have consulted our parents,” William Jr. interjected. “Unless, of course, you have a secret reason for marrying in such unseemly haste.”

Jerome pushed back his chair violently and stood. “How dare you malign my honor, sir! And to besmirch the reputation of your sister is even more unforgivable. If you were not about to be my brother, I would challenge you.”

“Enough!” Patterson rose and frowned at his eldest son. “William, kindly remember that I am the head of this family and will deal with the matter of your sister’s marriage.”

Then he shifted his disapproving scowl to Jerome and Betsy, who shrank back in shame even though she had done nothing wrong. She glanced at her mother for sympathy, but Dorcas sat with her lips pressed tightly together and her eyes downcast.

After a long pause, Patterson said, “Lieutenant Bonaparte, although my son speaks out of turn, he merely gives voice to the suspicion all Baltimore will harbor if you and my daughter marry too speedily.”

Flushing, Jerome resumed his seat. “Forgive me. I am too used to France, where people have lived with the exigencies of war for a long time and do not find hasty marriages such a scandal as they seem to be in this more placid society.”

Leaning forward, Betsy said, “Father, as you know, Lieutenant Bonaparte could be recalled to duty any day. How long an engagement do you require?”

Patterson looked to his wife, who nodded silently. He sighed. “You may marry at the end of November.”

A FEW EVENINGS later, Betsy was sitting on the sofa in the drawing room reading aloud to Jerome from the book of French verse he had given her. As she paused to ask the meaning of an unfamiliar word, her father entered the room.

“I have received a letter from my lawyer that concerns you.”

Betsy set her book aside. “What can Mr. Dallas have to say that concerns us, Father?”

He stood before the hearth, clutching a folded-up letter in his hand. “It is about French marriage law. Under the new civil code that went into effect last year, no one under the age of twenty-five may marry without parental permission.”

The smile vanished from Jerome’s face. “Where did he hear such a thing?”

“From Monsieur Pichon, who further informed Dallas that he told you of the law when you were in Washington.”

“Did he?” Jerome shrugged. “I have no memory of such a conversation.”

Patterson brandished the letter. “Lieutenant Bonaparte, affecting such a cavalier attitude will not improve your standing with me. Might I remind you that I can withdraw my permission for Betsy to marry, as she is only eighteen? Now, did you know of this law or not?”

Jerome turned red and was about to respond angrily when Betsy laid a hand upon his arm. Glancing at her, he mastered himself. “Yes, he did mention the change, but I did not think it of any import as we will be marrying under the laws of the United States.”

“Why did you not tell us this before?”

“Father, he just explained that he did not think it mattered.”

As Patterson looked from one to the other, he rubbed his forehead. “Do neither of you comprehend the seriousness of making a marriage contract? It must be undertaken in full conformity with the law.”

Betsy scooted forward to the edge of the sofa. “But, sir, you told me yourself that it is customary for nations to honor each other’s matrimonial laws. We are not at war with the French, so they would have no reason to dispute a marriage conducted in this country. Has Mr. Dallas said anything in his letter to contradict that interpretation?”

“No.” Patterson sank into his armchair. “In fact, he makes the same point, although I must hasten to add that he believes as I do that you should err on the side of caution.”

“But that would mean waiting four years before we could marry!”

Betsy’s horrified expression drew a smile from her father. “Not at all. It means that Lieutenant Bonaparte should do as I suggested before and write the First Consul for his consent.”

“Permission is not his to give!” Jerome exclaimed.

“What do you mean?”

Jerome lifted his chin in a mannerism that Betsy had learned indicated stubbornness and a certain haughty pride. “Napoleon may be the chief executive of France, but he is neither my father nor my eldest brother. If I must apply to anyone for permission, it would be my mother.”

“That is even better!” Betsy grasped Jerome’s arm. “You have told me that she has never denied you anything. If you write and ask her consent, surely she will say yes.”

Instead of agreeing readily, Jerome glowered at her. “I am not a child. I find it offensive that I must ask permission of anyone.”

Bewildered by his coldness, Betsy pulled back. “But if it is the law?”

“It is not the law here.” Jerome turned back to William Patterson. “I do not see why we must change what is already decided. To wait for my mother’s consent would delay our wedding by months. Our marriage will be perfectly valid in this country.”

“That would be enough if your intention was to settle here, but since it is not—”

“But of course, I will write to her.” Jerome placed his hand on his heart. “I love my family too much not to inform them of such a momentous change in my life. As Elisa says, my mother is certain to agree. So why must we wait upon such a foregone eventuality? We can marry as planned and make certain that we obtain my mother’s consent before going to France.”

“I do not deem this a prudent course, but if neither of you will listen to reason—” Falling silent, William Patterson sat back in his chair and regarded them wearily. “I cannot allow Betsy’s standing as a married woman to come under question. Will you promise not to take my daughter to France until you hear from your mother?”

“Yes, sir, gladly, if that will satisfy you.”