The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (5 page)

“And Father blamed you.”

“He was right to be angry, Betsy. The child has cost him additional work.”

“I see.” Betsy went to the sideboard, poured herself a cup of tea, and sat at the table. “No doubt he thinks Henry’s accident is my fault because I did not rise early.”

“He did not say that.”

That may be,
Betsy said to herself,
but I will wager he thought it.

Later that morning when the post arrived, Betsy received a momentous letter—a note from Henriette saying that her father, the Marquis de Poleon, was going to invite the Pattersons to a formal supper. The gathering’s purpose was to introduce leading members of Baltimore society to Lieutenant Jerome Bonaparte.

Betsy folded up the note and tapped it against her chin as she contemplated the news. Jerome Bonaparte might not be a prince, but he certainly was a handsome young man whose brother was a ruler. Most importantly, he could take her to France. For a moment, Betsy’s confidence faltered as she realized that Lieutenant Bonaparte would compare her to the sophisticated women he had known in Paris. How could she compete against such a standard? She bit her lower lip and then lifted her head in determination.
Somehow, you will have to show him that you are just as charming as they are. You will never have another chance like this again.

III

F
OR the next two days, Betsy fretted over what to wear when she was formally presented to Lieutenant Bonaparte. She wanted to demonstrate that even though Baltimore might be a staid community obsessed with commerce, she was a woman of culture. Recalling one of her favorite La Rochefoucauld maxims, she told herself, “To establish ourselves in the world, we do everything to appear as if we were already established.” Yet, despite her resolve to appear sophisticated, she knew that Americans invariably lagged far behind France in fashion.

Betsy finally decided on a gown that her dressmaker had sewn using a recent French pattern. Made of white muslin in the empire style, it had cap sleeves edged with bands embroidered with the Greek key design in lavender silk. The low-cut round neckline showed off Betsy’s figure to advantage. Her bosom, which had been the envy of many of her schoolmates, was full enough to attract the male eye but not so large as to spoil the graceful line of her gowns.

Saturday evening, the largest of the Patterson carriages conveyed Betsy, her parents, and her two oldest brothers to the house of Jean-Charles-Marie-Louis-Felix Pascault, the Marquis de Poleon. Like Madame Lacomb, Pascault had been born in France but came to Baltimore after a time in Saint-Domingue. His estate was on the outskirts of the city, several miles northwest of the Patterson home. Their carriage entered the grounds through magnificent French iron gates and then proceeded down a lengthy drive lined with Lombardy poplars. The approach always made Betsy feel as though she had been whisked away from Baltimore to a grand European estate.

The elegance of the drive was echoed by the two-story Pascault house, built upon a raised basement, about seventy feet wide with six windows across the upper story. The middle section of the house projected slightly to form a central block with double doors topped by a pediment that had a semicircular window. As Betsy entered the wide hall, she saw Henriette standing in the doorway of the library to the right of the entrance.

Betsy thought her friend looked splendid in a gown of primrose yellow embroidered with white flowers. With an expression of breathless anticipation, she beckoned to Betsy. Once they were alone in the library, Henriette said, “The French officers are not here yet.” She crossed to the front windows, where Betsy joined her. As they gazed outside, Henriette smoothed back her hair with a light, fidgety gesture.

The Caton coach arrived. Mary Carroll Caton alighted, followed by her husband, who had lately become a pitiable figure in Baltimore. Married into the planter elite, Richard Caton had tried to make a fortune of his own with mercantile investments, but his speculations were so risky that they led him to the verge of bankruptcy, threatening his wife’s fortune and their four daughters’ future. Only the intervention of his father-in-law had saved Caton from debtor’s prison. Now he worked as a manager on Charles Carroll’s estates. Betsy, whose father followed the cautious principle of investing half his money in real estate and risking only half on commerce, felt little sympathy for the imprudent Mr. Caton.

As the Catons entered the house, Henriette grabbed Betsy’s arm. “Look.”

A coach with distinctive yellow wheels came up the graveled drive. It stopped at the front steps and the young officers Betsy first saw at the races descended. “Who is the taller gentleman?”

“Jean-Jacques Reubell. His father was one of the five executives who ruled during the first Directory.”

“Yet he is friendly with Napoleon’s brother?”

Henriette shrugged. “His father retired from public life after the Directory was overthrown and bears no grudge against the First Consul.” Then she glanced sideways at Betsy. “May I tell you something in confidence?”

“Of course,” Betsy said, her attention fixed on the two officers as they paused to survey the grounds. Again, she was struck by the laughter on Jerome Bonaparte’s face.

“Commandant Reubell is going to be my husband. Papa has given his permission.”

Betsy’s head whipped around. “Why, Henriette, you just met! I had no presentiment that things had moved so quickly. Do you love him?”

Henriette nodded.

Overcome by the conflicting emotions of joy and envy, Betsy leaned forward to kiss her friend’s cheek. She swallowed back the tightness in her throat and said in what she hoped was a gay tone, “If you are going to marry Reubell, then I shall have to marry his companion.”

Henriette squeezed her hand. “Oh, Betsy, if you could, that would be perfect.”

Betsy glanced out the window. Noticing the grace with which Jerome Bonaparte mounted the steps to the house, she murmured, “We shall see.”

WHEN THE MARQUIS de Poleon introduced his guests of honor to the Pattersons, Jerome Bonaparte bent over Betsy’s gloved hand. Then he stood and swept her figure with a bold glance. “Mademoiselle Patterson, I cannot express the pleasure it gives me to be introduced to you at last. Your fame as a beauty precedes you—which is the only excuse I can offer for my presumption at the race. However, now that I have the privilege of speaking to you, I must swear that the praise I heard does not do you justice.”

“And you, sir, live up to the reputation of Frenchmen as consummate flatterers,” she answered, not wanting him to suspect the delight she took in his words.

He smiled, undismayed by her tart rejoinder. Then he and Commandant Reubell moved on to meet the Yardleys, a prominent Baltimore family. Within a few minutes, Henriette’s father called the party in to supper.

The men dominated the conversation during the meal by asking the officers about events in Saint-Domingue. Even though the French had captured the revolutionary leader Toussaint L’Ouverture that spring, the rebellion continued unabated and the disease-ravaged French troops seemed unlikely to fight on much longer. When asked why he was on furlough with the outcome of the war uncertain, Jerome Bonaparte laughed. “There were reasons that made it expeditious for me to leave. I can say no more.”

He must be on a mission,
Betsy thought as Monsieur Pascault asked Jerome about his older brother’s intentions now that he had been awarded the title First Consul for life. “Are we to assume that this is the end of the French republic?”

“Not at all,” Jerome exclaimed in his strongly accented English. “Napoleon has no ambition for himself. His only desire in this world is to preserve the good that the Revolution accomplished.”

“And what good would that be?” Betsy’s brother William Jr. asked, dropping his fork noisily onto his plate. “We have read about the atrocities committed in the name of revolution.”

Jerome thrust out his chin. “My brother was not responsible for the Terror, sir. It was he who brought order back to France, and it is he who stands between France and the return of absolutism.”

“By becoming a dictator himself?”

Commandant Reubell leaned forward to forestall Jerome from answering. “The title the First Consul bears is one that the citizens awarded him by plebiscite, and he exercises his power with the sole purpose of defending France. Even now, Great Britain—which I must remind you, sir, is our mutual enemy—seeks to return the Bourbons to the throne and overrule the desire of the French people to live in a republic.”

Betsy could see from the tight muscles along her brother’s jaw that he remained unconvinced. He retorted, “Then your people have a very different idea from ours of what constitutes a republic.”

During the tense silence that followed, Betsy felt humiliated by William’s rudeness. Impulsively, she said, “Please excuse my brother, gentlemen. He fancies himself a great patriot, although I can assure you that his guiding motto is not
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité
as you might suppose, but rather
Security, Annuity, Commodity.”

Most of the dinner party erupted in laughter, but Betsy’s father glared and her mother shot her a look of astonished hurt. Betsy’s face flamed. Too often, she made what she meant to be a clever rejoinder, only to wish seconds later that she had remained silent. She glanced at Lieutenant Bonaparte, fearing to see disapproval on his handsome face.

Instead, he smiled at her and then said to the table at large, “Perhaps a story from my childhood will help you understand my brother better. Our family has a long history of fighting for Corsica, but when France took over our country, we accepted the inevitable. My three oldest brothers were educated in France, where they came to believe in the ideals of the Revolution. In 1793, the Corsican patriot Paoli launched an insurrection against revolutionary rule. He had been a great friend to our family. Our parents even fought with him against the Genoese during the 1760s. But because Paoli became a royalist, Napoleon opposed him. For this, the Bonapartes were denounced as traitors, and we had to flee Corsica leaving everything behind. This is why I assert that Napoleon seeks nothing for himself. He lives only to serve the glory of France.”

“How old were you then?” Dorcas Patterson asked.

“I was eight years old, Madame. Never will I forget looking back as we climbed a hillside in the night and seeing flames consume my home.”

Betsy felt unexpected tenderness as she imagined a terrified, curly-haired lad not much older than her brother George. Until that moment, her encounter with Jerome Bonaparte had been simply an exciting flirtation with a man who symbolized the realization of her dreams. Now, she glimpsed the possibility of deep emotions hidden beneath the charm, and she longed to talk together and compare experiences. If she read him correctly, he would know that a person who led a life of privilege could possess secret disappointments. He might understand why she was desperate to leave Baltimore where the cords of familial and societal tradition wrapped her in a net of expectation she feared she would never escape.

Lifting her eyes from her reverie, she saw Bonaparte raise his wineglass to her and then take a sip.

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Betsy returned from a fitting with her dressmaker to find her mother and favorite aunt in the drawing room. Dorcas’s younger sister Anne Spear, familiarly known as Nancy, had never married despite having the auburn hair and elegant beauty of the Spear women. Gossips claimed that she was too tall and awkward to entice men. Instead of bemoaning her unmarried state, she relished her independence to travel and control the money she had received from her father—a financial responsibility the law did not allow wives to exercise.

As Betsy entered the room, Dorcas rose. “I will ask Mrs. Ford to prepare tea.” She left without greeting her daughter.

Betsy tried to mask her hurt at the snub by bending to kiss her aunt’s cheek. Then she untied the ribbons to her bonnet. “It is lovely to see you, Aunt. I heard that you are going to Washington earlier than expected this year,” she said, referring to Aunt Nancy’s habit of living with the Smith family whenever they resided in the capital so that she could sit in the congressional gallery during legislative sessions and watch the representatives at work.

“Oh, yes. Samuel says that the president has asked Congress to convene early because of this Louisiana business.”

“Is it true that there is to be an expedition to explore the territory?”

Aunt Nancy shot her a shrewd look. “Do not try to distract me. Sit down so we can talk before your mother returns. What is this I hear about you humiliating your brother?”

Although Betsy sat on the sofa as her aunt requested, she jutted out her chin. “He deserved it. He was insulting Monsieur Poleon’s guests.”

“Do you imagine that the First Consul of France needs your feeble defense? Or were you, perhaps, desirous that the First Consul’s brother should witness your cleverness?”

Her aunt’s sharp question made Betsy feel a prickling of shame. Gazing at the bonnet in her lap and smoothing its ribbons, she asked, “Is it wrong to want Lieutenant Bonaparte to think well of me?”

“It is if you are willing to mock your family to acquire that esteem.”

“But Aunt, William was intolerably rude. Why has not anyone chastised him?”

“Do you know for a certainty that your parents have not?”

Betsy blinked. “No. I—”

Aunt Nancy laid a hand upon her arm. “Listen to me. Your brother is a grown man, and if occasionally his dour nature causes him to act the fool, then people will decide for themselves how to evaluate his worth. Since he is a man, they will likely overlook any minor defects so long as he remains successful in business. You, on the other hand, are a woman and held to a different standard.”

Indignation swept away whatever remorse Betsy felt. To hear such counsel from the aunt who had urged her to read
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
was shocking. “I cannot believe that you of all people would warn me to be more ladylike. When have you ever cared what people think of your interest in politics?”

“My dear niece, I am content to remain unmarried, and so I can afford not to care. You, however, have different desires. You want to make an important marriage.”

“Yes, I do. Are you saying that you think me wrong?”

Aunt Nancy pressed her lips together. “No,” she finally said, drawing out the word in a way that expressed reservation despite her denial. “I am simply cautioning you to behave in a way that will help you achieve your aim. If you want to marry a man of high station, you must not give him reason to suspect that you will embarrass him in society.”

Betsy settled back against the cushions and gave her aunt a troubled look. “You are saying that even if I do marry a European nobleman, my life will have as many constraints as if I remained in Baltimore.”

Aunt Nancy smiled wryly. “I have never yet met a man of any nationality who regarded his wife as an equal. The only way to achieve freedom as a woman is to be financially independent and single.”

Betsy frowned. She loved her aunt dearly—admiring the older woman’s independence and enjoying her eccentricities—but Betsy did not want such a life for herself.

Exhaling deeply, she marshaled her thoughts. Ever since her time at Madame Lacomb’s school, she had set her heart on living in Europe. The United States was such a young country that it had very little music, literature, or art. Not only was Europe far ahead of America in culture, but Betsy had also heard that in France, clever women could participate in intellectual life by hosting salons where learned people debated ideas. “I think,” she said at last, “that if I must accept constraint no matter which path I choose, I would still prefer a life of rank in Europe.”