The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (7 page)

Robert winced. “I shall have to tell William, but without more certain proof, he may not believe it.”

“You mean he will not believe me.”

“I do not think he has forgiven you, Betsy. He was very embarrassed.”

She nodded to acknowledge her wrong but kept to the subject at hand. “What are we to do?”

“No matter what course we take, we cannot allow Mother to hear of this. I suppose I shall have to keep watch and see what I can discover.”

“You mean spy on Father in his own house?”

“I do not see any alternative.”

Betsy sighed. As they turned left on Pratt Street, which ran along the manmade waterfront, she glanced across the water to Federal Hill, a rise of land on the south shore of the basin where public celebrations were often held. “Was I right to tell you?”

“Of course.” Robert paused as a squawking gull flew overhead. “Just before John went to live with the Nicholas family, I heard him arguing with Father in the office. John would not tell me the reason for their quarrel, but he said he intended never to come back.”

“Do you think he knows?”

“I think it likely, but it is not the kind of thing I can ask in a letter. His engagement to Polly gave him a good reason to relocate without causing a family scene.”

“He too wanted to protect Mother,” Betsy whispered, staring at the cobblestone pavement so Robert would not see the tears in her eyes. Of her three older brothers, she respected John the least because she considered him weak and sly, but in this instance, she could not fault his decision to keep quiet.

Robert put his arm around her shoulder. “Do not be so downcast, Goose. If what you suspect is true, our father has committed a very grave error, but he is a good man in most other respects. Try to remember that.”

Unable to speak because of the tightness in her throat, Betsy nodded. Robert squeezed her arm lightly and then continued on toward the docks.

ONE OF FEW aspects of her domestic duties that Betsy enjoyed was using her skills at needlework to create presents for the people she loved. That evening she sat on one of the shield-back chairs by the drawing room table, embroidering flowers and birds on a white satin reticule she planned to give Henriette. To Betsy’s surprise, her father arrived home an hour before his usual time. Patterson entered the drawing room and curtly told the younger children, who were regaling Dorcas with tales about school, to go upstairs. “Your mother and I need to talk to Elizabeth.”

The use of her full name and the unusual circumstance of his leaving business early told Betsy that the occasion was serious. She laid her embroidery on the table next to a pile of brightly colored skeins of floss and then folded her hands demurely in her lap. Then she looked up expectantly.

As soon as the room had cleared, William Patterson stood on the Turkish carpet at a spot where he could see both his wife and daughter. “I was astonished to receive a visit from Lieutenant Bonaparte today.”

“Yes, sir?” Betsy asked, surprising herself with her calm. Knowing her father’s guilty secret made her feel almost as though she had hidden power over him.

Patterson’s heavy black eyebrows came together in a sharp V. “Elizabeth, you have met this man only three times in the space of a fortnight. How could you so forget yourself as to receive his attentions?”

“I have done nothing improper.” Betsy congratulated herself on not blushing at the lie. “When he spoke of his wish to court me, I told him to address his request to you.”

“He seems to have formed the impression that you welcome his suit.”

Betsy glanced at her mother and saw that she looked amazed but not displeased by Jerome’s interest. Taking courage from that, Betsy said, “Sir, I give you my word that I have done no more than indicate I would receive his calls with an open mind. Yet, I must remind you that I have always made it known that I dream of making a European alliance.”

“Nonsense! Those were the whims of your childhood. Surely, you have learned better than to be governed by such girlish fancies.”

Betsy lifted her chin and gave her father as steady a look as she could manage. “On the contrary, now that Napoleon Bonaparte has returned stability to France, my interest in living in Europe has increased rather than diminished. Even if it were not so, I would have no reason to scorn Lieutenant Bonaparte. His brother is the First Consul. We are not of such great estate that we can look down on his claims.”

“But Betsy,” Dorcas exclaimed. “If you were to marry Lieutenant Bonaparte, you would live overseas. Your father and I might never see you again.”

“Madam, you speak in haste. There is no question of marriage here.”

Dorcas raised a hand to her lips as if in apology, but Betsy refused to be stifled. “No question of marriage as yet. Unless you were so indifferent to my interests as to refuse Lieutenant Bonaparte’s request.”

“Indifferent to your—” Patterson struck the mantelpiece. “You forget yourself, Elizabeth. This man is a complete stranger to Baltimore society. Why is he absent from the navy and in no haste to return to his post? Those are not the actions of a responsible person.”

“Unless he is on a secret mission for the First Consul.”

“What manner of mission would require him to dance attendance upon a young woman such as yourself? No, for all we know, Jerome Bonaparte could be a rake. If I were to blithely consign my daughter’s welfare to such a cipher, then truly could I be accused of indifference.”

Deciding that it would be prudent to appear more yielding, Betsy lowered her gaze. “Yes, Father. But are those not reasons to get to know him better, rather than to reject him?”

A moment of silence followed, and when she dared to look up again, she saw that her father’s fury was spent. Patterson drew close and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Betsy, are you so very taken with this man that you would defy my judgment and plead for him?”

She bit her lip, then decided to be truthful. “You are right in saying that we still do not know his full character—although he is a friend of Commodore Barney’s and thus not a total stranger. But yes, I have found Lieutenant Bonaparte to be a most delightful companion, and I was hoping for the chance to deepen our acquaintance.”

“She makes an excellent point, Mr. Patterson,” Dorcas said. When her husband glared at her, she added in a rush, “Lieutenant Bonaparte is an amiable young man connected to the ruler of France. You would not wish to create tension between our two countries by insulting him.”

“You have not the least conception of what you are saying, madam. We are not discussing a political alliance, but rather a young man’s infatuation. If anything, the First Consul would thank me for preventing his brother from forming a too-hasty attachment.”

Betsy pressed her hands together before her chest. “But we have not been guilty of haste. I am merely requesting time to know Lieutenant Bonaparte better. Have you irrevocably decided against him?”

William Patterson shook his head. “I did not refuse his request. I asked him to call again tomorrow to receive my answer.”

Betsy caught her breath. After a moment, during which her father obstinately remained silent, she asked, “What will you tell him?”

“That he may call upon you here at the house. I do not want you to go walking or riding with him alone until I feel more certain of his character. Will you agree to that?”

“Yes, Father,” she answered and tried not to let him hear her sigh of relief.

V

J
EROME lost no time in commencing his courtship. He rented lodgings on South Street for himself and his retinue, and he proceeded to call upon the Pattersons every day.

After the first week, Betsy asked him, “Do you mean to wear my family down with your persistence?”

He grinned. “No, Elisa, I visit at every opportunity because I do not know how much longer I may be in the United States. The French
chargé d’affaires,
Monsieur Pichon, continually urges me to return to the navy. I have forestalled him by saying that I have my orders and by sending my aide to France to receive confirmation from my brother, but nearly a month has passed since Lieutenant Meyronnet sailed, and I am not certain when he might return.”

Betsy’s happiness contracted at the thought that duty might separate them before they decided their future. “In the right conditions, a fast ship could make the eastbound crossing in three to four weeks. But a bulkier ship would surely take longer.”

“That leaves us only a few months at most to win your father’s consent.”

“Lieutenant Bonaparte, do you forget that
I
have not yet accepted your proposal?” She smiled to take the sting from her rebuke.

“No, my lovely Elisa, I do not forget, but I possess a nature that lives on hope.” He kissed her hand. “You look like you belong in the Bonaparte family, you know. You greatly resemble Pauline.”

“Really? You never told me that,” Betsy said, far from pleased. To be told by a suitor that she resembled his sister was hardly romantic.

Seeing her expression, Jerome added, “But you are prettier. Your lively disposition gives you a more vivacious air.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” she said and bowed her head in acknowledgment.

Although Betsy worried that Jerome’s impulsive nature might offend her family, she was relieved to see that he behaved impeccably whenever he stepped foot inside the Patterson home. On his first visit, he brought wooden soldiers for Betsy’s younger brothers, sugarplums for her sisters, French lace for her mother, brandy for her father, and for Betsy herself, the properly impersonal gift of a book of nature poetry called
Les Jardins
by Jacques Delille. Jerome spoke only English in her family’s presence so that no one could accuse him of deviousness, and he avoided the risqué subjects with which he had amused Betsy at the ball.

The family did not know quite what to make of the gregarious young Corsican. The younger children burst into giggles whenever they heard him called their sister
Elisa.
Privately, Betsy’s older brothers mocked Jerome’s penchant for fancy clothes, and her father expressed astonishment that any man could so enjoy idleness. Little by little, these criticisms eased as they saw the extent to which Jerome exerted himself to be agreeable. He expressed interest in their concerns, even ignoring Betsy at times to ask after business. Jerome further endeared himself by teaching the little boys Napoleon’s battle tactics and performing errands for Dorcas. He recounted amusing descriptions of life in France yet was also an attentive listener—even managing to draw from Dorcas stories of her girlhood that her children had never heard.

One Sunday as Jerome took tea with the family, Betsy’s father crossed the drawing room and sat at his desk, which stood against the wall opposite the front windows. After calling his two eldest sons to his side, he began to read a letter he had received the day before, speaking loudly to be heard over the clamor of children playing about the room. In the letter, Mr. James McIlhiny, Patterson’s London agent, reported that he suspected the company’s agent in Holland was cheating them by inflating the amount he claimed to have paid in tariffs.

Glancing toward her mother, Betsy saw Dorcas frown in disapproval of business being conducted on Sunday. Betsy rolled her eyes at Jerome to convey her own exasperation and then picked up a book she had just finished reading, a novel he had given her called
Atala
by the French writer Chateaubriand. The tale was a tragic love story between Indians in the American South, as told to a young Frenchman who had married into the tribe. As soon as her father finished reading his letter, Betsy said, “Robert, come look at this book. I think you might enjoy it.”

Half leaning over his father’s desk, Robert glanced back at her and shook his head. “Not now. Can you not see that we have something important to discuss?”

Dorcas stabbed her needle into her embroidery. “It is also imperative to take a day of rest.”

Patterson shoved back his chair and stood. “Madam, do you dare to question my conduct? In my own home before my adult sons?”

His wife blanched. “No, Mr. Patterson. I only wished to remind you that this is the Lord’s Day. Can you not deal with this correspondence on the morrow?”

“No, madam, I cannot. We have other pressing obligations.”

Reaching for the letter, he said to William Jr., “Let us go next door to discuss this since the sound of honest labor is so upsetting to your mother’s religious sensibilities.”

“Please, do not go,” Dorcas pleaded, but her husband ignored her. He stalked out, followed by William and Robert, who threw a regretful glance in his mother’s direction. Dorcas dropped her embroidery and hurried upstairs. At a nod from Betsy, Margaret went after her. In the uneasy silence that followed, Caroline climbed onto the sofa to lean against her oldest sister’s arm, and the young boys played more quietly.

Betsy sighed, and Jerome asked her, “Your family, do they ever discuss anything but business?”

“Never.”

He gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “No literature? No philosophy? No art?”

“Only the fine art of making money.”

“Ma pauvre Elisa,”
Jerome murmured. “You belong in Paris. I wish I could transport you there to participate in the salons. With your wit and vivacity, you would add much to the debates. And you would be celebrated for your beauty. If only I could commission Jacques-Louis David to paint your portrait, your lovely face would be preserved for posterity.”

Putting an arm around Caroline, Betsy sighed. “Sometimes, I fear that I would be as out of place in Paris as if I were a savage Indian.”

“Nonsense. Every day, you impress me with your natural gentility.” Jerome lowered his voice.
“Je rêve du jour quand je te présenterai à Napoléon. Il verra que j’ai choisi un femme aussi élégante que Josephine.”

Although Betsy felt gratified that Jerome would compare her favorably to Josephine, she could not allow him to assume their marriage was a certain thing. “Lieutenant Bonaparte, I—”

“Shhh,” he said, surreptitiously squeezing her hand. “I know you cannot give me an answer yet. I will wait.”

ALTHOUGH BETSY ENJOYED the hours she spent with Jerome, one aspect of their courtship frustrated her. Having experienced the pleasure of her first kiss, she longed for the chance to be alone so they could embrace once more. Jerome remained circumspect, never hinting that he shared Betsy’s hunger, but she could not believe that he was any more satisfied with their chaste interactions than she was.

Three weeks passed, and Betsy received a note asking her to visit Henriette Reubell, just returned from her wedding trip. After gaining permission to be driven there in the family’s small calash, Betsy sent word to Jerome not to call that day.

A footman showed Betsy into the Pascault parlor, a handsome room with tall mullioned windows, acanthus leaves on the cornice and plaster ceiling medallion, and imported French furnishings. When Henriette rose to greet her friend, Betsy saw that her eyes glowed with happiness. “You look wonderful. Commandant Reubell must be good to you.”

“He is a kind man.” Henriette resumed her seat on the scroll-arm sofa, upholstered in a dark green silk figured with gold peacocks. Betsy sat beside her. “But I hear that you have news of your own. Papa says all of Baltimore is gossiping that you are to marry Lieutenant Bonaparte.”

“You know how idle tongues exaggerate. Father allows him to call on me in the presence of my family, that is all.”

“Oh.” Henriette looked nonplussed. “Perhaps I have made a grave error.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lieutenant Bonaparte arrived here half an hour ago and begged me to allow a private audience with you. He is waiting in Papa’s library to see if you will receive him. I would never have agreed if I had known it violated the understanding with your father.”

In her excitement, Betsy clapped her hands like a little girl. “What an unexpected boon. I cannot tell you how I have longed for us to meet alone.”

Giving her a sharp look, Henriette said, “Have you fallen in love with him?”

“I have scarcely admitted it to myself, but I think I have. The day of your wedding, I allowed him to kiss me in the garden, and since then, I can hardly think of anything else. The more I see him, the more essential he seems to my happiness.”

Henriette shook her head. “I am not sure such immoderate feelings ever lead to true happiness. Marriage should be approached more dispassionately.”

“But you married for love!”

“Yes, but I did not commit myself until after I ascertained that Papa approved of him.”

Feeling rebuked, Betsy scooted farther from Henriette. “If it troubles your conscience for us to have an assignation here, then ask Lieutenant Bonaparte to leave.”

“Don’t be so tetchy. I am thinking only of your welfare. Bonaparte is so young that I fear he lacks the maturity required for marriage.”

Betsy waved her friend’s words away. “He is old enough to be a naval officer.”

“Shall I send him to you then?” Henriette asked, smiling with the air of a tolerant older sister.

“Please.”

As her friend left the parlor, Betsy hurried to the gold-framed mirror on the wall and checked her hair. She arranged her lace fichu more becomingly and then saw in the mirror the reflection of Jerome entering the room. Betsy turned to face him.

He closed the door but, to her surprise, did not cross to her. His face wore an uncharacteristic gravity that made her wonder if he had received orders to rejoin the navy. Forgetting all restraint, she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck.

Instead of kissing her, Jerome gently pushed her away. “No, Elisa. We must talk.”

Betsy’s stomach cramped with dread as she returned to the sofa and sat down. Jerome came to stand before her with his hands behind his back.

“Your father remains troubled by the speed of our courtship and has asked Commodore Barney to assist him in effecting a separation. Barney called on me this morning to say that he thinks it prudent for me to accompany him on a tour of other American cities.”

“Who cares what Commodore Barney thinks? He is nothing to do with us. Besides, you yourself have pointed out how little time we have.”

Lowering his head, Jerome said, “I am sorry, but I find myself compelled to comply with his request.”

Betsy pressed a hand to her forehead. “I do not understand. What power does Barney have over you?”

Jerome drew a deep breath as if preparing to say something difficult. Then he met Betsy’s eyes and shrugged her question away. “For one thing, I must see Monsieur Pichon and ask him to advance me funds.”

“Is that all? Washington is only a day’s journey from Baltimore. Surely, you need not be gone more than three days.”

He rubbed his upper lip before saying, “I am sorry, Elisa, but our separation must be longer than that. Your father insists.”

Recalling the ardor with which Jerome had recently promised to wait for her, Betsy wondered why he had agreed to this separation so tamely. Could it be that his love for her had withered as quickly as it had bloomed?

Distressed, she rose and crossed to the front windows, which were swagged with lengths of green and gold silk. Looking out on the front lawn, she remembered seeing Jerome come up the drive the night they first met—so dashing that Betsy had been certain Odette’s long-ago prophecy was about to come true. Now the hope that had flared so brightly that evening burned to ashes and fell around her feet.

“Are you angry?” Jerome asked, coming up behind her.

“No, but I wonder if you have ceased to care for me. If you have, I wish you would tell me so at once.”

“Oh, Elisa, how can you think such a thing?” Betsy felt him gently lift her cascading curls and move them to rest upon her right shoulder. Then he ran his fingertips down the left side of her neck and across her collarbone to her shoulder. She sighed and tilted her head in response. The image of him putting his hands upon her breasts seized Betsy’s imagination and made her weak with longing.

Jerome took her in his arms and kissed her, much more passionately than before. Although Betsy knew she should push him away, her body cried out for him and her emotions greeted the embrace as proof of his love, even though her skeptical mind knew that it was not necessarily so.

When he finally released her, Betsy was breathless. She took a step backward and found herself against the windowsill. “How long will you be gone?”

“A month, perhaps a little more.”

“A month! But we have known each other only a month, and in that brief time, you have repeatedly declared your desire to marry quickly. Now you speak of a month’s parting as though it were of no import. How can I know that you will even return? Is not Pichon likely to force you back to your post?”

Grasping her hand, Jerome raised it to his lips.
“Ne t’inquiètes pas, ma chérie.
I have orders from my brother that supersede any authority the
chargé d’affaires
may have.”

“Then you leave on a mission for your brother and not because of what Barney said.”

Jerome tilted his head to one side as though weighing his next statement. “Not entirely. We must win your father’s consent, and if a time apart can do that, it is well worth the pain of separation. This proposed excursion is but a temporary absence meant to test our ardor. Let us yield to their demands. Then when I return, your father will see that I am worthy of you.”

Betsy gazed deeply into his eyes, fearing that he was hiding something. How could she be sure that this was not just a ruse to break his promises to her? On the other hand, if he did have to accomplish a mission for Napoleon, surely he would have to keep the details secret. If only she could know the true reason for this journey.