Betsy might have been engaging in a bit of conversational melodrama, but she did have cause to suffer an underlying sadness. Her relationship with her father was intense, complex, contradictory, and never satisfactory. She defied him yet seemed always to desperately seek his approval. He criticized and condemned her yet felt frustrated that he could not protect her from others or herself. The battle of wills that became their most common mode of relating must have exhausted them both. But it was her father’s infidelity that cut deepest, for it required Betsy to pity as well as love her mother. She saw Dorcas Patterson as a victim of social conventions but also, more than anything else, as a victim of a domineering and heartless husband. In later years, she would write with bitterness and contempt of William’s mistresses and his illegitimate child. Betsy’s marriage to Jérôme held out the promise of escape from the stultifying culture of her native land, but it also promised escape from the unhappiness hidden from view within one of America’s most prominent and stable families. She could not know, in 1804, that it would do neither.
Even if Betsy had dressed with the modesty that disapproving matrons demanded, controversy would have surrounded her. For in Washington, the presence of an American-born Bonaparte was certain to prompt political speculation. Did Betsy’s marriage signal a shift in policy on the part of Jefferson’s government? Jefferson fueled such speculation when he failed to give precedence to British ambassador Anthony Merry and his wife at a presidential dinner party, and he compounded the insult soon afterward, at another dinner, by escorting Betsy to the dinner table ahead of the wife of the British secretary of the navy. Whatever Betsy thought of the gesture, the Merrys believed its message was clear: the president of the United States had indicated his preference for France over England. Long after the excitement over Betsy’s Paris fashions died down, Betsy’s marriage would retain its political significance.
While Betsy and Jérôme enjoyed the social life of Washington and later New York, news of their marriage was making its way to Europe. The London Times carried the announcement, garnered from the New York papers, on February 4. Soon enough it traveled across the Channel. By February 18, Parisians could read that Jérôme Bonaparte had taken an American wife. One of those reading the news was Napoleon Bonaparte. The first consul was not pleased.
The timing of Betsy’s marriage could not have been worse. Jérôme had already taxed Napoleon’s patience by abandoning his naval post and running up exorbitant bills everywhere he went, including the United States. Napoleon had read of the marriage only a few days after he sent Meyronnet back to America with orders that Jérôme return to France—at once. Even without this long list of sins committed by his youngest brother, Napoleon would have been in no mood to greet the marriage calmly. Jérôme’s older brother Lucien Bonaparte had recently infuriated Napoleon by marrying his mistress, Madame Alexandrine Jouberthou, thus depriving the first consul of an opportunity to create a family alliance with one of the many noble houses of Europe.
Lucien had stood firm against his older brother. In a meeting with Robert Patterson, Betsy’s brother, Lucien would later explain his refusal to bend to Napoleon’s wishes. “When we marry we are to consult our own happiness and not that of another. It matters not who else is or is not to be displeased.” Napoleon, however, did not see it this way. He considered the happiness of his brothers and sisters irrelevant; they must all bend to his wishes. His attitude was summed up by one of his ministers: “I owe nothing to my brothers … [but] they must not leave me isolated, and deprived of the aid and services which I have a right to expect from them.” With her marriage, Betsy had successfully defied her father, a patriarch who expected his family to bend to his wishes as well; but unlike Napoleon, William did not have the power to create national law. Napoleon’s Code Napoléon made it perfectly clear that no one under the age of twenty-five could legally marry without his parent or guardian’s permission. It allowed Napoleon to dismiss the legitimacy of a ceremony conducted by an archbishop of the Catholic Church and witnessed by a member of his own legation. Betsy and Jérôme, he declared, were “no more man and wife than any other couple of lovers who united themselves in a garden, pledging their vows at the altar of love, in the presence of a witnessing moon and stars.”
William Patterson was not present to hear Napoleon’s outburst, but he already suspected that trouble lay ahead. Soon after the wedding, he had sent his son Robert to Paris to consult with the American minister and to test, as best he could, the reception likely to be waiting for the newest Madame Bonaparte in France. Robert arrived on March 11, 1804, and almost immediately received bad news. The American minister, trying to convey the degree of Napoleon’s wrath, suggested that Jérôme and Betsy remain in America indefinitely. Lucien Bonaparte, who agreed to meet with Robert—and Robert’s interpreter, the revolutionary war veteran Captain Paul Bentalou—was more encouraging. The entire family, Lucien said, with one unfortunately significant exception, was ready to welcome Elizabeth as Jérôme’s wife. Nevertheless, considering who that exception was, he recommended that Jérôme stay in the United States and become a citizen there. As for Napoleon, he took no notice of Robert Patterson at all.
While Jérôme and Betsy continued their extended honeymoon, Napoleon mounted his attack on their marriage. He ordered his minister of the marine, Denis Decrès, to have Pichon inform Jérôme that the marriage was nonexistent—and, no doubt more serious for Jérôme, that all funds for his brother were to be cut off immediately. The captains of all French vessels were warned not to take aboard the “young person with whom Jérôme had entangled himself and should she attempt to enter France, she would not be suffered to land, but be sent immediately back to the United States.” And before winter ended, Napoleon persuaded the French senate to pass an act forbidding any civil officer to even receive the transcript of the marriage. The senate’s action reduced Betsy to a hapless participant in “a pretended marriage that Jérôme Bonaparte has contracted in a foreign country, during the age of minority, without the consent of his mother.”
But all this bad news from France traveled slowly. In March, Jérôme could write to his mother that he was eager to introduce her to his “dear wife.” It was not until April that he learned the legislature had labeled his marriage a sham. At about the same time, he received a long letter from Denis Decrès. Having been the lover of Napoleon’s beautiful sister Pauline, the minister felt he had the right to send stern advice to Jérôme. He reminded the young Bonaparte that his country was once again on the brink of war and that his proper place was at his older brother’s side. Honor and glory would come to family members who rallied to Napoleon, he wrote, but those who opposed him, like Lucien, would be cast out.
Jérôme was now uneasy, if not actually frightened. But he gambled that, given time, Napoleon would relent. In this, he was sadly wrong. Napoleon, as fiercely proud of being a self-made man as William Patterson was, viewed himself as the “sole fabricator of my destiny.” He owed nothing to his brothers; rather, they owed everything to him. He demanded their loyalty and obedience. Considering Lucien’s marriage to be a betrayal, Napoleon did not hesitate to drive him into exile in Italy. If he could banish a brother who had long been a confidant and supporter, “what,” he asked, “has Jerome to expect?”
Despite the bad news and dire warnings that came flooding in all at once, Jérôme’s plan remained the same. He would sail to France on a French warship—with his bride—and introduce her to Napoleon. She would charm his brother—and all would be well. Toward this end, the couple, accompanied by Betsy’s father, made their way to New York in June 1804. The Bonapartes boarded the Didion but were forced to disembark when British warships were spotted off the coast. Even had safe passage been possible, Betsy would have been left behind, for by this time, the captain of the Didion had received orders forbidding any French warship to allow her aboard. Learning this, Jérôme gallantly refused to board without her.
While they pondered what to do next, the yo
ung Bonapartes passed the summer in New York State, visiting Niagara Falls and enjoying the hospitality of New York City’s social elite. By mid-August, they were back in Baltimore, still looking for safe transportation to France.
That September, Jérôme thought he had arranged suitable travel. Bowing to reality, he now agreed to go alone on a French frigate while his wife made the journey on an American vessel. Her escort would be the new American minister to France, General John Armstrong. But once again the plan fell through. Finally in October, Jérôme, Betsy, and her chaperone, her aunt Nancy Spear, boarded an American merchant vessel at Philadelphia. Before they could reach the ocean from Delaware Bay, however, the ship was destroyed by a violent storm and the passengers had to leap from the deck to a lifeboat below. Newspaper accounts claimed Betsy was the first one to jump. Wet and cold, they took refuge with a family living along the bay. Although Miss Spear thought the proper thing to do was to kneel and thank God for their safe delivery, Betsy considered her survival a matter of personal bravery rather than divine intervention. Rather than prayer, she preferred to celebrate by eating a hearty meal. That December the Bonapartes tried once again to make the transatlantic crossing. But once again British warships blocked their way. There could be no more attempts until spring.
Betsy and Jérôme had failed to reach France, but Napoleon had succeeded in taking that country over completely. On May 18, 1804, Jérôme’s older brother declared himself emperor. After his coronation in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame that December, the new ruler of France began to distribute rewards and honors to members of his family whom he considered deserving. Brothers Joseph and Louis were made princes of the empire and Napoleon’s successors should he die without a son. Joseph was soon named king of Naples and Louis king of Holland. Even sister Caroline’s husband, who began life as an innkeeper’s son, would now be called Prince. Noticeably absent from the new emperor’s honor roll were Lucien and Jérôme. When Jérôme learned of these events in late February 1805, he surely began to realize the high price he had paid for love.
At last, in March 1805, William Patterson took matters into his own hands and chartered a ship to carry his daughter and her husband across the Atlantic. The Erin was sleek and fast, able to outrun any British ship hoping to enforce the blockade. William also provided the couple with funds and provisions for the journey. When they were not laid low by seasickness, Jérôme, Betsy, and their entourage—including Jérôme’s physician and Betsy’s oldest brother, William Jr.—passed their days playing cards, games, and backgammon. If Jérôme’s thoughts turned frequently during their long voyage to his first meeting with the emperor, Betsy’s may have been on more intimate concerns. She was six months pregnant, and there would soon be a new Bonaparte in the emperor’s family.
Chapter Four
“Have Confidence in Your Husband”
Although the seas were rough, the voyage to Europe was mercifully swift. On April 2, after only a little more than three weeks, the Erin reached Lisbon with Betsy, Jérôme, William Patterson Jr., Betsy’s friend Eliza Anderson, Jérôme’s doctor, and his secretary, Alexandre Le Camus, on board. It was here that Betsy learned how thoroughly unwelcome she was in Napoleon’s Europe. She was allowed to go sightseeing and shopping with her husband but not to travel any farther with him. The message could not have been clearer, but Napoleon added insult to injury: he was willing to pay her off if she would go away quietly. When his messenger explained that Napoleon was willing to provide her with a pension if she promptly returned to America and gave up the Bonaparte name, Betsy snapped back: “Tell your master I shall never relinquish a name he has made so famous.… Tell him that Madame Bonaparte is ambitious and demands her rights as a member of the imperial family.” Her reply was both a challenge to Napoleon and a sign of her admiration for his achievements. She would not be bought off; she would not trade prestige and reflected glory for mere money.
Jérôme tried to soothe Betsy’s injured pride and calm her growing anxiety by purchasing a set of garnet jewelry for her. On the clasp of the bracelet, he had the jeweler engrave a single word: Fidelité. Then he said his goodbyes, for he had been ordered to come at once to Napoleon, and he thought it best to obey. Amid promises that they would soon be reunited and that all would be well, Jérôme left for a rendezvous with the emperor. On April 9, some four days after he departed, Betsy recorded in her notebook, “Mon mari est parti de Lisbon.” She would not see him again until they passed each other in the gallery of the Pitti Palace in Florence, decades later.
Jérôme was headed to Italy to see his brother. Betsy and her traveling companions aboard the Erin now headed to the Netherlands, where they hoped Napoleon’s ban might not apply. The weather at sea was terrible, and this voyage took twenty-six days. By the time the ship reached the Texel River, provisions had run dangerously low and the drinking water was almost gone. But the Netherlands proved no haven. Their greeting was a warning shot fired at them by a battleship. Within a short time, the Erin was hemmed in by warships. Realizing he could not make port, the captain sent a plea for supplies. The request was ignored until several days later, when the port commander relented and sent food, water, wine, and liquor. But he also sent an order: leave immediately. On May 17 the Erin set sail again, this time for the only country likely to welcome them: England.
Jérôme apparently knew nothing of his wife’s difficulties. Soon after he departed, he sent a letter, addressed to her at Lisbon. His tone was, as always, reassuring. “The worst thing that could happen to us,” he declared, “would be to live quietly abroad, but when we are together aren’t we certain to be happy?” By April 19, he learned she had headed to Amsterdam. He wrote to her there, addressing the letter to “Madame d’Albert,” using the same alias he had used on his arrival in America. He assured her that before June ended, he would join her there. “I must do my best with my brother,” he added. “He is my Emperor and has always been a tender father to me. But after I have done my duty and have nothing to reproach myself with I will live, if it be necessary, withdrawn with my little family in no matter what corner of the world.”
Jérôme’s “tender father” was far from ready to forgive him, however. In a letter to their mother, Letizia, the emperor had made it clear that Jérôme must be “disposed to wash away the dishonor with which he has soiled my name in abandoning his colors and his ship for a miserable woman.” If the younger Bonaparte failed to make amends, Napoleon intended to “give him up forever” and, more ominously, make an example of him. Napoleon’s ire was immediately evident to Jérôme, who was left to cool his heels outside Napoleon’s headquarters. When Napoleon at last agreed to an audience, he was said to greet Jérôme coldly: “So, sir, you are the first of your family who shamefully abandoned his post. It will require many splendid actions to wipe that stain from your reputation. As to your love affair with your little girl, I do not regard it.”
Napoleon’s threats had not worked on Lucien, who stood by his wife despite exile and accusations that he had betrayed the emperor. But Jérôme lacked his older brother’s strength of character. As Napoleon heaped threats upon him—no more funds, no place in the line of succession, no honors, no glory, no royal title, and the possibility of court-martial—Jérôme’s resolve, if it had ever truly existed, evaporated. On May 6, as the Erin tossed on rough seas toward Amsterdam, Betsy’s husband capitulated completely to Napoleon.
The Erin reached Dover on May 19. Betsy discovered when she disembarked that her plight had made her a celebrity in England, just as her marriage had made her a celebrity at home only a few years earlier. Crowds gathered at the dock to catch a glimpse of the young, pregnant woman whom Napoleon had driven from the shores of Europe. But here, as in Washington City, her critics were as numerous as her supporters. British popular opinion was divided: Was she a sympathetic victim of a cruel tyrant, or was she a collaborator with that tyrant who had been cast aside? The newspaper reports captured this ambiguity. In its account of Madame Bonaparte’s
arrival, the London Times quipped, “She appears far advanced in a situation to increase the number of Imperial relatives.” The sarcasm was aimed as much at Betsy as at Napoleon.
If the press was willing to criticize Betsy as readily as it was to romanticize her plight, the British government was far more careful to present itself as a reliable friend. Betsy was, after all, a valuable asset in the propaganda war to win support from the United States. Thus Prime Minister William Pitt sent a company of soldiers to escort and protect her from any unpleasant jostling by the gawking crowd. The minister hoped that English kindness and consideration would provide a stark contrast to the insulting behavior of Napoleon. Patriotic newspapers were quick to point out this contrast, declaring that Betsy, who had suffered humiliation at the hands of “the Imperial Swindler” and his contemptible brother Jérôme, was now safely “under the protection of a great and generous people.”
Betsy surely appreciated Pitt’s assistance. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and more than seven months pregnant. She was also far more politically savvy than she had been in the earlier days of her marriage. She knew that the British government’s readiness to use her situation for diplomatic ends would raise Napoleon’s ire. Any public attention, especially if it was friendly, had to be avoided. With crowds gathering daily for a glimpse of her in London, Betsy sought refuge in the quieter surroundings of Camberwell, England. There, on the morning of July 7, 1805, she gave birth to a son. She had the presence of mind to ensure that there were witnesses present and that the infant’s birth certificate was notarized. In naming her child, she linked together the two Frenchmen who held her fate in their hands. He was called Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte.
Betsy had found a safe haven in England, but her future remained clouded. She had received no word from Jérôme since they parted in Lisbon, for the letters he had written had missed her, both in Portugal and in the Netherlands. Even if he had known where she was, it would have been risky for him to try to communicate with her, or to try to send word to her through trusted friends. Napoleon was quick, in fact, to punish anyone who helped Betsy or the Pattersons. The emperor had jailed Paul Bentalou for his role as an interpreter when Robert Patterson spoke with Lucien Bonaparte. Jérôme feared that Napoleon’s spies were watching him and that any sign of a breach in his capitulation to the emperor’s wishes would carry serious consequences. Sometime in mid-May Jérôme risked sending a letter to Betsy, but it did not reach her for several years. Then Jérôme attempted to send word to Betsy through the Dowager Marchioness of Donegal, but it took this go-between six weeks to discover where Madame Bonaparte was residing.
Wondrous Beauty: The Life and Adventures of Elizabeth Patterson Bonaparte Page 4
