Few women supported themselves. Madame Lacomb and others like her survived by running schools or giving lessons, but such occupations entailed a loss of social prestige. One Baltimore woman was professionally successful and widely admired—the newspaper publisher and former postmistress Mary Katherine Goddard—but her achievements were so exceptional as to be irrelevant to Betsy’s prospects. If Betsy were to live independently, she would most likely have to eke out a genteel but meager living doing needlework.
As she tried to decide whether to marry a man of fortune or seek to earn her own money, she felt like a blind woman groping her way down a strange corridor that opened on many unmarked passages. Betsy could find no clear indication of which one to choose. Then an unexpected whiff of lavender sachet or the sound of Joseph humming dance tunes would remind her of Jerome and cause a pang of intense longing. It maddened Betsy that her passion for him was impervious to logic. No matter how often reason told her to give Jerome up, she felt that she would pay any price to see him again.
A WEEK AFTER her return home, Betsy sat on the double-chair-backed settee before the front windows in the drawing room. She was reading the volume of verse Jerome had given her. In truth, she did not particularly like the poet, who wrote in a highly artificial manner, but she thought it was important to keep her French in practice.
However, her depressed spirits made concentrating difficult. After bogging down in an abstract passage, she set the book aside and wondered what Jerome was doing. Perhaps he was riding in a park with a young lady or being dined by a fat matron who wanted him to marry her daughter. He was almost certainly not sitting alone trying to improve himself with literature.
Betsy’s imagination conjured up a sudden, clear image of Jerome gazing at her from across the room. The vision was so strong that it produced a powerful sense of his presence. Betsy had such an overwhelming feeling that someone was staring at her that she hurried to the door to see if anyone was in the hall. The passage was empty. Returning to the settee, she knelt upon it to look out the window. In the street below, her father was approaching the house for midday dinner. A few yards away, another man walked away toward the harbor. Betsy gasped when she saw him. Above his dark blue cape was a head of curly black hair, and his gait was similar to Jerome’s. Yet, she knew Jerome to be far from Baltimore, and the cruelty of her disappointment made her grasp the settee back, lean her head upon her hands, and sob.
Then a man spoke her name.
Betsy lifted her head to see her father. Flustered at being found in such anguish, she stammered, “F-forgive me. I thought myself alone.” Hastily wiping her eyes, she rose to leave.
“Wait. I want to talk to you.”
“Please, sir, allow me to go to my room and compose myself.”
“You are fine as you are. Sit down.” Patterson nodded at the settee and then moved a chair from the nearby table to sit facing her. “You have had more command of yourself these last few days, and I hoped you were beginning to recover from your unhappiness. Was I wrong?”
Betsy gazed at her lap and did not answer.
“My dear child, are you not able to free yourself from this attachment?”
“I have tried, Father. Since returning from Mount Warren, I have endeavored to resign myself to life without Lieutenant Bonaparte. I find the prospect most distressing.”
“I wish that you were better able to govern your heart, Elizabeth. After all that has happened, how can you still wish to accept this man?”
She looked up. “Father, I have not absolutely decided to accept him. How could I? We do not know any more about his answer to the charges than we did three weeks ago. The deeds he stands accused of might be lies. Or they might be the rash impulses of youth that he regrets. Or he might indeed be a man so flawed that he would make an untrustworthy husband. Until we hear what he has to say, how can we know which is true?”
Her father scowled. “You speak like a child. Why should we believe his excuses? Will he not say whatever he thinks we wish to hear?”
Betsy’s head started to throb, so she rubbed her temples. “Father, we could debate this all day and come no nearer to reaching an agreement. Each of us is firmly convinced that our belief about Lieutenant Bonaparte is true, and we are unlikely to persuade the other. Since he has withdrawn to New York, it is pointless to discuss this any further.” Fighting tears again, she added, “You may congratulate yourself on your success in driving him away from me.”
As she rose, William Patterson held out his hand. “Wait.” He hesitated, gripped the arms of his chair, and then said, “Bonaparte has returned. He wrote to me yesterday requesting an audience, and I have spent the morning closeted with him.”
Betsy glanced at the window, certain now that Jerome had been the man she saw walking down South Street. She sank back to her seat, struggling to control her breathing. “What did he say?”
“It was a difficult conversation. He admits to some guilt but swears that the charges are exaggerated. He seems to have hoped that if he could make me appreciate the intensity of his affection, I would understand that it renders him incapable of repeating such errors. However, I fear that when his first infatuation wears off, he will return to the bad habits he contracted in youth and you will suffer the acutest misery.” He drummed the arm of his chair. “Some women can endure living with a husband’s errors, but you have not the temperament to overlook such failings for the sake of marital harmony.”
In other words, I am not as complacent as Mother, Betsy thought bitterly. “Do you think it impossible that a man could sincerely desire to reform?”
“Not impossible but more difficult than you imagine. Bonaparte has not yet displayed the strength of character to make me think him one of the few who are capable of change.”
Patterson rose and crossed to the fireplace, where he studied the portrait of his wife and daughter. Then he turned back to Betsy. “I abhor the power that he has over you, and I fear that you are making a foolish choice.”
“I love him. And I believe that I can influence him for good.”
Drawing closer, Patterson leaned both hands upon the table and searched his daughter’s face. “Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?”
Betsy shook her head.
“Very well. I gave him permission to call this afternoon, but I have not yet renewed my consent to the marriage. Betsy, I beg you to listen carefully to what he has to say and to look for the motive behind his words. Do not commit yourself if you harbor any doubts.”
“Yes, Father,” she said even as her heart rejoiced that she would soon see Jerome. Betsy’s relief was so great that she felt as if she might float away, so she hugged herself tightly until her father left the room. Then she jumped up, flung out her arms, and twirled in delight. Jerome still loved her and would be here within hours.
Betsy stopped spinning with a jerk. She hurried across the drawing room to the mirror that hung opposite the front windows. It was a large mirror, flanked by gilded columns and topped with an American eagle, and the glass reflected three-quarters of her figure.
I look pale. She turned her head from side to side. Perhaps I should put on a bit of Henriette’s rouge.
Then Betsy changed her mind. She would style her hair prettily and don one of her most attractive afternoon gowns, but she would not put on artificial color for Jerome Bonaparte. Better that he should see how much gloom and anxiety he had caused her.
A maid entered the drawing room and said, “Miss Betsy, your mother asks you to come to dinner.”
Betsy turned from the mirror. “What?”
“Dinner,” the maid repeated.
“Oh, of course. Tell her I will be there directly.”
Glancing back at the mirror, Betsy wondered whether she was really so sure that she wanted to marry Jerome. How could she ever be certain of him after the things the letter said? She hoped to God that when she saw him again, her heart would know the answer.
WHEN DORCAS SHOWED Jerome into the
drawing room, Betsy stood but offered no greeting. He was uncharacteristically grave and hesitant, and his manner constrained her.
As soon as they were alone, Jerome burst out, “Elisa, you are so thin and white. I fear this contretemps has caused you to neglect your health.”
Betsy gestured for him to sit on the sofa, while she chose the safety of her mother’s banister-back chair. “I have been very unhappy. Can you possibly be surprised?”
“No, moi aussi, I have been in misery. It drove me mad to think that your father might not let me see you again.”
“He was doing what he thought best. The letter that he received was vile.”
“It was full of falsehood.”
His answer came too quickly and contradicted what he had earlier admitted to her father. Fixing him with a piercing look, Betsy said, “It was not entirely false. Was it?”
Jerome flushed. “No.”
Silence fell between them and Betsy found herself once again imagining him in the arms of another woman. She shut her eyes and tried to banish the thought, but the harder she fought it, the more jealous she felt. Looking at him again, she decided there was only one way to discover if she could live with his past. “Have you had many mistresses, Jerome?”
His dark eyes widened in shock. “Elisa! A man does not discuss such things with the woman he is going to marry.”
“If we are to marry—and that is still an open question—then we must have this out,” Betsy said, surprising herself with her own firmness. “I cannot live with the possibility that at any moment, more accusations will arrive to disturb our peace. Therefore, I must know at least the general extent of your dissipations.”
For an instant, Jerome glared at her, but then his shoulders slumped. “I cannot give you a number. I was young, I thought only of my own pleasure and told myself it was the woman’s duty to resist if she cared for her honor. Had I foreseen what pain my actions would cause my future wife, I would have been more circumspect. But it has never been my habit to look ahead.”
As Betsy considered his confession, she unconsciously pressed her hands together in an attitude of prayer. “You have been very irresponsible to members of my sex.”
Jerome sighed. “Yes, I see that now. But my father died soon after I was born, and I had no one to teach me how wrong I was. In the upper circles of French society, such casual affairs are very common. More so than here.”
His words stung Betsy in a way he could not guess. “They are more common here than you suppose. Just not so openly accepted. I warn you, Jerome, that I will not tolerate a repetition of such behavior. I will not be made a laughingstock.”
He stiffened. “Is it only your pride and reputation that concerns you?”
Betsy shook her head. “No. When I think of you with another woman, I feel ill. I would fight to my last breath for you, but I cannot command your fidelity. Only you can do that, and I do not feel certain that you possess the firmness of character for a lifetime of self-control.”
“Elisa, how can I convince you of my sincerity except to tell you again that I will never betray you? I swear that since the day we met, there have been no other women.”
“Not even in New York?”
“What do you mean? Has someone accused me?”
“No. I ask the question.” Betsy placed a hand over her heart. “Why, instead of remaining here to persuade my father, did you travel to New York? Was it in search of society to help you forget me?”
“Mon dieu, non!” Jerome held out his hands, palms upward. “Do I look like a man who has forgotten you? I was seeking a way to prove to your father how much I adore you.”
“Then why go away?”
“I went to New York so I could buy you a dowry of clothing and jewelry.”
His answer so completely astonished Betsy that she stared at him open-mouthed. “You bought me presents? You thought that would persuade my father?”
“He refused to meet with me. I had to do something.”
Betsy began to laugh, covering her mouth when she saw that it offended him, yet unable to dam the wild surge of levity. Only Jerome, whose love of buying beautiful things had so angered Napoleon, could imagine that he might solve their problems by shopping. After a few minutes, she mastered herself. “That possibility never occurred to me.”
Jerome stiffened and spoke in a tight voice, “You believed I was going to parties and making love to other women? Have you so little faith in me?”
“Forgive me. You must understand that my family exiled me to the country, and the people with whom I was staying were at me day and night to forget you.”
“What did you tell them?”
His beseeching tone stripped away Betsy’s last reserve. “I told them I love you and that when I thought I might never see you again, I despaired of living.”
He bowed his head for a moment and then looked up with tear-filled eyes. “I do not deserve you. But if you can forgive me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy.”
“Jerome, I do not ask you to be a penitent. All I want is your oath that this will never happen again.”
“I swear it,” he said, crossing the room to pull her into his arms. As Betsy relaxed into his embrace, she felt convinced of the rightness of their being together.
UNABLE TO WEAKEN Betsy’s resolve, William Patterson agreed to let her marry Jerome on the condition that they wait until the family lawyer could draw up a marriage contract. Still fearing the letter writer’s prediction that Jerome would desert Betsy, Patterson wanted to provide her as much legal protection as possible.
The contract written by Mr. Dallas stipulated that if anyone cast doubt on the validity of their union, Jerome would do whatever was necessary in either the United States or France to ensure that the marriage was legal. William Patterson promised that Betsy would inherit a share of his estate equal to the legacies of his other children. Further, she was to inherit one-third of Jerome’s property upon his death while retaining control of any property of her own—and those terms were to hold if the marriage ended for any reason.
Betsy considered the contract unduly pessimistic in guarding against such possibilities, but she was so happily absorbed in preparing for her marriage that she left it to her father and Jerome to agree on the final details.
The wedding took place on Christmas Eve in the drawing room of the Patterson home, which was brilliantly lit by dozens of candles. The room held Betsy’s family and eighteen guests including the Reubells, the Smiths, Aunt Nancy, Commodore Barney, Jerome’s secretary, the mayor, and the new French vice-consul for Baltimore. Minister Pichon refused to attend, as did Jerome’s personal physical Dr. Garnier, who begged off due to a suspiciously sudden illness. Betsy’s parents chose not to invite many friends—they claimed they did not want to intrude on the holiday—but Betsy suspected that her father still resented her decision. She told herself she did not care. This night would set her on the path to achieving everything she had ever wanted.
For the ceremony, Betsy decided on the embroidered white gown she had worn the first night she danced with Jerome but with one major difference. This time beneath the gown, she wore only one thin chemise so the outline of her figure was visible in the French manner. Jerome lived up to his reputation for fashion by wearing powder in his hair, a long-tailed purple velvet coat lined with white satin, and shoes with diamond-studded buckles.
Because Jerome was Catholic, Betsy had agreed to be married under the Catholic rite, so the bishop of Baltimore—Charles Carroll’s brother John—performed the ceremony. Betsy loved the extra pomp provided by the heavy gold cross the bishop wore and his embroidered cope and miter, so much richer than the sober vestments of her own Presbyterian minister.
This time, when Betsy heard the bishop speaking in Latin, her heart filled with pride because for centuries this liturgy had been used to marry European kings. The bishop had instructed her beforehand, so when he asked in Latin if she accepted Jerome as her husband according to the rite
s of the Church, she answered without hesitation, “Volo.”
Moments later, Bishop Carroll pronounced them husband and wife. After receiving the congratulations of their guests, Betsy and Jerome led the way to the wedding supper.
HOURS LATER, WHEN they were alone together in the bedroom of Jerome’s rented house, he tenderly kissed Betsy. “Are you happy?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He kissed her again, then began to undress her. “I want tonight to be perfect for you.”
“It already is,” she answered as her gown fell to the floor.
She stepped out of it, and Jerome pulled her chemise over her head. Betsy blushed self-consciously, yet when she dared to look at her husband, her embarrassment faded away. The expression of delight on Jerome’s face proved that he found her desirable.
Jerome stripped off his own clothing, carried Betsy to bed, and placed her on the covers. When he knelt beside her, Betsy noticed a raised scar on his breast and, reaching out to touch it, felt something hard lodged beneath his skin. “What caused this?”
“A foolish duel with pistols when I was in the Consular Guard. Napoleon was very angry with me for risking my life.”
“As well he should have been.” Betsy lay back on the bed. Jerome kissed her, beginning sweetly and then with increasing insistence. The longing Betsy had fought for the last several weeks stirred to life, and her lower body throbbed with anticipation. Jerome cupped his hand around her left breast and squeezed it gently. Betsy gasped.
He lifted his head. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. No, I—liked it.”
Jerome chuckled and slid down her body. His tongue explored her nipples with rapid licking strokes that caused her breasts to tingle. Betsy’s face grew hot as she realized that she wanted Jerome inside her, pushing against the restless, hungry place she had never known existed until she met him.
Her kissed her on each breast and then slowly planted kisses in a line down the length of her stomach to her lower abdomen. Betsy had not expected that—it had never occurred to her that a man might put his mouth down there where she felt so unclean—and she tensed. Jerome must have sensed her unease because he moved up to kiss her lips again.
The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte Page 12
