Then he ran his hand down her hip, slipped it between her legs, and caressed her inner thigh until she moaned. Jerome gently inserted one finger inside her and stroked the exact spot that was the locus of her desire. Betsy gripped his back and cried out, and Jerome responded by caressing her more urgently. After several minutes, he finally entered her. Betsy felt a sharp pain followed by a wave of hot pleasure as he moved back and forth inside her. Then he gave one powerful thrust and relaxed on top of Betsy. All her tension and frustration drained from her body like an outrushing tide. A moment later, Jerome whispered, “Have I pleased you?”
“Yes.” Putting her hands on each side of his head, she lifted it and kissed him. “Je t’adore, mon mari.”
“Moi aussi, Elisa.” He moved off her to stretch out on the bed.
Lying beside him, Betsy basked in a moment of perfect happiness. Then, as she gazed at Jerome’s face, an unwelcome thought forced itself into her mind: He knew how to please you only because he is so practiced a lover.
She sat up and covered her breasts with her arms.
“What is it?” he asked, half rising to kiss her shoulder.
“Oh, Jerome, I wish we were the only two people in the world.”
“Tonight we are.” He drew her back down again and kissed her lips, and Betsy allowed her swelling desire to banish all thought.
IX
BETSY awoke reluctantly, filled with a languorous calm she was loath to disturb. Keeping her eyes closed, she rolled onto her back. A moment later, she felt chill air hit her chest as the bedcovers were drawn away. She opened her eyes and saw Jerome sitting beside her in the enclosure formed by partially closed bed curtains.
“Merry Christmas, Madame Bonaparte.”
“Merry Christmas, husband.”
Jerome laid his head between her breasts. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did until someone forced me awake.” Betsy pulled one of his curls as a rebuke.
“I could not wait any longer. Do you want your presents?”
“What presents?”
“I told you that I bought you clothing and jewelry in New York.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, glad that she had the embroidered pocketbook to give him.
With a proud grin, Jerome rose and pushed back the bed curtains. Draped over the furniture around the bedroom were everyday gowns in printed cotton and formal gowns in a variety of styles that Jerome said were the latest imports from Paris. Betsy climbed down the bed steps, pulled on her wrapper, and walked around the room gazing at gowns of satin, barred muslin, crisp lightweight silk, and even one of black lace. The one that most surprised her was made of sheer sarcenet and crepe, with tiny cap sleeves, a round neckline cut lower than anything she owned, and a back that scooped more than halfway to the waist. Fingering the delicate material, she said, “I don’t have a chemise cut to fit such a revealing gown.”
Jerome laughed. “These gowns are not worn with a chemise.”
Feeling herself blush, Betsy said, “But this fabric would display everything. Surely, you expect me to preserve some modesty.”
“Of course, Elisa. Did you not see the pantaloons?” He pointed to a stack of folded, flesh-colored garments that looked like men’s breeches.
Betsy pressed her lips together. The story about Josephine’s revealing fashions had been amusing, but she could not imagine wearing such gowns herself. “I fear you do not understand my country. A woman who dressed like this would be shunned as a trollop.”
Jerome slipped his arms around her waist. “Your respectability is unquestioned, Elisa. I chose these gowns to show the world what a charming wife I have. When we go to France, you will outshine even Josephine.”
Betsy sighed. “Of course, I will dress as you prefer when we go to Paris. My only concern is wearing such gowns here.”
“You will set the style. Before long, ladies will compete to imitate you.” When she hesitated, Jerome bent to kiss her neck. “Please, try on the gown. I will go tell the servants to prepare breakfast and then return to see how you look.”
“All right.” After he left, Betsy pulled on a pair of pantaloons, which fitted smoothly from her waist to just above her knees, and then the gown, fastening it as best she could without help. Gazing in the mirror, she felt like crying. Because the pantaloons were flesh-colored, she appeared to have on nothing at all beneath her skirt. The bodice, at least, was gathered so that folds rather than a single thickness of fabric covered her bosom, but her nipples were still visible.
Jerome entered the bedroom and gazed over her shoulder into the glass. “Exquisite. You look like the statue of a Greek goddess come to life.”
Lifting her eyes, Betsy stared at her husband in the mirror. Jerome’s face shone with admiration, and she felt an upwelling of joy at being able to inspire such love. Setting her embarrassment aside, she turned to kiss him.
THEY HONEYMOONED AT Cold Spring, one of her father’s country houses, and then returned to Baltimore. During that first month of marriage, Betsy felt like a rural cousin being tutored in a more cosmopolitan way of living. Not only did Jerome replace her wardrobe, but he also taught her far more ways of making love than just a man lying atop his wife in bed. Some of his suggestions embarrassed her, but most of the time, Betsy complied without demur—not only to ensure that Jerome would remain a contented husband but also because she came to enjoy being daring. To further please Jerome, she kept herself fresh for lovemaking by washing daily in a French bidet, a silver basin made by Napoleon’s own silversmith and set in a wooden stand.
Jerome encouraged her to enhance her charms with cosmetics and violet-scented power. He schooled her in the French etiquette of exchanging kisses on both cheeks, and one lazy afternoon, he picked up a fan and taught her the gestures French women used to flirt with their lovers. Among the jewelry he gave her were a double-stranded pearl bracelet and necklace and a pair of teardrop-shaped earrings; he said the pearls’ glow drew attention to her beautiful white throat and arms.
By the time they started attending parties again, Betsy felt secure in her ability to fascinate any man—even the jaded sophisticates of continental Europe.
AT THE END of January, Jerome decided to take Betsy to Washington, where they would stay with the Smiths. He wanted to visit President Jefferson again and to ask Pichon for more funds. To make the journey, they borrowed a coach-and-six from Joshua Barney.
Betsy looked forward to her first visit to the capital and to spending time away from her family, whose tolerance for Jerome was wearing thin. After an incident in which he offered a $500 reward for the capture of some urchins who hit Betsy with a snowball, her brothers mocked his prickly pride. And her father became angry after receiving a second anonymous warning that Jerome planned to abandon his wife. When Patterson privately showed Betsy the letter, she laughed it off. “I assure you, Father, that Jerome could no more imagine living without me than I could without him.”
The family’s concerns intensified when Jerome’s aide Lieutenant Meyronnet failed to return from France and no reply came to Jerome’s letters. Patterson feared that the First Consul meant to snub his daughter, so he decided to send Robert to Paris to make inquiries—after first obtaining letters of reference from his friends President Thomas Jefferson and Secretary of State James Madison. To Betsy, Patterson grumbled about the time and money he was expending to secure her recognition as Jerome’s wife.
Only Dorcas still displayed warm, uncomplicated affection for her son-in-law. As Betsy kissed her mother good-bye the evening before the Washington trip, she whispered in her mother’s ear, “Do not heed what Father says. I am happy with my husband.”
Dorcas hugged her tightly and whispered, “Be well.”
THE FORTY-FIVE-MILE TRIP from Baltimore to Washington was an all-day journey through much undeveloped country. Because it was winter, darkness fell long before they reached the city, and Betsy was disappointed that she could see little of the capital on their way to the Smith home.
As the Smith carriage drove down Pennsylvania Avenue, Aunt Nancy pointed out the imposing stone Presidential Mansion. Betsy saw that it still had temporary wooden steps and overgrown grounds. At the Capitol, only the Senate wing was occupied as construction on the Representatives’ wing had barely begun. Indeed, they could hear the clang of hammer hitting stone as they passed. Aunt Nancy boasted of the city’s progress, but Jerome disparaged it to Betsy in French, contrasting all they saw with the cathedrals, palaces, and monuments of Paris.
Samuel Smith’s brother, Secretary of the Navy Robert Smith, invited the Bonapartes to their first party in Washington. Despite Jerome’s reassurance that she looked beautiful, Betsy felt qualms about the daring gown he asked her to wear, so she donned her cloak while still in their bedroom to prevent her aunts from seeing her attire before they left.
In the reception hall of the Robert Smith home, Betsy handed her cloak to a servant and turned to greet her hosts. Secretary Smith, a portly man with a heavily jowled face, blinked in surprise when he saw her. “Betsy, my dear. It has been much too long.”
“It has indeed, sir. May I present my husband, Jerome Bonaparte.”
As the men shook hands, Betsy moved to Mrs. Robert Smith, who said, “Elizabeth, you must be cold. Allow me to send upstairs for a shawl.”
Betsy raised her chin. “No, madam, I assure you that I am quite comfortable.” She introduced Jerome, and then they excused themselves and crossed the hall.
When they entered the drawing room, Betsy noticed with chagrin that people turned to gape at her. Several women moved away before the Bonapartes reached them, and some even exited the room. Then two young men who were distant cousins approached them. As Betsy introduced Jerome, she saw one of the men stare at her bosom for several moments and blush.
She glanced at Jerome, who smirked and asked the embarrassed young man if he enjoyed attending the races. A minute later, three more men joined them. The newcomers all inspected Betsy’s figure a bit too long before raising their eyes to her face. Jerome stood by her side, speaking without the slightest appearance of jealousy.
Betsy’s discomfort soon gave way to amusement that men could be such children, peeking surreptitiously at something they considered forbidden. Many of those who flocked around her that evening were married men, who presumably had seen their wives in a state of undress, and those who were single had surely seen nude statues. Yet nearly all acted as if this were their one chance in life to view the female form. Jerome remained unperturbed by the ogling, and as Betsy grew used to the attention, she began to enjoy it.
When they returned to the Samuel Smith home after the party, Aunt Margaret and Aunt Nancy insisted on speaking to Betsy alone. “I will be up in a minute,” she told Jerome and followed her aunts into the sitting room.
Aunt Nancy gestured toward a seat, but Betsy shook her head and remained standing. Aunt Margaret said, “While you are in my home, I must act in the place of my sister Dorcas. You offended every woman at the reception tonight. Several warned me that unless you consent to wear more clothes, they will not attend any future functions to which you have been invited.”
“Such a dictate is absurd. These fashions have been accepted in France for years.”
“We are not in Paris. In your eagerness to please your husband, you flout what you know of American conventions. You do yourself no favors by such behavior.”
Betsy pressed her lips together and gazed at her aunts in silence. In each face, she could trace a resemblance to her beloved mother, which made it difficult to respond defiantly. “I will consider what you have said,” she finally answered.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Betsy wondered how Jerome would react to her aunts’ ultimatum. As she entered the guest room and shut the door, she saw that he had undressed down to his shirt. He swept her up into his arms. “I was so proud of you. You were the most beautiful woman in the room, and I am certain that I was the envy of every man.”
He deposited her on the checked linen coverlet, knelt beside her, and caressed her breast. “They will all dream of you tonight, Elisa, but only I have the right to possess you.”
Smiling at him, she whispered, “Then take me, Monsieur Bonaparte.”
THEIR SOCIAL CALENDAR remained full with a card party at the Pichons’ home, supper with Secretary of the Treasury Albert Gallatin, and a ball given by the two Smith families. Betsy continued to wear her French fashions, but mindful of her aunts’ admonitions, she draped a gauzy scarf over her shoulders to make her attire seem more modest.
They were also invited to dinner at the President’s Mansion. Beforehand, Uncle Smith told Betsy that in a perverse display of neutrality, President Jefferson had invited both the French minister and the new British ambassador, despite the war between their two countries.
For the occasion, which would begin at 3:00 in the afternoon and last until late evening, Betsy wore a sheer gown bedecked with gold embroidery that would sparkle in the candlelight. This would be her first visit to the home of a head of state, and she wanted to demonstrate to Jerome that she knew how to dress for such occasions.
As the Smith carriage drove up to the north entrance, Betsy stared avidly at the details of the building and wondered how it compared to the palaces she would someday live in with Jerome. The President’s Mansion was an imposing light-grey stone structure, wide enough that eleven windows stretched across its upper story. The center block of the mansion was decorated with four Doric columns crowned by a triangular pediment. A small pediment also topped each window, but Betsy was surprised to see that they were not all the same. Rather, triangles alternated with rounded arches.
Following the Smiths, Betsy and Jerome climbed the stone steps and walked through the front door into the entrance hall, a marble-floored space that was wider than it was long. On the far side of the room, four Doric columns marked the boundary between the entryway and the central cross hall.
Servants came to take their outer garments, and after Betsy handed over her cloak, she noticed that the entrance hall was cold despite having facing fireplaces on the east and west walls. She hoped that she would not be covered in goose skin by the time she made it through the receiving line into the oval drawing room where the president stood greeting his guests. As they stepped through the central columns into the cross hall, she glanced left to see if she could catch a glimpse of the East Room—infamous as the vast unfinished space where Abigail Adams had once dried laundry. Betsy had heard that, even though it was intended to be a public reception room, the East Room was still unplastered. Just last year, Aunt Margaret had written that the first attempt at installing a ceiling in the room had collapsed. Now a piece of canvas stretched across the doorway, so Betsy could not see a thing.
When she and Jerome were presented to President Jefferson, Betsy was amused to see him in the characteristically plain dress he wore on republican principle: an old blue coat, dark corduroy breeches, dingy white hose, and run-down backless slippers. “Madame Bonaparte, allow me to welcome you to Washington. I hope your fathe
r was well when you left him.”
“He was, Mr. President, and he particularly charged me with thanking you for the very kind letter of reference that you wrote.”
“It gave me great pleasure to do whatever I could to further an alliance that will cement relations between the United States and France. As you know, I spent several years as ambassador to France and I retain great fondness for our sister republic.”
From the corner of her eye, Betsy saw a distinguished-looking man in formal diplomatic dress shoot the president a frosty glare. After Mr. Jefferson moved to another guest, Uncle Smith introduced Jerome and Betsy to the irate gentleman, who was the British ambassador Mr. Anthony Merry.
“Citizen Bonaparte.” Mr. Merry gave a curt nod. “I greet you as a fellow guest of Mr. Jefferson and not as the enemy of my country.”
Betsy answered before Jerome could, “Sir, how wise you are to know that for tonight, we must draw blades against the roast and not the person opposite.”
Merry smiled grudgingly. He then introduced them to his wife, Elizabeth Death Merry, a fiftyish woman with heavy eyebrows and a long nose in a horsy face. Despite her plain looks, Mrs. Merry was dressed as a beauty with rouge on her cheeks and a chandelier necklace of sapphires around her throat. Her blue velvet gown was cut so low that her enormous bosom, restrained only by a film of lace, threatened to pop free. As soon as they were out of earshot of the Merrys, Betsy whispered to Jerome, “Law, she displays those melons as though she were a market.”
When it came time for the meal, President Jefferson further offended his English guests by leading Betsy from the drawing room into the dining room instead of following protocol and honoring Mrs. Merry. Betsy could not resist glancing back over her shoulder to grin triumphantly at Jerome.
The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte Page 13
