The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  Betsy shuddered. “How horrible.”

  “So I think that he might have scorned you simply because of your sex and not because you committed an impropriety in asking about Mr. Bonaparte.”

  “I see.” Betsy considered the possibility. “It could be. My father has said their dealings have always been cordial.”

  “Then perhaps Mr. Patterson could write to ask him for information.”

  “Or perhaps my father could come to Washington and meet with Turreau in person. In his own way, he is every bit as daunting as the general.”

  “That might work.” Dolley Madison toyed with her necklace again. “Now may I meet your son? I have one of my own from my first marriage, and I am very partial to little boys.”

  WHEN BETSY WROTE asking her father to speak to General Turreau on her behalf, he replied that he could visit Washington in March and warned her not to contact Turreau on her own but let him arrange a meeting.

  In the meantime, Mrs. Madison continued to invite Betsy to the President’s Mansion. Whenever she met Turreau there, Betsy smiled, inquired after his health, and expressed her admiration of the emperor’s latest victories. For his part, the ambassador persisted in calling her Miss Patterson even though, to everyone else in the capital, she was Madame Bonaparte.

  Betsy found that her story had excited much interest in scandal-hungry Washington and that many politicians and diplomats, working far from their wives and families, were eager to meet the woman who had so enchanted Napoleon’s brother. At parties that winter, she found that if she stood just a few feet in front of a mirror—allowing men to gaze simultaneously at her face, semi-exposed bosom, and bare back—even the most intimidating statesman became almost helpless to turn away. Such triumphs allowed Betsy to feel she was reclaiming some of the power that Napoleon had stolen from her.

  On February 6, her aunts gave a supper party for Betsy’s twenty-second birthday, and her mother sent her a box of books. The best present of all was having nineteen-month-old Bo—coaxed by his great aunts—say, “Happy Birday, Mama!” and hug her. His solid, compact body pressed against hers reminded Betsy that no matter what happened with her marriage, she still had love in her life.

  By mid-February, the gossips of Washington had ceased to discuss Louis and Clark, whose adventures had grown stale through too much exposure to overheated political air, and now talked about nothing but the treason charges against the former vice-president, Aaron Burr. The government claimed that Burr had been raising troops to invade Mexico and set himself up as ruler—and possibly seize part of the western territory of the United States.

  “He sees himself as another Napoleon and hoped to build an empire just as the Corsican upstart has,” was the common opinion.

  Whenever such remarks were made within Betsy’s hearing, she refuted the comparison. “Burr is eaten alive by ambition, but if you think the French emperor acts from vainglory, then you misapprehend his motives. His original purpose was to protect the republic established by the Revolution, and when the monarchs of Europe persisted in attacking France, he took only what measures were necessary to ensure his country’s survival.”

  Her explanations usually met with scorn: “How can you defend Napoleon after what he has done to you?”

  Betsy would shrug away such remarks. “The fact that he is willing to put the affairs of state above the desires of his brother proves how important France is to him.”

  William Patterson came to Washington in mid-March bearing an invitation to dine with Turreau. During the ride to the ambassador’s house, Patterson said, “Elizabeth, leave the conversation to me. Do not importune General Turreau for news of Jerome or betray irritation when he calls you Miss Patterson. A man like that has little patience with impertinent girls.”

  Then you are much alike, Betsy thought and turned to gaze out the window.

  When General Turreau received them, his wife was nowhere in evidence. Betsy could not help but wonder if Madame Turreau was nursing bruises in another part of the house.

  During the first two courses, the men discussed Napoleon’s recently instituted Continental System, an attempt to impose a trade embargo on Britain. Betsy chafed under the silence her father had forced upon her. She could not understand why he was letting half the evening go by without raising the question that had brought them there. General Turreau himself finally introduced the topic indirectly. “May I inquire, Mr. Patterson, after the status of Jerome Bonaparte’s horses? Are you still keeping them?”

  This reference to the carriage horses her father had been stabling for Jerome startled Betsy so much that she blurted, “Why do you ask?”

  Her father frowned at her. “General Turreau wrote me after your departure for Lisbon, asking if he could buy the horses. As you know, they are exceptionally fine animals.” He turned to their host. “Yes, I have them. I have not received any instructions from Mr. Bonaparte regarding their disposition.”

  Turreau paused to drink some wine. “You need not wait any longer. I have it on the best authority that his imperial highness, Prince Jerome, will not return to this country.”

  Betsy gasped. “Prince Jerome? He has been made a prince?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle,” Turreau said, turning his hooded gaze upon her.

  Nausea swept over Betsy, followed by chills. She knew all too well what conditions Jerome must have met to be elevated to imperial rank. Lowering her eyes, she whispered, “Then he is in Europe now.”

  “I believe he is fighting in Prussia, Mademoiselle. He supports the emperor in all things, as a good brother should.”

  Betsy did not answer but instead steeled herself not to cry. In her reticule was the miniature of Bo, which she had considered asking Turreau to send to Jerome. Now she realized that she could not possibly entrust such a treasure to this heartless official.

  For the rest of the meal, she remained silent and sipped wine to dull her pain, yet she could not refrain from tormenting herself with remembered phrases from Jerome’s letters. How could he have given in after swearing that titles meant nothing without her? She should have known that the more fervent his vows, the less truthful they were.

  By the time her father announced they should leave, Betsy had sunk into such a state of misery that all she wanted was to find a dark place where she could weep. She rose, pulled on her gloves, and said good-bye to Turreau without meeting his eyes.

  “Mademoiselle Patterson,” he said so respectfully that she looked up in surprise. “Allow me to observe that you have handled your loss with unfailing public grace. I intend to inform the emperor of your excellent conduct, and I am sure he would wish me to express his admiration that you have endured your hardships with a soldier’s courage. From warriors such as ourselves, there is no higher praise.” Turreau bowed over Betsy’s hand before escorting her to the door.

  As her father handed her into the carriage, Betsy mused over Turreau’s compliments. She found it gratifying to have him acknowledge her fortitude, but she would much rather have Jerome back. Still, she wondered if the praise might improve her father’s opinion of her.

  Patterson settled into the seat opposite. “This puts an end to any possible hope, Elizabeth. Jerome has abandoned you.”

  Even though she had been telling herself the same thing, Betsy roused herself to refute the assertion. “We do not know that. His plan all along was to win enough glory to compel Napoleon to allow our reunion. Perhaps this new rank means that he has won great renown and is on the verge of achieving that end.”

  Betsy could not see her father’s expression in the dim carriage, but she could hear the anger in his voice. “How can you believe that anything Jerome could do would deflect Napoleon from his plan? The emperor has a will of iron, and Jerome is merely a spoiled, willful boy.”

  With tears in her eyes, Betsy said, “He has been at war nearly two years. I think we may safely assume that such experiences have matured him.”

  “Bah! He sends pretty letters and expensive presents in
stead of taking responsibility for you and your son. In my view, Jerome Bonaparte has not matured one jot.”

  DISTRAUGHT OVER TURREAU’S news, Betsy returned to Baltimore with her father. Winter passed into spring and spring passed into summer, but still no word arrived from Jerome. The war between Napoleon and the Fourth Coalition continued with an inconclusive battle at Eylau in East Prussia and then a decisive victory against the Russians at Friedland. Betsy searched the papers for any mention of Jerome but never saw his name, and the faintly glowing ember of hope that he might achieve enough glory to command his brother’s gratitude died away to cold ash.

  One day, William Patterson approached Betsy as she sat reading to Bo. “I have decided to absolve Jerome of his remaining debt.”

  Astonished, Betsy placed a ribbon as a placeholder in the book. “Thank you, Father. What prompted this generosity?”

  “I sold Jerome’s horses and carriage, and I am using the furniture and plate he left to stock my house at Cold Stream.”

  Betsy’s gratitude instantly curdled. Moving Bo off her lap, she stood up to confront her father. “You had no right to appropriate either horses or furnishings. Jerome left them so that I could have a household of my own.”

  “Elizabeth, we have discussed this. You cannot afford your own establishment. You may fight me on this if you like, but any court in the land would uphold my claim.”

  Too enraged to speak, Betsy stood with clenched fists as her father patted Bo’s head and left the room. She felt as helpless as she had the day the warship fired upon her at Texel.

  Behind her, Bo crawled to the end of the sofa and grabbed his book from the table. “Story, Mama. Story.”

  Betsy turned to her son, who was gazing at her with a look of anticipation. She reminded herself that for his sake, even more than her own, she had to find a way to support herself. It would take money to secure the education and future she had in mind for him. “All right.” She forced herself to smile. “Mama will read your story.”

  As news spread of Jerome’s new title, the gossips of Baltimore renewed their attacks on Betsy, delighting in the overthrow of her ambitions. Most people did not confront her directly but instead slyly reported what “other people” had said. Some acquaintances, however, could not resist trying to put her in her place. At a garden party in June, as Betsy stood on the lawn eating strawberries and cream with her cousin Smith Nicholas, a young woman named Sally Howard approached them.

  Miss Howard interrupted Smith as he expressed regret over Betsy’s difficulties. “I do not pity her. She scorned Baltimore as being beneath her. Now she is forced to live here, why should we offer her condolences for being brought down to her proper level?”

  The people standing nearby grew silent as they waited for Betsy’s retort. She took her time, first handing her empty strawberry bowl to Smith and then smiling at the girl, whose cheeks turned blotchy red in the bright afternoon sun. “Your opinion does not surprise me, Miss Howard. I have always heard that venomous snakes cannot comprehend why birds should wish to soar above the swamp.”

  By the time July came, Betsy was glad to escape Baltimore and remove to Springfield. Physical exertion seemed to be the only way to quell the exhausting worry that plagued her. To distract herself, she spent hours playing with Bo and Mary Ann under the trees and helping her mother tend the flower gardens. On Bo’s birthday, Betsy made her two-year-old son ecstatically happy by mounting the tamest mare on the plantation, holding the child tightly in front of her, and walking the horse around the paddock.

  In August, a stranger rode up the long drive to the house and asked to see Madame Bonaparte. When Betsy entered the drawing room, she saw her mother sitting with a man who had dark pockmarked skin, familiar eyes, and one gold earring. He stood, bowed, and said in a Creole accent, “Madame, I am Auguste Le Camus, brother of Prince Jerome’s secretary. I am on my way to Europe and was instructed to see if you have any messages for his highness.”

  “Oh.” In her astonishment, Betsy stopped breathing and had to press her hands against her abdomen to expel the air locked within her lungs. “Is my husband well?”

  “I have not seen him, Madame. The communication came from my brother.”

  “Oh,” she said again, feeling forlorn after the sudden spike and subsequent plunge of hope. Remembering all the unsent letters in her bedroom, Betsy realized that they were no longer appropriate for a man who had not written her in thirteen months. The anguish of the last year welled up inside her. Then she calmed herself with the thought that she could finally send Jerome the miniature of their son. “Will you wait while I write a letter?”

  “Yes, of course. That is why I have come.”

  She nodded and said, “Mother, would you serve Monsieur Le Camus refreshments? And ask Jenny to bring Bo here. I am sure Prince Jerome would like a first-hand account of his son.”

  “I will fetch him myself.” Dorcas left the room.

  Betsy sat at the desk, took out paper, and stared at the blank page. What could she possibly say? Her battered heart longed to make recriminations, but that might alienate Jerome. Minutes passed without bringing clarity. Sharpening a quill as she pondered various openings, Betsy heard her mother reenter the room and introduce Le Camus to Bo as his papa’s friend.

  “I wide horses,” the little boy announced as he stood on the carpet before the visitor.

  “Do you? Your papa will be proud to hear that.”

  Listening to her son chatter easily with this stranger, Betsy felt her own anxieties subside and determination take their place. She would write Jerome a simple, dignified message and trust the image of their son to do the rest.

  My dearest husband,

  Congratulations on your elevation to the rank of imperial prince. Your son and I are well. We love you and miss you more than I can say. I beg that you will write to me and tell me your intentions for our future.

  She folded up the letter and sealed it, and then went to join her guest.

  AFTER SENDING THE letter and miniature with Le Camus, Betsy warned herself not to expect an answer for several months. The family returned to Baltimore in September, and she kept busy with household chores and teaching her son the names of animals, shapes, and colors.

  One morning in late September as Betsy and her mother sewed and the youngest children played, Edward burst into the room. “Joseph has written from France.”

  When Betsy looked up from her mending, her brother blurted, “Jerome has remarried. Napoleon wed him to Princess Catharine of Württemberg, and together they have been made king and queen of the newly created state of Westphalia.”

  As Betsy stared at him, the ticking of the mantel clock grew unbearably loud until it sounded like an army marching in her head. In the midst of the tumult, she recalled Jerome saying scornfully, “Do you think I have any interest in marrying a fat, homely princess?”

  At the memory, Betsy doubled over her lap and sobbed until her mother came and shook her. “Stop this at once. You are frightening your son.”

  Betsy lifted her head to look for him. Bo was sitting on the Turkish carpet, sucking his fist and wailing as he watched her with fearful eyes. She pushed herself from her chair, ignoring the sewing that fell to the floor, and knelt by him.

  “Shhh, Bo, don’t cry. Mama is here, and everything is all right.” Betsy pulled him into her arms. “I don’t know how, but I promise I will make everything turn out all right.”

  XXIII

  THE night after Betsy learned about Jerome’s remarriage, she dreamed that he came to her bearing the sword from Marengo. “Allow me to cut out your heart and take it to Europe. I need a memento of my dear little wife.”

  She woke crying hysterically. As she tried to regain control of her ragged breathing, her mother entered the room. “I heard you cry out. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Mother. It was only a bad dream.”

  Over the next few weeks, Betsy’s shocked disbelief turned to unwilling acceptance and even, strangely
enough, she thought, a grudging relief. All the waiting, uncertainty, and agitation had gone, and in their place came the knowledge that no one was going to rescue her from her dependent position in her father’s house. She would have to do that herself.

  For a short time, Betsy considered trying to write something for publication. She rejected the idea, however, because Eliza’s example demonstrated that opposition plagued any woman who pursued a literary career. Ever since her paper began to publish sarcastic critiques of local culture, invective had rained down on Eliza, and the abuse intensified after she dared to translate and publish a French novel about adultery.

  Betsy decided that, even if things had been going smoothly for her friend, writing was not for her. The only story she had that people might buy was the tale of her ill-fated marriage, and she had not yet sunk so low as to profit from being a victim.

  She dreaded being an object of pity so much that she refused most invitations that autumn. Instead of going to parties, she stayed home brooding over the past four years and wondering what she could have done differently.

  The only good turn of events was that, in September, Robert Gilmor persuaded Gilbert Stuart to give up her portrait at last. When she heard the news, Betsy wrote to Gilmor:

  Sir—I entreat you to accept my acknowledgments for your successful application to Stuart for the portrait—an act as flattering to me as it is pleasing, and which augments, if possible, the sentiments of regard by which I have ever been actuated toward you. Stuart has hitherto remained inexorable to all our solicitations, and his prompt acquiescence in your demand affords a proof of the estimation in which you are held by this distinguished artist.

  Once the portrait was in her possession, Betsy found herself gazing at it often—even though it pained her to see its expression of bright joy. How had she and Jerome traveled from such happiness to this total ruin?

  One evening after Bo was asleep, as Betsy sat on her bed looking through Jerome’s letters, her mother came to find her. Standing by one of the posts at the foot of the bed, Dorcas gazed at her daughter with a troubled expression. “I worry about you. It does you no good to keep rereading old correspondence.”