Betsy shook her head. “I knew Jerome was weak. I knew he was sometimes lax about the truth. But I never thought he would cease to love me.”
Dorcas sat on the bed and removed the box of letters from her daughter’s lap. “What makes you think he has?”
“How can you ask? He has married another woman. Even if he does not love his—” Betsy could not bring herself to use the term wife. “Even if he still loves me better than this princess, he clearly loves rank more.”
“If neither of you cared about rank, you would hardly be in this predicament. You would have made your life here in the United States.”
Stabbed by her mother’s words, Betsy cried, “So you agree with the gossips that I deserve my fate.”
“No, my darling girl. But I think that in your grief, you overlook the most likely explanation for what Jerome did.” She picked up a red ribbon that Betsy had taken from the packet of letters. Smoothing the crushed satin, Dorcas said, “I have heard you say time and again that Napoleon acts for reasons of state. Is it not possible he finally convinced Jerome that the survival of France depends on this match?”
“To do so would require only a sufficient promise of luxury.”
“That is your bitterness talking. If all Jerome cared about were such things, he would have repudiated you long ago.”
Betsy snatched the ribbon from her mother and tied it in knots. “Why could he not write and tell me himself that he was going to marry?”
“Oh, my dear. Some men cannot bear to acknowledge the wounds they inflict, as though to talk of a sin does more hurt than the transgression itself.”
“Are you speaking about Jerome now or Father?”
Her mother flushed. “Both, I suppose. And of you, too, and the need to forgive Jerome.”
“Forgive him! I cannot.”
“It will not be easy, but you must.” Dorcas gazed at Betsy with the same look she used to reprimand her young children. “You are wounded now, but you are strong, and you will find a way to carry on for Bo’s sake. Jerome has the much harder task. For the rest of his life, he must live with the knowledge that he failed the two people he loved most.”
“I hope it burns him like fire.”
Dorcas cried, “Do you wish to destroy your son?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, then, you have told him every day that he is a Bonaparte prince as though that were the most wonderful thing in the world. If you make him believe his Bonaparte father is a bad man, you will undermine his happiness irreparably.”
Lowering her gaze, Betsy pictured her son’s bright-eyed, pink-cheeked face. “I do not want Bo to hate Jerome. I hope he might be accepted into his father’s family someday.” She sighed. “I doubt I can ever forgive Jerome, but I will guard my tongue when I speak of him.”
Her mother took her hand. “Try to forgive him, Betsy. I would hate to see my beautiful girl become a bitter woman.”
It upset Betsy to think of disappointing her mother, yet she could not imagine getting over her fury at being left behind like a stray dog. Besides, she would need all her hardness to fight for Bo’s future. “This is not an instance in which I can meekly turn the other cheek.”
Her mother patted her hand and rose. “Perhaps it was too soon for me to say these things. At least, promise me to think over what I have said today.”
ON NOVEMBER 1, William Patterson turned fifty-five. To celebrate the occasion, Dorcas hosted an open house and invited friends and relatives to call. For a week ahead of time, she and Betsy supervised the cleaning of their home and the preparation of desserts: gingerbread, lemon custard, fruitcake, and the raisin-nut cookies called Maryland rocks.
The family spent Sunday in the drawing room where they could receive visitors. To keep the children occupied, Edward sat on the floor with George, Henry, and Octavius, teaching them to set up wooden soldiers in a battle formation Jerome had taught him years before. As Betsy watched that poignant reminder of her husband, Bo scrambled down from her lap and inched toward his uncles. Edward smiled at him. “Do you want to play too?”
Tucking Bo next to his side, Edward handed him a wooden figure, which Bo clutched with both hands. Edward directed George to adjust one line of soldiers, then told his nephew, “Your papa taught us this. This is how your uncle Napoleon wages war.”
Tears flooded Betsy’s eyes, and she hurried to the front windows so her son would not see her cry. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass and looked at the dreary November sky above the town houses across the way. The memory came to Betsy, painful in its sweetness, of the November day four years before when she sensed Jerome’s presence in the street below even though she had believed him to be in New York. Counting back through time, she realized that they had lived together sixteen months and nearly twice that amount of time had passed since Napoleon separated them. Now that Jerome was a king, would she ever see him again?
Her reverie was broken when her father approached and handed her a glass of Madeira. Raising his own glass to her, he said, “Good health.”
Surprised by the gesture, Betsy felt an upsurge of hope that he wanted to start their relationship anew, free of recrimination. As she searched his face, he added, “It is time for you to stop looking to the past and start thinking of your future.”
“What future? I am like a fly wrapped in spider’s silk and left forgotten on the web,” she retorted and took a sip of Madeira; it was the delicate, light golden variety called Rainwater that was favored in Baltimore.
Patterson sighed. “My dearest Betsy, you could have a good life. It only needs for you to cut the cords to the past.”
Gazing out at the gloom, Betsy said, “I fail to see how. As you have pointed out often, I have no means of support, so my son and I must live on your charity.”
Her father lowered his voice. “Not if you marry again.”
Shocked, Betsy turned on him. “I believe they call that bigamy, sir.”
Patterson continued speaking softly so that only she could hear. “I know you do not accept the decision of the French court, but you could have your marriage annulled here.”
“Why would I do that when I have fought these last four years to get it recognized?”
“So that you can put this unfortunate episode behind you and build a new life. There are men in Baltimore who would be eager to court you if you were free.”
“You mean, they would not consider me tainted goods? How generous.”
“Your experience with Bonaparte has made you understandably bitter,” Patterson said, his voice oily with satisfaction that she was finally disenchanted with Jerome. “It would make me happy to see you settled with a good man who would provide for you and be a steadying influence upon your son. I am fond of the boy and would like to see him raised by a responsible man of upright character. It would be best for all concerned.”
Betsy went cold as she realized that her father wanted Bo to grow up to be a solid American merchant like himself. “I do not agree.”
Just then they heard the sound of new arrivals in the hall. Patterson gave her a look that said he had not finished with this topic before going to greet his guests.
Betsy turned to gaze at Bo, who sat on Edward’s lap watching George and Henry conduct a mock battle between opposing lines of wooden soldiers. As far as she could tell, there was no way to win the contest. George moved a soldier forward and knocked down one of Henry’s men, and then Henry retaliated, keeping their forces even. What seemed to give the game zest was that each time one of them struck down an opponent, Bo would giggle, prompting his uncles to use even more flamboyant gestures for their next “kill” to make him laugh harder.
As the last soldier was laid low, Robert and Marianne entered the room followed by Patterson. Betsy’s heart clutched with uneasiness as Bo cried out, “Grampa!”
“Oh, look at the little love! Betsy, he has grown so big.” Marianne came around the drawing room table to give Betsy a kiss.
“How a
re you?” Betsy asked, setting her wineglass on the table.
“I am well.” Marianne peered into Betsy’s face. “How are you? Your cheeks are very red.”
Seeing that her father was talking to Robert and William Jr., Betsy gave Marianne a whispered summary of the conversation that had just taken place.
“Oh.” Marianne glanced back at her father-in-law, while she fingered her gold bracelet. “I am sure he meant it for the best.”
“Hardly,” Betsy replied, refilling her wineglass from the decanter and then pouring Madeira for Marianne. “He merely wants to relieve himself of the financial burden that my son and I have become.”
“Surely not. But—“ Marianne bit her lip. “It occurs to me that if you had accepted the pension the emperor offered, then you would be able to set up your own household.”
Betsy’s anger at her father overflowed onto this sister-in-law, who was so secure in her possession of a steady husband and generous family. “It came with impossible conditions.” Then she caught sight of Bo running across the room and holding up his arms to his grandfather. Patterson smiled, lifted the boy, and held him on his hip.
I have to find a way to move out of here, Betsy told herself.
TEN DAYS LATER, Betsy’s nine-year-old sister Caroline came home from school with influenza, and the disease spread to all the young children in the house. Betsy moved Bo from the nursery and installed him in her bed. For the next four days, she slept in a nearby chair and nursed her son by bathing his forehead with damp cloths, propping him up when coughing spasms seized him, and coaxing him to swallow spoonfuls of broth. After thirty-six hours, his fever broke, but Betsy would not allow him to get up until she was certain he was fully recovered. Instead, she read to him by the hour to keep him quiet.
In the nursery down the corridor, Dorcas, Mammy Sue, and Margaret nursed the five youngest Pattersons. The sounds of coughing, retching, and feeble complaints filled the second floor of the house. Whenever Betsy and Dorcas passed in the hall, Betsy worried over her mother’s fatigue. The lines in Dorcas’s face were deeply etched, her skin had taken on the brittle quality of paper, and shadows as dark as bruises lurked beneath her eyes.
Like Bo, the three boys recovered easily, but the girls did not. A persistent cough settled in Caroline’s lungs and, after briefly improving, Mary Ann relapsed and grew delirious. Early in the morning of November 17, she died. Instead of wailing as she had when she lost Gussie, Dorcas fell silent. She was a grim figure at her youngest daughter’s funeral, refusing to be comforted when older women from church told her that she was fortunate to have so many children still living.
For her part, Betsy thanked God fervently that He had not taken Bo. At the graveside, as she stood listening to the cawing of crows perched on marble headstones, she could not help but reflect on the strange coincidence that Mary Ann Jeromia should leave this world so soon after her namesake had abandoned his family. One by one, even the most tenuous links to Jerome were being torn from her. “Please, God,” she whispered, “do not let anything happen to my son.”
IN LATE NOVEMBER, Betsy received a letter from a woman she had never met, a letter that astonished her with its presumption. The writer, Anna Kuhn, had just returned to New York from France, where she had dined with Jerome often:
You, Madam, were no less frequently the topic of our conversation. He speaks of you as the only woman he ever loved or ever shall love, says he married much against his inclination, which the Emperor his brother cruelly imposed on him, saying you and you only Madam were his lawful wife.
Betsy went upstairs to where her mother was resting in bed. After watching Dorcas sit up and read the letter, Betsy said, “It seems that your supposition about Jerome’s motives was right.”
“Yes.” Her mother gazed at her pensively. “It does not ease your pain, does it?”
“No. Mrs. Kuhn’s description makes it evident that Jerome is so busy pitying himself that he gives little thought to our wounds.”
Gazing at the miniature of Mary Ann that she had moved to her night table after the funeral, Dorcas said, “Even if he expressed regret in the most loving terms, you would still be alone with your grief.”
Betsy hugged her. “I am sorry to burden you with this when you have your own sorrow.”
As she pulled away, her mother said, “I am not so distraught that I am insensitive to your suffering. I have been thinking that perhaps you should visit the Smiths again.”
“To what purpose? I no longer hope for good news from France.”
“A change of scene and society may distract you from your troubled memories.”
“I suppose.” Betsy picked up the letter. “I do not intend to answer this. I find it very painful to have a stranger approach me on such an intimate topic.”
“Perhaps Jerome asked her to send you these assurances,” Dorcas said as she rearranged her pillow behind her so she could lean back more comfortably.
“Perhaps, but the only assurance I need from the King of Westphalia is the surety of a regular income, and he shows no sign of providing that.”
“Betsy, does it not soften your heart to know that Jerome was forced into the marriage and that he retains a tender regard for you?”
The reproof in her mother’s voice caused Betsy to lay down her cynicism. “It is a small crumb of comfort to learn that he loves me still, but it only makes his betrayal sting all the more. Napoleon understood his brother better than I did. He knew Jerome would capitulate in the end, while I continued to hope that adversity would instill in him a strength of character to justify my faith. I was sadly deceived in him, and I do not know whether to blame him or myself.”
Dorcas gave her a sharp look. “You do not blame the emperor?”
Betsy shook her head. “Not for putting the needs of the state above those of a younger brother. Jerome’s claim to be coerced has a hollow ring. One need only look at Lucien, who remains true to his wife.”
“And yet, Jerome held out for two years.”
“Two years, after he promised to be faithful till death.” Betsy stood and smoothed her skirt. “Let us not quarrel. I have long known that you are more forgiving than I am, and I honor your merciful nature even when I cannot emulate it. I expect nothing from Jerome now.”
BETSY AND BO traveled to Washington in January. Three days after their arrival, Dolley Madison visited Betsy at the Smith home. Betsy received her guest in the drawing room, and after the two women were seated together on the gold sofa, Mrs. Madison said, “I confess, Madame Bonaparte, that I missed your society when you went back to Baltimore, and I hope that during your stay we can renew what promises to be a rewarding friendship.”
“Mrs. Madison, you are too kind.”
The older woman responded with a demure, close-mouthed smile that Betsy thought must be a legacy of her Quaker childhood, yet her eyes twinkled merrily. “Not at all. I am simply glad to find someone whose companionship is so agreeable.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I would be only too pleased to deepen our acquaintance.”
Mrs. Madison clapped her hands. “Good, then that is settled. Now tell me all about your son. I am sure he must have grown like a weed since I saw him last.”
Not only was Dolley Madison’s friendship agreeable to Betsy, so were the parties she attended at the Presidential Mansion and in the homes of the Washington elite. General Turreau, whom she saw often, treated her with new respect even though he continued to call her Mademoiselle Patterson. Turreau’s own social position was precarious. He had repudiated his wife and sent her back to France, thus ending the violent relationship that had cast a shadow on his social standing, but people did not forget his reputation for brutality.
Washingtonians were more forgiving toward Betsy. Although the capital remained a rough city, its people had more worldly experience than Baltimoreans, and they viewed her with neither pity nor censure. Instead, as a beautiful, witty young woman with no desire to catch a husband, she was a welcome addition to a
society in which the majority of legislators spent the congressional session living in cramped, all-male boarding houses.
Everyone knew Betsy’s history and understood that she believed herself to be Jerome Bonaparte’s only lawful wife. Still, she exercised more care than she had in years past. Whenever any of the men with whom she danced and dined displayed symptoms of serious regard, she showed them a miniature of Bo and reiterated her vow to dedicate her life to her son.
To further guard her reputation, Betsy avoided any behavior that might imply she was open to easing her loneliness with illicit entanglements. She chatted most often with gentlemen she judged to be safe, such as Samuel Colleton Graves, a young Englishman whose gauche manners revealed him to be a youth learning to negotiate society. At their introduction, Betsy judged that he was someone who would never presume to court her, but who might gain some polish from conversing with a more experienced woman.
The nineteen-year-old Graves had a narrow face with pale skin, small eyes, and a prematurely receding hairline he tried to disguise by brushing his brown hair forward. Although not handsome, he was a devotee of fashion. He wore a long-tailed, hunter green coat, snugly fitted buff trousers, a linen shirt with a stiff collar turned up to his ears, and an elaborately knotted black silk cravat.
He came from a prestigious family—his mother was descended from one of the original proprietors of the Carolinas, and his father, Rear Admiral Richard Graves, came from an English family known for producing admirals—yet young Graves showed none of a naval officer’s flair. Rather, he was so awkward that he reminded Betsy of eleven-year-old George, the most diffident of her brothers. Graves jumped whenever he heard loud voices, and in conversation he often paused to clear his throat nervously.
In spite of the maladroit manner that drew attention to his youth, he was well read and had made himself an expert on the history of the English monarchy. Once he discovered that stories of royalty fascinated Betsy, he took every opportunity to show off his knowledge. Betsy encouraged him in this because when Graves was talking about his favorite subject, his self-consciousness fell away.
The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte Page 33
