The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  “Our aristocracy scorns Napoleon as an upstart, but truly, I do not know how the British monarchy can lay claim to more legitimacy than the Bonapartes,” he exclaimed one evening. “The line has been broken so many times, resulting in kings with very little claim to the throne. Consider Henry Tudor, descended from an illegitimate grandson of Edward III. Yet he proved to be just what England needed at the time, a strong ruler who could end a century of civil war.”

  Betsy tapped his arm with her fan. “Is it not dangerous to say such things, Mr. Graves? After all, George III’s lineage is more German than English, and some people might interpret your remarks as casting aspersions on your monarch.”

  Graves blushed to his hairline. “You are right. Thank you for your wise caution.”

  For his part, Graves was fascinated by the trip Betsy and Jerome had taken to Niagara and astonished by the story of the shipwreck they had survived. When Betsy described the measures Napoleon had taken to keep her from landing in Europe, his face grew red. “Madame Bonaparte, I think you are the bravest woman I have ever known.”

  In late March, he begged a seat beside her during a dinner at the President’s Mansion, yet he spoke little during the first course of leek soup. Betsy knew from Dolley that the young man was leaving Washington soon, so she assumed he was silently composing his farewells. During the meat course, after refusing the butler’s offer of wine—Graves had confided in Betsy that he believed the combination of red wine and beef overheated his blood—he turned to her. “Madame Bonaparte, might I call on you at your uncle’s house tomorrow?”

  Noticing how flushed he was, Betsy said quietly, “Mr. Graves, you know my social position is delicate. I cannot receive gentleman callers.”

  “But with one of your aunts as chaperon?”

  “I am sorry, no. There is nothing you can want to tell me that you could not say here.”

  The young Englishman shot Betsy a burning look of reproach. “Surely, you would not be so cruel as to pretend ignorance of my feelings.”

  “Mr. Graves, I had not the smallest idea. You do me honor, but I must remind you that my only thought in life is for my son.”

  He stared at his plate. After several seconds, Graves cleared his throat and turned to her. “Your refusal is because of your son?” he whispered, “It is not because you think me—foolish?”

  “No, you are a respectable, decent young man, and I feel sure you will someday find a woman worthy of you.”

  “I will never love another.” Signaling to the butler, he asked for wine.

  AFTER CONGRESS ENDED in March, Betsy and her son returned home. Bo was delighted to be back at South Street with the young uncles who were his playmates and the grandparents he adored. Toward Betsy, however, her father displayed more resentment than ever.

  Business troubles soon worsened Patterson’s temper. The previous June, the British warship HMS Leopard had attacked the U.S. frigate Chesapeake, and British officers removed four crew members accused of deserting from the Royal Navy. In response to this violation of U.S. rights, Americans called for war, but President Jefferson instead took the peaceful route of demanding an official apology—which British diplomats declined to give.

  Once diplomacy failed, the president persuaded Congress to pass the Embargo Act in December 1807. The act made it illegal for U.S. ships to leave for foreign ports. Although intended to hurt France and Britain economically and force them to stop molesting U.S. ships, the act made it impossible for Americans to export crops, raw materials, or manufactured goods. As a result, Patterson’s warehouses held goods that could not be moved, and his ships were trapped in port, where they began to rot as they lay anchored at wharves, exposed to the elements yet not maintained because manning idle vessels was too expensive.

  Betsy did her best to help her mother economize by remaking many of her siblings’ clothes and helping to oversee the cooking so there would be less waste. Yet she sometimes felt that her father begrudged her every mouthful of food. The atmosphere at home grew even more frosty when a letter from Samuel Graves arrived in mid-May. He could not forget Madame Bonaparte, he wrote, and wondered if he could not do something to win her heart.

  Betsy showed the letter to her mother, foolishly overlooking the fact that Dorcas would feel compelled to share the news with her husband.

  That evening, William Patterson summoned Betsy to the drawing room after she put Bo to bed. She sat on the sofa, opposite her parents who sat in their usual chairs on either side of the fireplace. Her father asked, “Do you mean to tell me that you had the opportunity to make such an eligible match, and you turned him down?”

  “I do not love him, Father.”

  “Love!” He clenched his right hand, which rested on the arm of his chair. “It is time to consider your future and stop indulging such girlish daydreams.”

  Betsy felt her anger burn. “I am thinking of the future, sir. My son would never be allowed to claim his Bonaparte heritage if his stepfather were English.”

  “When will you give up this ridiculous idea that your son will be a prince?” Patterson rose and paced before the hearth. “You have learned nothing from your disastrous marriage. What would you do if I threw you out into the street? I daresay you would lose your scruples about marrying the Englishman fast enough.”

  Gazing at him coolly, Betsy realized that his bluster did not scare her the way it had when she was a girl. Nothing could be as frightening as being pregnant, starving, and fired upon by one of Napoleon’s warships. “I daresay I might, but those scruples would be replaced by new ones. I would never allow my son to see a grandfather who could treat him so cruelly.”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Dorcas said, half rising from her chair and then sinking back down. “Do you not realize that every time you tear at each other, I suffer the most? I love you equally.”

  Betsy stood, wishing that she were taller to present a more imposing figure. “I am sorry, Mother, to wound you, but I am not a Jerome to be coerced into marriage against my will.”

  Patterson glared at his daughter. “There is no question of force, Elizabeth, as you well know. Otherwise, I would never have allowed you to marry Jerome against my advice. I ask only that you consider the impact of your decisions upon your family.”

  “I always do, sir. I consider my son first, then myself, then my family.” Betsy told her mother good night and left the room.

  BALTIMORE SEEMED DEAD. Because of the embargo, the harbor had few arrivals or departures. Many laborers and sailors were out of work, and churchwomen who called on Dorcas spoke of spreading poverty in the city.

  Betsy felt more alone than ever because Eliza was away from town. She and Maximilien Godefroy had decided to marry, but before she could wed again, Eliza needed to obtain a divorce. She was traveling in search of her errant husband to try to gain his agreement.

  That summer, Betsy reached the most difficult decision of her life. Shutting herself in her bedroom, she wrote General Turreau. She began by reminding him that she once had every reason to hold the highest expectations for her future. However, the events of the intervening years had made her understand that the needs of the state were greater than those of individuals. Therefore, she yielded to the necessity that separated her forever from the man she loved and whose name she bore with pride. She sought nothing for herself but asked the general to remind the emperor of a child so worthy of his interest. Her son was still young, but soon she would need to train him for his future. Because of her lack of means, she did not know how she would provide him with the education he deserved. The emperor had once been so generous as to offer her a pension. Would he now take an interest in his nephew’s future and renew the offer?

  After painstakingly translating the letter into French, she sent it to the French minister the day after Bo turned three years old.

  XXIV

  GENERAL Turreau responded by asking Betsy to call on him at the summer home he rented from her father. The move was socially risky since Turrea
u had cast off his wife, so Betsy asked Aunt Nancy to accompany her. In mid-July, they took a carriage to the general’s residence, where a servant led them to the drawing room. When Turreau joined them several minutes later, his eyebrows lifted at the sight of Miss Spear. Betsy, however, had not forgotten the court decree that implied she had ensnared Jerome through less-than-virtuous means, and she refused to give the Bonapartes any reason to malign her further.

  Betsy and her aunt sat side by side on a sofa, so the diplomat chose a facing chair with claw feet and inlaid bellflowers on the arm supports. “I received your letter, Mademoiselle, and I shall forward your request to the emperor.” He toyed with the end of his mustache. “I must warn you that he is busy with affairs of state, so I cannot say how long he will take to reply.”

  “I understand, mon général, but I must ask, if you would be so kind, to convey to his imperial majesty that my situation requires some urgency.”

  “Urgency? Mademoiselle, your son is but three years old. There can be no urgent need to start his education.”

  “No, sir, but I have a desperate need to leave my father’s house.” In a calculated show of emotion, Betsy held a handkerchief to her lips. “The embargo has hurt his business, and he wishes to rid himself of the expense of supporting us.”

  General Turreau waved her concern away. “These things happen in time of war.”

  “I understand.” Betsy lowered her gaze to prevent Turreau from guessing that she had set a trap for him. “But I must inform you that my father wishes me to remarry and has approved one particular suitor whose father is a British admiral. I have no stomach for this match, but if I continue to lack an income, I might not be able to hold out against my family’s pressure. In which case, the emperor’s nephew would be raised in Devonshire. As an Englishman.”

  After a moment’s silence, Turreau laughed. “Mademoiselle, have you the audacity to attempt a flanking maneuver against the great Napoleon?”

  Betsy shrugged to feign self-deprecation. “I do not understand you, sir.”

  Turreau brought his two fists together knuckle to knuckle. “When two armies are about to meet, but one lacks the strength to survive a frontal attack, its general often makes a wide sweeping move around the side of his foe to attack a weak spot.” With his right hand, he made a curving gesture that bypassed the left fist and hit the wrist instead.

  “I see.” She gazed at Turreau steadily to show that she was not ashamed of her ploy.

  “Is there really an Englishman?”

  “Yes, sir. I can produce his letters if you insist.”

  At that, the diplomat learned forward. “You must not take the child to England. Nothing would be more certain to enrage the emperor.”

  “I understand, mon général. That is why I presumed to use the word urgency.”

  Turreau smoothed his mustache. “I will do what I can. Now I must ask you some questions. First, it has not escaped my attention that you continue to use the name Bonaparte, which the emperor has expressly forbidden.”

  “Only because it is the custom in this country. Were I to call myself Miss Patterson, I would be looked upon as a single woman with an illegitimate child. Surely, you must see how disastrous that would be for my son.”

  Turreau shook his head. “The emperor will be adamant on this point.”

  “Then he must give me another name to use—or perhaps a title.”

  “I have heard that you are ambitious.”

  “After the manner of women, yes. The emperor’s rejection of my marriage has cost me everything but my son, so I will fight for him using whatever weapons I have.” Realizing that the general would scoff at her true hopes, Betsy decided to dissimulate. “I know my child can never be a prince, but surely as the son of a Bonaparte, he deserves a life of some importance in Europe. All I ask is the means to prepare him for such a future.”

  “I assure you that his imperial majesty has no desire to harm his brother’s son—or that son’s mother. But he cannot act in any way that will endanger his state.”

  She nodded. “I understand, mon général, and I honor the emperor for his diligence as a ruler.”

  Turreau then peppered her with questions: If the emperor gave her a title and an income, would she live in the European town he chose? Would she renounce her U.S. citizenship? Would she swear never to go to England? Would she promise not to marry without the emperor’s consent? Would she allow him to take charge of her son once Bo turned seven?

  Most of the answers came easily to Betsy since she had long dreamed of living in Europe and truly had no desire to remarry. The question about being separated from Bo frightened her, but she told herself that she would have to send him to school in any case, and surely the emperor would allow her to visit him.

  After Turreau finished interrogating her, he said, “I have no authority to put such a scheme in motion, Mademoiselle. I shall have to forward your letter and my own recommendations to Paris.”

  “Of course.” Betsy rose, and Aunt Nancy followed suit. “We will not take up more of your time. Thank you for your assistance in this delicate matter.”

  Turreau walked them to the front hall, where he studied Betsy in a frankly appraising way. “Mademoiselle, I now understand why we had so much difficulty persuading Prince Jerome to obey orders. You are a more formidable opponent than we realized.”

  Unable to think of a suitable reply—and uncomfortable under his gaze—Betsy curtsied. Then she and her aunt left.

  Once they were in the carriage, Nancy exclaimed, “I believe that old rake fancies you.”

  Betsy shuddered. “Do not speak of it. The man is an ogre. If I stoop to using honeyed words with him, it is only because I must do so to achieve my ends.”

  “Are you so sure that the end you seek is the right one?”

  Turning to her aunt, Betsy saw that the older woman had pursed her lips, which drew unflattering attention to the lines around her mouth. “I don’t wish to quarrel, Aunt. I chose my path long ago, and I do not intend to deviate from it now. I will not see my son deprived of his rights.”

  Then Betsy fell silent as she tried to calculate how long it might be before Napoleon answered.

  EVEN THOUGH BETSY had insisted to Samuel Graves that she could not consider his proposal, he sent another letter to her at Springfield in August. As she carried it into a small back parlor where she could be alone, Betsy was surprised to see that it had been mailed from a place in Massachusetts where she and Jerome stayed on their journey from Niagara to Boston.

  She sat on the sofa and dropped the letter unopened on her lap. The name of the village brought back such memories! The inn was one of the quaintest that she and Jerome visited—it had delftware tiles around the fireplace and blue toile bed-hangings—but the sweet décor was not what made it memorable. During that day’s stagecoach ride, Jerome had amused the other passengers with stories of their adventures at Niagara, particularly praising Betsy’s stamina and courage. She could tell from his ardent glances that he was growing aroused as he spoke, so she was not surprised that the moment they were alone in their room, he kissed her passionately. Jerome was so impatient that he would not wait for her to undress but rather hiked up her gown, bent her over the bed, and entered her from behind. Later, after they dined, he made love to her again, this time with more deliberate attention to her pleasure.

  Her eyes filled with tears at the contrast between that wild joy and her present loneliness. How could Jerome have sacrificed a marriage of such passion for one of political expediency? Even after a year, she found his decision incomprehensible.

  Betsy sighed, picked up the letter, and broke the seal. Graves explained that he was in New England, and remembering her account of the excursion to Niagara, he had stopped at one of the inns where she stayed and persuaded the landlord to put him in the same room.

  Reading that gave Betsy a sense of uneasiness, a feeling that was compounded when she turned to the second page and discovered a love poem in which Grav
es described tossing and turning all night because his emotions were agitated by sleeping where she had once lain.

  Betsy released the letter, which fluttered to the floor. The knowledge that the young Englishman would occupy a bed she had shared with Jerome and then lie awake imagining scenes of love sickened her. Retrieving the letter, she carried it upstairs to lock away with her other correspondence. It would not do for anyone else in her family to read it.

  BECAUSE TURREAU HAD warned Betsy that Napoleon would be slow to answer, she tried not to feel any hope about each day’s post. However, an unexpected letter arrived at the South Street house in late September. Sent by Auguste Le Camus, who was in New York, it enclosed two letters from Jerome, one for Betsy and one for her father.

  Betsy handed her father’s letter to Dorcas, who sat working with Octavius on his reading. Then Betsy tore open hers. Scanning the page eagerly, she learned to her horror that Jerome was writing, not to beg her forgiveness, but to ask her to give up their son:

  I know in advance, my well-beloved Elisa, what it will cost you to be separated from him, but you will never be so blind to his true interest and your own, as not to consent to his departure. A brilliant destiny is reserved for him. Our son should enjoy all the advantages which his birth and his name give him the right to claim, and you cannot permit him to lose these advantages without ceasing to love him, and without making yourself responsible for his fate.

  “No!” Betsy exclaimed. The air went out of the room, and her breath began to come in gasps. The murmur of Octavius reading grew abnormally loud, and Betsy felt her surroundings spin around her. As she struggled against terror, she remembered Eliza saying that her main fear in seeking a divorce was that the courts usually awarded fathers custody of any children.