The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  “Mother! He wants Bo. He intends to take Bo!” Betsy’s words tumbled over themselves like stones in a landslide.

  Dorcas crossed the room and snatched the letter from Betsy’s hand. She skimmed it before saying to Octavius, “Run, get your father. Hurry.”

  Then she led Betsy to the sofa, where she made her bend over her lap so her head was by her knees. Rubbing her back, Dorcas said, “Shhh, calm yourself. It has not happened yet.”

  Too desperate to remain still, Betsy sat up and wrung her hands. “Jerome will have the law on his side, so what can I do? If he takes my boy, I will have no reason to live. I swear, I will throw myself in the harbor.”

  “Don’t say that. It is wicked.”

  “Do you think I care?” Betsy jumped up. “Where is Bo?”

  “You know he is taking a nap.” Dorcas stood and grasped her by the arm. “You will frighten him if you go up in this hysterical state.”

  Betsy wrenched herself free, threw herself back on the sofa, and sobbed. As her mother tried to soothe her, William Patterson entered the room.

  “What is the meaning of this tumult?”

  “Jerome has written Betsy. He wants to raise the boy in Westphalia.”

  Hearing those words, Betsy froze, her tears halted by a new fear—that, as a man, her father would support Jerome’s paternal rights. She watched with dread as her father read his letter from Jerome. During the wait, Dorcas shepherded Octavius from the room.

  After he finished, Patterson said, “He claims that Napoleon has consented to this plan, and he urges me to persuade you.”

  I will take Bo and run away, Betsy thought. But where can I go? Could Samuel Graves protect us if I married him and went to England?

  As Betsy’s thoughts raced, her father swore. “The impudence. He writes that having his son will console him for losing you, Betsy. What of your sorrows? Jerome has attained the rank he always wanted, and now he wants to deprive you of your one comfort.”

  “Then you do not think his claims outweigh mine?”

  Patterson rubbed his brow. “Under the law, a father’s claims take precedence. But I cannot imagine that Jerome would leave his kingdom to contest a lawsuit here.”

  She clasped her hands together. “If the emperor has authorized this plan and submits a formal request to our government—”

  “I think it unlikely that Napoleon would exert himself to such an extent to satisfy Jerome. At any rate, our family is not without powerful friends, and I will do what I can to prevent such a thing. I would not wish to see the boy torn from a respectable, honest family to be raised among the dissipations of court.”

  Instead of comforting Betsy, her father’s words reinforced her fear that he intended to turn Bo into a Yankee merchant. Tears pricked her eyes as she realized that she might have to sacrifice her own interests for her son’s good. “My deepest desire is for Bo to attain his rights as a Bonaparte prince,” she protested. “How can I deprive him of the advantages that are his by birth?”

  “What advantage? That of being raised as a puppet king’s bastard son?”

  “But he is a king’s son.” She stared at her father’s purple face and wondered if they would ever understand each other. “If Jerome can give our son his rightful place at court, would it not be selfish for me to put my needs ahead of his?”

  Patterson tossed aside his letter. “I am talking about your son’s needs. What do you think will happen when Jerome’s queen gives him a legitimate heir?”

  “Bo is his legitimate heir!”

  “Not in the eyes of the Bonapartes. When Jerome has a son from this new marriage, he will cast the boy aside just as he did you. And there will be nothing you can do to mitigate his circumstances because they will not let you near him.”

  Gazing at the Turkish carpet, Betsy had to admit the logic in her father’s words. But did they appeal to her because they were what she wanted to hear? She needed to get counsel from someone who understood the political ramifications better than they did.

  As Betsy wondered whom to ask, she heard small feet pounding down the stairs. Bo burst into the drawing room and, confronted with the unexpected sight of his grandfather, shouted, “Grandpa!” He hurtled himself onto Patterson’s lap. Then, as Bo turned around and wriggled into a comfortable position, he caught sight of his mother’s face.

  “Mama?” Instantly, anxiety clouded his cheerful countenance. “Are you crying?”

  Betsy forced herself to smile. “It is nothing. I have a headache.”

  Bo slid down from his grandfather’s lap and clambered up on the sofa. “I can make it better,” he said and kissed her forehead, mimicking the gesture she used when he felt unwell.

  “Yes, much better.” As Betsy pulled Bo into a hug, she met her father’s gaze over her son’s blond head. In this at least, they were united, even if their ultimate hopes for Bo were at cross-purposes. Neither of them wanted this precious boy to be taken from them.

  IN HIS LETTER, Le Camus had said that Jerome expected him to take the child with him when he returned to Europe. Betsy replied that her son was too young to travel without his mother, and as she was still barred from France, it was impossible for Bo to make the voyage.

  Betsy then attempted several letters to Jerome, beseeching him not to demand such a sacrifice. In her first draft, she tried to stir the embers of his love by describing her devastation at the thought of losing their child, her “only happiness” since her separation from him. She wrote a more formal version in which she appealed to Jerome’s vanity by addressing him as “sire” and “your Majesty,” but she could not bear to humble herself to the man she had once teased in bed. In the end, she sent Jerome no reply at all.

  Finally, Betsy wrote to James Monroe, who had been so helpful to her in England and had recently returned to the United States. She apologized for intruding upon his time, thanked him for his past counsel, and described her problem. Betsy asserted that her only concern was for the safety and wellbeing of her child, and she swore that she would suffer any privation necessary for his best interests.

  As she waited for an answer, death again struck her family. In October, William Jr. was working on the docks inspecting the Patterson ships that were rotting from lack of use. Four days later, he came down with yellow fever, making him a late victim of the epidemic that had plagued the Fells Point neighborhood since summer. He died on October 20, leaving his wife Nancy and an infant son. In the days that followed, Betsy did all she could to comfort her mother, but at night when she was alone, she wept as she remembered how William had protected her during the terrible time at Texel.

  Two days after the funeral, Betsy found her mother in the nursery gazing at Bo as he napped. When Betsy spoke her name, Dorcas whirled on her with eyes that burned with the madness of grief. “You must not lose your son. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Betsy said, gently leading her from the room. “Father and I are doing everything we can.”

  Finally, three weeks after she wrote to Monroe, Betsy received his reply. The statesman explained that he had followed her history with great sympathy and regret that he had not been able to alleviate her situation: “To the present period your conduct has been distinguished by the utmost degree of prudence and delicacy.”

  In response to her fears, he pointed out that Napoleon’s fame had already suffered because of his treatment of her and that if any calamity should happen to the child in his care, his reputation would be irreparably damaged. Therefore, Monroe assured Betsy that he believed both Jerome and the emperor would do their best to guard the boy’s safety.

  It is not therefore from either of them that I should apprehend any danger to the child. If his situation should expose him to any I should expect it from another quarter. The wife of Jerome, or some of her connections might not see this infant received under the protection of his father with pleasure. She may have children, and he might be thought in their way. Such things often happen in courts.

  Laying
down the letter, Betsy immediately thought of King Richard III, rumored to have killed his young nephews to gain the throne of England. Queen Catharine had powerful relatives; her cousin was the Russian tsar. Yes, it was possible that her family might see Bo as a threat to their interests.

  If only Napoleon will grant my request for a pension, she thought, I can keep Bo here where he will be safe from such plots. If I can obtain a good education for him, there will be time enough for him to claim his place at court when he is a man and able to defend himself.

  NEAR THE END of the year, Betsy received another letter from Jerome. Napoleon had told him of her desire for a pension—Betsy rejoiced to learn that the emperor was considering her request—and Jerome was furious that she would seek assistance from his older brother.

  Indignantly, Jerome wrote that he had been planning to give Betsy and their son the principality of Schmalkalden, which lay within Westphalia thirty leagues from his capital. She and Bo were to have the titles of princess and prince, and an income of 200,000 francs a year.

  I was expecting my son, yes, Elisa, and you too, and a noble existence, and one worthy of the objects of my most tender affection, was planned for you and still awaits you. Then, at least, I shall see my son from time to time, and I promise to his mother, to Elisa, to my most loving friend, to leave her son with her until his twelfth year in the principality which I have chosen for him, and that the only sacrifice I ask of her is to let me enjoy a visit from my son once or twice a month.

  After finishing the letter, Betsy felt confused. Could this have been Jerome’s intention all along? If so, why had he not said so previously?

  Rereading the letter, she saw that Jerome promised her a beautiful home, and she immediately envisioned a small jewel-like palace where she could receive scholars, writers, and aristocrats in her glittering salon. Bo would have the finest tutors and someday inherit his father’s throne, and everyone would praise her for how wisely she had raised him.

  And Jerome would be only thirty leagues away. Surely there would be times when, to escape the burdens of kingship, he might ride to Schmalkalden to visit the woman who had known him as a carefree youth. Betsy imagined the sound of horses in the courtyard, a stealthy midnight knock at the door, and an intimate supper with too much wine. Then she would be in Jerome’s arms again.

  As swiftly as the bewitching scenario played out in her mind came the burning heat of shame. They would never be able to keep such assignations secret, and within a short time, all Europe would hear that she had become Jerome’s mistress. She knew him too well not to feel certain that he would attempt to seduce her, and she knew herself too, remembering all the times that her passion for him had betrayed her better judgment.

  Betsy rose and paced before the hearth as she tried to compose a blistering reply. As she did, her mother entered the room.

  “What on earth ails you? You are as restless as a sparrow with a hawk overhead.”

  “Jerome has written again, and this letter is more insulting than the last.” She handed over the page and waited impatiently for her mother to read it.

  Moments later, Dorcas looked up. “I do not understand your anger. With this offer, he makes an effort to provide for you and Bo.”

  “Mother, if you think that, you think wrongly. Jerome’s intentions are not nearly so noble. Once I am beholden to him, he will insinuate his way back into my bed.”

  “My dear, he says nothing to indicate such a desire.”

  Betsy stared at her mother, astonished that she could be so naïve. “I know Jerome too well not to feel certain what would happen. And once we were intimate again, I would be reduced to the status the emperor always assigned to me, that of a whore.”

  “Betsy!”

  Ignoring her mother’s scandalized outcry, Betsy said, “I will not allow him to cheapen me. I was his one true wife and I will not accept any lower rank.”

  As she spoke, the words she needed to respond to Jerome arranged themselves in her mind. Betsy crossed to her father’s desk, took out a sheet of paper, and, without bothering to sit down, wrote.

  Sir, I cannot accept your offer of the principality of Schmalkalden. Westphalia is not big enough for two queens. Nor do I feel any remorse at having requested the aid of the emperor. I petitioned his imperial majesty because I would rather be sheltered by an eagle than dangled from the bill of a goose.

  Elizabeth

  XXV

  BETSY realized that her letter to Jerome might end any possibility of receiving assistance from him, but she did not regret sending the stinging rebuke. She had trusted Jerome too long, clinging to his glib assurances for months after all evidence pointed to his defection. While not blind to his weaknesses, she had allowed herself to hope that his love for her and pain at their separation would mature the pleasure-loving boy into a responsible man, just as she had been forced to grow up in ways she never expected.

  For Betsy knew she had changed. When she caught sight of herself in a mirror, she no longer saw the girlish charm of the Stuart portrait; she was still a lovely woman, but one with a determined set to her jaw and a hard glitter in her eyes. She had long since ceased to be the romantic young woman who declared that she would rather be married to Jerome Bonaparte for an hour than any other man for a lifetime. That girl, so certain that beauty and cleverness would win her a crown, had learned that the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. By marrying into a ruling family, she had subjected herself to inexorable forces that reduced human beings to hostages whose value had little to do with their personal merit. Only someone with the titanic gifts of a Napoleon could subdue such forces and place them under his command.

  Yet Betsy was not entirely reconciled to her fate. Even if she could not be a queen, she could fight to make her son a prince. Bo was proving to be a bright, tenderhearted boy, and she did not intend to spoil him as Letizia Bonaparte had indulged Jerome. Betsy would raise him to appreciate his heritage, to gain the best possible education, and to make a suitable marriage to a woman of high birth. If Bo did not inherit his father’s throne, she would at least make sure that he found a place among European nobility. The world would see that her son’s abilities far outstripped those of his wastrel father, and thus she would show the Bonapartes they were wrong to esteem her so lightly.

  BECAUSE HER MOTHER was despondent over William’s death, Betsy delayed her annual trip to Washington. Then in March 1809, General Turreau wrote Betsy asking her to call at the French embassy at her earliest convenience. After assuring herself that her mother was ready to resume running the household, Betsy left for the capital.

  Turreau’s office had a martial character with swords, pistols, and military flags hanging on every wall. When Betsy and her aunt were seated before Turreau’s desk, the general handed Betsy an official communication that the emperor had sent him by way of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Monsieur de Champagny:

  I have read Miss Patterson’s letter. Reply to Turreau to inform her that I shall receive her child with pleasure, and that I will charge myself with him, if she will send him to France; that, as to herself, whatever she wishes will be granted her; that she can count on my esteem and my desire to be agreeable to her; that when I refused to recognize her, I was led to it by high political considerations; that, apart from that, I am resolved to secure to her son the destiny she may desire.

  Betsy was so overcome by the news that she pressed a hand against her chest and made herself breathe deeply. Could this be the realization of her dreams at last? It hardly seemed possible. After several seconds, she said, “General Turreau, please convey my gratitude to the emperor for his gracious answer.”

  Then she explained that her son was too young to travel without her. She very much desired to live in Europe, preferably Paris, but was willing to settle wherever the emperor thought best. Betsy also reminded Turreau that to use her maiden name would injure her reputation, as much in Europe as in the United States.

  Turreau toyed
with his mustache. “Then you would rather receive a title than a large income?”

  Sensing a trap, Betsy paused. She took out a perfume-scented handkerchief, dabbed her upper lip, and said carefully, “If I am to have a title, I must have sufficient income to live in a manner befitting my rank.”

  Turreau nodded. “I think that you should write all these things to the emperor, and I will forward the letter to him. Then we shall have to wait for his reply.”

  “Oh.” Betsy’s elation shriveled. “You do not feel authorized to set up a pension for the amount his imperial majesty previously named?”

  “No, Mademoiselle. Concerning matters in which the emperor has taken such a personal interest, it is necessary to wait for his explicit orders.”

  She nodded. “Allow me a few days to compose an appropriate letter.”

  THE NEXT DAY, Betsy called on Dolley Madison, whose husband had just been inaugurated president. Betsy wanted to provide her friend with the latest news about Dolley’s son from her first marriage. Payne Todd was attending a boarding school near Baltimore, and Betsy sometimes visited the boy for her friend. After Dolley gleaned all the details she could about her child, she asked what the Pattersons thought of President Jefferson’s decision to repeal the Embargo Act before he left office and replace it with the Non-Intercourse Act that banned exports only to British and French ports.

  Betsy toyed with her gloves as she mentally translated her father’s caustic response into something suitably tactful. “My father thinks the government should not interfere with trade at all. He says it only hurts American merchants.”

  Dolley nodded. “Mr. Madison has the power to lift the ban for either Britain or France if they agree to stop harassing our shipping. But he has been in office too brief a time to begin negotiations with either General Turreau or the British minister, the Honorable David Erskine.”

  Betsy looked up in surprise. “The same David Erskine who married Frances Cadwalader?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “I know his wife. She was very kind to me when I was in London. I must write to her.”