“No, Mr. Oakeley.” She tugged to free herself, but he would not relinquish his grip, so Betsy let their clasped hands lie in her lap. Sitting beside him, she grew self-conscious of her breathing. She could feel how close Oakeley’s trousered thigh was to hers, protected only by a flimsy gown. The flame of desire began to flicker within her, and a vivid image of Oakeley embracing her seized Betsy’s imagination. She wondered whether, if she swayed toward him, he would kiss her. Then she might know if she was able to feel passion again.
Stiffening, she told herself to remain true to her purpose. Betsy forced herself to picture her little boy’s face and then swallowed hard. “Mr. Oakeley, I am honored by your attentions, but I have no plans to remarry. I have devoted my life to my son and his future.”
“Why should that prevent you from forming a new attachment? I could help you raise your son. We have fine schools in England, and I would provide him with the very best education.” He smiled. “And I know how he loves to ride. I would give him a pony and, when he is older, teach him to hunt.”
For an instant, Betsy could envision her horse-mad boy riding exuberantly across the English countryside. Then she shook her head. “But what of his future? What about when he reaches manhood? His uncle, the emperor, can award him a title and a place at court. Those are things you cannot offer him, no matter how much affection you come to feel.”
Sighing, Oakeley released her hand. “No, I cannot. But are you so very certain that Napoleon will keep his word?”
“He has given me his promise in writing.”
Oakeley narrowed his eyes. “My country will never cease to oppose him. If the Fifth Coalition does not defeat him, we will form a sixth and, if necessary, a seventh. The might of the British Empire is committed to defeating Bonaparte, and we will accomplish it in time.”
That reminder that Oakeley represented Napoleon’s enemies hardened Betsy’s resolve. “How could I wish for anything so opposed to my son’s interests?”
“Could you not find a new way to define his interests? It is true that when I inherit my father’s title, I cannot pass it on to your son, but I will help him any other way I can. I could launch him in a diplomatic career. Or a career in politics if he prefers.” Betsy shook her head again, and Oakeley continued in a rush, “There is something else you may not have considered. If we have a son of our own, he will one day be a baronet. Would that not please you?”
Betsy gazed at him in consternation as she contemplated bearing another child and dividing the love she felt for Bo. “I cannot imagine such a thing.”
Oakeley knelt before her. “I love you, and I cannot imagine my future without you.”
“Please, do not press me any further. I cannot give you the answer you want.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Then do not give me any answer at all. Please, think about everything I have said and see if you cannot change your mind.”
After a long moment, Betsy nodded. “I will consider it.”
OVER THE NEXT few weeks, Betsy felt pressed on all sides. Charles Oakeley continued to visit her, and his eyes pled his suit even as he honored her request not to pressure her for an answer.
General Turreau stopped at South Street on his way back to Washington in September and demanded an explanation of the rumors that Betsy planned to marry an Englishman. She explained her predicament and swore that it was not her intention to marry anyone.
Turreau frowned. “Are you sure this is not a British plot to gain control of the boy?”
“I do not think so, sir.”
“If you are lying, it will do you no good. The emperor will not consider himself bound by any agreement based on falsehood.”
She held out her open palms. “I swear to you, mon général, I am telling the truth. My father is pressuring me to marry, but this is not what I want.”
He stood abruptly. “I will see what I can do.”
In mid-September, Aunt Margaret wrote her:
Everyone is gossiping about the poor man. Francis James Jackson, the new minister from Britain, is furious. He ordered Oakeley to return to England with important dispatches, and the secretary balked. You must either accept him or refuse to see him again. He is destroying his career over you.
Betsy turned to her mother. “What am I to do? I turned him down, but he will not accept my answer.”
“Then you will have to be rude. You cannot allow this situation to continue.”
The following week, a newspaper report drove Charles Oakeley temporarily from Betsy’s mind. Earlier that summer Jerome’s kingdom had come under attack by the Duke of Brunswick, whose lands Napoleon had seized and annexed to Westphalia. Brunswick sought revenge by leading an army of exiles, dressed in black and wearing the emblem of a death’s head, to recapture his duchy. The Black Legion won its first battle and then fought again at Oelper, losing this time to a new contingent of Westphalians. However, the victorious commander failed to pursue the retreating army, allowing it to flee to England. The general whose incompetence allowed Brunswick to escape was none other than Jean-Jacques Reubell, Jerome’s friend who had married Henriette Pascault. According to the report, Jerome had exiled Reubell in disgrace.
Betsy’s heart churned with conflicting feelings. Having often wondered if Henriette and her husband were profiting by Jerome’s kingship, Betsy took malicious pleasure in learning that Reubell had blundered so badly. However, she still hoped Bo would inherit Jerome’s kingdom, so she was distressed to learn that such a bitter foe remained at large.
In October, Turreau wrote that he had sent another letter to France requesting a decision on her behalf. “I number among my duties, Madame, the care of your tranquility and your independence.”
Armed with this reassurance, Betsy told Charles Oakeley that she had unequivocally decided against him. “Sir, I must ask you not to importune me further. Such actions on your part will only distress us both.”
Oakeley turned very pale. “I will not trouble you again. Please know that my love and esteem remain steadfast, and if you should ever change your mind, you have only to write me and I will come to you from wherever in the world I may be posted.” After bowing low over her hand, he left.
XXVI
THAT fall, Betsy decided to refresh her wardrobe. Since she lacked the money for new clothes, she set about remaking the gowns she had. Betsy snipped the lace off the neckline of one gown and used it to trim the sleeves of another; refashioned pleats and flounces that had gone out of style; and bought small quantities of braid, lace, ribbon, and spangles to use as trimmings.
One afternoon when her mother was out and Bo was napping, Betsy sat at the drawing room table designing a floral motif to embroider onto one of her gowns. As she paused to sharpen her pencil with a penny knife, the front door knocker sounded. Betsy sighed. The housekeeper and maids were in the kitchen making preserves, so she would have to answer it.
She rose, brushed pencil shavings from her lap, and went to the door. Henriette Reubell stood upon the stoop. She was heavier than when Betsy saw her last, and her face showed signs of strain, but she wore a fashionable red paisley shawl over a pale yellow gown embroidered with rosebuds.
Betsy stepped back to allow her former friend to enter, and Henriette walked into the drawing room where she sat on the teal sofa. After taking the wingback chair opposite, Betsy asked, “Why are you here? I have not heard a word from you for five years.”
Lifting a hand, Henriette smoothed back her hair in a nervous gesture Betsy recognized from the past. “Forgive me. When we arrived in France, the emperor chastised Reubell for his role in your marriage, and for a while, we feared he might end up in prison like poor Bentalou. I dared not write you, and once we went to Westphalia, I could not think what to say.”
Betsy folded her arms beneath her chest. “Yes, how could you explain to your dear friend that you had a place at court, knowing what Jerome’s kingship had cost me?”
Henriette flushed. “What would you have
had me do? Refuse to go when my husband was called to Westphalia? I too am a wife, and my first duty is to Reubell.”
“Ah, but I am no longer a wife. Your friends the Bonapartes have seen to that.”
“How can you blame me?”
A sharp pain shot through the front of Betsy’s skull, and she leaned her forehead on her hand. For an instant, she recalled what a good friend Henriette had once been and how they had shared the ambition to make advantageous marriages. “I am not angry so much as envious. You have been where I wanted to be the last two years. And you still have a husband. I have only my son.”
“J’en suis desolée,” Henriette said, slipping into her native language to apologize. “Does it not help to have one more friend now that I am returned?”
As Betsy gazed at Henriette’s fine clothes, she felt gall rise in her throat. “I do not know. When I think that you have been partaking of the delights of court—”
“Is that what you think?” Henriette lifted her hands with palms upraised. “That we enjoyed our time in Westphalia?”
“Did you not?”
“At first, but it quickly palled. King Jerome had little interest in governance and cared only for the pageantry of court. When we arrived in Kassel, he immediately found himself in financial difficulties. He had left France in debt—”
“No surprise there!”
After smiling wryly, Henriette said, “No. He discovered to his chagrin that the Westphalian treasury was empty and the castle in disrepair, yet he was expected to pay tribute to support the French army. He feared that if he raised taxes, it would foment discontent.”
Betsy glanced across the room at the table, which held the evidence of her efforts to save money. “Do you mean that Jerome Bonaparte has actually learned to economize?”
Henriette laughed harshly. “No. He went even deeper in debt, ordering uniforms, carriages, luxurious furnishings. You would be shocked by what he has become. He bankrupts his kingdom with his pursuit of pleasure and has lost what self-control he exercised when married to you. He betrays the queen at every turn. Respectable families will not let their daughters attend balls at Kassel for fear that he will seduce them.”
Shocked, Betsy raised a hand to quiet Henriette. Examining her heart, she discovered that she still retained enough regard for Jerome to grieve over his shameful behavior. After a moment, Betsy nodded for her guest to continue.
Henriette scooted to the edge of the sofa and, after glancing over her shoulder, said in a low voice, “Once when he was in a good mood, I asked why he did not rule with justice and economy so that he would be remembered as a wise king. The laughter dropped from his face and he answered, ‘My brother took from me the only reason I ever had to regulate my conduct. Do not begrudge me my pleasures.’ ”
“More of his lies,” Betsy said. “He seeks to excuse his debauchery by pretending to pine for me, but I know he no longer cares.”
After biting her lip, Henriette said, “I think you are wrong. Do you recall the miniatures you gave him? The court painter used them to make a larger portrait of you that the king keeps in his private dressing room. Queen Catharine has never seen it.”
Even though Betsy tried to repress the memory of the charming young man she had loved, her mind filled with the image of his laughing eyes and sensuous mouth. She rose and went to the mantel, where she stared at the miniature of him wearing a mustache and braided uniform. “Oh Jerome,” she murmured. “Was it worth losing me for such a paltry gain?”
“You have no conception of how colossal Napoleon’s rage can be. Much firmer men than Jerome have found it difficult to defy him.”
Whirling on her, Betsy demanded, “How can you imply that he is not to blame? For two years, he swore he would never give me up, then he threw me over and for what? To become a figure of ridicule?”
Henriette leaned forward. “Then you don’t know what really happened.”
Feeling a sudden dread, Betsy pressed her hands against her stomach. “What do you mean?”
“He tried to remain true, but he was surrounded by Napoleon’s spies and threatened with imprisonment should he disobey his brother. When he returned from his Atlantic tour, Napoleon presented him with a marriage contract to sign.”
“And he signed it.”
Henriette shook her head. “No, he refused and joined the army, choosing to risk death rather than betray you. During the Prussia campaign, Jerome was desperate to achieve glory, but fate conspired against him, and the victories went to others. When he returned to France, Napoleon praised him, but everyone knew it was a sham. Even so, Jerome hoped to be allowed to return to you. Instead, the emperor told him that his formal betrothal to Catharine was a fait accompli. A proxy had already performed it. If Jerome had refused the marriage then, it would have caused a scandal.”
“He has benefited royally from being forced into that marriage,” Betsy said as she returned to her chair and sank into it.
“Do you really believe him happier leading a life of dissipation than one of honor with the woman he loves?”
“Why do you tell me this? It was easier when I could hate him.”
“Because you need to hear the truth, for your son’s sake if nothing else. He needs to know that his father is not entirely devoid of honor.”
Betsy slapped the arm of her chair. “Do not presume to tell me how to raise my son. I never abuse Jerome to him.”
Henriette shrugged. “Alors, I thought you should know the truth. Jerome is too self-indulgent to be a truly good king. But he was a better man with you than he was before your marriage or has been since.”
Betsy began to weep. Despite her contempt for Jerome, she took no pleasure in learning that he had sunk so low. Their suffering might have some meaning if he had disciplined himself to become a good king. Instead, he chose to indulge the most degraded impulses in his nature.
After several moments, she dug her nails into her palm and managed to regain control of her emotions. “You were right to tell me. It confirms that I was wise not to send Bo there.”
Henriette nodded. “I think Jerome lives in terror that you will turn his son against him.”
Betsy laughed. “After my last letter, I can see why he might think I am filling the boy’s ears with venom, but I love my son too much to do that. I still hope he will find a place at court someday.”
“Well, Queen Catharine has so far been unable to conceive. Behind her back, everyone in Kassel speculates that your son will inherit Jerome’s throne.”
“As well he should. He is Jerome’s legitimate heir, no matter what Napoleon says.”
“If Jerome can retain a kingdom for him to inherit. The Duke of Brunswick’s hatred is very fierce, and he means to bring war to Westphalia again.”
Betsy shrugged. “If that happens, I am sure the emperor will find some other place for my son. He has promised to assure Bo’s future.”
“You astonish me.” Henriette picked up her shawl from the sofa cushion and draped it over her shoulders. “I would have thought after all that has happened, you would not want anything to do with the Bonapartes ever again.”
Betsy waved her words away. “Napoleon dismissed me as expendable because I am American and a woman. Someday I will make him see that he was wrong on both counts.”
“You are more indomitable than I.” Henriette stood. “Was I right to come?”
“Yes, I am grateful.”
They walked arm in arm to the front hall, yet neither suggested seeing each other again and their parting kiss felt like a farewell. As Henriette walked to her carriage, Betsy firmly closed the door.
IN DECEMBER, TURREAU invited Betsy to visit him at the embassy. When she and Aunt Nancy were shown into his office, the general was seated at the desk, working on some papers. Betsy noticed that since her last visit, he had added a bronze model cannon to the more utilitarian items on his desk blotter.
After a moment, Turreau looked up. “Mademoiselle Patterson, I have not yet received a
reply. The emperor has been engaged in defeating Austria and negotiating the treaty of their surrender. But I am sure it is only these cares that prevent him from attending to your situation, so I have taken it upon myself to use legation funds to start your pension.”
“Then you know how much my income will be?”
“No,” he said and paused to sign a document. “I think we should work upon the assumption that the original offer remains in effect.”
“That seems eminently reasonable.” Betsy wondered if he could hear her sarcasm.
“I have authorized you to draw up to $20,000. Here is a letter of credit and a personal note to the bank manager. I hope this will cover your needs until we hear from the emperor. You must not overspend, as I cannot advance you additional money until I receive approval. By doing this much, I have already overstepped my authority.”
As she took the all-important documents, Betsy was afraid that her hands would tremble and give away her excitement. She placed the documents in her lap. “Thank you, General Turreau. I am more grateful than I can say.”
“There is one other matter we must discuss. I have engaged a French colonel of impeccable reputation to act as your—shall we say, majordomo.”
Betsy tilted her head inquisitively. “Why do you imagine I need such a person?”
“His primary duty will be to tutor your son, but he can also help with business matters.”
“General Turreau, I am perfectly capable of teaching my son. He is only four and already proficient at both his alphabet and his numbers.”
With a condescending smile, Turreau answered, “Yes, but he should learn French from a Frenchman, and I am certain the emperor will want him to be educated in military matters.”
“Surely not at such a tender age.”
Turreau stroked his mustache. “Mademoiselle, do you not agree that the emperor’s nephew will be safer with a military man close to hand?”
“I see,” Betsy said, remembering Turreau’s earlier fears that the British were plotting to gain control of her son. This “tutor” was meant to act as an unofficial bodyguard—and, no doubt, as a spy who would report Betsy’s activities. “Tell me more about this man.”
The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte Page 37
