The elegance of the drive was echoed by the two-story Pascault house, built upon a raised basement, about seventy feet wide with six windows across the upper story. The middle section of the house projected slightly to form a central block with double doors topped by a pediment that had a semicircular window. As Betsy entered the wide hall, she saw Henriette standing in the doorway of the library to the right of the entrance.
Betsy thought her friend looked splendid in a gown of primrose yellow embroidered with white flowers. With an expression of breathless anticipation, she beckoned to Betsy. Once they were alone in the library, Henriette said, “The French officers are not here yet.” She crossed to the front windows, where Betsy joined her. As they gazed outside, Henriette smoothed back her hair with a light, fidgety gesture.
The Caton coach arrived. Mary Carroll Caton alighted, followed by her husband, who had lately become a pitiable figure in Baltimore. Married into the planter elite, Richard Caton had tried to make a fortune of his own with mercantile investments, but his speculations were so risky that they led him to the verge of bankruptcy, threatening his wife’s fortune and their four daughters’ future. Only the intervention of his father-in-law had saved Caton from debtor’s prison. Now he worked as a manager on Charles Carroll’s estates. Betsy, whose father followed the cautious principle of investing half his money in real estate and risking only half on commerce, felt little sympathy for the imprudent Mr. Caton.
As the Catons entered the house, Henriette grabbed Betsy’s arm. “Look.”
A coach with distinctive yellow wheels came up the graveled drive. It stopped at the front steps and the young officers Betsy first saw at the races descended. “Who is the taller gentleman?”
“Jean-Jacques Reubell. His father was one of the five executives who ruled during the first Directory.”
“Yet he is friendly with Napoleon’s brother?”
Henriette shrugged. “His father retired from public life after the Directory was overthrown and bears no grudge against the First Consul.” Then she glanced sideways at Betsy. “May I tell you something in confidence?”
“Of course,” Betsy said, her attention fixed on the two officers as they paused to survey the grounds. Again, she was struck by the laughter on Jerome Bonaparte’s face.
“Commandant Reubell is going to be my husband. Papa has given his permission.”
Betsy’s head whipped around. “Why, Henriette, you just met! I had no presentiment that things had moved so quickly. Do you love him?”
Henriette nodded.
Overcome by the conflicting emotions of joy and envy, Betsy leaned forward to kiss her friend’s cheek. She swallowed back the tightness in her throat and said in what she hoped was a gay tone, “If you are going to marry Reubell, then I shall have to marry his companion.”
Henriette squeezed her hand. “Oh, Betsy, if you could, that would be perfect.”
Betsy glanced out the window. Noticing the grace with which Jerome Bonaparte mounted the steps to the house, she murmured, “We shall see.”
WHEN THE MARQUIS de Poleon introduced his guests of honor to the Pattersons, Jerome Bonaparte bent over Betsy’s gloved hand. Then he stood and swept her figure with a bold glance. “Mademoiselle Patterson, I cannot express the pleasure it gives me to be introduced to you at last. Your fame as a beauty precedes you—which is the only excuse I can offer for my presumption at the race. However, now that I have the privilege of speaking to you, I must swear that the praise I heard does not do you justice.”
“And you, sir, live up to the reputation of Frenchmen as consummate flatterers,” she answered, not wanting him to suspect the delight she took in his words.
He smiled, undismayed by her tart rejoinder. Then he and Commandant Reubell moved on to meet the Yardleys, a prominent Baltimore family. Within a few minutes, Henriette’s father called the party in to supper.
The men dominated the conversation during the meal by asking the officers about events in Saint-Domingue. Even though the French had captured the revolutionary leader Toussaint L’Ouverture that spring, the rebellion continued unabated and the disease-ravaged French troops seemed unlikely to fight on much longer. When asked why he was on furlough with the outcome of the war uncertain, Jerome Bonaparte laughed. “There were reasons that made it expeditious for me to leave. I can say no more.”
He must be on a mission, Betsy thought as Monsieur Pascault asked Jerome about his older brother’s intentions now that he had been awarded the title First Consul for life. “Are we to assume that this is the end of the French republic?”
“Not at all,” Jerome exclaimed in his strongly accented English. “Napoleon has no ambition for himself. His only desire in this world is to preserve the good that the Revolution accomplished.”
“And what good would that be?” Betsy’s brother William Jr. asked, dropping his fork noisily onto his plate. “We have read about the atrocities committed in the name of revolution.”
Jerome thrust out his chin. “My brother was not responsible for the Terror, sir. It was he who brought order back to France, and it is he who stands between France and the return of absolutism.”
“By becoming a dictator himself?”
Commandant Reubell leaned forward to forestall Jerome from answering. “The title the First Consul bears is one that the citizens awarded him by plebiscite, and he exercises his power with the sole purpose of defending France. Even now, Great Britain—which I must remind you, sir, is our mutual enemy—seeks to return the Bourbons to the throne and overrule the desire of the French people to live in a republic.”
Betsy could see from the tight muscles along her brother’s jaw that he remained unconvinced. He retorted, “Then your people have a very different idea from ours of what constitutes a republic.”
During the tense silence that followed, Betsy felt humiliated by William’s rudeness. Impulsively, she said, “Please excuse my brother, gentlemen. He fancies himself a great patriot, although I can assure you that his guiding motto is not Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité as you might suppose, but rather Security, Annuity, Commodity.”
Most of the dinner party erupted in laughter, but Betsy’s father glared and her mother shot her a look of astonished hurt. Betsy’s face flamed. Too often, she made what she meant to be a clever rejoinder, only to wish seconds later that she had remained silent. She glanced at Lieutenant Bonaparte, fearing to see disapproval on his handsome face.
Instead, he smiled at her and then said to the table at large, “Perhaps a story from my childhood will help you understand my brother better. Our family has a long history of fighting for Corsica, but when France took over our country, we accepted the inevitable. My three oldest brothers were educated in France, where they came to believe in the ideals of the Revolution. In 1793, the Corsican patriot Paoli launched an insurrection against revolutionary rule. He had been a great friend to our family. Our parents even fought with him against the Genoese during the 1760s. But because Paoli became a royalist, Napoleon opposed him. For this, the Bonapartes were denounced as traitors, and we had to flee Corsica leaving everything behind. This is why I assert that Napoleon seeks nothing for himself. He lives only to serve the glory of France.”
“How old were you then?” Dorcas Patterson asked.
“I was eight years old, Madame. Never will I forget looking back as we climbed a hillside in the night and seeing flames consume my home.”
Betsy felt unexpected tenderness as she imagined a terrified, curly-haired lad not much older than her brother George. Until that moment, her encounter with Jerome Bonaparte had been simply an exciting flirtation with a man who symbolized the realization of her dreams. Now, she glimpsed the possibility of deep emotions hidden beneath the charm, and she longed to talk together and compare experiences. If she read him correctly, he would know that a person who led a life of privilege could possess secret disappointments. He might understand why she was desperate to leave Baltimore where the cords of familial and societal tra
dition wrapped her in a net of expectation she feared she would never escape.
Lifting her eyes from her reverie, she saw Bonaparte raise his wineglass to her and then take a sip.
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Betsy returned from a fitting with her dressmaker to find her mother and favorite aunt in the drawing room. Dorcas’s younger sister Anne Spear, familiarly known as Nancy, had never married despite having the auburn hair and elegant beauty of the Spear women. Gossips claimed that she was too tall and awkward to entice men. Instead of bemoaning her unmarried state, she relished her independence to travel and control the money she had received from her father—a financial responsibility the law did not allow wives to exercise.
As Betsy entered the room, Dorcas rose. “I will ask Mrs. Ford to prepare tea.” She left without greeting her daughter.
Betsy tried to mask her hurt at the snub by bending to kiss her aunt’s cheek. Then she untied the ribbons to her bonnet. “It is lovely to see you, Aunt. I heard that you are going to Washington earlier than expected this year,” she said, referring to Aunt Nancy’s habit of living with the Smith family whenever they resided in the capital so that she could sit in the congressional gallery during legislative sessions and watch the representatives at work.
“Oh, yes. Samuel says that the president has asked Congress to convene early because of this Louisiana business.”
“Is it true that there is to be an expedition to explore the territory?”
Aunt Nancy shot her a shrewd look. “Do not try to distract me. Sit down so we can talk before your mother returns. What is this I hear about you humiliating your brother?”
Although Betsy sat on the sofa as her aunt requested, she jutted out her chin. “He deserved it. He was insulting Monsieur Poleon’s guests.”
“Do you imagine that the First Consul of France needs your feeble defense? Or were you, perhaps, desirous that the First Consul’s brother should witness your cleverness?”
Her aunt’s sharp question made Betsy feel a prickling of shame. Gazing at the bonnet in her lap and smoothing its ribbons, she asked, “Is it wrong to want Lieutenant Bonaparte to think well of me?”
“It is if you are willing to mock your family to acquire that esteem.”
“But Aunt, William was intolerably rude. Why has not anyone chastised him?”
“Do you know for a certainty that your parents have not?”
Betsy blinked. “No. I—”
Aunt Nancy laid a hand upon her arm. “Listen to me. Your brother is a grown man, and if occasionally his dour nature causes him to act the fool, then people will decide for themselves how to evaluate his worth. Since he is a man, they will likely overlook any minor defects so long as he remains successful in business. You, on the other hand, are a woman and held to a different standard.”
Indignation swept away whatever remorse Betsy felt. To hear such counsel from the aunt who had urged her to read A Vindication of the Rights of Woman was shocking. “I cannot believe that you of all people would warn me to be more ladylike. When have you ever cared what people think of your interest in politics?”
“My dear niece, I am content to remain unmarried, and so I can afford not to care. You, however, have different desires. You want to make an important marriage.”
“Yes, I do. Are you saying that you think me wrong?”
Aunt Nancy pressed her lips together. “No,” she finally said, drawing out the word in a way that expressed reservation despite her denial. “I am simply cautioning you to behave in a way that will help you achieve your aim. If you want to marry a man of high station, you must not give him reason to suspect that you will embarrass him in society.”
Betsy settled back against the cushions and gave her aunt a troubled look. “You are saying that even if I do marry a European nobleman, my life will have as many constraints as if I remained in Baltimore.”
Aunt Nancy smiled wryly. “I have never yet met a man of any nationality who regarded his wife as an equal. The only way to achieve freedom as a woman is to be financially independent and single.”
Betsy frowned. She loved her aunt dearly—admiring the older woman’s independence and enjoying her eccentricities—but Betsy did not want such a life for herself.
Exhaling deeply, she marshaled her thoughts. Ever since her time at Madame Lacomb’s school, she had set her heart on living in Europe. The United States was such a young country that it had very little music, literature, or art. Not only was Europe far ahead of America in culture, but Betsy had also heard that in France, clever women could participate in intellectual life by hosting salons where learned people debated ideas. “I think,” she said at last, “that if I must accept constraint no matter which path I choose, I would still prefer a life of rank in Europe.”
“I thought that would be your choice.”
As her mother re-entered the room, Betsy reflected on how different the three Spear sisters were in character no matter how similar their looks. Her mother was gentle, compliant, and easily wounded. Nancy was astute and independent, yet often nervous. And Margaret Smith was elegant, strong-willed, and opinionated, often stating how much she hated living in the new, still-raw city of Washington, which looked more like a muddy wilderness than a national capital.
Aunt Margaret certainly has not allowed matrimony to stifle her, Betsy thought. Perhaps a spinster like Aunt Nancy was not the best source of advice about marriage.
Betsy noticed that her mother was avoiding her gaze, so she crossed the room and kissed her. “I am sorry I embarrassed the family. I will be more circumspect in the future.”
Dorcas laid a soft hand on her cheek. “Thank you, my dear.”
A FEW DAYS later the Pattersons were invited to a ball being given for the visiting French officers. The host was Samuel Chase, one of Maryland’s four signers of the Declaration of Independence and currently a Supreme Court justice. Chase’s daughter had married Commodore Barney’s son, so no one in Baltimore was surprised that Chase would honor Barney’s guests.
This time, Betsy knew exactly what to wear. The gown of sheer white cotton mull her dressmaker was finishing would be perfect. Both the square-necked bodice and cap sleeves were loosely gathered, with the bottom edge of the puffed sleeve accented by a ruffle. The hem of the narrow skirt and rounded train featured a wide border of geometric shapes and flower sprays embroidered in heavy white floss. Under the nearly transparent dress, Betsy would wear both a chemise and an underdress to preserve modesty. To further convey a demure appearance, she would don a delicate seed-pearl cross on a fine gold chain.
When the Pattersons arrived at the Chase mansion, they found their host greeting guests in the reception hall. Sixty-two-year-old Justice Chase was a tall, corpulent man with long white hair worn in the manner Benjamin Franklin had favored. Infamous for his abrasive personality, Chase had made an enemy of President Jefferson by supporting his opponent, John Adams, during the last presidential campaign and, more recently, by injecting political opinions into his judicial decisions. Uncle Smith had told Betsy’s parents that the president was trying to convince the House of Representatives to impeach the justice.
As the Pattersons approached their host, Betsy glanced around to see if Lieutenant Bonaparte had arrived. Then she saw Chase glare at her father. “Ah, Patterson, I wondered if you would show your face. I imagine you approve of your friend’s campaign to force me off the bench.”
William Patterson stiffened. “My business is shipping, sir. I do not meddle in affairs of state.”
“Of course not.” Chase smirked. “All the same, you may tell your brother-in-law to deliver a message for me. Old red-headed Tom may think he has me by the balls, but I am a slippery old devil and will escape his clutches yet.”
Betsy felt her cheeks flame. Chase had a reputation as a profane man, but she had not expected him to display such vulgarity in front of ladies. Patterson took his wife’s arm and walked away without replying, and Betsy and her brothers followed.
A few feet aw
ay, John Eager Howard, the former senator whose seat Uncle Smith now filled, stood talking to Mrs. Chase. Howard was a stout man in his early fifties who for the occasion had squeezed himself into his Revolutionary War colonel’s uniform. The red lapels of the blue coat were separated by a bulging mound of buff waistcoat that threatened to pop its buttons. Betsy smiled at Howard’s vanity but did not think less of him for it. He was a principled man who devoted himself to philanthropy and public service, and everyone in Baltimore admired him.
Scanning the rapidly filling reception hall, Betsy saw that the Buchanans, Catons, and Carrolls had all arrived before them. Within moments, Charles Carnan Ridgely Jr. approached and asked for the honor of dancing with her. His father owned Hampton Hall, one of the most extensive country estates in Maryland. After allowing him to claim a cotillion, Betsy excused herself and walked toward the Pascaults on the other side of the room. As she threaded her way through the crowd, a Spear cousin, James Buchanan, and Robert Gilmor Jr. all requested dances. Gilmor was a family friend rather than a beau; he was eleven years older than Betsy and rumored to be plagued by the beginnings of lung disease, but he was an intelligent man who loved art, so she found him one of the few tolerable men in Baltimore.
As Betsy reached Henriette’s side, the noise of conversation and laughter in the hall dropped so suddenly that she could hear the musicians warming up in the next room. Betsy turned and saw that Jerome Bonaparte and his friend Reubell had arrived. Reubell was dressed as before, but Bonaparte had on an entirely different uniform. His short waist-length tunic was made of light blue wool and decorated across the chest with at least a dozen rows of silver braid, each punctuated by three silver buttons. The tight-fitting light blue pants had a stripe down the outside of each leg. Around his slender waist he wore a red-and-white striped sash.
The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte Page 5