The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  After greeting his host, Jerome Bonaparte came straight to Betsy. He bent over her gloved hand and said, “Mademoiselle Patterson, how lovely you look tonight. I hope that I have arrived in time to commandeer all of your dances.”

  All around them, people were moving toward the back hall, which was being used as the ballroom, and Betsy noticed that the musicians had progressed from tuning their instruments to playing fragments of melody. She shook her ringlets at Lieutenant Bonaparte. “Sir, I regret to say that you have not. Several of my dances have been claimed by others before you.”

  For the briefest of moments, Jerome’s face betrayed surprise, making Betsy glad that she could teach him that he had rivals.

  He quickly adopted an expression of acute disappointment and placed his hand over his heart. “Then please may I beg the honor of being your first partner of the night?”

  She hesitated a moment before giving him her arm.

  As they entered the ballroom, Betsy was pleased to see that many people broke off their conversations to watch them. The first dance of the evening was to be a contradanse, which would have the advantage of pairing them for at least ten minutes and of having periods when they could converse because they were not required to take part in the moves. The first time they were an inactive couple, Betsy said, “Lieutenant Bonaparte, I have never seen a uniform like yours. Is it a naval dress uniform?”

  Jerome laughed. “No, it is a hussar’s uniform.”

  “But, hussars are cavalry. I thought you were in the navy.”

  “I am.” He shrugged. “But I like the way this one looks. It is debonair, is it not?”

  Before Betsy could answer, it was their turn to take part in the next movement, and by the time they could speak again, she decided not to pursue the subject. She suspected that it was a tremendous breach of protocol for a military officer to wear the uniform of a different branch of service. Clearly, being Napoleon’s brother came with unusual privileges, liberties that the youngest Bonaparte did not hesitate to enjoy.

  As she pondered these things, Jerome complimented her on her elegant gown. “It is—très à la mode,” he said after a moment of searching for an equivalent English phrase.

  “Merci, monsieur,” Betsy answered, gratified that he considered her stylish.

  “Ah, parlez-vous français?” he exclaimed, sounding like a boy in his excitement that she spoke his language.

  Betsy nodded, and he gave her gloved hand a quick squeeze of approval. Then returning to the previous subject, he said, “Your taste in clothing reminds me of ma belle-soeur Josephine. She truly knows how to set Paris on its ear.”

  “Oh, please tell me about her.”

  He chuckled and said in French, “A while back, she started a new fashion of wearing sheer gowns such as yours but with nothing underneath.”

  Betsy’s cheeks burned as Jerome continued, “Napoleon considered the style too immodest. One day, finding Josephine and her ladies sitting in the drawing room in such flimsy attire, he gave orders for the servants to pile wood on the fire. When Josephine complained that she was roasting alive, he said, ‘My dear, I was afraid you might catch cold sitting here naked.’ ”

  In spite of her discomfort with the indiscreet topic, Betsy found herself joining in Jerome’s laughter. Then, after her first wave of self-consciousness passed, she felt a delicious sense of freedom in being able to talk so openly of things forbidden in Baltimore society.

  The last move of the dance required Jerome to grasp her hands and swing her through several revolutions. After the last twirl, he flirtatiously pulled her closer to his body than was proper before releasing her. As they pulled apart, Betsy found herself halted. Her gold chain had caught on one of his buttons.

  She dared not look up at him. With the rapidity of lightning, she felt as embarrassed as if she had found herself publicly wearing one of Josephine’s revealing gowns.

  “Permit me.” Jerome used his index finger to unhook her necklace. Instead of releasing the chain, however, he kept it on the crook of his finger and whispered, “Do you see, chère mademoiselle? Fate has brought us together, and we are destined never to part.”

  Betsy caught her breath at the romantic perfection of the moment, but then her natural skepticism reasserted itself. She perceived that this man to whom she was temporarily joined—handsome, warm-hearted, and fun loving though he might be—lacked the steely resolve of his famous older brother. He seemed content to glide through life feasting on whatever privileges fell to him in Napoleon’s wake.

  “Fate seems to have forgotten that I promised my next dance to someone else.”

  Jerome released her gold chain. “If that is your wish.”

  “My wish, sir, is for a partner who understands that I am a kingdom that must be won rather than claimed as a birthright.”

  For a moment, he seemed perplexed and she feared the sentiment was too complex for him to understand it in English, but then laughter returned to his eyes. “Truly, Mademoiselle, that is a challenge worthy of a Bonaparte.” He bowed and watched her walk away.

  IV

  THAT night, Betsy lay awake reliving every moment she had spent with Jerome Bonaparte. They had danced twice more, but he kept his banter light and did not return to the tantalizing subject of their destiny. At the time, disturbed by the heat she saw in his eyes, Betsy was glad that she had challenged his assumption that she was his for the asking. Now, however, she worried that she had been too aloof.

  She sat up in bed, wrapped her arms around her knees, and smiled at the memory of a story he told during their last dance. When Jerome was fifteen, Napoleon had taken him to live in the Tuileries in the hope of imparting discipline to the baby of the Bonaparte clan. Napoleon, however, was often away on government business, and during his absences, Jerome discovered the delights of shopping in Paris. After one such trip, the First Consul found that his youngest brother had purchased an elaborate shaving set whose articles were made of gold, silver, mother of pearl, and ivory—and ordered that the bill of 10,000 francs be sent to the palace. “This is ridiculous! You do not even have a beard!”

  The boy looked longingly at the objects his brother had confiscated. “I know. But I just love beautiful things.”

  Jerome laughed at himself while telling the tale, and Betsy had laughed with him. She appreciated his ability to mock his foibles, yet she wondered if he was still so extravagant. Surely, now that he was subject to naval discipline, he had learned more practicality. If not, perhaps if she became his wife, she could provide the strength of character he lacked.

  But she was racing too far ahead of events. As Betsy lay down, she noticed that her stomach still churned from the evening’s emotions, and she feared that it would keep her awake. She decided to go down to the kitchen in search of some leftover cornbread, so she slipped on her wrapper and mules.

  Betsy left her room and crept past the closed door of the master bedroom to the head of the staircase, which was across from the closed nursery door. After descending to the first floor, she felt her way without a candle past the drawing room and dining room. Then she entered the passageway linking the main house to the back building. As she passed the housekeeper’s chamber and reached the junction where the main hall met the passage to the back staircase, she heard a thud behind the housekeeper’s door, followed by muffled laughter. Betsy halted, wondering what Mrs. Ford could be doing at this early-morning hour. To her consternation, the housekeeper’s door began to open.

  Betsy ducked into the dark kitchen but remained near the doorway. Mrs. Ford, however, did not appear. Instead, William Patterson stepped into the hall holding a candle whose light revealed him to be wearing a white nightshirt over bare legs.

  “Good night, my dear.” Patterson closed the door and started up the back stairs.

  For an instant, Betsy fought against the meaning of what she had seen, but then she had to admit that such a nocturnal visit had only one explanation. The pain in her stomach grew more acute, and te
ars filled her eyes. Her first thought was for her mother—that gentle woman sleeping upstairs, who had exhausted her strength bearing a dozen children for this man who did not even have the decency to respect the sanctity of her home.

  How in God’s name could he do it? To Betsy, her father had always seemed the model of probity, and even when she chafed against his uncompromising views, she had admired his integrity. Now her faith in him shattered.

  To think, only a few hours earlier she had been shocked at Jerome Bonaparte for referring to nudity. How painfully naïve her reaction seemed now. She who prided herself on her sophistication knew nothing of the world. “Oh, Father,” Betsy whispered and, doubling over in distress, began to cry.

  THE NEXT WEEK, Betsy attended the Pascault-Reubell wedding at St. Peter’s Church in Baltimore, a simple red brick building that looked more like a school than the seat of the first Catholic diocese in the United States. During the Roman Catholic rite, which Betsy could not follow because it was in Latin, she called to mind the vows she had heard during Protestant weddings. Remembering the phrase keep thee only unto her, Betsy brooded about her father’s flouting of that promise. In the days since her discovery, she had debated whether to tell her brothers what she saw, but so far, she had been unable to broach so painful a subject.

  After the morning ceremony, the guests traveled to the Pascault home for a wedding feast. Jerome sat next to Betsy at the table and insisted that she accept portions of all the dishes the servants offered, even though she protested that she had no appetite. Her stomach ached as it had ever since the night of the ball.

  Finally, Jerome lowered his voice to ask, “Mademoiselle, vous êtes si pensive. Est-ce qu’il y a un probléme?”

  “Ce n’est rien. Je vous en prie, ne vous préoccupez pas au sujet de moi,” Betsy answered to deflect his concern about her low spirits.

  Once the meal was over, Jerome begged her to take a turn in the garden. Betsy pressed her lips together as she debated what to answer. Flirtation was the last thing she wanted to engage in at the moment, but neither was she ready to go home and discuss a wedding with her unsuspecting mother. At least, walking was active and might give Betsy a chance to forget her unhappiness for a while, so she agreed to Jerome’s suggestion.

  They were silent as they strolled down one of the gravel paths that divided the garden into quadrants featuring shrubbery pruned into geometric shapes. When they reached the far end of the formal beds, Jerome turned into a small grove, and Betsy followed. After a moment, he said, “Mademoiselle Patterson, a wedding should be a joyous occasion, but your face is so triste. I am certain that something troubles you.”

  Tears sprang to Betsy’s eyes. “Yes, but I cannot divulge the problem to anyone outside my family.”

  “Is there no way I can help?”

  Leave me alone, she thought but would not be so cruel as to say it. “Distract me. Tell me about your homeland. I know nothing about Corsica.”

  “I come from Ajaccio, a harbor on the west coast. The town is surrounded by shrubbery-covered hills. Oh, how I miss the smells of the maquis—the juniper, sage, and myrtle.” He snapped a small branch off a nearby pine, crushed the needles between his fingers and sniffed them, then threw the branch away. “Thinking of it makes me homesick.”

  “Then we are opposites. You long for your birthplace, while I hate mine.”

  Jerome looked at her in astonishment. “Why?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “The United States is such a young country, and its people care only for commerce. That is particularly true of Baltimore. I find our society crass and uninspiring.”

  “But you are American, and you are neither of those things.” He seized her gloved hands. “Mademoiselle Patterson, forgive my haste, but I must declare that I adore you. I would give anything to win your love. Please allow me to hope that someday you and I will repeat the vows we heard our friends exchange this morning.”

  Startled, Betsy glanced around to make sure that the surrounding trees shielded them from sight of the house. She turned back to Jerome. “This is happening too quickly, Lieutenant Bonaparte. You and I still know little of each other’s character.”

  He smiled at her. “That is not true. I know that you are clever, honest, and prudent. I can see that you are beautiful and have excellent taste.” Pulling her closer, he lowered his voice. “And I sense that beneath your proper manners, you are a tender-hearted woman who feels deeply. What more do I need to know?”

  As Betsy stared into his dark eyes, she felt flustered. Jerome was close enough that she could smell a tang of perspiration beneath the mingled lavender and citrus scents of his Eau de Cologne. “But I know so little about you.”

  Jerome lightly grasped her arms just below her sleeves. “I do not demand an answer now. I ask only to be allowed to court you so that we can become better acquainted.”

  Mesmerized by the touch of his hands on her bare skin, Betsy gazed at him a full two seconds before recalling the answer propriety demanded. “You must speak to my father.” As she spoke, the bitter memory of William Patterson leaving Mrs. Ford’s room flickered in her mind and then faded as Jerome placed two fingers under her chin and tilted up her head.

  “I will ask him as soon as possible,” he whispered and bent to kiss her.

  As soon as their lips touched, Betsy felt a rush of emotion that swept away her doubts. She had never suspected she could feel such physical hunger. The desire to let Jerome take full possession of her body shocked her, yet she had no wish to resist.

  When he pulled back after a long kiss, she waited to see if he would attempt further liberties. To her surprise, Jerome tweaked her nose. “You see? I was right about your passionate nature. But one kiss is enough for now, Elisa.”

  “Elisa?” she murmured.

  “It is a French form of Elizabeth, and I think it suits you better than Betsy. May I call you that?”

  “Yes,” she answered, pleased that he would christen her with a name all his own.

  Jerome caressed the line of her jaw. “Your eyes are so bright. When you look at me like that, I find you irresistible.”

  “Then kiss me again.”

  “No.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “This will have to do. I want to be truthful when I tell your father that my intentions are honorable. I want you for my wife, Elisa, nothing less.”

  Betsy ached with desire, but she knew that Jerome was right. By guarding her honor, he was demonstrating that she could trust him, not only today but in the future. To a heart still sore from the discovery of a father’s betrayal, such restraint was a balm.

  She sighed. “Then let us return to the house before people begin to talk.”

  AS THE FAMILY carriage conveyed her home, Betsy wondered, What has happened to me? One kiss from Jerome Bonaparte, and she had grown wanton in thought if not in deed.

  When Jerome took her in his arms, she had expected to feel instinctive resistance to his passion. Instead, Jerome’s kiss had awakened her as if she were the sleeping princess in a tower she had read about as a child. Betsy still felt the vestiges of that newborn desire coursing through her body, transforming her from a mere coquette into a woman possessed by forbidden longing for her lover.

  She laid her fingertips on her lower lip and pressed it lightly, wondering why Jerome’s touch felt so different from all others. Then, because she had more privacy in the carriage than she would ever have at home, she cupped her hand around her breast and tried to imagine him caressing her there. Betsy’s face grew hot, and discontentment stirred within her. The private recesses of her body felt uncomfortably swollen, yet empty too, and she feared they would remain that way until Jerome took her to bed.

  Until today, she had always assumed that carnal appetites were the province of men and low women like Mrs. Ford, not proper young ladies like herself. Was she wrong? Was it possible that even a mild, devout woman like Dorcas Patterson—who after all had married at the age of seventeen—once felt this raging in h
er blood?

  Or, frightening thought, had Betsy inherited this aspect of her nature from her father?

  It is not the same, she thought indignantly. He is old and has a wife. He has no need for another woman. It is disgusting.

  By contrast, she and Jerome were young and free to marry. If perchance, their passions led them astray while they were unwed, they might create a mild scandal as others had before, but they would have broken no vows of fidelity. Reaching this conclusion, Betsy settled in her seat and wondered how long it would be before Jerome kissed her again.

  BETSY ROSE EARLY the next morning and went down to the dining room to find that Robert was just finishing his breakfast. Dorcas sat at the long oval table too, but Betsy had finally made up her mind and would not be deterred by her mother’s presence.

  Standing close by Robert’s chair, she said quietly, “May I talk to you privately before you leave for the counting house?”

  “I am going to the harbor this morning, Goose. Can it wait until evening?”

  Betsy scrunched up her nose at the nickname. “It is important,” she whispered.

  Robert’s teasing expression faded. Darting a glance at their mother, he laid his napkin on the table. “Will you walk with me?”

  Nodding, Betsy turned away to get her spencer and bonnet before going out. Her mother called to her, “You have not had breakfast.”

  “I will eat when I return.”

  The brother and sister exited the front door, descended the marble steps, and turned right. The first building they passed on their way to the harbor was their father’s counting house. South Street was lined with wall-to-wall town houses like their family home. Since the end of the Revolutionary War, property in downtown Baltimore had grown increasingly valuable, so the small, brightly painted wooden houses of the last century were being replaced by tall homes on narrow lots, allowing a denser population to live in the thriving port.

  Neither sibling spoke at first, and the clopping of passing horses punctuated their steps. “What is it?” Robert finally asked after they had gone a block.