The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  “We do not know that yet.”

  “Betsy,” Patterson said, using her nickname for the first time since her return, “I believe Stephenson was right. You would have been harassed as you were at Texel in any other continental port. Emden is part of Holland, and the French occupy Bremen. Napoleon made sure you would have no place to go except England because he wanted to discredit you in Jerome’s eyes.”

  “But he has not given me up, Father. Two weeks after Le Camus wrote this, Jerome sent a message through an Englishwoman. He is diligently trying to make a good impression so he can bring about our reunion.”

  Patterson’s tone grew sharp again. “The longer you cling to that hope, the more painful it will be once you have to accept that Napoleon has separated you forever.”

  Betsy lifted her chin. “For the sake of my son and my own honor, I must continue to fight for recognition of our marriage.”

  Her father pounded his desk. “That marriage was a deal made with a scoundrel. You would do better to accept it as a bad bargain and move on.”

  “Jerome is not a shipment of spoiled cargo to be deducted from my ledger!”

  Patterson shook his head. “Of all my children, you have always been the most stubborn. Have it your own way, but do not expect me to keep bailing you out of your difficulties.”

  “I would not dream of it, sir,” she retorted and took her leave.

  HER FIRST SUNDAY back, Betsy walked with her parents to First Presbyterian Church, two blocks from their home. With a membership composed mostly of successful merchants like William Patterson, the Presbyterians had the wealthiest congregation in Baltimore. Their church building was an impressive structure nicknamed the “Two Steeple Church” because it had twin octagonal belfries on either side of a classical temple front.

  The reading for that Sunday was from Ecclesiastes: “Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.” Building upon that verse, the Reverend Dr. Inglis gave a long sermon analyzing how God rewards the good that people do, if not in this life, then in the next. As he droned on, building an intricately reasoned argument by quoting ancient philosophers and the Bible with equal ease, Betsy felt like a tightly lidded boiler about to explode. So God always rewarded good deeds, did He? Then why was she suffering for something that was not her fault? What had she ever done to deserve the way Napoleon had treated her?

  Betsy and her mother waited on the front steps after the service as Patterson spoke at length to Dr. Inglis about church finances. As Betsy tried to mask her impatience at standing in the cutting November wind, one of the elders’ wives approached them. Mrs. Finley was a humorless dowager of about fifty, whom Betsy avoided whenever possible.

  “It was a good sermon, do you not agree?” Mrs. Finley asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Dorcas replied. “Dr. Inglis is such a scholar.”

  “And what about you, Betsy? Did you not find it edifying?”

  Annoyed that the woman had addressed her familiarly as though she were still an unmarried girl, Betsy longed to answer sarcastically. For her mother’s sake, she remained polite. “Indeed, it was a prodigious example of the art of preaching.”

  Mrs. Finley rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief. “It is a pity that he did not expound a different verse from today’s reading: ‘Vanity of vanities, sayeth the preacher; all is vanity.’ That subject would have been so pertinent.”

  “How so?”

  Looking up, Mrs. Finley said, “Why, I am thinking of your unfortunate marriage, my dear. I was saying to Mr. Finley that your example is the perfect illustration of the maxim Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

  Betsy narrowed her eyes but kept her tone as sweet as marzipan. “I can see why that would be a favorite verse of yours. It must afford you much comfort.”

  Mrs. Finley frowned. “I fail to take your meaning.”

  “Why, simply that with so little personal merit to take pride in, you need never worry about a fall.” As the other woman’s mouth fell open, Betsy curtsied. “Good day, madam.”

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Marianne Caton came to call, dressed in an elegant three-quarter-length pelisse of dark green trimmed with brown fur. Beneath the coat, the beautiful seventeen-year-old wore a white dress decorated with an Egyptian motif of lotus flowers. Gazing at the stylish ensemble, Betsy was acutely aware that she had purchased no new clothes for nearly a year.

  The friends kissed each other on the cheek, and then Betsy hung her visitor’s coat on a peg in the hall while Marianne walked into the drawing room with her slow, gliding gait. She had once explained that, as a child, she trained herself to walk deliberately because she had asthma, and when her attacks occurred, hurried movements only worsened the wheezing.

  Betsy followed Marianne into the drawing room and joined her on the sofa. Marianne patted her hand. “I was so sorry to hear of your difficulties in Europe. What do you hear from Mr. Bonaparte?”

  “He is still hopeful of changing his brother’s mind. He has been doing his part in the war, and if he wins great renown, he will insist on having our marriage recognized.”

  “What a clever plan!”

  Betsy smiled thinly. “I fear that we may not resolve the issue until the war is over, so in the meantime, my son and I will live here.”

  Lowering her eyes, Marianne toyed with the gold-chain bracelet she always wore on her left arm. “Oh, I do not think I could bear to be separated from my husband so long.”

  “It is not uncommon during wartime.” Betsy looked at her friend quizzically. “But perhaps you are thinking of someone in particular when you express a dread of separation?”

  Marianne blushed and shook her head. “No. I have had many eligible suitors, but you must recall what it is like to be courted by men who are nice enough but fail to capture your heart.”

  “Yes, I remember what that is like.”

  After a pause, Marianne asked, “How was England? Were you presented at court?”

  Shaking her head, Betsy answered, “No, how could I be? My brother-in-law was threatening to invade. I lived very quietly.”

  “But surely you followed the theatre and fashion?”

  Betsy sat back and gazed at the younger woman in disbelief. Marianne had never before struck her as foolish, but the questions she was asking now were exceedingly silly.

  “My situation was most irregular,” she answered, trying hard to keep her scorn from her voice. “I knew the emperor would be displeased at my going among his enemies, a measure I took only because of the impending birth of my son. The newspapers hounded me, so for most of my time there, I lived as retired a life as possible.”

  Marianne’s face lit up. “How old is your boy?”

  “He is four-and-a-half months old and very healthy.”

  “May I see him? Whenever I visit my uncle and aunt, I love playing with my cousins.”

  “All right.” Instead of ringing for a servant, Betsy went up to the nursery herself. Baby Jerome was awake and amusing himself by sucking his toes, so she lifted him from his cradle. He gurgled with happiness at seeing her.

  “What are you doing?” Mammy Sue asked from the other side of the room where she was changing Mary Ann’s diaper. “It ain’t time to feed that child.”

  “We have a visitor.” Betsy carried him downstairs, murmuring that he was about to meet one of Mama’s friends and must show what a little prince he was.

  “Here is Jerome Napoleon,” she announced, resuming her place on the sofa and holding her son under his arms so he could sit upright on her knee. She bounced him slightly, and he gave a half squealing, half hiccupping laugh.

  “He looks like his father,” Marianne said, making an exaggerated face to amuse him.

  “Yes, he is definitely a little Bonaparte. My bonny Bonaparte boy.” The alliteration pleased Betsy.

  “What a comfort he must be to you.”

  “Yes.” Betsy rested the baby against her shoulder. He was sucking his fist, and som
e of his drool ran down her neck, but she did not care. “I must own that I am taken aback by how fiercely I love him. I am no stranger to babies, but the feeling is different when he is your own.”

  Marianne sighed. “I envy you. It almost seems worth it to accept the first eligible man who makes me an offer so I can start a family.”

  “Law, you surprise me. A girl’s days as a belle are so brief. Do not trade them away for the tedium of child-rearing.”

  “But you said that you love your son.”

  “I do. So much that I would fight the emperor himself if it would secure my son’s birthright. That does not mean I cannot wish things were different. If Mr. Bonaparte and I had been more deliberate and gained his mother’s consent before we married, I would not now be living in exile.”

  Marianne’s brown eyes widened. “You are in your parents’ house. How can you refer to this as exile?”

  Shaking her head, Betsy said, “My son by rights is an imperial prince, and his place is at court where he can be educated in a manner befitting his rank.”

  “It sounds strange to hear an American talk of princely rank. My grandfather says that one of the glories of the United States is that we have no titles.”

  Betsy shrugged as well as she was able with the baby upon her shoulder. “I have never seen much virtue in living in a republic. Ever since I was at Madame Lacomb’s school, I have longed to live in Europe. Their traditions have more weight than our raw customs.”

  “Grandfather does say that Europeans have finer art and music.” Marianne fingered her bracelet again and then picked up her gloves from the cushion beside her. “I fear I have stayed too long, but I so enjoy talking with you again. I hope to see you often this winter. My uncle is giving a party at Homewood the end of this month, and I will have him invite you.”

  The desire to enjoy a bit of uncomplicated pleasure flared up within Betsy, but she firmly doused it. “My husband’s absence makes my attendance impossible.”

  “Nonsense. Bring one of your brothers as escort.”

  Betsy saw Marianne to the door. As she turned to take the baby back upstairs, Betsy murmured, “Did you like her, little Bo?” She halted on the bottom step, realizing that she had just given him a nickname. “Bo,” she repeated and held the word in her mouth as though tasting it. Deciding that it suited the boy, she hummed as she went upstairs.

  THE INVITATION ARRIVED the following week, and Betsy decided to attend the party after all. Such an occasion would give her a chance to meet most of Baltimore society at one time and get past any sharp remarks people cared to make. She was also curious to see Homewood, the much-praised mansion that Charles Carroll Jr. had been building since 1801.

  After considering Marianne’s idea of asking one of her brothers to escort her, Betsy decided that the most suitable choice was Robert. Since his time in Europe, he had acquired more fashionable clothing and polished manners.

  Robert agreed, and the night of the dance they drove together to Homewood, located in farmland about three miles north of town. As one concession to her altered circumstances, Betsy wore a chemise beneath her gown so that no one could accuse her of immodesty.

  Homewood lived up to its high reputation. Built of red brick, it was an impressive five-part structure: a one-and-a-half story central block and two pavilions linked to the center building by narrow wings. A portico supported by four pillars graced the entrance.

  As Betsy ascended the wide marble steps with Robert, she noticed that the entrance incorporated many of the design elements found at her uncle Smith’s mansion Montebello, begun two years before Homewood. Both houses had reeded pilasters flanking double front doors, topped by a semicircular fanlight and a cornice carved with a wave design. Betsy smiled in satisfaction that her family, not the Carrolls, should have taken the lead in matters of architectural distinction.

  Then she entered the house holding onto Robert’s arm. In the front reception hall—whose walls were covered with fashionable and expensive green paint—Charles Carroll Jr. and his wife Harriet greeted their guests. The thirty-year-old Charles had bloodshot blue eyes and a weak mouth, and when he welcomed Betsy, she noticed that his breath smelled of brandy. His wife, standing next to him, was a pretty woman with lustrous brown hair and large brown eyes, but her face wore a strained expression.

  Robert and Betsy moved through the receiving line and into the cross hall, where they could glimpse several rooms. The interior of the house was decorated with elegant fanlights, pilasters flanking doorways, and plasterwork medallions on the ceilings. The floors were covered with Belgian carpets, and the very best American craftsmanship furnished the rooms.

  Marianne approached them. “I am so glad you decided to come.”

  After the two young women kissed, Betsy said, “Miss Caton, this is my brother, Robert Patterson. You may not have met recently as he has been in Europe these last two years.”

  Marianne curtsied, and Robert asked for her a dance, which she granted. As she moved away to greet someone else, Robert murmured, “What a lovely young lady.”

  “Yes, and from such a prominent family.” Betsy laughed and then saw from the flash in Robert’s eyes that he was in no mood to be teased. “She is a sweet girl.”

  “I suppose she is much sought after,” he said, tilting his head to watch Marianne pass gracefully through the doorway that led to the back reception hall.

  “From what she told me the other day, I believe she has a great many suitors, but—” Pausing, Betsy considered what Marianne had told her in confidence. Finally, she said, “There is no reason why you might not be one of their number.”

  Robert looked at her quizzically, but she simply smiled.

  Once the music began to play, Betsy was pleased to discover that many men clamored to pay attention to her. And because she spent so much time dancing, women had little opportunity to make barbed comments about Jerome’s absence.

  Betsy found that being at a party after such a long drought reminded her poignantly of her husband. Despite the problems that had attended her marriage, she still found Jerome more desirable than any of her dance partners. To her surprise, the physical proximity to other men made her ache sexually for her husband, the first such desire she had felt since giving birth.

  During the supper break, as Betsy spoke to family friend Robert Gilmor, she spotted her brother talking to Marianne. The younger beauty had ducked her head but was gazing up at him through thick eyelashes. Ah, Betsy thought, recognizing the classic coquette’s glance. Robert may have more chance with her than he realizes.

  XX

  ALTHOUGH Jerome had left the furnishings he bought in storage, Betsy had no money to rent a house. She remained at South Street and moved back into the small bedroom that had been hers before her marriage. As a result, Joseph had to move back into the third-floor chamber he used to share with Edward, which caused both brothers to grumble. Their mother tried to stifle the complaints by explaining that Betsy needed to be near the nursery, but that did not stop the boys from referring to their sister as “the princess.” Betsy believed they were encouraged in their disdain by the condescension with which their father treated her, a coldness that did not abate no matter how much she tried to fit into the household.

  She remembered Eliza’s words: “You cannot imagine the humiliation of dependency.” Now that Betsy found herself in the same predicament, she felt ashamed of her earlier lack of sympathy.

  Betsy invited her friend to tea in December, and when Eliza arrived, she displayed no lingering resentment over their quarrels in England. Instead, she kissed Betsy’s cheek and then, as she removed her gloves and bonnet, said, “Forgive me for not calling earlier. I have been attending to the details of my uncle’s estate and making plans for my future.”

  Taking Eliza’s cloak, Betsy noticed that not only were her friend’s cheeks pink from the cold, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. “What plans? You seem in such high spirits.”

  “Wait until we are seated
,” Eliza answered. They walked together into the drawing room, where they sat on the shield-back chairs at the table near the front windows. As Betsy picked up her mother’s fine china teapot, Eliza announced, “I am going to write articles for The Companion and Weekly Miscellany. They cannot pay much, but by combining my earnings with my legacy, I may eventually be able to rent a house for my daughter and myself.”

  Passing Eliza a filled cup and saucer, Betsy asked, “A journal has agreed to publish you even though you are a woman?”

  “Well—” Eliza spooned sugar into her tea. “The author will be listed as ‘Anonymous.’ But it will be a way for me to start using my talents to make a life of purpose and contribution. Perhaps I can build on this and, in time, publish a book of essays or a novel.”

  Betsy handed her the plate of shortbread. “I did not suspect that you harbored such ambitions.”

  “I could not tell you until I had proved that I had the requisite talent. When I showed the editor of The Companion some essays I wrote, he was very impressed.” Eliza laughed and then gave Betsy a brief summary of the essays. She concluded, “I must confess that I sent them to him under my husband’s name, so the editor would evaluate the work as though it were written by a man. He wrote back requesting an appointment with Mr. Anderson, and I arrived instead.”

  “You are fortunate he did not throw you out of his office.”

  “Oh, Betsy, what would that matter? I would have tried again with someone else. Do you not see? A new age is dawning in which women will claim their place alongside men. You cannot keep half of humanity subservient and hope to make progress! By the time my daughter is grown, I hope that women will be able to manage their own property and perhaps even vote.”

  “That will never happen,” Betsy said, thinking what a difference it would make if she had money of her own. “Men like my father would never allow such a change.”

  “It is up to women to demand it. Betsy, you are clever. Instead of moping about waiting to hear from Mr. Bonaparte, why don’t you do something with your talents? Improve your own lot and the lot of other women.”