FRANCES ERSKINE RESPONDED to Betsy’s note by calling on her. Betsy presented her guest to her aunts, who then withdrew from the drawing room so the two young women could become reacquainted. As Betsy poured tea from her aunt’s silver tea service, she said, “You must be glad to be back in the United States so that you can see your family again.”
Lady Erskine put sugar in her cup and stirred. “I am happy for my sons and daughters to know their American grandparents, but truly, my children find life here rather strange. They are so accustomed to thinking of themselves as English.”
Betsy sighed. “I would like to raise my son in Europe—if only I can conclude the necessary arrangements with the emperor.” When Lady Erskine tilted her head quizzically, Betsy explained her request for a pension and Napoleon’s promise to provide for her and Bo.
Lady Erskine sipped her tea and then set her cup and saucer on the mahogany table between them. “I am astonished. I did not think that he would be so willing to make amends for the harm he has done you.”
Her words evoked the memory of their previous conversations in London and the anguish Betsy had felt as she prayed that Jerome would return to her before the birth of their child. She sighed. “Nothing can entirely make amends for that, but the emperor assures me that he did not act from personal hostility but rather because of policy considerations.”
Lowering her gaze, Lady Erskine adjusted the ruffle on her three-quarter sleeve. “Perhaps it would be judicious for us to avoid debating the merits of Bonaparte’s policies.”
“Of course.” Betsy passed her the plate of watercress sandwiches and changed the subject, “You will be glad to hear that my son is nearly four years old and very healthy. I don’t know if I ever properly thanked you for all you did when I was in England. You were of great help to me during that trying time.”
Lady Erskine smiled. “Think nothing of it. I was more than happy to assist you in my own small way.”
After her visitor left, Betsy worried that their difference of opinion about Napoleon might have placed a strain on their friendship. The following week, however, Lady Erskine invited Betsy to a small family supper.
When Betsy arrived at the Erskine house, she met Frances Erskine’s older brother Thomas and his wife Mary. Thomas Cadwalader had a hawk’s nose and eyes that narrowed when he paused to think. Betsy deemed him a cautious man—a good attribute for someone who worked as a lawyer but one that surprised her because Lady Erskine had confided during their earlier acquaintance that Thomas and his wife had been forced to elope because of an unresolved feud between their families.
Perhaps because Mary Cadwalader knew how it felt to face marital opposition, she smiled sympathetically at Betsy. “I am happy to meet you at last, Madame Bonaparte.”
“The feeling is mutual, Mrs. Cadwalader,” Betsy replied.
Then Lady Erskine presented Betsy to her other guest, a thirty-year-old Englishman named Charles Oakeley, who had just arrived in Washington to be secretary to the British legation. Oakeley had light brown hair, dark eyes, and a long, pointed nose in an otherwise handsome face. His clothes were well tailored but conservative in hue: a high-collared shirt, white cravat, mustard waistcoat, black tailcoat, and buff pantaloons.
Once they were at the table with a first course of oxtail soup before them, Betsy asked, “Have you been in this country before, Mr. Oakeley?”
“No, Madame Bonaparte. I spent the last few years in Munich and Stockholm.”
“I fear you will find our summers much hotter than you have ever experienced.”
Oakeley laughed. “I am sure the climate here is warmer than northern Europe, but I grew up in Madras, India, and I do not think you can top that climate for heat.”
“Really! I have never met anyone who lived in India.” Betsy took her last spoonful of soup and rested her spoon on the charger beneath the bowl. “Why was your family there, Mr. Oakeley?”
“My father was the colonial governor.”
She sipped her wine. “I do wish you would tell me about it. I have traveled so little.”
Oakeley nodded. For the next hour, he described the colonial city where he grew up: the high-walled Fort of St. George on the Bay of Bengal, the white-pillared government house where his father worked, the pyramid-shaped Hindu temples with hundreds of brightly painted idols perched on the outer walls, and lush gardens that produced more fruit than Eden itself: coconuts, mangoes, oranges, pineapples, and plantains. His family’s house had large airy rooms with white walls, heavy furniture of tropical wood, and slatted doors that opened to admit the sea air. From their terrace, they enjoyed a sweeping view of the bay, dotted with wooden boats from which dark-skinned men fished by throwing crude spears into the water.
Betsy found Oakeley’s stories so fascinating that she forgot to respond with the coolness needed to keep him at bay. By the end of the evening, he was gazing at her with a disturbing mix of admiration and hope.
They saw each other often that spring at the President’s Mansion. Under Mrs. Madison’s direction, Benjamin Latrobe had transformed the oval drawing room into a blazingly colorful salon that was the talk of Washington. Latrobe had repainted the walls sunflower yellow, highlighted moldings with strips of pink wallpaper printed with white and dark green leaves, hung crimson velvet curtains with gold tassels, and laid a carpet with a red, blue, and gold arabesque pattern. Dolley Madison held open houses every Wednesday in the lavishly decorated room. So many people attended—sometimes as many as 400 in a day—that the regular event became known as Mrs. Madison’s “crush or squeeze.”
At these receptions, Oakeley made sure Betsy had a chair, fetched her dishes of ice cream, and stood beside her relating stories about other lands. His manner was polished and urbane, and he displayed little vanity, even though Frances Erskine had said he was marked for a brilliant career and would someday be a baronet. The gossips of Washington hinted that he had indulged in a scandalous affair at his last posting, but his behavior toward Betsy remained circumspect. He was a considerate, engaging man who appeared to be smitten with her, yet he refrained from declaring his feelings.
When the time came for Betsy to return to Baltimore at the end of April, she felt regret at leaving such an amiable companion. However, Charles Oakeley had recently begun to pay her pointed compliments, and she feared he was building to a declaration. Resolutely, she packed her trunk and returned with Bo to South Street.
IN MAY, BETSY decided to have Bo baptized as a Catholic. Her parents protested her choice to go outside the Presbyterian Church, but she was adamant. “Catholicism is the religion of kings, and being raised in the Church may help him claim his birthright.”
After she finalized arrangements with the priest at St. Peter’s Church, she received a note from Bishop Carroll requesting that she wait until he could attend the baptism of the “perhaps future prince.” Betsy happily complied and responded by asking him to be Bo’s godfather.
Before the event, Dorcas explained the religious significance to the almost-four-year-old boy in terms he could understand, and Betsy instructed him on how to behave during the service. To help him appreciate the gravity of the occasion, Betsy allowed him to be “breeched,” to graduate to pantaloons and a jacket from the gowns that young children of both sexes wore. The morning of big event, Betsy brushed his forelock so that it swept upward, dabbed it with pomade to hold it in place, and told him how handsome he looked. Between the influence of the pre-baptismal instruction and the heady honor of wearing his first suit, Bo remained wide-eyed and solemn during the ritual.
That June, President Madison announced that he and David Erskine had reached an agreement that would allow trade with Britain to resume, which gave the Patterson family yet another reason to celebrate. For weeks, Betsy’s father and brother Edward worked late hours arranging for their ships to sail with the long-delayed cargoes. With improved business prospects, Patterson grew less grim and even spoke pleasantly to Betsy one day when he came home to find her teachin
g Bo to count to 100: “He seems to have your aptitude with numbers.”
That summer, the newspapers reported that Napoleon was at war on two fronts. To the southwest, he was locked in the Peninsular War in Spain, which had begun the year before as a revolt against French occupation and the imposed kingship of Napoleon’s brother Joseph. To the east, Austria—still simmering about the territory it lost after Austerlitz—had attacked French forces in Bavaria. For Betsy, those battles meant that Napoleon was once again too preoccupied to consider her most recent letter.
Eliza, Marianne, and a friend in Philadelphia all told Betsy that rumors were swirling up and down the Atlantic seaboard that the emperor planned to make her a duchess. A year had passed since Betsy first wrote Napoleon, and sometimes she was so impatient for an answer that she walked Bo to the harbor to work off her feverish energy. The little boy loved the waterfront where he could wave to sailors and fishermen, but his mother stared at the ships and thought only of sailing away from the dull provincial town where she was stranded.
In the midst of her frustration, Betsy received a letter from Charles Oakeley saying that he had business in Baltimore and would like to call. Impulsively, she invited him to dinner.
“Who is this man?” her father asked. “Another suitor?”
“Well—” Betsy felt herself blushing. “He is a secretary to the British legation. I met him at the Erskines’ home, and we saw each other at parties throughout the spring. He was a very attentive friend.”
“Friend?” Patterson’s voice curled with skepticism. “Is he a respectable man?”
“Very. His father is a baronet and the former governor of Madras.”
“I see.” Patterson looked at Betsy musingly.
Her eagerness to see Oakeley surprised Betsy. She enjoyed his company and found him attractive, but he stirred none of the desire she had felt for Jerome. Sometimes she wondered if she was still capable of loving any man. In spite of those doubts, Betsy worked with her mother to treat Oakeley to Maryland specialties such as crab cakes and wild turkey stuffed with oysters.
The day of his visit, Betsy dressed in a gown of azure silk shot with silver. Shortly before Oakeley was supposed to call, she seated herself on the sofa with Bo. When her parents entered the drawing room, Patterson asked, “Why is Bo here instead of in the nursery?”
“Because I think it time for Mr. Oakeley to become acquainted with my son.”
A knock sounded upon the front door. The housekeeper showed Charles Oakeley into the drawing room, and Betsy introduced him to her parents. Then she gestured for Bo to stand in front of her. Placing her hands on the boy’s shoulders, she said, “This is my son, Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Hello.” Oakeley squatted down to look in the boy’s face. “How old are you, Jerome?”
“I am four.”
“Ah, that means you are no longer a baby. I come from a very large family, and I have two brothers not much older than you.”
“Do you, sir? What are their names?”
Oakeley smiled at Bo’s oddly adultlike speech. “Cornwallis and Frederic. Cornwallis was named after a British general.”
“I know. My uncles told me he lost the Revolutionary War.”
Oakeley laughed. “Yes, but that is not why my brother is named for him. Cornwallis was also the governor-general of India, and my family knew him there.”
He rose and patted Bo’s head. To Betsy, he said, “You have a delightfully precocious son. You must spend a great deal of time with him.”
“Thank you. I believe he has a great destiny, and I am determined to prepare him for it.”
Betsy excused herself to take Bo upstairs. When she returned a few minutes later, Oakeley and her father were talking about the recent agreement reached between President Madison and Minister Erskine. The discussion about commerce continued all during dinner, with her father asking many questions about the East India Company.
After dinner, as they sat in the drawing room drinking coffee, the conversation grew more heated. Patterson railed against the British practice of impressment, while Oakeley skillfully avoided expressing an opinion. Betsy finally intervened, “Father, Mr. Oakeley is not authorized to speak upon this matter. Please, do not tax him about it anymore.”
Patterson flushed. “Forgive me, sir. I have no wish to be rude to a guest.”
Oakeley left them late that evening without having spent a moment alone with Betsy, and she found herself regretting the lost opportunity to talk to him. During the last two months, she had missed him more than she cared to admit.
That night, she lay awake analyzing her feelings. Charles Oakeley was an amiable man with good prospects, and his behavior with Bo had pleased her. If Betsy had never met Jerome, she might consider him an eligible suitor, but to think of marrying him now was absurd. To ally herself with a member of the British diplomatic corps would turn Napoleon against her forever. She might be willing to lose the emperor’s favor if only her own future was at stake, but what about her son? He could never inherit a stepfather’s title, so he would lose all chance at noble rank if she married Oakeley. She would be destroying her boy’s future for the sake of a match that, while a pleasant prospect, promised neither great passion nor exalted status. No, she could not sacrifice her son to gain so little.
Despite having reached that decision, she received Oakeley when he came to Baltimore in two weeks and again ten days after that. By then, Washington was embroiled in a diplomatic crisis. The British foreign secretary in London, George Canning, was furious with the concessions Erskine had made to President Madison, and Canning not only repudiated the agreement but also recalled Erskine to England. On August 9, President Madison once again prohibited trade with Britain.
At first, Betsy assumed that these events would occupy Charles Oakeley and stop his visits to her, but she was wrong. With Minister Erskine gone and his successor not yet arrived, Oakeley began to make the trip from Washington to Baltimore at least once a week.
In late August, her father asked to speak to her privately, so Betsy went next door to his counting house. She sat in front of his desk and, as she waited for him to finish the letter he was writing, picked up the bronze stamp he used to put wax seals on his correspondence. Patterson’s seal was simple, just his entwined initials. Betsy wondered if, when the emperor gave her a title, she would be able to use a crest.
After signing his letter and blotting it, Patterson said, “Oakeley wants to make you an offer of marriage and has written to ask my blessing.”
“Your blessing?” Betsy could not stop herself from laughing. “Is it the custom now to seek permission from the father of a woman who has already been married?”
“It is when that woman is living as a dependent in her father’s house. Oakeley is being respectful. You might learn a lesson from him.”
Betsy sobered. “I thought I had made it perfectly plain that I have no wish to remarry.”
“You cannot remain single the rest of your life. I would rather see you marry an American, but if you must have a European, Oakeley is better than most. He has made a good start in life and will inherit a title. Does he not offer everything you have always wanted?”
“You cannot be serious. I was married to a prince. How could I stoop to marrying a baronet?”
“Stoop? If anyone is doing the stooping, it is Oakeley. You offer him nothing but a pretty face, which will fade soon enough, and a lively disposition along with the opprobrium of being a cast-off woman and the burden of raising a son who is not his.”
Stung, Betsy retorted, “There is no shame in my situation. All the world knows that Jerome’s desertion was due to political circumstances, not from any fault he found in me. As for Bo, the emperor will renege on his promises to secure my son’s future if I marry an Englishman. How can you urge me to take a step that will ruin your grandson’s prospects?”
“And how can you be so foolhardy as to trust anything that madman says?”
“Father, we have
never agreed about the Bonapartes, and I daresay we never will. But I expect Napoleon to grant me a pension any day.”
Leaning back in his chair, Patterson folded his arms. “I declare, there are times when I think you mad. An honorable man wishes to provide for you and your son, and you would throw that away for the empty promises of the blackguard who caused your troubles.”
“Nevertheless, that is my decision. What answer do you plan to send Mr. Oakeley?”
“That he has my blessing but that I cannot vouch for your answer.”
She rose. “Fair enough. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Charles Oakeley called on Betsy at her parents’ home. She welcomed him into the drawing room and invited him to take her father’s wingback chair, while she sat across from him on the sofa.
Instead of settling back in his seat, Oakeley placed his hands on his knees and cleared his throat. Then he rose and paced in front of the fireplace. “Madame Bonaparte, surely you must know what I wish to say. I believe your father informed you that I wrote to him last week.”
Gazing at her lap, Betsy said, “I beg you not to speak of it, Mr. Oakeley. Such a discussion may injure us both.”
Oakeley ceased pacing, and Betsy raised her eyes just enough to see that he had halted in front of the fireplace with his back to her. She craned her neck to see what had arrested his attention. At first, she thought he was gazing at the portrait of her and her mother but then realized that the angle of his head was wrong. He was staring at the miniature of Jerome that she kept upon the mantel. “Of course,” he murmured. “Your heart still belongs to him.”
“No!” Betsy exclaimed. Even though she had no desire to give Charles Oakeley false hope, she would not insult him with a lie. “I display that to remind my son that he has a father. It is only for Bo’s sake that I can endure looking at it.”
Oakeley crossed the room in three strides and sat beside her. He seized her hand. “Oh, Madame Bonaparte. My dear Elizabeth. You will let me call you Elizabeth?”
The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte Page 36