“WHY DOES HE have to leave, Mama?” Bo cried when she told him the news. “I want him to stay. I will study harder.”
“Come here.” Betsy pulled him onto her lap. Now that he was almost six, he no longer fit there snugly, and when he squirmed as he was doing now, she feared he would slide off. She wrapped her arms around him. “This has nothing to do with you, Bo. You did nothing wrong. Do you remember how I explained why your father cannot be with us?”
He twitched angrily. “You said the emperor needs him to be a king in Europe.”
“Exactly. This is a similar case. The emperor has other plans for Colonel Tousard, and we must accept the loss because that is what princes do; they make sacrifices for their people.”
Bo struggled against her embrace. “I hate him!”
Betsy bent her head so her cheek was close to his and murmured, “You don’t mean that. You love the colonel.”
“Not him. My uncle! Napoleon!”
“You must not say that.”
“But I do!” He tore free and stood before her with clenched fists. “He makes you cry sometimes. He took my father away and made him marry a new wife. I hate him.”
Betsy stared in astonishment. Bo was normally so even-tempered that she had never suspected this subterranean rage. “Darling, rulers sometimes have to do what is right for the country instead of what they want.”
“I don’t care!” Bo threw himself on the rag rug and started screaming and kicking. Before Betsy could react to the tantrum, Colonel Tousard entered the room.
“Master Bonaparte, what is the meaning of this?”
Bo immediately pulled himself up to a kneeling position. With tears streaming down his cheeks and mucus running from his nose, he said, “I don’t want you to go.”
“Ah.” Tousard sat on a spindle-back chair across from Betsy and gestured for the boy to stand before him. Pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped Bo’s face. “I do not want to leave you either, but as a soldier, I must go where my superiors send me.”
Betsy held her breath, waiting to see if Bo would reiterate his hatred of Napoleon. Instead he said, “Soldiers have to obey orders.”
“Exactly. And so do young princes.”
“But—” Bo glanced sideways at his mother. “Grandfather says I am not really a prince. That is only a game Mama plays to make herself feel better.”
Betsy experienced such a surge of anger that her face grew hot. “Jerome Napoleon, who is your father?”
“The king of Westphalia.”
“And what is a king’s son called?”
“A prince.” Bo shuffled his feet uneasily. “But I am not a prince, and everybody knows it.”
She sighed. “Only because the emperor has not decided yet whether to make you a prince or a duke. But he promised to do that soon.”
Bo scowled as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. “But we are Americans, and there is no royalty here.”
Certain that he had heard that statement or something very like it from her father, Betsy snapped, “You are half European. You know that.”
“Then will I have to live in Europe?” he asked, and his lower lip trembled.
Betsy and Tousard exchanged surprised glances. “Someday. Don’t you want to?”
“No, Mama. I would miss Grandfather and Mother and my uncles.”
“Oh, Bo.” Betsy waved her hand, about to dismiss his fears off-handedly, when the look of apprehension in his hazel eyes stopped her. Because he was usually such a temperate, conscientious child, she rarely worried that he might be grieving over his lack of a father. Rather, she often told herself he was better without such a poor example as Jerome. Yet, now she wondered if Jerome’s absence and the ongoing uncertainty of their position in the Bonaparte family had made Bo unsure of his place in the world. Betsy squatted before him and smiled gently. “Darling, I know you are sad that the colonel must leave, but I promise that no matter what else happens, I will always be with you and love you.”
He threw his arms around her neck.
Betsy stroked his hair. “I think it is time for you to go to bed. Go find Sadie and ask her to help you get ready. I will come tuck you in.”
Left alone with Tousard, she said, “Thank you for your assistance, Colonel. I have never seen him so distraught.”
“He will be fine after a night’s sleep. Bo is a good boy.”
Nodding, Betsy twisted her emerald ring. “I must confess I think my husband, my son, and I would have all been happier if the emperor had not separated us. But since he did, I must do what I think best for Bo even if he does not understand.” She started to leave the room but then turned back. “Colonel, I beg you not to repeat what I said. I try very hard to uphold the emperor’s authority.”
“Madame, in all the time I have served you, your conduct has been exemplary.”
“Thank you.” In that moment, Betsy also felt like weeping at the prospect of losing this man who understood her better than her own father did. “We will always think of you as one of our family.”
After pausing in the hallway to collect herself, she went upstairs. Bo was already in bed, and a candle was burning in a pewter candlestick on the small chest of drawers. As Betsy bent to kiss him, he murmured sleepily, “Mama, I think you should be a queen.”
Betsy smiled and tweaked his nose. “And you should be a king. Good-night, your majesty.” She pulled up his covers, blew out the candle, and quietly left. On her way back downstairs, she decided that she would embroider some handkerchiefs with Tousard’s initials as a going-away gift.
SINCE BO WAS still young, Betsy determined to save money by teaching him herself for the next year. She also asked Aunt Nancy to move in with her to share expenses.
Robert wrote of a small, two-story house in Baltimore that Betsy could buy from Marianne’s grandfather for $9,000. When she expressed surprise at the amount, he wrote back saying, “You are lucky to get it for that price. The rapid growth of the city has created an insatiable demand for suitable housing.”
Afraid of losing the opportunity, Betsy sent a down payment by return post and suggested a schedule to pay the balance. Robert had reported that the interior was in poor condition, so she also agreed to the suggestion to have it replastered. Betsy worried over spending so much money, but Bo’s comment about his princely status being a “game” had rankled and strengthened her resolve to live apart from her father when they were in Baltimore.
In May, Betsy learned that Empress Marie Louise had given birth to a son in March. Betsy could not help but resent an event that reduced Bo’s importance in the emperor’s dynastic plans. Her anger also rose because immediately after the birth, Napoleon had named his son Imperial Prince and King of Rome. Clearly, the emperor could award titles quickly when it suited him.
Unhappily, Betsy realized that with an heir to make his empire secure, Napoleon had little reason to consider her and Bo anymore, and she was powerless to force the situation. Even though she still had suitors, she could no longer use the threat of marrying an Englishman to prod the emperor because he would simply stop her income. As the year wasted away, Betsy came to fear that Napoleon’s promises would prove as empty as Jerome’s.
As 1812 dawned, Washington was also in turmoil. The previous October, at the Battle of Tippecanoe, William Henry Harrison had defeated a confederacy of Indians who opposed settlement of the Northwest Territory. Many Americans suspected that British troops in Canada had incited those tribes, and some people called for an invasion of Canada to drive the British from North America. On the seas, Britain was still blockading continental Europe and preventing American merchantmen from trading with the French Empire, so the non-intercourse regulations remained in effect. Because farmers could not export their crops, prices dropped and incomes suffered. Anger against the British ran high in the agricultural South and West, while merchants in the Northeast wanted to appease Great Britain and restore maritime trade.
In the midst of these tensions, a pair of letters
arrived from Jerome in the spring, the first communication in three years. One was addressed to Betsy, the other to their son:
My dear Elisa, what a long time it is since I have received any news of you and of my son! In the whole world you could never find a better or a more tender friend than me. I have many things to write to you; but, as I can but fear that this letter may be intercepted, I limit myself to giving you news of myself and asking you for news of you and my son. Be assured that all will be arranged sooner or later. The Emperor is certainly the best, as he is the greatest, of men.
His words reminded Betsy of their past affection, and she glanced at the miniature of Jerome on the mantel. Then she resolutely put the letter away and called Bo. As he entered the drawing room, she held out the second letter. “Your father has written you.”
Bo came close and leaned against her leg. “Can you read it to me?”
Breaking the seal, Betsy unfolded the page and read aloud:
My dear son. I hope that this letter will be more lucky than the others which I have written you and which I suppose you have not received. I hope that you will not forget me because I could not do without your affection and I hope that you are always a good and loving son to your mother, who, as the most noble of women, will always set you the best example. I embrace you with all my heart.
Bo stirred. “Mama, is that really from my own true father?”
“Yes, darling.”
Taking the page, Bo frowned at it. “Do you think he really loves me?”
“Of course.”
“But he has never met me,” Bo whispered.
Betsy knelt before him and smoothed back his hair. “I hope someday you will meet him. But he does not have to meet you to love you. You are part of him just as you are part of me.”
Bo nodded in his curiously adult fashion and then started to read the letter for himself. Betsy could see his lips moving as he sounded out the difficult words. When he finished, he handed her back the page. “Should I write Papa?”
“If you wish.”
He nodded again. “I will tell him I am going to be seven soon and I like horses and I always do what you tell me. Is that all right, Mama?”
“It sounds very good.” She rose and fetched Bo some paper. As he settled at the table, Betsy recalled the stories Henriette had told her. Although Betsy had not wanted to admit it at the time, she now thought Henriette was right. Jerome sounded sad.
NOTICING THAT BO had become moody after Tousard’s departure, Betsy decided that he needed more men in his life—men other than her father. She also wanted him to receive a more systematic education than she could give him, so in the spring, she wrote Bishop Carroll to inquire about enrolling her son at the same boarding school Dolley Madison’s son had attended. Being separated from Bo would pain her, but she was determined to do what was best for him.
While she waited for an answer, she spent hours trying to cut expenses and increase her income. Ever since the news that Napoleon had put aside Josephine, Betsy had feared his arbitrary power. Somehow, she had to accumulate enough money to remain independent even if he should cut off her pension.
One afternoon, Betsy pulled up a chair to the round tea table, placed a thick book on the seat, and settled Bo there so he could write comfortably. She gave him a page of addition problems to solve while she went over her accounts. After a few minutes, Bo said, “Mama?”
“Yes?” She did not stop working at her calculations.
“Why are you frowning?”
Betsy looked across at her son and consciously smoothed her forehead. “I was trying to think of ways to save more money.”
Bo bit the blunt end of his pencil. “Did the emperor stop your income?”
“No, but I want you to go to school in Europe someday, and that will cost more than I have right now.”
“I can go to school here like my uncles.”
Betsy laid down her pencil. “Bo, I have explained this. Your grandfather wanted your uncles to go into business, so they did not need a university education. You are quite different. You must be educated in a manner suitable for a prince.”
Bo thrust out his lip in a way that reminded Betsy of Jerome in a petulant mood. “But I can go into business too. I can get rich like grandfather and take care of you.”
“Oh, dear boy.” Betsy went to him and kissed the top of his head. “Your job is to apply yourself to your lessons, not to worry about me.”
“But Grandfather says—”
“Bo, you are my son, not his. Please remember that.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Betsy squeezed his shoulder lightly. “Don’t you know that I love you more than anything in the world?”
“Yes, Mama,” he answered. Hurt that he did not return the declaration of love, Betsy returned to her seat, picked up her pencil, and added a column of figures. After a moment, Bo blurted, “Mama, I think you are an angel, and I just want to make you happy.”
“Then do your arithmetic,” Betsy answered, but she smiled warmly at him as she said it. Bo grinned before bending back over his arithmetic problems.
ON JUNE 18, 1812, the United States declared war on Great Britain. Supporters called it a Second War for Independence, while critics disparaged it as “Mr. Madison’s War.”
Almost immediately, Baltimore descended into violence. Most people there favored the war, but one editor named Alexander Hanson published protests. On June 22, a mob destroyed his newspaper office. A month later, Hanson attempted to publish his paper from another building. This time, the resulting violence led to a shooting and the arrest of Hanson and his friends. A mob broke into the jail that evening and beat and tortured several prisoners, including Revolutionary War heroes James Lingan and Light-Horse Harry Lee. Lingan died of his wounds, and Lee suffered permanent injuries, including partial blindness.
The wanton viciousness horrified the rest of the country, and it made Betsy feel justified in her contempt for her hometown. The events had confirmed her belief that a strong monarch like Napoleon was preferable to democracy, in which ignorant mobs held too much sway.
Although tensions had been mounting with Britain for years, the U.S. government had not prepared for war, and the first campaigns of 1812 went badly. An attempted invasion of Canada by General William Hull ended in the capture of his army and the loss of Detroit.
The U.S. Navy was equally unprepared with only about 20 ships when the war began. However, the government authorized privateers to attack British shipping, and in the first four months, Americans seized more than 200 British merchantmen.
When Betsy’s brothers gleefully reported such captures, she scoffed, “To the British, such losses are no more than flea bites. You had better hope that Napoleon stays on his throne and the British remain mired in Spain. France is the only thing preventing Great Britain from crushing us.”
That fall, after spending weeks debating whether it was wise to be separated from her child in time of war, Betsy enrolled Bo in the boarding school at Mount St. Mary’s College in Emmitsburg, Maryland, fifty miles from Baltimore. Bishop Carroll had assured her that the teachers, all priests, would be strict with her son and instill in him the discipline she felt he needed. And Emmitsburg was further inland than Baltimore, so there was less likelihood that it would come under attack. Hardening her resolve, Betsy told herself she was doing what was right for her boy.
Her brother Edward accompanied them, and Betsy was glad of his company when she had to leave Bo. As their coach drove away from the school, her throat tightened so that she felt she was choking on sorrow, and her entire body ached as though she had just gone through a second ordeal of labor. Not even watching Jerome ride away from her in Lisbon had hurt so much as this.
Bo’s first letters deepened Betsy’s unhappiness. He described how lonely he felt and how much he missed her. Bo was used to rough-and-tumble interaction with his uncles, but he had associated with few boys outside the family. Now he complained that the other students mocked him
. They called Napoleon a tyrant and harassed Bo because of his expectations to be a prince.
Betsy was about to fetch him home when she received a letter from the headmaster, Dr. DuBois. He reported that her son had been in a few minor scuffles—but only because he fought back when other boys tripped him or boxed his ears. “It is best for parents not to interfere in these contretemps. Jerome is learning to stand his ground, and this will go far toward achieving your purpose of making a man out of him.”
A few days after receiving that communication, Betsy joined President and Mrs. Madison for a private supper. President Madison seemed unusually grave that evening, and over soup, he said, “Forgive me, ladies. This afternoon I received a most troubling dispatch from our forces in the Northwest Territory. As Fort Dearborn was being evacuated in mid-August, a band of Potawatomi attacked and massacred more than fifty people, some of them women and children. I will not trouble you with the distressing details, but they weigh heavily on my mind.”
Dolley Madison frowned. “The newspapers are bound to use this report to print more unfair criticisms of you.”
Her husband raised his eyebrows as he gazed down the table at her. “Mrs. Madison, my own reputation is the least of my concerns.”
Dolley turned a faint pink. She was spared from having to answer as the servants came to clear away the soup bowls.
Once the main course was served, Mr. Madison changed the subject by asking Betsy about her son. She barely touched her roast beef as she spent the next several minutes pouring out her worries about Bo. When she finished, Dolley sighed and fingered her necklace. “My dear, I fear I am not the person to give you advice. My own son Payne continues to be unruly and shows no sign of settling down to a career even though he will reach the age of majority next year.”
Mr. Madison gave his wife a tender smile and then said, “Madame Bonaparte, I believe the worst thing you could do would be to rush to remove your son from school. You would undermine his confidence and brand him as a mama’s boy. Because of who he is, Bo will encounter jealousies his entire life, and he must learn how to win over his detractors.”
The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte Page 39